It's About Your Bum.....

I've thought long and hard about writing about this, for a couple of reasons: 1) I don't want it to be perceived as an attention getting piece (I generally do not like to draw attention to myself) and 2) It is, but shouldn't be, kind of embarrassing.




When my first child was born, I was the first one of all of my friends to have a baby, and I had no idea what to expect and what was "normal". I suffered in silence with post-partum depression, crying, agonizing, feeling guilty for not being a calm, loving, serene mother oft seen in the parenting magazines I began to read with religious fervour. What was wrong with me? After 8 months of just barely keeping it together, I made an appointment with my GP and was swiftly diagnosed with post-partum depression. I was informed that my doctor saw several women like me several times a week and that it is very common for women to feel the same way I was feeling. Huh.  I guess it was also very common for women to appear to be high functioning, baby-loving momma's on the outside, and suffer in silence on the inside. After that one appointment with my GP, I vowed to talk about post-partum to everyone and anyone who would listen. As a result, over the years, I like to think that I have helped several teary new mommies in guiding them to their doctor, or just being an ear to cry to without guilt and shame.



That's a very long winded introduction to what I am writing about today. I feel so good about helping people with post partum depression by talking about it, raising awareness, and I hope I may be able to do the same thing with what I am  putting out there today.



Since the birth of my second child, seven years ago, I have been suffering with what I thought, because my doctor told me it was the case, hemorrhoids (see why I might be embarrassed? But c'mon, these are as common as post partum depression). For seven years I have been suffering, with symptoms getting worse and worse, and impacting my life horribly (I won't go into details, google it if you must). Trips to my doctor, emergency rooms all resulted in a sympathetic smile and ain't childbirth a bitch kind of attitude. Not necessarily wanting to be poked and prodded, because it's embarrassing, I would accept this as my fate and carry on.   My kids did have massive melons when they were born - small price to pay for craniums full of good smart brains.


I moved cities several months ago and found a lovely new GP. I told her my history, just so she would have it on file, but her reaction was one of sympathy.  She said that I shouldn't have to live like this, let's get me to a specialist. When I saw the specialist, he was also so very sympathetic, and a little concerned about the history of colon cancer in my family. Oh, did I mention that yet? I certainly did to my doctors in Ottawa, but they all said I was way too young to be concerned about something so dramatic. Maybe in 10 years time they would start screening, but no need yet.



My specialist scheduled me for a full colonoscopy pronto (I love you my sweet little anaesthetist!) to take a look around and if nothing else, get rid of those nasty hemorrhoids.

When I came to at the hospital, my specialist waited for me to be fully coherent to give me the news. I didn't have hemorrhoids. No sign of them at all. Instead, he removed a massive (his words) polyp from my colon and he would be sending it in for a biopsy. Huh. What do you do with that information? He scheduled an appointment for three weeks later to go over the results. Huh. So there could be more to this? Chapter not closed?



I had my appointment on Monday. Turns out the polyp was like a mushroom, with a stem, the stem attached to my colon. The biopsy revealed abnormal (cancer) cells in the "cap" of the mushroom, and luckily hadn't reached the stem part of the mushroom, because that's when things get more difficult to remove. (This is a very layman's way of describing things, and I apologize for that. If you have a medical background you are probably cringing and cursing at me in latin). 

What happens now is I go for a follow-up colonoscopy in 6 months time to make sure he removed everything and there is no more abnormal activity, and I will now have routine colonoscopies every 1-2 years. The scary thing is he said that we would be having a very different conversation if I was sitting in his office a year or two from now. I think you know what I mean.  He also told me that he called his colleague in during the procedure, because of my age (sooooo young, thank you, thank you) and because of little old me they are going to change the way they approach patients who approach them with unlikely concerns. 



So girls and boys, see what I mean by kind of embarrassing and personal? But it shouldn't be embarrassing, it's all body parts, that's all. Like my specialist said, that looking at my bum is like looking at my nose to him, it's what he looks at everyday - why be embarrassed?



So, with post partum, I talk to anyone pregnant or anyone with a baby about it, just in case they are suffering in silence. Now, I can't very well talk to everyone with a posterior about their bum without getting locked up, but my appeal to you is to not be shy, and push your doctors if you feel in your gut that something isn't right. You have that right. I wasn't pushy, and it took a new doctor, with a different attitude to be proactive on my part. I shudder to think about the outcome if I hadn't moved cities, had remained with my GP, too passive and embarrassed to insist on further probing (ha! couldn't resist).

Where are their birth certificates?

We gave them their nicknames prematurely, before we got to know them.

Grace's new middle name is Stop.
Edie's new middle name is Stoppit.

I think it flows beautifully.

Ch-ch-changes

I want to change the name of my blog.

In point form, as minimally verbose as possible:

-I am no longer really mean (that's me, catatonic in the corner, waving the white flag of surrender, just praying that they just make to 18 alive).

-I am no longer old (this is the year I officially start denying my age and pay big bucks for products that claim to burn off your skin to reveal Younger!  More Youthful! skin (I'm sure cosmetic companies wouldn't use teenage girls to advertise their beauty products, right?)

-I'm still Mommy to one, but the older one called me Mom yesterday in front of her friends.  After I sucked in some hot humid air, I threw my shoulders back and realized that there is change in the wind, and calling me Mom caused a tectonic shift surely being felt all over the northern hemisphere  (oops, a little verbose, sorry.  I just wanted to write "tectonic shift" - maybe this will become a geology blog, or, tectonic shift will become the name of my new band - I dunno, I dunno!  I am giddy with the options!  Shoot, there goes the verbose thing again).

