A Pocket Full of Sass-o-Frass

Conversations Overheard

2008-11-22T15:36:00.000-08:00

*This conversation took place between a 5 year-old boy and myself, directly following said boys attendance at a "Sexual Health Education" talk held at his school.*

Boy: "You're going to have a baby."

(What I heard: "I've been out to lunch for the last 30 weeks, but now I'm riding shotgun on the State The Obvious train.")

What I Said: "I sure am."

(Pointing to belly) "And it's in there."

(What I heard: "Look at me! I paid attention during our school assembly. Gold star for me!")

"Yes, that's right"

"And the baby is going to come out of your vagina."

(What I Heard: "VAGINA.")

"Um, yup. Sure. Ok."

(Pointing to my Lady Business) "And your vagina is right there!"

(What I Heard: "I'm gonna go home and tell my parents that I know where your VAGINA is.")

"Excuse me, little boy. Don't you have a Bionicle to build?"

Gosh darn those cute little boys. Bless his little pea-pickin' heart.

2008-10-26T22:42:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, I was officially 19 weeks along the Baby Bandwagon which means that I was due for a detailed ultrasound. Thus, I loaded up on water and Peppermint tea and dragged my full little bladder to Women's Hospital and waited eagerly for a glimpse at the Mexican jumping bean that has been kicking the crap out of me the last 3 weeks.

Now, I know that some have very strong opinions about whether or not expectant parents should to privy to the baby's gender before its grand entrance. You people can just stop right there because we are ALL ABOUT IT. Seriously, when I walk into a Baby GAP I want to know which side I should be headed to. Distressed jeans and sweaters with elbow patches or corduroy jumpers and pink leggings. It's all about priorities, people.

At any rate, the hospital has a strict policy about divulging a baby's gender before 20 weeks. No way, no how. However, and I find this amusing, if they see anything (or lack thereof, so to speak) then my OB will be able to tell me next week. Because, really? The picture that you send with my file is magically going to change during the next 7 days and you can't tell me now? Is it like a Polaroid that needs a little time and TLC before anything appears? Really??

So, being the huge expert that I am, I watched that screen for any, any, ANY clue. The technician was very chatty and pointed everything out. "Here's the spine, the two hemispheres of the brain, the four chambers of the heart, arm bone, leg bone, blah, blah, blah bone..." And then she stopped chatting and switched to a new angle and, voila! It was like the clouds parted and a little beam of light was shining down on the screen. Angels singing quietly from above. There was that good ol' spread eagle view that I would know anywhere. (It was the first picture we had of The Boy. It spent months on the fridge and is now is pasted in his baby book, waiting oh so patiently for his wedding day slide show.) And guess what! No boy bits. Which was relieving, seeing as I have been making The Boy kiss my belly button and "Say hello to your little sister" for the last 5 months.

As we got into the car after the appointment, I reveled in my superior intuition and ultrasound deciphering skills, until Hubby piped up and said, "Um, no. I am preeeeeety sure there was something there".

Instead of immediately dismissing his silly boy notions, like I am apt to do (especially lately. Hormones!), I took a moment to give this careful consideration.

"Honey? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I am totally sure. It was huge! How could you miss that??"

Pause.

Pause.

"Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahaha..."

"Wait, what?! What is so funny?"

"You are SUCH a guy."

"Whaaa?"

"Dude. That was the UMBILICAL CORD."

"Oh. Ooooooooooooooooohhh. Ok, that makes more sense."

So, gentlemen, trust me on this. No matter how much you want to believe it, your baby's penis does not extend past it's head. Though, it is sweet that you have that much faith in your genetics. Really. So cute. I could just pinch your little cheeks, but I am too busy patting you on the head.

Never have I ever...

2008-10-22T09:15:00.000-07:00

Things I swore I would NEVER do when I entered Mommydom:

Let The Boy watch TV before the age of 36... until I realised I gave birth to a couch potato.

Use the word "bubba" (humanspeak= bottle)... until my brain turned to mush from lack of sleep and that is the word that felt the most comfortable falling out of my lazy ass mouth.

