It pains me to do this, but I feel I must retract my statement with regards to Groundhog Day. Don’t get me wrong: I am aware that there will be more snow and frosty temperatures, but the past few days have been absolutely beautiful – puddles and brown grass appearing where previously there were piles of dirty snow, the sun shining, and the sky a postcard Alberta blue. Yesterday the boys and I took the dog for a walk, all three of us wearing only down vests and shirtsleeves, and our new rubber boots. It really felt spring-ish, and yes, I know, I know, it’s deceptive, but still: I’m sorry, Balzac Billy. I’m sorry for laughing at you and disbelieving you and making fun of the fact that you are just some guy dressed up as a groundhog. Could you please not see your shadow every year? Thank you.
So it’s been a glorious weekend, despite the fact of absent husband. As an aside, I was in Wal-Mart yesterday and ran into a friend’s husband and mentioned that Rob was in Vancouver. “I’m living the single girl life!” I said cheerily, and he raised his eyebrows. What? So I’m in Wal-Mart at 10:00 a.m. with a cart full of Mini-Wheats, children’s Tylenol, and Kleenex, with two kids jonesing for McDonald’s yogurt parfaits. Isn’t that what all the single girls are doing these days? But I’m especially happy because – and I’m superstitious just writing this, so I’m knocking wood – no one has been vomiting.
There has been a stomach flu going around, I discovered the day after our sick day. I was waiting for the kindergarten to be let out, chatting with another mom, who was telling me a prolonged story about the vomiting going on in her house, and she casually mentioned that her youngest son – a classmate and friend of Mark’s, who was in class that day – was throwing up only the day before. The day before! I probably looked like a caricature of a crazy person – or maybe I am a crazy person – as my eyes widened with this knowledge that the VIRUS WAS AMONG US. Once the class let out I accosted Mark and slathered him with hand sanitizer. I would have ripped off his clothes and burned them if I could have figured out a way to do it without it being weird.
I really, really want to be one of those people who are all casual about illnesses, all kids-get-sick-and-barf-no-big-deal, but I am not. I am still somewhat scarred from the first time Mark ever got sick: it was the rotavirus. He was 19 months old, and Jake was four weeks old and colicky. And Mark, along with my husband, contracted the rotavirus. Once we got through that, only three months later Mark – and my husband – contracted a virus akin to Norwalk. Jake was still colicky. Mark threw up for a week, and didn’t eat for ten days. For those of you who also have skinny kids, you know what it is to see your toddler’s ribs and toothpick legs after an illness. I was practically deranged from a lack of sleep and worry. The upside of all this is that I was so stressed out that I didn’t eat and ended up losing the remainder of my pregnancy weight, which is to say there is always a silver lining.
I have gotten a lot better about my germ paranoia, with the boys being older and sturdier, and with me being a more confident and rested parent. But I’m still overjoyed that we had such a lovely weekend, and that we seem to have missed this particular virus. Hoo boy. I better go knock wood again.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Olympic Sick Day
It was only a matter of time. I actually thought to myself that it was a miracle – a miracle! – that we hadn’t been sick so far this calendar year. It was especially miraculous because the kindergarten class has been a petrie dish of violently coughing five year olds. Coughing into the sleeve isn’t really an effective measure against the spreading of viruses if said sleeve is one inch from someone else’s face.
So Mark developed a cough this week, and then a fever, along with the whining and clinging that such illness generally brings, and so I kept him home from school yesterday. I came across an article entitled “Sick Day Strategies”, aimed at entertaining sick little people. It advocated for, among other things, cuddles, stories and quiet games. Does it feel like parenting articles are just a little too obvious at times?
But of course cuddles, stories, and quiet games did constitute a large part of our day, along with freezies, a homemade batch of playdough, and copious amounts of TV. Hilarity ensued when Jake, rummaging through a backpack that had been unused for two years, found a pull-up diaper. He immediately pulled it on over his jeans and ran around the house saying “Goo goo ga ga, I’m a baby!” This entertained Mark for some time. Still, by mid-afternoon mind-numbing boredom kicked in for all three of us, so when Mark asked if he could use the camera – a request that is repeated several times a day and often results in some pretty strange photos – I agreed. He and Jake went downstairs for a while, and the following pictures are the result.
As an aside, I should mention, again, that my husband is a huge fan of the Olympics - in fact he left for Vancouver this morning - and he watches Olympic coverage near-constantly while at home. That theme song is haunting me. Instead of feeling left out that he has gone for a couple of days, I’m actually somewhat elated that I’m not going to hear that music. Tonight I’m planning on eating a pan of kale chips, drinking wine, and watching Season Three NYPD Blue, the combination of which has me so excited that I’m starting to wonder about my own mental stability. I blame the breakdown on the theme music.