Let the fun begin.   A new name.  Don't worry, I will still humiliate my family on occasion, but I will primarily focusing on humiliating myself.

Ooooooh look out you rock'n'rollers!

*Pong!*

I messed up royally tonight.  Badly enough that I can still smell it. 

I put in a laundry mid-morning yesterday consisting of mainly polyester items (soccer jerseys, shorts, socks) and I apparently found better things to do from the moment the wash cycle ended all the way to 5:30 this afternoon before I thought to flip it.  Grace had a game tonight at 6:30 and needed her gear.  I opened the door and *pong!* there it was.  If you have any British background you may recognize *pong* as a word bubble word for something that smells terribly horribly bad.  I did what any good mother would do and Febreezed the *pong!* out of it (Febreezed now a verb, thank you) and threw it in the dryer, on high heat for 20 minutes with fingers, toes, eyes crossed that it would work.  Well, 20 minutes later the Febreeze did take, but only as a compliment to the *pong!* - it did not eliminate the offending odour.  We were getting close to game time and panic was setting in.  Grace threw the jersey on and ran upstairs to do what any 10 year would do in a similar situation - she raided my perfume collection.  Questionably, but thankfully, she rejected my Chanel No. 19, Coco Chanel, Occitane and my precious, precious, to the point of being curated, bottles of Jo Malone (first thing to be saved in case of a fire, truth).  She zeroed in on a sample size of Sickly Sweet by Victoria's Secret (honestly, I get cavities when I smell it).  This fragrance would attract folks who exist to single handedly fund One (or is it 1?) Direction, TigerBeat magazine, and ICarly.  She didn't follow the rule of Spritz and Walk through the mist either.   Rather, she sprayed a visible amount on (seeing perfume one oneself is never a good thing) and said Let's Go!  At this point she smelled like a petrie dish gone rogue at an air freshener making factory.  And I was in a pickle. Do I take her to the game and let her add her own sweat to the *pong!*, Febreeze and perfume creation?  Or do I deny her her love of the game?  Opting to power through it,  we got in the car, (and by car I mean mini-van, with its own olfactory challenges) driving there with the windows down, way down.  When we arrived, I nervously tittered to the other moms what had happened, knowing full well that the odour could not be ignored.  They sympathetically smiled and said things like it happens, we've all been there.  But I live in Oakville, a place where I don't really believe people would ever allow such a thing happen.  I am a new breed to this somewhat unnatural habitat.

Long winded, but I have since washed the gear and the bouquet of *pong!*, Febreeze and Victoria's Secret is still there - my point of this post being does anyone know how to get nasty smells out of laundry?  Help.

A Walk On The Wild Side

It was the summer I started smoking.  The cigarettes were Rothmans cigarettes – a brand I favoured not for its taste but for its ease of purchase, as they were prominently displayed right beside the cash register at our local gas station (at the tender age of 13, I was much too shy/awkward/nervous/all of the above to actually ask for a brand by name).

It was also the summer I discovered Lou Reed’s Take a Walk on the Wild Side.  I heard this song on the radio this past weekend and a memory came flooding back to me.  It’s a seemingly simple snapshot in time, but a profound and important one for me.  I remembered a summer evening, sitting on my parents white, wrap-around veranda  - a  veranda that hugged our blue gingerbread house, a house that everyone in town knew.  It had just rained, and the heat and humidity from the day had been lifted ever so slightly.  My parents had an abundance of lilacs around their property and the air was fragrant with them.  I was sitting there waiting for my boyfriend to come by and visit, a preppie, clean cut guy, and so memorable I can’t even remember his name now.  Everything and everyone was walking distance in my town, and I was looking for him to come over the bridge.  I had my walkman on – a clunker of a thing (I always received my brothers’ hand-me downs, he must have upgraded and passed this early model on to me).   I had a mixed tape in there, and I was listening to Take a Walk on the Wild Side over and over again (rewind, rewind, rewind).  Of course I had heard this song this song before, but I had never really listened to it.  Oh the details!  I was wearing cropped black esprit pants (I hadn’t started shaving my legs yet and was shy about the blonde hair on them), black oxford shoes, a white T-shirt with an image of a pouting, cigarette smoking James Dean on it.  My head was constantly cocked to the side at this point as I had just had my hair cut into a Belinda Carlisle-esque style where one side was cropped shorter than the other, forcing me to hold my head at a constant angle (if you are from the 80’s you know what I’m talking about).  My hair was also streaked with blond due to frequent squirts from a Sun-In bottle and my arms were brown with summer, the hair on them bleached white. 

I remember in that particular moment feeling really, really pretty.  I wish I could say that this was at the very least a rare occurrence for me, but it wasn’t even that.  I never felt pretty.  I think I popped out of my mother's womb feeling inferior in that department, and in subsequent years, was constantly trying to keep up with and emulate the prettier, popular girls at school, but never succeeding and constantly feeling down on myself.  But in that moment, listening to Lou Reed over and over again, taking chances with a new hair cut and what I thought at the time was a cutting edge t-shirt, I remember being excited that I felt pretty, and even a little bit confident.  Listening to the lyrics of the song with all of its references to people who are different, wanting to escape, escaping, I felt that song talking to me.    It was a moment of fuck it for me, fuck status quo, fuck constantly trying to get with the popular crowd, fuck trying to climb the social ladder, fuck it all.  It was the summer between Grade 8 and Grade 9, and I saw my chance to reinvent myself at high school, align myself with new people and new interests.   I broke up with my bland boyfriend shortly after that night, and started the journey of reinvention.

