Why clean the house when you can watch home improvement shows??

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. And for good reason:  we went from not even having cable to getting satellite. Which means hours previously spent surfing the web and writing once Noa’s asleep, have now been replaced with every home improvement show imaginable.

 While You Were Out, Trading Spaces, Flip That House, Moving Up…the list goes on. What I’ve realized is that these shows kind of make me feel the way most women do after flipping through Glamour or People magazine: fat, unkempt and just, well, not put together.

Is my house fat?? I wish. But the stuff crammed in our little 1300 square foot semi makes sometimes leaves me feeling like someone who’s 200 pounds trying to squeeze into a size 2. We started out as minimalists, but then we went and had a baby. It was like suddenly POOF out of nowhere an eighteen wheeler packed with JUNK fell out of the sky and randomly landed in our house.

I know these shows are supposed to offer inspiration–I mean with a $1000, a can of paint, some cardboard tubing and a glue gun it seems like just about anyone can convert their den into an urban oasis.  But when I watch them, I just feel kind of depressed. ‘Cause the reality is, no matter how much clutter I clear or how funky an idea I have the only way it would get done in the first place (and stay looking perfect) is to ship Noa (now 16 months old) off to toddler boot camp or a nursery school that takes baby boarders.

 The only light, within this pit of home improvement self-hatred I find myself trapped in, is How Clean is Your House? For those of you who haven’t seen it, it’s about human sloth. More specifically, people who typically live in a fantastical blend of bacteria and shit. So much so, in fact, that the hosts are always marvelling at how the home owners have managed not to succumb to some deadly bacterial infection.

Now those people make me feel good!

Dumb Ass Kid Names

So I’m in the library today with baby Noa, sifting through the mass of board books when I hear this woman (and I kid you not, this actually happened) say to her 2-year-old, “Monet, we have to go find Matisse and then go home.”

I thought I didn’t hear her right. I mean would someone actually torture their kids in this way?  But then, clear as a bell, I heard her address her young children as Monet and Matisse. I wondered aloud to my sister-in-law what they would name a son–Pablo? Da Vinci?  Personally, I’m going with Warhol- which I think would be a stellar first name any child would love to have (and would surely never get teased about).  Is it any wonder that kids today are getting high on air from aerosole cans and cutting when there are people in this world bestowing names on their unsuspecting offspring like Monet and Matisse?

Truly some parents should be put away for their stupidity. How are these kids ever going to be anything but freaky goth kids strung out on crystal meth?  I’m willing to bet several cans of Campbell’s soup on it.

10 Ways Springer is Better than Dr. Phil

Okay, so I must admit. I actually used to kinda like Dr. Phil. But that slowly started to chip away when he a) brought anti-Iraq war activists on (at the start of the war) and told them they were unpatriotic and b) apparently threatened to walk away from a sold out live presentation because (or so the story goes), he was not provided with a hair dryer (how ironic is this) as stipulated in his contract. The straw that broke the camel’s back was the “I slept with your sister” episode. Anyway, Jerry Springer is starting to look a whole lot better these days for a bunch of reasons…

1. Dr. Phil berates his trashy guests for their horrible deeds–e.g. sleeping with their wife’s sister or stuffing a 200 pound baby with Ho Hos…Springer celebrates the shortcomings of his guests, giving a bleeped out voice to the socially and economically disenfranchised inbred citizens of the world. 
2. Dr. Phil brazenly hounds Britney Spears to publicly humiliate her into sanity…Springer offers anonymous and infamous trailer trash everywhere the opportunity to publicly demonstrate their insanity.  
3. Any chance he gets, Dr. Phil is shamelessly promoting a crap book by his obnoxious son or annoyingly helium-filled wife who are both authorities on nothing…while…Springer’s only request of his charming, hearing-impaired daughter is that they waltz together on “Dancing with the Stars.” 
4.  Dr. Phil is a media slut in a psychiatrist’s clothes…Springer is a circus-freak shrink, disguised as a self-proclaimed media whore. 
5.  Dr. Phil thinks he’s God…Springer recognizes that even God has a sense of humour. 
6. Dr. Phil often hosts ridiculous shows about makeovers and helping people ‘transform’ their look…Jerry accepts his lovely guests just the way they are. 
7. Dr. Phil’s annoying son Jay has been known to put on a ‘fat suit’ to show how America’s obese underbelly is treated…Springer guests often expose just how big that underbelly (amongst other private parts) really is. 
8.  Dr. Phil loves the sound of his own voice…Jerry loves the sound of continuous bleeping when his guests get riled up…. 
9. Dr. Phil is notorious for sucking up to George and Laura Bush on his broadcasts…Rather than sucking up to politicians, Jerry is one: he was named Ohio Democrat of the year in 2004 and has been mayor of Cincinnati not once, but twice! 
10. The Dr. Phil show just plain sucks…So does the Jerry Springer show, but Jerry celebrates it! 