Without further ado, here are Select Olympic Events, as modeled by Jake, photography and artistic direction by Mark.
Hockey:
A Gold Medal Ceremony:
Biathlon:
So Mark developed a cough this week, and then a fever, along with the whining and clinging that such illness generally brings, and so I kept him home from school yesterday. I came across an article entitled “Sick Day Strategies”, aimed at entertaining sick little people. It advocated for, among other things, cuddles, stories and quiet games. Does it feel like parenting articles are just a little too obvious at times?
But of course cuddles, stories, and quiet games did constitute a large part of our day, along with freezies, a homemade batch of playdough, and copious amounts of TV. Hilarity ensued when Jake, rummaging through a backpack that had been unused for two years, found a pull-up diaper. He immediately pulled it on over his jeans and ran around the house saying “Goo goo ga ga, I’m a baby!” This entertained Mark for some time. Still, by mid-afternoon mind-numbing boredom kicked in for all three of us, so when Mark asked if he could use the camera – a request that is repeated several times a day and often results in some pretty strange photos – I agreed. He and Jake went downstairs for a while, and the following pictures are the result.
As an aside, I should mention, again, that my husband is a huge fan of the Olympics - in fact he left for Vancouver this morning - and he watches Olympic coverage near-constantly while at home. That theme song is haunting me. Instead of feeling left out that he has gone for a couple of days, I’m actually somewhat elated that I’m not going to hear that music. Tonight I’m planning on eating a pan of kale chips, drinking wine, and watching Season Three NYPD Blue, the combination of which has me so excited that I’m starting to wonder about my own mental stability. I blame the breakdown on the theme music.
Without further ado, here are Select Olympic Events, as modeled by Jake, photography and artistic direction by Mark.
Lighting of the Olympic flame:
Hockey:
A Gold Medal Ceremony:
Biathlon:
Not medaling:
And finally, luge:
And finally, luge:
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Yeah, me too.
Jake, in the car today: "It's a good thing Tiger Woods is not MY dad."
Me: silence, trying to digest this comment while simultaneously wondering if watching the news around the children is damaging their psyches in some deep and troubling way.
Jake: "Mom? Mom? I'm happy Tiger Woods is not MY dad."
Me, realizing silent thoughts are not an appropriate response, and also recalling that it would be wrong and appalling to insert a ribald joke while talking to a four-year-old: "What do you mean, honey?"
Jake: "Mom? I don't think Tiger Woods plays much with his kids. I don't really think that's very nice."
Me: "I think you're probably right."
Me: silence, trying to digest this comment while simultaneously wondering if watching the news around the children is damaging their psyches in some deep and troubling way.
Jake: "Mom? Mom? I'm happy Tiger Woods is not MY dad."
Me, realizing silent thoughts are not an appropriate response, and also recalling that it would be wrong and appalling to insert a ribald joke while talking to a four-year-old: "What do you mean, honey?"
Jake: "Mom? I don't think Tiger Woods plays much with his kids. I don't really think that's very nice."
Me: "I think you're probably right."
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Random Weekend Thoughts
I'm the opposite of sharp and witty today. I think I'm going to blame the fact that in five days I've been to four different places to buy groceries (the grocery shopping has been epic this week) and the fact that my brain is filled with so much useless knowledge such as where, exactly, the Playmobil farm animals are kept in relation to the dinosaur drawer, exactly how many containers of pasta sauce and of ripe bananas are left in the freezer, and the entire lyrics to Parents Just Don't Understand. Oh, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, your 1987 ditty haunts me.
So, a few random and disjointed thoughts:
1) Now that the torch relay is long over, the kids have a new Olympic-related game: pretending to be short track speed skaters, which manifests itself in noisily running around the house at top speeds and surreptitiously toppling each other over to get in the lead. I’m kind of looking forward to the closing ceremonies.
2) I’ve been one giant sunbeam of optimism since coming home from vacation, and I feel a bit like I’m irritating everyone I run into with my positive outlook on life. Nothing is bothering me, because I’ve just been on! vacation!
3) NEXT WEEKEND IS THE END OF FEBRUARY. This means that Mark’s birthday is fast approaching and I need to start thinking about his birthday party. Children’s birthday parties are the bane of my existence. Last year I planned a superhero-themed party complete with bat crafts, Mr. Freeze dancing, and a basement obstacle course, and I feel that was the pinnacle of my party-planning career. It’s all downhill from here, people.