Now  I’m the first one to admit that I didn’t necessarily make the smartest choices in this transition (a smoking addiction for example, and skewed ideas of what was cool), but that one song, that summer’s eve, changed everything  for me and  started me on the road of making me who I am today.    Oh, and I like myself today, so that is a good thing.

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

Edie has no interest in learning how to ride her bike.  We took her training wheels off to sort of force the issue, but she has no desire to learn how to ride.  She has a pink Ariel scooter that she is content to scoot around the 'hood with, but it has no speed man.  This frustrates me to no end as my childhood would have been positively Dickensian without my two wheels.   As early as I can remember, I loved me a good bike ride.  From riding in the moulded deathtrap bucket on the back of my Dad's euro bike* to ditching my training wheels at a young age, my bike brought me from A to B in my small town, particularly important when parents didn't chauffeur us from A to B on a daily basis.

Edie's lack of interest in the velo arts has got me thinking about my own history with bike riding.   I remember the initial stress over whether you were going to get a boy bike or a girl bike.  As a girl, the femininity of the girl bike appealed to me, but the boy bar forced you to swing your leg off the bike when disembarking that made you look really, really cool.  If your parents were frugal (Scottish) you usually ended up with a bike at 6 years old that would last you until you were 19 years old.  This just reinforced a good sense of balance.   Accessories at a young age were most important.  A bell to annoy the fuck out of everyone was essential.  (Ding ding I'm here!  Ding ding I'm coming!  Ding ding I'm waiting for you!  Ding ding let's go!  Ding ding my bell is louder than yours!  etc etc).  The basket was also essential.  I went through a few of them,  from the aesthetically pleasing faux-white wicker ones to a balls out unfinished metal one (ugly, but it's the one that lasted for ever).  My basket was used for the transport of teddy bears, dolls and barbies from point A to point B.  Insisting they could not be trusted at home in my absence, my charges  were tenderly shoved and crammed into the basket, along with a jar of worms, caterpillars and ants whom I insisted co-habitate with a few blades of grass to sustain them.  As for a helmet, well, helmets were simply not part of the uniform back then - though if they were I imagine that they would be an awesome 1970's creations of steel, asbestos with awesome galactic paint jobs as well as lacking chin straps to keep them on.

Fun times I enjoyed on my bicycle:

1) A game called Ambulance Chaser.  Actually, it could have been Firetruck Chaser or Cop Car chaser.  As I mentioned, it was a small town and we were pretty flexible with what qualified for excitement.  In a nutshell, this game involved upon hearing a siren, seeking it out and then biking like a bat out of hell to follow the emergency vehicle to its destination.  The purpose of this game?  To "help" the cop/fireman/paramedic.  Yup, at the tender age of approx. 7, we honestly though we could provide assistance to an emergency situation.  I like to imagine myself in my Barbapapa t-shirt, Flintstone flip flops and Jordache jeans barking orders at civilians as the fire crew employed the jaws of life on a poor victim.  In reality, the only real contact we ever had with an emergency worker was one poor cop who actually stopped mid-chase, pulled over and asked us if we knew how stupid we were for chasing cop cars and that we would end up run over.   He squealed off, and, well being 7 and stupid, we tore out of there and followed him.  Surely he didn't mean it?

2) Biking to my boyfriends house.  I was only about 12, but we were at the crucial hand holding stage and I Just Had to See Him.  He lived pretty far away, on the "busy street".  I set out to see him that day.   I always had it in my mind that I should bike against the traffic because I always liked to see what was coming at me (I don't like to be sneaked up on).  I was pulled over that day by the cops, the pigs, the boys in blue, the fuzzzzzzzzzz.  They didn't like me riding on the wrong side of the road.  Think I obediently crossed the road and did what I was told?  Nope.  I explained my reasoning and they basically told me my reasoning sucked.  So I did cross the road - until they were out of site, then I crossed back again to my side, the right side.  I fought the law.  Remember this was the one busy street?  Well, they inevitably turned around to come back and they angrily pulled me over again.  The law won.  I got into a lot of trouble and there was noooooo hand holding that day.

3) Okay, this one is embarrassing.  I called this game Wedding (can you sense the desperation?)    Because of the nature of the game and my victim, I am guessing that I was as old as 11 when I played it.  I need to add here that there were a few summer days one year that I did not have a whole lot of friends.  This would have been the summer when my teeth were too big for head, my hair resembled a jaunty pyramid, acne had claimed my face, my legs were long skinny and dangly and I had a bit of belly that I had not yet grown into (thus the picture of the wasp - a pretty good likeness).  Anyhoooo, that was the summer of Rob Lowe.  I was in love with him and, well, let's make this fast.   I-would-tie-tin-cans-to-my-bike-and-bows-and-ribbons-and-pretend-that-Rob-and-I-were-riding-a-tandem-bike-together.  We-were-just-married-and-riding-off-into-the-sunset-to-our-honeymoon-destination(Tahitii if you must know).  

Shut up.

Okay, after that last point all fun memories are temporarily wiped from my memory.  I wish I could say it stopped there but I'm pretty sure the following year my marriage to Rob Lowe was annulled and Michael Schoeffling replaced his spot on my imaginary tandem bike.  That would have put me a 12 years old.  I have to go now.

All this to say I just want Edie to embrace her damn bike!

*(this bike was amazing - turquoise in colour, mirrors jutting out everywhere - it was like a non-motorized mod bike.  My Dad is from Scotland, so was this bike I think - street cred from early on.)

Mint Jelly

Every night Grace pleads for a "Little Girl Story".  These are stories, simple little anecdotes from my childhood - some rosy, some not so rosy, and some so mundane that it blows my mind that she asks for them again and again.