Deadbeat New Year’s Resolutions

Well I know it’s a little late for resolutions, but I swear, I’ve been thinking about writing them since December 26th!  Anyway, I’ll skip the lame excuses and get down to business. My resolutions for 2008:

1.  I will watch less TV (truth be told: I’m currently typing this while watching American Idol and think I may have just witnessed the next Courtney Love).
2. I will NOT compare Noa’s good looks and charm with other toddlers (though clearly he is the cutest, smartest and funniest baby in the universe).
3. I will attempt to take showers that last longer than three minutes.
4. I vow to make a weekly contribution to my blog even if Noa is teething and I’m living on 2 hours of sleep a night.
5. I will write a children’s novel about Chloe–my insanely jealous cat with bladder control issues–to toilet train children everywhere.
6. I promise to stop breastfeeding Noa before his 26th birthday (and this coming from the woman who thought she wouldn’t last six months).
7. I will not blast my husband or be bitchy when he attempts to be ‘helpful’ (why the f%$k would anyone one think an unneeded diaper change at 2am would make things better–are your f8$^&#ng kidding me????)
8. I will NOT use cosmetic tools such as botox despite the fact that the first year of motherhood has added 10 years (note: excluding microdermabrasion and eye lifts).
9. I will be on time for Noa’s play dates and Gymboree classes no matter how much he poops before he gets there.
10. I will replace cursing in front of Noa–especially when some goddamn bastard motherf*^%er cuts me off while driving–with a much more dignified and silent middle finger.  

10 Ways Studying Theatre Prepared Me for Motherhood

Was watching ‘Little Mosque on the Prarie’ this evening after putting the baby down and spotted a couple of actors I worked with on a show. You see before I became a blogger extraordinaire and a communications ‘guru’ (I’m being ironic here folks), I studied and, upon graduation, temporarily worked in theatre (as an actor, director and stage manager). Needless to say, I got really tired of the poor life and being a brutal waitress, decided to get out.

But that little TV show got me thinking about the four years of training/studying I did and how I still use these skills in relation to motherhood:

1. All those strange breathing/finding your inner voice exercises I did in acting class really came in handy during labour for those low primal grunts.
2. I’m able to ‘feign’ excitement when Noa puts the puzzle piece in the box for the hundreth despite the fact that I’m actually sleeping with my eyes open.
3. I do a mean puppet show.
4. Endless improvisation exercises have allowed me to develop new lyrics to lullabyes including extensive revisions to ‘Hush little baby…’ Examples: “and if that diamond ring don’t shine, Papa’s gonna buy you a bottle of wine. And if that bottle of wine is sour, Mama’s gonna take you to happy hour. ”
5. Animal impersonations are my middle name.
6. I’m prepared to make a complete ass of myself for a couple of laughs from my ‘audience’ of one.
7. The pay is crap.
8. Just like with the Actor’s Equity Union, once you’ve joined the motherhood gang, like it or not, you’re in it for life.
9. Not showering for several days is truly a form of artistic expression.
10. Motherhood is a lot like being a stage manager: you’re there to make sure everyone’s needs are catered to, the set dishes are washed, floor mopped and that everything runs on schedule and NOBODY thanks you.

Allergy Schmallergy!

Sometimes it’s painfully obvious that when I make sweeping generalizations there is someone up there (woman, man, reincarnated spirit, mass of energy–whatever turns you on spiritually) just waiting to bite me in the ass.

 Case in point: allergies.

God, if I had to hear about those damn allergies again. The Western World seems to have gone HYPERallergenic. I mean you’re now officially the Devil if you try and send your kid to school with a peanut butter and jam sandwich. “It’s so freakin’ ridiculous,” I recall ranting to a neighbour. “Just a complete overreaction by the schools to cover their ass liability-wise.” I was a total eye-roller on the issue and really believed it was mommy paranoia taken to the max.