So, a few random and disjointed thoughts:
1) Now that the torch relay is long over, the kids have a new Olympic-related game: pretending to be short track speed skaters, which manifests itself in noisily running around the house at top speeds and surreptitiously toppling each other over to get in the lead. I’m kind of looking forward to the closing ceremonies.
2) I’ve been one giant sunbeam of optimism since coming home from vacation, and I feel a bit like I’m irritating everyone I run into with my positive outlook on life. Nothing is bothering me, because I’ve just been on! vacation!
3) NEXT WEEKEND IS THE END OF FEBRUARY. This means that Mark’s birthday is fast approaching and I need to start thinking about his birthday party. Children’s birthday parties are the bane of my existence. Last year I planned a superhero-themed party complete with bat crafts, Mr. Freeze dancing, and a basement obstacle course, and I feel that was the pinnacle of my party-planning career. It’s all downhill from here, people.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
T = Valentine's + Four
Since we were on! vacation! last week, the boys missed their class Valentine parties, and so came home yesterday bearing their “mailboxes” stuffed with cards and candies and miniature Play-Doh’s, causing me a little anxiety for only sending plain old Spiderman Valentines. Remember when there were no rules regarding the handing out of Valentines, and the class party would result in a ruthless popularity contest, what with the obsessive counting of cards received and from whom, and the select group of children who would be dejectedly looking at empty mailboxes, save for those given by children forced by their mothers to address cards for the entire class? That kind of sucked.
Also, there wasn’t quite the Valentine selection back then as there is now, with the wide variety of Disney/ Marvel Comic/ Nick Jr. cards, as well as all the add-ons of stickers, tattoos, and individually wrapped chocolate hearts. Although I will admit that the ultimate Valentine’s gift for me would be one of those retro cards stating “Let’s BEE Friends” complete with a picture of a bumblebee.
From the above statement, it is probably obvious that I’m not a person who really celebrates Valentine’s, in the romantic way anyway, since I love making heart-shaped sugar cookies and eating chocolate kisses. Also, this is the first year that one of my children (JAKE) actually made me a Valentine of his own volition, making it a very special day indeed. But normally I am not a Valentine’s person. In earlier years I would have probably railed against it as some kind of commercial made-up holiday, or some such other completely unique and original idea. Mostly I could just care less about it, maybe because I’m not interested in diamonds or a bouquet of roses, and if I received a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates I would probably down it in one sitting, so it’s best to just leave Valentine’s to the Valentine’s people.
But I did do something special this year. This year I was on! vacation! and I decided that day to go shopping to stores that are not available at home.
As an aside, for all you Canadian readers, remember when it was a huge deal to go shopping in the States, and you could get all sorts of strange and wonderful items not available in Canada? I remember the first time I had a Twinkie. It was gross and weird and highly over-rated, but still I enjoyed it because I couldn’t get them in Canada.
Back to the shopping. I decided, on Valentine’s Day of all days, to go to Victoria’s Secret. People, if you are looking for entertainment, go to Victoria’s Secret on Valentine’s Day. It was packed with men who had evidently forgotten the importance of the date or who just, disastrously, left things to the last minute. They ranged in lingerie-temperament from those who rifled furiously through the various racks to those who just stood staring, clearly overwhelmed with the whole undertaking. Some of the more self-aware approached the counter to announce that they had no idea what to look for, so maybe a gift certificate would be in order?
For any men who may be reading this, I am going to go out on a limb here and say that lingerie is possibly the most deadly, land-mine like gift you can give a woman. Size is the first issue: what man really knows what size his wife or girlfriend is? It’s a tricky one; if you go too small, then the item will be horribly uncomfortable and it will be an awkward exchange. If you go too large, then your wife or girlfriend will be tremendously offended that you thought THAT was her size. Also, and this may be a generalization, but I believe that most men have different lingerie tastes than women do. Otherwise, how to explain the proliferation of tacky red-and-black numbers with feathers and fake fur and matching mule slippers? I can only guess that it is for the desperately-seeking-a-Valentine-gift market.
What do you think? Are you a Valentine’s person? An anti-Valentine’s person? Or are you like me, someone who enjoys Valentine-related treats, but not much else about the holiday?
Also, there wasn’t quite the Valentine selection back then as there is now, with the wide variety of Disney/ Marvel Comic/ Nick Jr. cards, as well as all the add-ons of stickers, tattoos, and individually wrapped chocolate hearts. Although I will admit that the ultimate Valentine’s gift for me would be one of those retro cards stating “Let’s BEE Friends” complete with a picture of a bumblebee.