Let myself leave the house looking anything less than fabulous... until I learned about the speed at which yam can leave a spoon and hit your lap... and bangs.

Leak booby juice through my bra...until I realised that those puppies have their own agenda.

Hover over Hubby's shoulder and dictate parenting techniques...until I realised that we have very different parenting styles. His style is a little something I like to call...wrong.

Throw things at hubby's head ...until an empty baby wipe box slipped from my fingers. Accidentally on purpose.

Want to say, "Thanks for the advice. Now shove it."...until people with ridiculously obnoxious children of their own decided that their parenting tips were something I would love and hug and hold close to my heart.

Allow The Boy to terrorize the cats, like his daddy does...until I realised how freakin' hilarious those cats are when they run.

Think to myself, "Oh, I can't wait for you to have children"...until one of my girlfriends said, "Ewwwww. That's so disgusting!"

******

I wonder what wonderful life lessons #2 will bring out of the womb to share with Mommy. I swear, there is a little school in there that holds class every day for 40 weeks. The daily lesson plan? How To Get The Lady With The Boob Food To LIGHTEN THE HELL UP Or Die Trying. Something along those lines.

Second star to the right; straight on 'till morning.

2008-10-21T00:12:00.000-07:00

April 17, 2007.

Early morning. The house is quiet. Except for Daddy's slow, slumbering breathes on the pillow next to me, and the heavy pounding of my heart in my throat.

Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-thump.

My hand moves trepidly, sliding it's way through the tangle of bedsheets until it reaches my belly. Hard. Unmoving. Foreign.

The doctor said you would be awake by now, I whisper and silently decide that a shower will be good for us both.

Tedious minutes pass and no change. Wait another half hour, I tell myself. Call the doctor when her office opens.

Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-thump.

I crawl back into the soft folds of the bed and within moments the pain arrives. Tight, cutting, squeezing pain right between my hipbones. All of the air in my lungs somehow forces its way through my pursed lips and I know that it has begun.

It is finally time.

*****

Hello, Boy the Wendy Lady says to Peter. Are you ready for an awfully big adventure?

Some time after you come home, we are in the big, yellow chair- you are in my lap, sleeping. You make a movement, very small. Small enough not to be noticed by anyone else in the room, but i feel you. Just you and me. Our little secret language that we have been sharing for the last two seasons. This time, it is a fluid, gliding of your little arm, your elbow slides up and rests near your head.

Oh, I think. I know you.

In that moment I realise that somewhere deep in my soul, I have always known you. We have traveled together before and I have always loved you. My bond with you is eternal and everlasting.

The sweet, sweet sound...

2008-10-20T15:58:00.000-07:00

...of hormones.

Hubby: "Oh hey. I thought you said this was broken?"

Moi: "I did."

"But it's not. Did you fix it?"

Glare.

"Oh, haha. I guess so. How did you do it?"

"How? How did I fix it?? I'm f'ing McGyver, that's how!

They Never Told Me Files #103

2008-10-19T21:51:00.000-07:00

...that I would find Hotwheels in my sock drawer, my eyeshadow in the laundry hamper, Little People in the vegetable crisper, Cheerios in the toilet...

...that the dining room table is, apparently, not high enough for the cat food to be left.

...that toddlers digest Meow Mix with suprising ease.

...that pillows need to be left on the floor behind the couch. You know, for whenever a toddler decides to take a flying jump off the top of said furniture.

...that a previously normal house cat can be hugged straight into neurosis, thus causing patches of hair to fall willy-nilly in every crook and cranny of the house.

...that toddlers do not digest kitty hair.

Car 54, Where Are You?

2008-01-08T22:00:00.000-08:00

So...

The Boy has finally made it over the I'm- Teething-and-Waking-the-Entire-Household-Up-at-Consistent-Ungodly-Hours hump.

Which, I really shouldn't even be announcing because if the last 8 months have taught us anything, it is this: The moment either Hubby or I even think about praising The Boy for good behaviour, within 24 hours he proceeds to preform the complete, polar opposite. The local head Deity of Bad Juju is putting in some serious overtime these days, at our expense. Jerk.