That is, until Noa had a lick of a yogurt popsicle and in 60 seconds or less proceeded to blow up–looking as if he had gone ten rounds with Ali or Tyson.  The little guy was impressive though: despite the fact that he resembled horror-flick Chuckie, he still managed to smile and laugh as I tickled his nose on the car ride to the Emergency Room. Ah yes, the big cheese in the sky was definitely sending a message loud and clear.

Now my perogative is a little different: 

KEEP YOUR F*%CKING MILK, CHEESE AND YOGURT AWAY FROM MY SON OR I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN!  

Ah yes, God works in not-so-mysterious ways…

If breastfeeding is obscene…Ten things to ban now!

 

Heard about the whole facebook and breastfeeding kafuffle http://www.thestar.com/article/255628and and have got to say–bravo to the uptight right! You’ve now made eating a sin! In the spirit of this wise and well-thought-out decision, I believe pictures of the following should also be banned:

1) All 50-something, overweight hairy European men wearing Speedo racers–I mean seriously, doesn’t this make every woman want to slather themselves in anti-bacterial gel?

2) Shots of Toronto’s CN Tower–it is after all, the world’s largest phallic symbol.

3) A woman sipping a $5 coffee from that famous American chain–otherwise known as the “mother’s milk” of a generation.

4) Ultimate fighting on YouTube: I know my husband’s addicted and the homo-eroticism of all those sweaty men rolling around is simply blasphemous.

5) Donuts coated in icing sugar–as children exposed to this kind of lurid food may, later in life develop a cocaine addiction.

6) Milk in general: I mean really, doesn’t it just take you back to that obscene breast of mama?

7) Hot, cheap designer shoes on eBay–which may cause women to orgasmically cry out, “oh yeah baby!”

8) Super baggy rap star pants belted low to reveal boxers–okay, I really believe these should be banned. Why? The part I find offensive is that this rapper “trend” has lasted at least 15 years. Boys, it’s time to move on to another ridiculous look please. Perhaps, walking around with one shoe or pairing these pants with a Speedo…

9) All retractable, domed stadiums–naturally, this conjures up images of the cervix dilating during that horrible, pornographic process known as childbirth.

10) Any photos or info regarding Britney Spears (okay, she’s one mama I actually hope is NOT still breastfeeding. Think of what that milk must contain…) 

Bizarre Search Terms

“Boobs jiggling while walking.” That’s the most recent search term someone used to find my blog. Which leads me to wonder–what the hell are people writing about and what kind of eccentric, fetish-freaks are reading it?

 Of course there could be a logical explanation–perhaps the only thing the searcher could remember about a friend’s blog was that there was a hysterical story about a delusional studmuffin (i.e. a stud in his own mind). Maybe said delusional man went to the same  nightclub every week and always made a point of wearing  tight white shirts to  emphasize his highly developed pecs. Of course since Rico Suave was obviously on steroids which added to his visions of grandeur, he was completely unaware that his “boobs were jiggling while he walked.”

 This is a perfectly logical explanation for the search term. More likely than not though, there’s some 45 year old guy holed up in his mom’s basement who has a penchant for braless, marshmallow-soft breasts that flap in the breeze. Come to think of it, my 60-year old next door neighbour is single, fits the latter description and enjoys strolling around the neighbourhood in a strapless and sadly unsupported bikini top. To the person who inputted this search: send me a message. I’ll hook you up!

Your baby is so cute! And other lies new moms utter…

 Okay, I’ve got to admit it: saying another baby is cute is like a Nike ad–you just do it. You HAVE to say the obligatory “what a cutie” and “how many months?” even if you think the baby looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid on acid. Truth be told, most of us are thinking “cute baby, but not as cute as my baby.” It’s nature’s way of making sure you don’t pitch the kid out the window when he has a complete and utter meltdown at 3am.

9 Other Lies:

2) “I don’t know why he’s crying when he’s usually so good.”
Read: the only time the baby shuts up is when he’s chomping down on a boob or in the bath.

3) “I’ll just have half a glass of wine since I’m breastfeeding”
Truth: okay, so maybe you end up drinking 8 half glasses–so what?

4) Yeah, my husband took the baby last night to give me a break.
Reality: I screeched at my man to “take the damn baby now or else I’m jumping out the bedroom window!”

5) I think the little guy is teething
Read: the neighbours called the police because they thought we were operating a poultry slaughterhouse out of our apartment.

6) Wow, he’s got a really unique cry.
Read: thank God my baby doesn’t sound like a chicken being slaughtered.