From the above statement, it is probably obvious that I’m not a person who really celebrates Valentine’s, in the romantic way anyway, since I love making heart-shaped sugar cookies and eating chocolate kisses. Also, this is the first year that one of my children (JAKE) actually made me a Valentine of his own volition, making it a very special day indeed. But normally I am not a Valentine’s person. In earlier years I would have probably railed against it as some kind of commercial made-up holiday, or some such other completely unique and original idea. Mostly I could just care less about it, maybe because I’m not interested in diamonds or a bouquet of roses, and if I received a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates I would probably down it in one sitting, so it’s best to just leave Valentine’s to the Valentine’s people.
But I did do something special this year. This year I was on! vacation! and I decided that day to go shopping to stores that are not available at home.
As an aside, for all you Canadian readers, remember when it was a huge deal to go shopping in the States, and you could get all sorts of strange and wonderful items not available in Canada? I remember the first time I had a Twinkie. It was gross and weird and highly over-rated, but still I enjoyed it because I couldn’t get them in Canada.
Back to the shopping. I decided, on Valentine’s Day of all days, to go to Victoria’s Secret. People, if you are looking for entertainment, go to Victoria’s Secret on Valentine’s Day. It was packed with men who had evidently forgotten the importance of the date or who just, disastrously, left things to the last minute. They ranged in lingerie-temperament from those who rifled furiously through the various racks to those who just stood staring, clearly overwhelmed with the whole undertaking. Some of the more self-aware approached the counter to announce that they had no idea what to look for, so maybe a gift certificate would be in order?
For any men who may be reading this, I am going to go out on a limb here and say that lingerie is possibly the most deadly, land-mine like gift you can give a woman. Size is the first issue: what man really knows what size his wife or girlfriend is? It’s a tricky one; if you go too small, then the item will be horribly uncomfortable and it will be an awkward exchange. If you go too large, then your wife or girlfriend will be tremendously offended that you thought THAT was her size. Also, and this may be a generalization, but I believe that most men have different lingerie tastes than women do. Otherwise, how to explain the proliferation of tacky red-and-black numbers with feathers and fake fur and matching mule slippers? I can only guess that it is for the desperately-seeking-a-Valentine-gift market.
What do you think? Are you a Valentine’s person? An anti-Valentine’s person? Or are you like me, someone who enjoys Valentine-related treats, but not much else about the holiday?
Here's me, a few hours after my V-Day shopping spree, with 2/3 of my Valentines.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The flight
As I mentioned earlier, I am just back from a warm vacation, notable because it was the first big vacation with the kids. Generally we are the road-trippers to see in-laws, or short-flighters to see my grandparents. I have to admit that the reason we haven’t had any big vacations with the kids prior to now was due to my extreme reluctance to take small children on flights with a greater than one hour duration, as well as my extreme exhaustion at the idea of caring for and entertaining small children in unfamiliar surroundings. However, they are older now and I thought that this would be the year to start, and it turns out, I was right. Don’t you love when that happens?
Traveling with a four and five year old is not bad at all, and I’m not just saying that because, on the airplane, my husband sat in the middle seat between them while I lounged in lonely bliss across the aisle. It pays to be the uncool parent that no one wants to sit beside. The flight was significantly easier on the way home, given that the Palm Springs airport has a separate express security line for passengers traveling with children. A more brilliant idea would, in my opinion, be difficult to come across.
This is not to say that the flight down was difficult. We actually arrived at the airport twenty minutes before the rush, so we sailed through customs and security. The super friendly security guy chatted with me as he went through my carryon which contained the eclectic mom-like combination of peanut butter sandwiches, camera, makeup, and a potty seat. He even mentioned that the flight we would be on would have the Teletoon channel, which caused a great deal of excitement and conjectures with regards to what programs would be on at this time of day, only to end in disappointment at the discovery that the brand new plane we boarded had yet to be equipped with televisions. Oh, the humanity! We were seated at the front of the plane and each and every passenger commented on this travesty as they filed past us.
The flight itself went great, despite having to rely on archaic forms of entertainment such as books and markers, and also in spite of it being delayed 50 minutes while waiting for connecting passengers to go through security. Heavy fog had delayed a connecting flight from Edmonton, and the latecomers had to endure the withering stares and extraneous mutterings of “Oilers suck!” from the other passengers as they sheepishly boarded.