At any rate, since we have had a tiny bit more shut eye lately, someone (Hubby) decided it would be ok to check out Facebook until 3:00am....when he had signed on for the early shift. Suffice to say, 5:30am came pretty damn quick. So, when Sleeping Beauty (moi) rose at a much more decent hour, Knucklehead crawled into the still warm bed and disappeared.

Imagine my shock when I tiptoed into the boudoir a few hours later and came upon this sight:

For at least 3 seconds I was simultaneously frightened and perplexed by the fact the Uni Bomber had snuck into my room, unawares, and swallowed my husband. Which is completely unacceptable. Not only does his presence sully my good name, but also my high thread count sheets. Whatever happened to common courtesy?

Once I had gathered my wits about me, I immediately:

1. Giggled/speed tiptoed down the hall to grab my camera and 2. Began a serious reconnaissance mission to gather information that might explain what the hell hubby was thinking.

Now, upon closer inspection.....

You will see that he chose to adorn his tired little peepers with my snazzy, Air Canada issued sleepy-sleep blinders. Which, as it was the middle of the day, I will give him.

However, the hood??

The best conclusion I can come to is that he was too tired to get up and close the window that I insist upon keeping open, come hell or high water, and needed to keep his brain from freezing.

Though, may I just point out Hubby, in case you are reading this.... somewhere, somewhere close by, in a very special, top secret place... you might, just maybe, find blankets to keep the harsh January winds at bay. But you'll have to figure that out on your own. I'll never tell.

All in all, a major crisis was averted. And eventhough since said major crisis wasn't actually a crisis as much as it was an active imagination... it still begs the question:

Where the hell is Homeland Security when you actually need them??

Granted, this is Canada and they generally shouldn't worry their pretty little heads with anything north of the 49th parallel......but still. Those are really nice sheets.

Note to Self:

Put some bottled water and maybe a toenail clipper in his hands. That would get them up here in a heart beat, I'll bet.

Note to Homeland Security:

My sincerest apologizes. Don't arrest me.

Elementary, Watson.

2007-12-12T09:58:00.000-08:00

Since Day One, it seems like The Boy has had a strong affinity for all things Hippo. I say this because whenever we brought toys into his line of vision, his reaction was always, shall we say, lackluster. Couldn't be bothered at all by them.

Then, one day we were in the store and I waved a few puppets at him, to no avail......until I reached for the hippo puppet. No word of a lie, if The Boy wasn't strapped into his stroller the kid would have shot straight out to grab this damn thing. Being the materialistic, commercialism worshipping parents that we are we felt it was our duty to make the purchase.

He has since been gifted with another hippo as apparently, they are the new black and my boy is on the cutting edge of the diapered hipster scene. Needless to say, this blue, balloon-bottomed little beauty generates the same rock 'em, sock 'em, knock 'em down, let me at 'em, primal roar response as the puppet.

Now, I'm no genius (truth be told, Spellcheck says I can't even spell the word), but I believe that I may have uncovered the mystery of the hippo coveting. Just curious as to whether or not you see any similarities in the following pictures, which I entitle: Things That Frequently Amuse The Boy.

Exhibit A: Hippocrates

Exhibit B: Hippolyta

Exhibit C: Daddy.

Note to Self:

Lump of coal is most definitely headed my way. Make peace with it.

For real.

We can't afford the shrink bills.

The Day I Broke The Boy

2007-12-07T00:29:00.000-08:00

I am fairly certain that there comes a point in almost every Mommy and Daddy's parenting career when they admit that they had "an accident" with their child. Not just the average, run of the mill Billy-scrapped-his-knee accident either. Nope. Parents, you know what I am talking about. The day your child's injury was a direct result of something you did.

Yesterday was my day.

The morning had started out innocently enough. Just like usual. Normal routine- bottle, play, coffee and morning news for me, breakfast, and then off to get ready for nap. Throw a diaper change or two in there, for good measure and you've got our morning.