7) You know the pediatric society now recommends breastfeeding until at least 2 years old ?
Truth: you know if you stop breastfeeding, those french fries and chocolate cake you scarfed down at breakfast will go straight to your hips.

I religiously give my baby Vitamin D.
Fact: your baby is 10 months old and is still on the first 5ml bottle of the stuff.

9) “She just flung herself off of the bed!”
Truth: You were “resting your eyes” while your little gymnast decided to try out pillow vaulting as a new hobby.

10) “Our sex life has never been better.”

No explanation required.

The Consequences of New Mommydom and Bar-Hopping

1. Having to explain that you didn’t spill a drink on your nipples.
2. Being trashed on three drinks.
3. Pumping in one of those scuzy bar bathrooms while listening to two tarted up chicks argue over who’s more wasted.
4. Having to explain to the 22-year-old college kid why you can’t hit the all-night pizza-joint then make out.
5. Staring at the guy at the bar while internally thinking “my son is going to be way cuter than that!”

6. Realizing your muffin-top jiggles while you dance.

7. Answering the “what do you do?” chat up line with “I wipe up poop, pee, spittle and do an occaisional load of laundry.”
8. Being completely trashed on three drinks.
9. Trying to entertain a baby at 6am when you’re still  buzzed from aforementioned three drinks.
10. Having to explain to the next table that, no it’s not their “beer goggles,” your breasts really did double in size over the course of the evening.

The Dance of Mommydom

People will tell you that when you first have a baby, a lot of your non-parent friends will drop off the radar. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact your nipples hurt for a solid three months (all those midwives and breastfeeding experts lie to get you to hang in there), or because the mama bear killer instinct leaves you so hyper-focused on meeting the 24/7 needs of this crying lump of poo, burps and pee that a sleep-deprived bitchy Dr. Jekyl takes over. It all ends badly when you reach your breaking point and scream at your skinny, well-rested  yet perpetually whiney friend: “Do you really think I give a f**k about your stupid-ass job and loser boyfriend? I was ten centimeters dialated–TEN CENTIMETERS!”

 Okay, so when you think of it this way, it’s not that surprising.

What I never expected though is the kind of Junior High “will you be my friend” mentality that grips a lot of terrified new moms. Case in point: my trip to the drug store (yes for some reason the drug store has become a kind of Shakespearean playground for my blog).

I was innocently walking around the store with baby Noa sporting my latest insanely expensive purchase–a comfy but butt-ugly baby carrier that actually ADDS rolls of back fat. I passed a thrirty-something mom pushing her 4-month-old baby around in a top-of-the-line stroller. We exchanged obligatory smiles as  I continue on my way to the junk food aisle (sure, it’s the carrier that’s causing my back to look flabby).

After picking up and subsequently putting down about four different boxes of cookies, I switch tactics and head for the healthier dairy section. Again our mommy worlds collide. She smiles shyly at baby Noa. “He’s so cute,” she says in a tone that suggests she’s only saying this so I’ll comment on her stroller candy.

“So is she,” I respond taking her cue. There’s an awkward yet familiar pause…Ah yes, it’s like that uneasy feeling I used to get at nightclubs when some guy I had no interest in would buy me a drink. I’d politely stand there and answer his chit-chatty questions as I tried to down the beer as quickly as possible before making like Cinderella at the ball and fleeing.  Unfortunately now, there’s not even a drink in my hand (though it is possible that the Musac version of “Groove is in the Heart” is playing over the loudspeaker) and there is most certainly no dry ice to fog up that look of desperation. Instead it’s there for me to see in the fullness of the flourescent lighting.

“So, do you know anything about the Early Years Centre around here?” she says nervously.

God, can’t she come up with a more original line than that? I mean really, she might as well ask me if I’m from “around here.” Fortunately, though,  the question also provides me with the out I’m looking for. ”Sorry, I don’t, I’m afraid I live in the southern district and the centre for this area is different.”

The hope that had lit her eyes quickly burns out. Like a slot machine searching for the right combination of cherries and dollar signs to claim even the smallest of wins, I can see her mind sorting through the different ways she might be able to connect with me. But I’m not into the instant gratification of slot machines. Instead, I prefer the gradual  comraderie that develops over a couple of hours sitting at a blackjack table.

And while she seems nice enough, truth is, I barely have time to brush my teeth in the morning, let alone befriend this new mom–this complete stranger–in the drug store. Her internal wheels are still spinning when I decide to cut and run.