But then we landed! In another country! And the boys were thrilled every second to be somewhere different, and every difference was noted, no matter how small (Scooby Doo gummies have different packaging than in Canada) or large (palm trees). Here is their reaction upon seeing flowers at the airport upon arrival:
Traveling with a four and five year old is not bad at all, and I’m not just saying that because, on the airplane, my husband sat in the middle seat between them while I lounged in lonely bliss across the aisle. It pays to be the uncool parent that no one wants to sit beside. The flight was significantly easier on the way home, given that the Palm Springs airport has a separate express security line for passengers traveling with children. A more brilliant idea would, in my opinion, be difficult to come across.
This is not to say that the flight down was difficult. We actually arrived at the airport twenty minutes before the rush, so we sailed through customs and security. The super friendly security guy chatted with me as he went through my carryon which contained the eclectic mom-like combination of peanut butter sandwiches, camera, makeup, and a potty seat. He even mentioned that the flight we would be on would have the Teletoon channel, which caused a great deal of excitement and conjectures with regards to what programs would be on at this time of day, only to end in disappointment at the discovery that the brand new plane we boarded had yet to be equipped with televisions. Oh, the humanity! We were seated at the front of the plane and each and every passenger commented on this travesty as they filed past us.
The flight itself went great, despite having to rely on archaic forms of entertainment such as books and markers, and also in spite of it being delayed 50 minutes while waiting for connecting passengers to go through security. Heavy fog had delayed a connecting flight from Edmonton, and the latecomers had to endure the withering stares and extraneous mutterings of “Oilers suck!” from the other passengers as they sheepishly boarded.
But then we landed! In another country! And the boys were thrilled every second to be somewhere different, and every difference was noted, no matter how small (Scooby Doo gummies have different packaging than in Canada) or large (palm trees). Here is their reaction upon seeing flowers at the airport upon arrival:
Monday, February 15, 2010
I'm Baaaacccckkkk!
I'm back from six days in Palm Desert, CA, and it was such a great trip: warmth and sunshine, and copious eating, drinking, and being merry. I have many fun stories but mostly I just want to say that this was our first big trip with the kids and it was a happy success. The best thing about travelling with kids is watching their world vision expand. After getting off the plane, the boys were absolutely fascinated that there were flowers! Growing! And they were wearing t-shirts! And there was grass! And palm trees! And I have many things to say and I want to visit all of your blogs but the siren song of laundry and unpacking is calling me....so a longer post is coming after I have waded through those duties.
Monday, February 8, 2010
No. I don't like Pina Coladas.
Music. It speaks to us. It’s like when you fall in love for the first time and you listen to “What a Wonderful World” and you identify with every single lyric – I DO see trees of green AND red roses! – and then maybe you break up with that love and you hear “Against All Odds” and the lyrics are like purposeful daggers to your broken heart. How can he just walk away, when I stand here taking every breath for him? Sob.
Or maybe you go Mexico and you hear “Margaritaville” and it captures the foggy, unfocused essence of your vacation, or you’re having a night out with your girlfriends and you hear “We are Family” and it’s like the soundtrack of your life is playing?
Sometimes, however, a song comes along that you cannot identify with in the least. I’ve mentioned before that I am the exact opposite of the desired person in Rupert Holmes’ song “Escape”. “Escape”, for those who don’t know, is actually the Pina Colada song. Who knew? I certainly didn’t; I always thought that its proper name was the Pina Colada song.
The 1970’s must have been a strange time to be on the dating scene, no? I mean, there was all that casual/ anonymous/ unprotected sex, and the penchant for mustaches and chest hair, and those truckers who had bumper stickers that said “Grass, Gas, or Ass: Nobody Rides for Free”, and the obsessions with zodiac signs (which I kind of get, I mean, I’m superstitious that way). The fact that long-haul truckers practically had a cult following says something about that era. Strange times to be dating, I imagine.
And so the Pina Colada song made it onto the charts. Did it top the charts? I have no idea. I do know that it is one of the most sing-able songs ever written, and also it has a very weird theme: a guy is bored with his “lady” and answers a personal ad, and it turns out his “lady” was bored of him, because she placed said personal ad. Clearly, communication was not a big thing back then.
Reasons why I would be un-dateable in the ‘70s, according to desirable qualities as stated in the Pina Colada song, and separate from my dislike for chest hair, mustaches, bumper stickers, and obviously, the whole casual/ anonymous/ unprotected sex thing (thanks to My Mom the Style Icon for the topic idea. If I was sure that my mom wouldn’t find out and murder me, I would totally send you a picture of her in a 12 inch mini dress.)
Do you like Pina Coladas? No. I dislike anything with coconut flavour. Actually, I dislike anything coconut related. Shredded coconut, to me, has the consistency of dried out dental floss and if there is one way to ruin a good cookie or dessert, it’s by adding shredded coconut to it.