So,The Boy and I were in his room, doin' what we do- he on the "big boy" bed (aka guest bed that we haven't moved out of his room yet) chatting away and playing with a teether or two, and I at his dresser pilfering through his mountain of clothes, looking for something that is not wet, soggy and otherwise covered in oatmeal.

Yes, I know. You can see it coming. I suppose I should have too but -*sigh*- in the spirit of coming completely clean about this whole lapse in judgement debacle I should admit that- I had become a bit cocky.

He won't roll that far, I thought. I know his rolls. I all but taught him his rolls for God's sake, and I know he couldn't possibly roll to the edge. The teethers I've specially selected are his favorite and will keep him totally and utterly occupied until I have finished my own very important task at hand. After all, we've made it almost 8 months with nary a hair on his wee little head out of place. Obviously, I have everything under control.

The pride before the fall. Quite literally.

About the time I was pulling out a pair of warm, woolly socks (Socks. To protect him from the cold. You funny, funny universe, you.) was when I heard behind me the sickening, unmistakable thud of soft flesh meeting hard surface.

I pivoted around in a heartbeat. It took half a second for my brain to comprehend what my eyes were seeing: a tiny little body on the floor. Face first. On the hardwood.

I lept the two steps required to cross the room and plucked him up just as The Scream To End All Screams was uprooting itself from deep within him.

In the past, when face to face with disaster or emergency, it is a well known fact that I am the calm one. Like a cucumber. Yet, as I clutched my screaming, wounded boy close to my chest and snuck quick little glances for the telltale crimson I was certain would appear at any moment... I noticed my hand shaking. Ever so slightly, but shaking none the less. Which is when the "shhshhshh's" and "It's ok. I'm here. I've got you" stuck in my throat and the reality of what just happened, how bad the outcome could have been, landed like a dead weight on my heart. A few tears escaped before I sucked it up and promised myself the luxury of a long hard cry. Later. Now, I was needed.

It turns out that kids, even babies, are less breakable than one would think. There was no blood. No wonky pupils or vomiting. Ok, a little of the latter, but I'm pretty sure that was self induced when he woofed back 8oz of milk. (Sigh. That would be my kid. Stress eater.) No concussion or, for that matter, bruising of any sort. Which the wickedly embarrassed part of me is so relieved about. Toddlers, sure you expect bruises. Babies, on the other hand....babies with bruises are just begging for a "Ooooo, sorry you have such shitty parents, kiddo" from the neighbours. And we all know I am just keeping my head above water with the Jones'.

Anyway, just as I was feeling the sun start to come out from behind the clouds, something in the far recesses of my mind thought....."Why no bruise? Did he really not hit his head?" As I pondered this and come to the conclusion that his head had obviously not absorbed the force of the fall, it suddenly occurred to me what had suffered the brunt of it.

Yes, yes, you say. The rest of his body did. We know. Get on with it, woman!

Hmmmm. Well, now that is the interesting part. Did I mention that he was waiting for clean clothes? And, perhaps a diaper? Yup. Yup, he was. And yes, when he fell smack dab, face first onto the hardwood floor, yes, he was naked as the day he was born.

Nothing kills your sunshine like the realization that your child has just taken the World's worst belly flop. With no cup.

Now that's gonna leave a mark.

Note to Self:

Enjoy these non-speaking days for as long as possible. His first words will quite possibly be "You're fired."

Dinnertime

2007-12-02T16:02:00.000-08:00

Booster seat: $36.98

Waterproof bib: $4.95/ 2pack

Jar of organic pureed peas: .89 cents

Soft baby feeding spoon: $2.99

My life at this moment in time: Priceless.

Note to Self:

Remember this moment. This is what it's all about.

This Just In: Hormones Destroy Brain Cells.

2007-11-29T09:09:00.000-08:00

Did you know...

...that in this big, beautiful city that is chalk full of bright, intelligent women there are actually classes for baby massage? Classes.

Hold that thought.

Now, before we go any further please know that I am all for one to one bonding time with baby. I am fully in support of infant massage and the benefits that come along with it. All of the bonding, stress relief (if he would hold friggin' still, it would be less stressful), improved sleep (when you use fancy lavender massage oil. See? Always thinkin'), better digestion, and among other things, reduced colic.