This particular one had her begging for more, more detail, more information,  MORE STORY!
I call the story Mint Jelly - it goes a little something like this, with Grace's questions added:


When I was a little girl, I loved mint jelly, the kind you eat with lamb.

*We don't eat lamb, do we?*

No, it doesn't agree with me now that I am old, and I have no idea how to make it.  Anyhooo, I loved the green stuff, but Nanny had to hide it from me so I wouldn't sneak any when I wasn't supposed to.

*Where did she hide it?*

Oh, um, on a shelf.

*Was it a high shelf?*

Yes,  a very high shelf.

*Could you reach with a chair?*

Errrr, no.

*But maybe you could have with a high chair*

Yeah, a high chair would have been good.

*Or a ladder, Grandad's ladder*.

Yes, and it wasn't' just Grandad's ladder, it was Nanny and Grandad's.

*But mostly Grandad's, because he does all the hard chores around the house*.

No, no that's not right, Nanny does lots of hard chores too.

*Like what kind of chores does Nanny do that need a ladder?*

(omy efffing god) I don't know Grace, windows and stuff I guess.

*silence*

Okay, so I decided one day to make my own mint jelly.

*How?*

I'm getting to that. I grabbed a big old ice cream container...

*What kind of ice cream was it?*

Oh, I don't remember.  Probably vanilla or butterscotch ripple, those are the only flavours I remember Nanny ever buying....

*But now she buys fun flavours*.

Yes, now she buys fun flavours.  Anyhooo, I filled the container up with mint leaves, gelatin and water and stirred it...

*Wait.  Like Jello?  She let you have that? Did you have to ask?  Where did she keep it?*

Oh, ummm, no, it was gelatin that had no flavour.

*Huh?  Why would you have that?  Did Grandad like that flavour?  No flavour?  Did you get in trouble for just taking it?  You would never let me take something without asking*.

Ah, no, gelatin can be used in recipes....I think.  I don't use it myself.

*You should ask Nanny how to use it, she's a good cook*.

(Burrrrrn).  Yes, she is a good cook.  No I didn't ask - things were different then, I played by myself a lot and just sort of helped myself to stuff.

*Luuuuucccckkkkkyyyyy.*

Yeah really lucky.  So I let the mixture sit in the sun for a few days and nothing happened.  I just got stinky and gross.

*What did it smell like?  Was it minty? Watery? What EXACTLY did it smell like?*

Errrr, (I was kind of intimidated by this line of questioning) it smelled like rotting mint (I don't actually remember this detail).  So I brought it to Grandad's potting shed.

*What's a potting shed?*

Oh, it was like a little house in our back yard.

*A house?  You had a house in your back yard?*

Well, it wasn't really like a house more like a little cottage.

*You were rich*.

No, we weren't rich.

*Well, you were richer than we are now, we don't have TWO houses like you did*.

It wasn't like that, it was just like a big shed.

*How many rooms?*

Well, two, with little tiny other rooms.

*You were totally rich*.

Nooooo.....it was just this little odd house where Grandad kept his lawnmower and tools, and there were all these cool treasures in there, like neat antique-y things.  I could spend hours in that shed.  And I Ioved the smell, like gasoline and grass cuttings.  The best. (pause, waiting for another question, but she seemed to have accepted that we were not rich at this point).  So I brought the mint mixture in there for a few days and nothing happened, it just became more and more gross.  I finally decided to toss it when I realized my experiment had gone bad and would never be good enough to serve with Nanny's lamb dinners.  I marched it out to the creek and tossed it in there off the little bridge.

*What creek?  What bridge?*

Oh you know, that little creek that ran behind my back yard.  There was also this old half bridge, that only went halfway across the creek - the other half had broken off.

*You went there alone?*

Oh yeah, I spent hours poking along there, pretending to fish off the old bridge, racing leaves down the creek....tracking squirrels and chipmunks.

*But where were Nanny and Grandad?*

Oh, I dunno, in the house somewhere, or doing gardening, they didn't really keep track of us.  We kind of came and went  when we were kids.

*Weren't they scared something might happen to you*?

Nope, I really don't think they were.  And nothing ever did.

The story kind of faded from there, but Grace's line of questioning drew out such strong, vivid memories for me, and frankly in some ways it made me a little sad.  Sad because today she knows a million kinds of different ice cream flavours and isn't particularly excited by any of them (I practically birthed a cow when my mom brought home Tiger Tail one day).   She will never be allowed to play by the creek in the trails behind our house on her own, getting lost in her own little daydream world.  She would never dare poke around our cupboards rummaging for a snack because I prescribe everything for her.  Oh, and I'm a little sad for her because I will never be the cook that my mother is.

Sadness aside, those are some kick ass memories, and I thank my little girl for pulling them out of me.

My Kids are Going to be SMRT!

Look, I wasn't kidding around about the Rainbow Magic books people.  Last night I was reading the riveting Rain Fairy book to Edie and lookey here, page 60, second line:

And check out page 64:

Now the switch from shimmering to sparkling is to be commended, however, I was not fooled, I see what they did there.  I have to think of the audience though - I can practically see the whirlwind of fairy dust swirling around Edie's head as she falls asleep at night, dreaming about how the hells happy bells will the  dust will be distributed in the next chapter????????

I have an issue with the other child now.  So independent is Grace getting that I don't regularly read to her at night.  When I stopped in for a little good night cuddle last night, I found her with her iPod, notebook and pen in hand jotting down One Direction lyrics. This verse sung by the admirably articulate
*puffy heart* Zayne grabbed my attention for it's particularly articulate persuasiveness :

  

Oh girl, can we try one more, one more time?

One more, one more, can we try?
One more, one more time I’ll make it better
One more, one more, can we try?
One more, one more,
Can we try one more time to make it all better?