“Well, I’d better go–it looks like rain,” I say cheerfully. “Nice to meet you.” God, please don’t ask for my number. Is it inappropriate to give another mom a fake number?  I had no problem doing it in my clubbing days.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you later–” she says nervously. “Uh…I mean maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I’m sure you will,” I reassure her. I want to tell her it’s me, not her and that there are plenty of perfectly nice, somewhat lonely new moms out there who would cherish her friendship. My dancecard, though, is already jammed packed–with my Tuesday mamma’s group, work and marriage–and I’m just not looking for a new relationship.

Besides, I can be a pretty crap friend at the best of times: I’m almost always a day or two off when remembering birthdays, am perpetually late meeting my buddies for movies or dinner and still have all my completed, unsent Christmas cards from last year sitting in the top drawer of my desk (I’m thinking I might be able to wait it out and send them this year).

 All of this is meaningless, however, because I’m sure in her mind, I’ve left her standing alone at the bar with the tab.

10 Signs You’re a True Deadbeat Mom

The Deadbeat Mom Uniform

1. Your baby’s first foods are Twinkies and soda pop.
2. Your boob alcohol level is beyond 0.5 % (hey man, beer helps you make more milk!).
3. You believe that the idea of second hand smoke being harmful is just a conspiracy theory made up by those damn anti-smoking Nazis.
4. You put your 6-month-old daughter in a “My mom’s a M.I.L.F.” onesie.
5. You’ve appeared on Maury with your 150 lb baby.
6. The baby refers to the cow on the Baby Einstein video as “Mama.”
7. You own a copy of “Gangsta Rap Lullabies.”
8. There are cigarette burns on your Baby Bjorn.
9. You think ketchup is actually a baby food condiment.
10. You often try to settle arguments by flashing your boobs, especially when appearing as a guest on Jerry Springer.

How to save a life?

Every once in a while, we all have one of those experiences that shakes things up. Rocks your core and leaves you thinking–how am I really making a difference?

I’m a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister and a friend, so I suppose it’s a given that I have an effect on those people on a daily basis. As a “career” I do write–brochures, web copy and the odd light and fluffy health piece. People might occaisionally read these, so perhaps I’ve provided them with a Cheerio of information they’ll actually digest.

And yet, aside from giving birth to my son, I’d say my biggest contribution to the world in the last year has been a bagel and an iced tea.

Let me explain…

On Tuesday, I decided to spend the day with Noa–now almost eight months old–and run a few errands. After a trip to the local Farmer’s Market, I headed to my neighbourhood Shopper’s Drug Mart to finally get my gazillion pictures of Noa developed for the relatives who’ve been nagging me for snapshots.  It’s a hot, muggy day but Noa’s been adequately hatted, UV netted and slathered in sunscreen.

As we approach the store I spot two kids, a boy and a girl,  sitting next to the newspaper boxes without an inch of shade in sight. They’re maybe 15 or 16. In front of them sits a plastic tub with about $1.37 in it. As I pass, they don’t ask me for money or say anything for that matter. They just sit quietly looking at the ground as the world literally passes them by. 

Now I must admit, as I’ve gotten older, my views on street people have hardened. I’ve found myself being a little less sympathetic, a little colder and a little more detached than I was in my early twenties when my brother nicknamed me “pinko girl.” Maybe it’s a survival tactic, or perhaps it’s due to that spate of tabloid-trash news reporting which revealed some Toronto pan-handlers actually have good homes in the suburbs to go back to (i.e. the notorious “shakey lady”) every night.  

But when I look at these kids melting in the midday sun, something stirs in me. I resolve to pick them up a drink in the store when I’m finished with the pictures.

I go into Shopper’s and go about my business with the intention of picking up the drinks. I even go to the refridgerated section and pick out two bottles of pop. Then I realize carrying them while pushing a stroller is going to be tricky. I put them down and plan on getting them after I’ve got my photos and am ready to leave.

Long story short, I get the photos just as Noa starts fussing. He’s tired and cranky and wants out of the store pronto. Trying to avoid a screaming baby scene I leave without the drinks. “Oh well,” I think to myself. After all I thought about doing a random act of kindness. It’s more than most people. And besides that I’ve got a baby who needs to get home for his nap fast. They’re probably gone anyways.

 On the last point, I’m half right. The boy is gone. But the girl is still sitting there in the blazing sun. I look down at her. She’s wearing a pair of ratty velveteen track pants and a mismatched flannel lumber jacket. FLANNEL. It’s well over 30 degrees Celsius outside.

