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.

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…) 

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.

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 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.

Recipe for a Good Mommies Group

I must confess: I’m not really the mommy group type. Sure I like to cook, but that’s really where Martha Stewart and I part ways. I’m not into scrap-booking, failed Grade 8 sewing and am generally turned off by all the “oohing and aaahing” over china patterns and pressed flower arrangements.

 Which is why I dropped the first mom’s group I went to like a very wet diaper. Before I get any hate mail, let me just clarify: I like doing crafty stuff (I suck at it, but that’s what makes it kind of fun). I’m even thinking about making my own baby food. But while all the women at the mom’s group seemed very nice, I couldn’t crack their veneer. They were too nice. Too happy. Too damn pleasant and perky. 

 There I was, making a baby foot print shadow box for my in-laws and I gotta say: I wasn’t feeling the love. I was tired, cranky and dammit, my nipples hurt. Sure I love the bejesus out of baby N but I was having a bad day.  Apparently, I was the only one.  Everyone around me was all smiles and hugs and “oooh that paper is just the cutest!” and “I’ve already made two scrapbooks to commemorate the first two weeks of little Janie’s life!” I left there feeling disconnected and glum: maybe mommydom wasn’t for me after all.

 But a great thing happened. My neighbour (who I didn’t know all that well) invited a couple of new moms and I over for lunch and yes, even a glass of wine (before I get more hate mail about being a deadbeat alcoholic mom, breastfeeding guru Jack Newman says it’s okay to indulge now and then). The four of us sat there, babes in arms or tucked away in a vibra chair and something amazing transpired: we dished it out straight, even though we barely knew each other.

 We all, it turns out, have moments of sheer love, panic, joy, insanity, peace and frustration over being new moms. We sat there and laughed and bitched and laughed–about sleepless nights, stupid things our mates sometimes utter, the cute little things our babies had started doing, the consistency and regularity of poop, the crying, the cooing, the hormonal up and downswings, the fact that we felt unprepared. And then we laughed some more until we realized we’d been sitting there for over four hours. All without having made one shadowbox, assembled one scrapbook page, or having decided on which ’special guest’ we could bring in to tell us how to feed, bond and burp our babies.

Yet something was acheived that day: we all found a place where we could be our messy, complicated new mom selves without judgement and without having to accomplish any task other than to enjoy each others’ company. And now a group of six, we’ve decided to do it every week.

 It’s real, it’s raw, and I must say, it’s something I look forward to every Tuesday!

Top 10 post-3a.m. feeding activities when you can’t sleep

1. Make faces out of your belly blubber.
2. Try to remember the number of partners you had and a) realize your a deadbeatmom tramp or b) wish you had sowed your wild oats before you had a baby.
3. Concoct ways to become rich from motherhood a la Baby Einstein and Robeez moms who made millions.
4. Read another baby book.
5. Reminisce about the days when being up at 3 a.m. usually involved dancing and alcohol.
6. Toss the baby book on the floor and read People magazine instead.
7. Smile smugly at the fact you’re a better mom than poor ‘ol Britney.
8. Think of ways to “accidentally” wake up your deadbeat partner who’s sound asleep.
9. Consider popping baby’s acne while he/she is asleep even though you know you shouldn’t.
10. Catch up on Jerry Springer to remind yourself that even post-baby, sleep-deprived, and without makeup, you’re still way hotter than his guests.