Getting caught in the rain? No. I have very fine hair that goes completely limp in humidity. So you can imagine what I look like after being caught in the rain. Also, I don’t like walking around in wet clothes. Two kids = deflated bosoms = very depressing wet t-shirt contest.
If you’re not into yoga? I practice 5-6 times a week. I get up at five in the morning to practice yoga, so I guess you could say that I’m “into it”.
If you have half a brain? I have a whole brain. Unfortunately a large portion of it is taken up by useless information, like the lyrics to this song.
I’m not much into health food. This one makes me laugh. Yes, I like health food. This is not the ‘70s anymore wherein people who enjoy health food are walking around with unshaven underarms, hemp ponchos, and Birkenstocks, munching on mung beans and wheat germ. Normal people can like health food.
I am into champagne. I’m a red wine girl, myself.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape. Okay, stop it right there. I’m not even addressing dunes of the cape. I’m addressing making love at midnight. It’s a miracle if I’m up past nine thirty, let alone getting jiggy with it at midnight. Seriously, my husband is sexy, very much so, but if he woke me up at midnight he would be facing my groggy and somewhat comatose rage. He would not, as they say, be tapping that.
Or maybe you go Mexico and you hear “Margaritaville” and it captures the foggy, unfocused essence of your vacation, or you’re having a night out with your girlfriends and you hear “We are Family” and it’s like the soundtrack of your life is playing?
Sometimes, however, a song comes along that you cannot identify with in the least. I’ve mentioned before that I am the exact opposite of the desired person in Rupert Holmes’ song “Escape”. “Escape”, for those who don’t know, is actually the Pina Colada song. Who knew? I certainly didn’t; I always thought that its proper name was the Pina Colada song.
The 1970’s must have been a strange time to be on the dating scene, no? I mean, there was all that casual/ anonymous/ unprotected sex, and the penchant for mustaches and chest hair, and those truckers who had bumper stickers that said “Grass, Gas, or Ass: Nobody Rides for Free”, and the obsessions with zodiac signs (which I kind of get, I mean, I’m superstitious that way). The fact that long-haul truckers practically had a cult following says something about that era. Strange times to be dating, I imagine.
And so the Pina Colada song made it onto the charts. Did it top the charts? I have no idea. I do know that it is one of the most sing-able songs ever written, and also it has a very weird theme: a guy is bored with his “lady” and answers a personal ad, and it turns out his “lady” was bored of him, because she placed said personal ad. Clearly, communication was not a big thing back then.
Reasons why I would be un-dateable in the ‘70s, according to desirable qualities as stated in the Pina Colada song, and separate from my dislike for chest hair, mustaches, bumper stickers, and obviously, the whole casual/ anonymous/ unprotected sex thing (thanks to My Mom the Style Icon for the topic idea. If I was sure that my mom wouldn’t find out and murder me, I would totally send you a picture of her in a 12 inch mini dress.)
Do you like Pina Coladas? No. I dislike anything with coconut flavour. Actually, I dislike anything coconut related. Shredded coconut, to me, has the consistency of dried out dental floss and if there is one way to ruin a good cookie or dessert, it’s by adding shredded coconut to it.
Getting caught in the rain? No. I have very fine hair that goes completely limp in humidity. So you can imagine what I look like after being caught in the rain. Also, I don’t like walking around in wet clothes. Two kids = deflated bosoms = very depressing wet t-shirt contest.
If you’re not into yoga? I practice 5-6 times a week. I get up at five in the morning to practice yoga, so I guess you could say that I’m “into it”.
If you have half a brain? I have a whole brain. Unfortunately a large portion of it is taken up by useless information, like the lyrics to this song.
I’m not much into health food. This one makes me laugh. Yes, I like health food. This is not the ‘70s anymore wherein people who enjoy health food are walking around with unshaven underarms, hemp ponchos, and Birkenstocks, munching on mung beans and wheat germ. Normal people can like health food.
I am into champagne. I’m a red wine girl, myself.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape. Okay, stop it right there. I’m not even addressing dunes of the cape. I’m addressing making love at midnight. It’s a miracle if I’m up past nine thirty, let alone getting jiggy with it at midnight. Seriously, my husband is sexy, very much so, but if he woke me up at midnight he would be facing my groggy and somewhat comatose rage. He would not, as they say, be tapping that.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Romance and changes and old people, oh my!
I have a piece - about romance, ooh la la - up over at Yummy Mummy. See you there, I hope!