So note to Edie, stick to Rainbow Magic, at least they use adjectives.

  

Don't make me push the button!

I need something, something like the movie-version President of the United States has.  I need a big, red button that I can hover over, threateningly, whenever my girls are fighting and generally  making my life miserable.  I need a button that says "you know what girls?  I can end this, right here, right now.  You know why?  Because I'm the effing President of your little lives, serving consecutive terms until you are 18 years old.  Welcome to My Democracy!!!!!!  Bwahahahahaha!"

Charlize Theron will play me in the movie (wait, can Linda Evangelista act?)  Gollum and The Kraken will play Edie and Grace, respectively.

That's where I'm at today.

It's not like I'm trying to get them to eat escargots.....

I have a quick question (oh, it’s never quick, is it Meanie). After 10 years of being a Mom I have learned that Dr. Google and parenting books only make me paranoid and feel like a sub-par parent (omg, did you read What to Expect When You’re Expecting? Remember that part where she wrote that if at the end of the week you are craving a sweet treat, to indulge in her recipe for homemade muffins sweetened with prune puree? Haaaaaaa, when I was pregnant, I needed a sweet fix at the end of every day/hour/minute and fed myself at the trough of the local Bulk Barn!)

 But I digress. My girls are pretty picky eaters. Grace is much better now though, and at least has a willingness, when coaxed, to try something new. For a while she wanted us to pay her a dollar to eat, but even without consulting Google/parenting books I know that is wrong (right?) Edie’s idea of trying something new is to lick it and then loudly proclaim that she doesn’t like it (you imagine this is done as eloquently and discretely as a member of royalty. I like picturing Queen Elizabeth doing the same thing).

 I am so tired of eating “kid-friendly” fare and developing menus for the 10 and under crowd and another for the 29 and under crowd (shut up). This week I started a new strategy, again, without consulting any professionals. I decided to make one meal each night, the kids have to try it, and if they don’t like it, the peanut butter, bread, jam and VERY dull butter knife (you don’t know my kids) is laid out on the counter for them to make themselves a sandwich. Themselves. They have to make it. Not me. I’m eating/enjoying something with more than three ingredients and likely multicoloured/multi-textured. Am I going to create nutritionally challenged kids? Is this cruel? Will this send them to the therapy couch down the road (well, they are headed there anyways, this can just be added to their laundry list of complaints).

Tell me though, does this seem like a fair tactic? I really want your opinion. (Oh, and my parents did make me eat escargots. They didn't tell me what they were though, all I knew is that I loved the garlic butter the little snails were bathed in. I must of been kind of stupid though, what else could they have been?)

(A few) Reasons Edie Will Need Therapy

-Today, putting away her laundry I smiled at a particularly cute, polka dotted pair of undies. So tiny, so sweet....so size TWO! Omg, I have been cramming Petitie Edie's butt into size 2 underwear for my own cute fix. The shame.....(she's 7....)

-Again, putting away her laundry, I grimaced over the inevitable single clean sock when lo and behold, I spotted it's (dirty) mate by her bed. Did I do what a good mother would do and toss the dirty one in the laundry? Hell no. I assessed it as being not that dirty (yeah, I smelled it, judge away) and bundled it with the clean one. Let's be clear that this is not about laziness folks, it is about my desire for perfect order somewhere in my life, and so be it if it is in Edie's sock drawer.

-When Edie brought home ANOTHER sparkly Rainbow Magic I didn't even hide my groan of anguish. Luckily I'm sick so I was able to cover and say it was a weird cough, but still, have you read these things? They are so inane, so mind numbingly boring where the same verbs "beaming" and "grinning" are used ad nauseum and the use of "and then she disappeared into fairy sparkle" is used wayyyyy to often as a means to end a chapter. I HATE THEM! But Edie loves them, so yeah, I'm screwed.

-This one is for both girls, I remind them daily the perils of scurvy and go into detail of how it affected the crew of Franklin's lost Arctic Expedition when I empty their lunch bag and see uneaten fruit/veggies. 128 people died yo.

So yeah, I have my own reasons for requiring therapy, who am I to not leave a legacy of sorts?

The Anatomy of a Cold

I was so sick yesterday. The most horribly sick I have a felt in a long time. As I lolled about on my bed, in and out of consciousness, I told myself that I should write about my experiences.

Friday: Windy day, a strange little feeling in the back of my throat – like a crumb from my Cobb’s Bakery (darlings I live in Oakville now!) scone got lodged on my uvula and no amount of throat clearing, sniffing and, errr, snorting (sorry!) would disengage it.

Saturday: Awoke with a slightly sore throat, but no matter, it was Gracie’s first big swim meet and all attention was focused on her. Edie a little pale, complaining of a sore throat and she had a runny nose, but this did not stop me from engaging in some serious cuddles/kisses/sharing of water bottle (when will I learn?) throughout the day. After the swim meet we went off to the pub (en famille, no roster of babysitters established yet in this here town). Throat feeling mighty tickily now, but two pints of Guinness later, tickly quickly turns to warm and fuzzy.

Sunday: Gah, stupid feeling still at the back of my throat and I feel kinda tired. No matter, I have dinner guests coming tonight! Edie looking quite pale, dramatically languishing on the couch with only iCarly bringing her any respite. I call the dinner guests to warn of impending plague, but this gal lives life on the edge and happily came with her family anyways. Sneezing begins. I wishful think and convince myself that I must be getting some allergies - my Mom equates all sneezing/running noses/coughing/red eyes with “every damn thing is in bloom right now”! Dinner party is fun, wraps up early enough for me to go to bed at a decent. I am a hockey play off widow now, so any witty banter/night cap before bedtime has all evaporated. I am exhausted, I retire.