Christ, how can I ignore this girl?

“Excuse me, would you like something to drink?” I ask.

At first, she seems uncertain who I’m talking to. When she realizes I am, in fact, asking her she weakly says,”Yes, please.”

“What would you like?”

“Anything, please.”

“How about an iced tea.”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

I study her more carefully. She’s tall and lanky. She’s got slight buckteeth. Something about her–maybe her incredibly good manners and gratitude–suggest to me that she’s not from the city.

I walk with Noa in tow in the stroller to the Tim Horton’s takeout window at the side of the drugstore and order an iced tea and a bagel with cream cheese.

She could be a runaway. Most likely abused–physically, emotionally, sexually, take your pick. Maybe she’s been abandoned and then put in the Children’s Aid system where she was abused again.

I want to ask her why she’s there, begging on the street in the hot midday sun in a flannel jacket and who the boy she was with was. Her brother maybe? I want to tell her she’s got options. That she doesn’t have to end up a crack addict (she was definately not high or drunk) or a prostitute, or pregnant at 16. That there are programs that can help and people in this world you can trust. Who won’t treat her like shit. I want to ask her where the fuck her parents are and what horrible things they’ve done to her to make her think that living on the streets is safer or better than living with them. I want to take her home and give her that drawer full of clothes I know I’ll never wear again because they’re too small or I’m too old or because I had the luxury of buying something that I didn’t really need ‘just because.’ Summer clothes to replace the flannel. Clothes that might even make her feel better about herself. Make her feel less invisible to the world. I want to give her a job. Maybe do some garden work. Or I can teach her how to do filing for my business, or research on the Internet.  I could give her a job so she won’t have to be on the street in 30 degree weather in a flannel jacket begging for spare change. I want to tell her  I can help.

Instead I pass her the bagel and the iced tea.

“Thank you so much,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” I reply.

“Have a nice day,” she says as she, like a starving squirrel thrown a nut, frantically unwraps the bagel.

“You too,” I instinctively say.

And as I push my beautiful, loved and wanted son down the street in his stroller, the irony of my response brings tears to my eyes. 

10 Facebook Revelations

Okay, so this isn’t really par for the course on my blog. Pretty much cause it isn’t really about motherhood–other than the fact that when you’re a parent, you start to understand your own mortality and suddenly feel the need to reconnect with your past.

 Enter Facebook. For a while I resisted. After all, I’m busy enough and have plenty of friends. What the hell did I need with a virtual high school dance?  Finally, after about eight invitations, I decided to check it out and was kind of hooked! Not in the actual networking element, but as a voyeur. It’s like a giant ”what ever happened to…” game. 

Anyway, after trolling multiple networks, here are a few universal facebook truths:

1. If you’ve gained 50 pounds and look like crap, putting your kids pics up is a good way around this.
2. If you were a Rick Astley look-alike in the late 80’s, chances are you’ve now come out of the closet.  
3. If I never talked to you in highschool, I’m not going to be drawn in by your friggin ”poke” 20 years later.
4.  Late bloomers will always post their picture as a way of saying “nah nah nah nah nah nah” to all those popular kids who now fall in to the category mentioned in number 1.
5. Loser guys who think they hooked a hot wife will always post a wedding pic.
6. At least one of the total party animal kids from high school has now found Jesus.
7. Even if you reject facebook as your social saviour, chances are there’s still a nagging voice at the back of your head saying “You need more friends!  More! More!”
8. There’s always a temptation to look up old boyfriends or girlfriends in hopes that they’re now fat and/or bald.
9. Someone you know from your past will have a totally bizarre occupation (like funeral director–no kidding!)
10. Hanging out on Facebook on a Saturday night is almost as good as clubbing for a new mom so long as you’ve got some music on in the background and a cocktail.

10 Things We Survived that Parents Would Be Locked Up For Today

1. “Cutting Back” to a caraffe of wine and a half pack of menthols during pregnancy.
2. Putting rum on our gums when teething.
3. Peanut butter and jam sandwiches.
4. Riding our bikes unsupervised and helmet-free.
5. Hanging out in the car while mom ran into the supermarket for groceries.
6. Playing outside until dark (and sometimes even in the dark).
7. Walking to school with your “older” eight-year-old neighbour.
8. Goofing around in the back of the car without a child seat or a seat belt for that matter.
9. Stepping outside without sunscreen.
10. Walking to the corner store to pick up smokes for Dad.