Friday, February 5, 2010
Stroller-free
We sold our stroller this week and although we haven’t used it for many months – I can’t even recall when, exactly, we used it last – it feels strange that it is gone. For the first time in six years, I am stroller-less. At one point I actually had four strollers of varying child carrying capacities, weights, and wheel sizes in my garage. And now the fact that I have none feels like an era has officially ended.
I read this post about knowing when your family has maxed out on members, about knowing that there are no more babies coming down the pipe, so to speak. I knew I wanted two children, no more, no less, and I after I had my second healthy baby boy, I knew I wanted to stop. I recall clearly that when Mark was a baby, a small baby, maybe only a few months old, that I was already thinking ahead to the next baby. When Jake was a small baby, I knew, without a doubt, that he was the last.
I am starting to see that this viewpoint may not be typical.
More and more I speak with women who have pangs to have another baby, who perhaps wish to have another one and can’t for varying heart-breaking reasons, or who continue to add to their families with joy and happiness. Sometimes, and this is a confession, I wonder if there is something missing in my maternal being that I never, ever have pangs for another baby. I don’t even really enjoy holding other babies, and that is a difficult confession to make.
My grandmother, among others, would frequently advise me that I had better get pregnant, soon, with the infuriating advice that I should really try to have a girl. “Girls are different”, she would say, “Wouldn’t you like to have a girl?” And, my distaste at the thought of trying for a specific gender notwithstanding, I would reply mildly that girl or boy, I do not want any more babies.
A few years ago, when the boys were still very small, my period stopped for a few months. This was after we had taken permanent birth control steps, so pregnancy in this case, while not unheard-of, would be pretty much a medical curiosity. Still, I worried. I took test after test and they were all, of course, negative. But one day I was in the car with the two of them, driving and listening to them complain about dropped sippy cups and snacks, and I thought, what if the tests are wrong? What if I actually am pregnant? And the panic and anxiety that filled my being was such that I had to pull over so I could collapse in a sobbing puddle of tears.
Soon after that incident my period returned, and it was clear that our decision to have only two children was the correct one.
Meanwhile, each time Jake passed through a trying stage as a baby – a tiring one like teething, or a gross one like potty training – I would think well, I don’t have to go through that again. And now we are past, long past, the stroller stage and although that certainly wasn’t trying or difficult, it was a stage and now we are in a new one. I think about the hundreds of times I would tuck them into the stroller, with blankets and toys and snacks, and I think about those days with affection and also sadness, that the time has gone so quickly, so quickly I didn’t even notice.
I read this post about knowing when your family has maxed out on members, about knowing that there are no more babies coming down the pipe, so to speak. I knew I wanted two children, no more, no less, and I after I had my second healthy baby boy, I knew I wanted to stop. I recall clearly that when Mark was a baby, a small baby, maybe only a few months old, that I was already thinking ahead to the next baby. When Jake was a small baby, I knew, without a doubt, that he was the last.
I am starting to see that this viewpoint may not be typical.
More and more I speak with women who have pangs to have another baby, who perhaps wish to have another one and can’t for varying heart-breaking reasons, or who continue to add to their families with joy and happiness. Sometimes, and this is a confession, I wonder if there is something missing in my maternal being that I never, ever have pangs for another baby. I don’t even really enjoy holding other babies, and that is a difficult confession to make.
My grandmother, among others, would frequently advise me that I had better get pregnant, soon, with the infuriating advice that I should really try to have a girl. “Girls are different”, she would say, “Wouldn’t you like to have a girl?” And, my distaste at the thought of trying for a specific gender notwithstanding, I would reply mildly that girl or boy, I do not want any more babies.
A few years ago, when the boys were still very small, my period stopped for a few months. This was after we had taken permanent birth control steps, so pregnancy in this case, while not unheard-of, would be pretty much a medical curiosity. Still, I worried. I took test after test and they were all, of course, negative. But one day I was in the car with the two of them, driving and listening to them complain about dropped sippy cups and snacks, and I thought, what if the tests are wrong? What if I actually am pregnant? And the panic and anxiety that filled my being was such that I had to pull over so I could collapse in a sobbing puddle of tears.
Soon after that incident my period returned, and it was clear that our decision to have only two children was the correct one.
Meanwhile, each time Jake passed through a trying stage as a baby – a tiring one like teething, or a gross one like potty training – I would think well, I don’t have to go through that again. And now we are past, long past, the stroller stage and although that certainly wasn’t trying or difficult, it was a stage and now we are in a new one. I think about the hundreds of times I would tuck them into the stroller, with blankets and toys and snacks, and I think about those days with affection and also sadness, that the time has gone so quickly, so quickly I didn’t even notice.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Groundhog Day is the stupidest day of the year.