Early Monday morning: I am officially dying. My throat, my Gawd my throat! I am in so much pain, how can Jo just, just, just SLEEP there while I lie here in such agony! I take a Tylenol and fitfully go back to sleep. The cruel alarm sounds and I have to get up. I have to make the girls their lunch and get them to the bus stop. Wasn’t I making my own lunch at their age (ahhh, no, in fact, Mom made it til I went off to university). Can’t they walk themselves to the bus stop? (ummm, no, who would carry their backpacks for them?) Like a fevered Sherpa, I escorted them to the bus stop and carried their scooters home. Based on my appearance, the neighbours probably thought I got my drink on early that morning and was drunkenly taking my parenting responsibilities quite seriously. I get home and pass out reading the Hunger Games.

Lunch time: I awake, almost crying, because I woke up thinking that if I was ever the Hunger Games, feeling sick like I did, I would have been killed. Katniss could kick my sick ass. Sniff. Poor me. I start watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall, heh heh. Funny. I feel a little better. Gah, I don’t feel better, at all! I am sooooo sick! I can’t move! Who will get the kids off the bus? I pick up the phone and call, the Father. Can you pleaaaaase come home? I can’t lift my finger let alone my body to collect the girls this afternoon (I rarely ask Jo to come home like that, he knows I am now officially dying). God I am so sick. I take my temperature to confirm this, in case I need medical evidence – yes, there is a fever registering. I pass out, knowing he will take care of everything.

Late afternoon: I kind of hear the girls come home – Jo must have told them how sick I was – I vaguely remember them staring at me wide eyed from the doorway – I feel sad, wondering how they will live without me because I AM DYING. Edie solemnly presents me with a Lego pyramid. We make eye contact and acknowledge this is likely the last gift she will ever give me. Grace yells at me from across the house and asks for a glass of water, then sighs “never mind, I’ll get it myself”. Touching gestures from both children.

Dinner time: I attempt to explain dinner preps to Jo, kids still need to eat all food groups and stick to their schedule, even if I’m unwell. I’m told later they had frozen pizza and ate at difference times. Sniff. The family unit is already falling apart without me.

Early evening: They brought me the crappy laptop upstairs. Just because I’m dying doesn’t mean I don’t want to get my social media on – but I can’t get internet connection on the damn laptop, so I just stare at the “sorry” page and feel sorry for myself until I pass out, again.

This morning: I awoke in the spare bedroom – two possible scenarios - I either made like a wounded animal and snuck off to die quietly or Jo was snoring and seriously compromising my “get a good night’s sleep” instructions from everyone. The fever broke though, and while I am far from feeling 100% better, I’ve made it to lunchtime without crying out of pity for myself.

But seriously, how would you survive the Hunger Games with a cold? Oh, and how do 7 year kids bounce back so quickly?

*This is dedicated to all the single parents out there because wow, I could not have gotten through yesterday without the second parent.

Let's just say I was growing ever so frustrated tonight when I couldn't figure out how to log into blogger.com. After many attempts, I realized I was trying to log into something called blobber.com, whooops, it's been awhile.

I WISH I had tons of things to report, but I don't. I bought a Mac, and I like it but I hate auto-correct, mostly because it makes me realize that I have a humungo vocabulary of strictly made up words (like humungo, I had to correct the auto-correct, humungo is a word dammit, oh god, my poor children).

Are you all DYING to know what I have been up to? Well, I am one very domesticated individual. That sentence makes me sound like I was feral at one point and a move to Oakville has tamed me. Well, I wasn't exactly feral before, but some days I feel like one of those long haired white cats that people put bows in their bangs, whereas in Ottawa I NEVER felt like that - if anything I felt like that cat with a chewed ear and leaky eye (sniff, I miss my drinking buddies!).

I kid, I kid. I am meeting some wonderbar (gah, again, auto-correct! Wonderbar is a perfectly decent descriptive word!) people. I've got my wine drinking buddy, coffee buddies, movie buddies and I've targeted a few other wine drinking buddies for future binges (I'm looking at you Dana and Julie). The one demographic I haven't penetrated yet (heh heh, penetrated) are the Gays. I miss you. Is there gay-ban in Oakville? Must research. I've tried googling gays in Oakville but let's just say the search results are not intended for a 39 year old minivan driving mother of two.

I've ventured into Toronto on a few occasions and simultaneously felt Alive! and drastically Out of Touch! Time to clamour for the fashion news - gah! What's this? Fashion Television has been cancelled????? But wait, I don't want to wear flowery shorts pulled up to my rib cage with an ironic fedora sooooooo ....

Anyhoooo, I'm good, I'm good. Here is where I make my false promise that I will blog everyday, but you can't take my first born if I don't. Wait, actually you can take her, but that's a blog entry for another day (I just felt like the Friendly Giant, you may get the reference if you are old like me).

Ying and Yang

Item 1) Grace received her first “grounding” yesterday. From 1:00 to bedtime she was sequestered to her room as punishment for her crimes. The hilarity that ensued (I had to hide my admiration in her abilities) was in the form of sticky notes on a fishing rod she fashioned out of silly putty, yarn and a stick. Edie was recruited as the town cryer to announce when a new note had been drafted for my literary consumption – a job she took very seriously as she planted a chair at the base of the stairs for the better part of the afternoon to await a new note. The notes were basically an almost 10 year olds rendition of Johnny Cochrane pleading not guilty. It actually made for a very peaceful afternoon. Which leads me to....