I was about to launch my annual diatribe against Groundhog Day, and thought I would actually look up a bit of the history behind this dubious so-called holiday. It turns out that modern day North American Groundhog Day has roots in European weather lore, the pagan festival of Imbolc, and the medieval Catholic holiday of Candlemas, which is related to the end of the Epiphany and (in the Lutheran church in which I was brought up) the Presentation of Jesus. One thing I love is when I find out that something ridiculous like Groundhog Day, setting for one of the lamest movies ever, is actually related to something more global. It’s like realizing that in the dead of winter, cultures and religions all over the world recognize the need for a light-filled holiday, and bam! There you have Christmas, Hanukkah, Diwali, Winter Solstice, Midwinter Pagan Festivals. It makes me feel like a part of a global community, cue the We Are The World music. It almost softens my feelings for Groundhog Day.
But really, Groundhog Day. I hate it. Despite the above paragraph, it is surely the stupidest day on the calendar, if only because I live in a climate in which six weeks more of winter is an early spring. Hell, if you could guarantee that in ten weeks there would be no more snow and minus ten degree frosts, I would be ecstatic. My husband actually dug up a bed of my tulip bulbs, evidently tired of my face falling off with sadness year after year as I would eagerly watch my tulips emerge, then bud, then get covered with a foot of snow, freeze, and break off at the stems before flowering. Of course, he grew up in a significantly warmer climate that me, a place where tulips actually grow and flower unhindered by snow or frost.
As an aside, a certain family member of his who still lives in this lovely climate phoned me a few weeks ago, complaining about the glorious spring weather that they were experiencing. “I hate this,” she said, “Because you know, I just love winter.” I looked out at the minus 20 degree, snow covered backyard, then broke my own rule about speaking nicely and snapped nastily, “Then I guess you should move to Calgary!” What I was trying to accomplish with that comment, I do not know. For one thing, perhaps I too would enjoy winter if a frigid winter day meant the temperature hovering around the freezing mark and the season itself lasted less than three months. For another thing, what if she took that comment at face value? Then where would I be?
Anyway, I heard this morning that our resident groundhog, Balzac Billy, did not see his shadow, predicting an early spring, whatever that means. Here’s a picture of Balzac Billy:
Yes, Balzac Billy is a guy dressed up in a groundhog costume. Suck on that, PETA. You want to swap out a large rodent for a robot? Well, we are WAY ahead of you up here. Yes, we may have the rodeo, and the grizzly hunt, and my neighbour kept a deer carcass in his backyard all last winter, but DAMN. We have our mascot-like, six foot tall, red-t-shirt-wearing Balzac Billy.
But really, Groundhog Day. I hate it. Despite the above paragraph, it is surely the stupidest day on the calendar, if only because I live in a climate in which six weeks more of winter is an early spring. Hell, if you could guarantee that in ten weeks there would be no more snow and minus ten degree frosts, I would be ecstatic. My husband actually dug up a bed of my tulip bulbs, evidently tired of my face falling off with sadness year after year as I would eagerly watch my tulips emerge, then bud, then get covered with a foot of snow, freeze, and break off at the stems before flowering. Of course, he grew up in a significantly warmer climate that me, a place where tulips actually grow and flower unhindered by snow or frost.
As an aside, a certain family member of his who still lives in this lovely climate phoned me a few weeks ago, complaining about the glorious spring weather that they were experiencing. “I hate this,” she said, “Because you know, I just love winter.” I looked out at the minus 20 degree, snow covered backyard, then broke my own rule about speaking nicely and snapped nastily, “Then I guess you should move to Calgary!” What I was trying to accomplish with that comment, I do not know. For one thing, perhaps I too would enjoy winter if a frigid winter day meant the temperature hovering around the freezing mark and the season itself lasted less than three months. For another thing, what if she took that comment at face value? Then where would I be?
Anyway, I heard this morning that our resident groundhog, Balzac Billy, did not see his shadow, predicting an early spring, whatever that means. Here’s a picture of Balzac Billy:
Yes, Balzac Billy is a guy dressed up in a groundhog costume. Suck on that, PETA. You want to swap out a large rodent for a robot? Well, we are WAY ahead of you up here. Yes, we may have the rodeo, and the grizzly hunt, and my neighbour kept a deer carcass in his backyard all last winter, but DAMN. We have our mascot-like, six foot tall, red-t-shirt-wearing Balzac Billy.
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