Item 2) I found my Pixies CD when unpacking a box during my peaceful afternoon. Not sure if this is a good or bad thing. It’s for sure good thing Martha Stuart styles because the Pixies are amazing, and you should like them, and they bring out all kinds of feelings and memories for me. It’s for sure a bad thing because they bring out all kinds of memories for me. Memories like going to a Pixies concert when I was super young, across the river from where we lived, with an older guy who had a car who I had only met via telephone. I lied to my parents about who I was going with, I gave no information to anybody about who I was going with and I just went in youthful bliss and fearlessness. I didn’t focus too hard on how I was going to get home, what time I was going to get home, or what repercussions there might be. I was just focused on the moment of me going to the Pixies concert. It all turned out okay, the guy wasn’t a creep, (or he wasn’t into 90 lbs when wet white painted face/hair dyed black young teenage girls). Thank goodness.

While I can bask in the memories, shake my head at my selfish and scary antics, I can’t help but think oh eff, I’m the parent now, and I’m going to be on the receiving end of whatever craziness my own girls heap on me. Yesterday Grace was quickly and swiftly schooled on what happens when you break the rules. After my trip down memory lane, I fear the day when I might not know what rules are being broken.

Ugh, why do I have to analyze EVERYTHING!

Follow up to the last post - sooooome drama has been abatted. I worked in Edie's classroom on Monday, and will continue to do so until I find work and can't do it anymore. Am I helicoptering my child? I dunno, maybe. She's just so damn smotherable. I guess I need to feel like I'm doing everything I can to help her through this rough patch. Besides, I get to wear a special badge and pinney with a big orange X on it identifying me as a volunteer. That's pretty special, don't deny it. That being said, when I did volunteer on Monday, I did hear a couple of kids invite her to play with them and she shyly declined. When I asked her about it she said she would rather hang out with the recess monitor because she (Edie)is her official helper. I introduced myself to the helper (identified by the special pinney and badge, I hope I look as cool as she does) and she is a lovely woman, kind and warm and I get why Edie feels safe with her. Maybe Edie is networking in her own little way, attaching herself to an authority figure, who kids flock to at recess, and Edie gets to meet them this way, slowly, on her own terms.

I did observe in the Grade 1 classroom The Table though. Oh you know it girlfriends, the table of 4 girls who form that exclusive club that is oh so difficult to break into. They just have that air about themselves, they are the "It" girls and they know it. I don't think Edie realizes these girls are mean girls yet; she did try to sit at their table but she was shooed away (I managed to retract my claws, forked tongue and medusa hair JUST in time) but Edie did seem unfazed by them and moved to a different table fairly seamlessly.

I think I have figured things out though. In Ottawa Edie grew with her friends from daycare, preschool to public school. Same kids from the beginning. Edie is quirky, no doubt about it, but that is all her friends knew about her, so they were accustomed to her and accepting of it. If Edie wanted to sit in a corner and talk to imaginary unicorns and spread glitter all around, it was fine. If the next day she wanted to join in on that game of hide and go seek, perfect. That's just Edie. Maybe it is just going to take a bit of time before things settle. Meanwhile, I need to diplomatically teach her that mean girls=suckage, confident unique girls=awesome.

I promise in my next post I will be back to blogging about what a crappy mom I am and how much wine I drink, pinky swear promise!

Sad.

When I was brushing Edie's hair this morning, she looked in the mirror and burst out crying "I don't like myself!" and the tears flowed and she crumbled into my lap, burying her head into my neck and sobbed. I couldn't get the reason for the breakdown out of her, she just repeated that she just doesn't like herself very much. Fighting back my own tears, I cooed all the things a Mommy should say, how wonderfully smart and funny and amazing she is. Shhhh shhhhh you are so very special and so many people love you.

She eventually calmed, the bus long gone at this point. Grace, Edie and I cuddled on the couch and read a Fly Guy book (always good to put a smile on anyone's face) and the sadness was over. I drove them to school, looking in the rearview mirror for hints of sadness, depression or anxiety in her beautiful, beautiful eyes, but there were none.

The knots have not left my stomach yet. I have not battled depression or anxiety for awhile now, but I will always remember what it felt like. And to hear my little Edie utter those words, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I would take that punch over her suffering any ill thoughts against herself.

I fought back more tears when she came home today with this picture:



Toughest. Job. In. The. World.

I am either the worst parent in the world, or the best. And I'm really not sure which it is.

My kids love me. They adore me. And I have discovered since being a homemaker, and being home with them over the Christmas "holidays" (the word holiday to a stay at home mom, is just effing cruel), that my children really dig me. They like me so much that I can barely raise an eyebrow without them asking me "what are you doing why did you do that are you leaving the room? can i do what your doing? i'll just sit here with you do you want play a game? i'll go outside if you go outside, what should I wear today you pick it out! do you like this show I'll like it if you like it......you get the picture. They have made friends in the hood and at school, which is great, but at the end of the day they want me. I should be eating this up. I should be tickled that they adore me so much. But I hesitate to think it is because they think that I Am The Best. I think I traumatized them somewhere along the way and they fear abandonment for some reason. I can't remember abandoning them ever, and no, weekly date nights don't count. But they seem angsty when they think I'm going disappear on them. I don't drink THAT heavily that I would have accidentally abandoned them somewhere, so where is this coming from? I can't blame the move, because they have always kind of been this way, but I'm noticing it ten-fold now that I am home with them. Huh. June Cleaver or Mommy Dearest? I really don't know which tattoo to get.

Tap tap, is this thing on????

Allow me to introduce you to Oakville Meanie, a lot like Ottawa Meanie, but kinda stepford-y.

So Jo and I moved to Oakville last week - we had originally had our hearts set on Toronto, the city, but the hoods we desired proved to be too expensive for us. To afford a house there, a child would have been sold (hmmmm) a second child would have had to sell her zhu zhu pet collection and recorder (hmmmmmmmm) and the husband would have had to sell his 50" plasma t.v. which is perpetually tuned into a football game (hmmmm) in order to afford one. Waaaaiiiit a minute, WTF????? That would have been perfect!

All kidding aside, the homes that we could have afforded in TO were absolutely minuscule, expensive, and not necessarily in the school district we wanted. So, we started looking in Oakville, where the houses are bigger, more affordable and there is room to run and make noise. Jo works in Mississauga so his commute makes sense. I am not working at the moment so it doesn't really matter where I am. And really, I can online shop anywhere you plop me, so whatevs.

The girls are attending what is turning out to be THE BEST SCHOOL EVER!!!!!!! Grace announced to me that the teacher has a fidget box for kids who need to fidget with things whilst being instructed. Amazing. Edie came home from her second day at school beaming because WE DON'T HAVE TO LEARN MOMMY, TODAY WE MADE PLAYDOUGH!!!!!!!!!! Uh huh Edie, and how did you make the playdough? Well, we meathured 1 cup of baking thoda (she's missing a front tooth) wif 1/2 a cup of corn thtarch and some water!!!!!!!! Yup, she didn't learn anything there at all. And today they are off to meet Robert Munsch on a field trip. Nothing against their school in Ottawa, but that is pretty effing kick ass. Next thing you know there will be a field trip to go see Social Distortion. Yeah, I'll be volunteering for that one.

As for me, I'm easing into things. As you can imagine, I was VERY popular in Ottawa, turning down invitations left right and centre, feted by all walks of life just for being me. Okay, I exagerrate. But I did have a really solid group of friends (you know who you are, don't make me write your names). And by solid I mean I did that Oprah thing a few years ago where I got rid of all those people in my life who were negative in any way (or made me feel fat), so you can imagine what an amazing circle of friends I left behind, some of whom I saw on an almost daily basis. Thank Latoya Jackson for email, Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter and....ummm, am I missing anything? No, don't tell me, I don't need anymore distractions.
Anyhoooo, with all these methods of communicating, I feel like I'm still in the loop somewhat. But, I do have to get out there and meet some people. I think I'll start next week.

But here I am, blogging again, Christopher, Lexie, consider this one dedicated to......you. I'll try and be better at it.

Oh my gods with everything going on in my life I have nothing to write about. Like nothing. As if I’m planning the biggest move of my life and I have nothing to say about it. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to ruin everything with my bad karma juju. I don’t want to write too much about “How To Sell Your Home and Buy a Home in City Much Larger and Much More Expensive Than Your Current City”. But can I blog bitch slap the people who have come through my house and made comments such as “I am disappointed in the landscaping”. The word “disappointed” is sooooo pretentious. I would much prefer that you say “I effing hate the landscaping”. It would make me feel all punk rock and growly instead of kind of ashamed, like I disappointed my grade 1 teacher. I also want to freak out a little bit at the person who opened our drawers. Yup, my unmentionables drawer was open (trust me, I checked that they were closed before our open house - I like to set traps for people). What were you looking for nosy parker? The drawers are not part of the sale, there was no need for you to take a peek in there. I know IKEA Malm furniture is almost irresistible to touch and explore, but c’mon. You’re lucky you got my pretty things and not Jo’s collection of Joe boxers. I also don’t particularly like it when I get a message that someone wants to come through our house, in 45 minutes. And I live about 20 minutes from work. And of course that call came the day that I relaxed a little and left the house looking like someone actually lives in it (because god forbid someone walks through your house thinking it has something of a personality.....no, we are going for complete sterile anonymity here with a splash of life in the form of a strategically place pine comb).

Please, buy my house. I will even throw in my chest of drawers if you do!

And now the Happy Portion of today’s blog post.

Movie review. Well, I felt like a dirty birdy last week when I went to go see Drive with Ryan Gosling. Have you seen this movie yet? OMG, if you have, and you are a lady (or a gay-dy I s’pose) you KNOW what I’m talking about when I say elevator scene. Sweet baby Beiber if Gosling could put those kisses in a can and sell them.....

Another movie review (putting smart glasses on). 50/50. Was privy to an advanced screening (wow, the glasses really work, that intro did sound smart didn’t it!?) of this flick and it is put-your- popcorn-down good. It’s about cancer, which is bad, but it has so many “real” moments in it (did I mention my glasses are also hipster glasses?) that you literally laugh and cry and feel really uncomfortable at times. Go.

Another movie review (smart glasses off, pants off too whaaaatttt???) Crazy Stoopid Love. Again, if you have seen this, I Had the Time of My Life will never be the same for you either.

T.V. Review. Ummmm, not really a review, but just curious if the X Factor has made anyone cry more than twice? Me neither, but that would be really crazy if it did, right?

Well, that’s about it. I wish I had more interesting stuff to write about but my regular little subjects (Grace and Edie) have no stimulation at home (because when you are selling your home you have to hide every toy, crayon, object o’ fun) and so I find them slack jawed in front of the t.v. wayyyy too much and that doesn’t provide much blogging fodder.

This just struck me as hilarious. Edie had one of her epic meltdowns the other afternoon, right around dinner time. We opted for option A: go to your room and cool down (option B would have had Children's Aid on our doorstep in record time).

This meltdown involved blood, sweat and tears (well, not blood, it just reads better that way) which resulted in her hair being all medusa-like and askew.

When dinner was ready, Jo looked over at me and said "Should we release the Kraken?"

This is how nicknames are born people.