Really, wouldn't the world be a nicer place with a little less colic?

So what is the problem you ask?

"Well," says I "Let's all hop aboard that Previous Thought Train and I will tell you".

All aboard? Good.

What I find shocking (shocking!!) is the price that is being charged and, get this, people are actually paying!!

In a world that allows you to hop on the Internet and with a few clicks of your keyboard be presented with a plethora of information (which includes, but is not limited to: baby massage techniques, books, and forums), then why, oh why, are otherwise intelligent women even entertaining the idea of this?

And please understand that when I say "this" I do not mean a little $20 afternoon get together at the local community centre to get a live demo on technique and maybe a free sample of delicious smelling, non-toxic, baby-friendly, probably locally produced organic massage oil. That? That I would go for. What I have unearthed in my cyber-sleuthing is classes ranging from $110 all the way up the financial Richter scale to $650 for a weekend class.

***Let's take a little juice and cookie break while we allow our rationally thinking brains to absorb this information.....

......Let's have a little Vivaldi....I think Autumn would be pleasant today....

.....(yes, yes. A whole weekend....)

......Why, thank you. I would like another Oreo, so nice of you to ask.

......(yes, you probably do have to bring your own oil.)

.....(and baby, too. No free rides here.)

End of juice and cookie break.****

Are you kidding me?!?!? Ok, people, it's called baby oil and hands. If you can't figure out the rest I am seriously wondering how you ever even managed to get yourself with child in the first place. ("Now...where does that go???")

Oddly, careers in Rocket Science are on the decline in my neighbourhood...

Note to Self:

Really need to get around to planting that Money Tree out back. Gotta get me some of that disposable income.

Don't Report Us...

2007-11-22T10:50:00.000-08:00

...just because we know how to have a good time.

At our child's expense.

No, that is not a chainsaw emitting that glorious sound. It is just a regular old kitchen blender. Although if I told you it was a chainsaw it would probably give the video just that extra little "somethin'", wouldn't it?

Somethin' meaning humour.

For those of you just as twisted as us, here follows the extenda-mix...with a small disclaimer (or three):

Please excuse the poor camera work. That is Hubby's fault. He brought home a digital camera instead of a camcorder, and while I do like me a good photo session, the video quality is just not the same. And I can't pass on the opportunity to hassle him about it.

Please excuse the messy kitchen. Also Hubby's fault. 'Cuz I married PigPen. Little bit.

Please don't judge me on one bad hair day. I honestly can't believe I am about to post this on the World F'ing Wide Web, but as a wise woman once said, "Funny Trumps All". (Oh, I wish I knew how to link over to her!!).

So, here it is, in all it's glory. Because in this crazy, crazy life it is so much more important to laugh than it is to keep up appearances.

Go ahead, have a laugh. At my kid's expense. We are all about sharing.

Oh sweet, sweet Baby Jebus! It gets me every time. If you are not, at the very least, giggling at this point please leave my blog immediately.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

Obviously, we have very different senses of humour and obviously, yours sucks.

Note to Self:

Stop laughing maniacally. The neighbours have begun to whisper amongst themselves.

Post Script on Note to Self:

Stop using the word "sucks". What are you, 12 years old?

Official Business

2007-11-20T14:45:00.000-08:00

The NKB425 (No Kissing Before 25) Summit was held in Vancouver, BC this past weekend where an amicable agreement was reached after two days of talks regarding the proposed bill. Although it was widely speculated that a mediator would be required, only warm milk and maple teething biscuits were requested.

Pictured here are delegates from each side sealing the deal with the universally accepted and legally binding "Pinkie Swear".

Negotiations; however, regarding the BPPA (Body Piercing Peace Accord) have ceased as both parties have reached a deadlock. No word yet on when talks will resume, though some experts believe this stalemate may continue through to the next decade.

Note to Self:

Ask around, just to make sure I am not the only one who thinks The Boy looks like a corrupt politician just posing for a photo op.

They Never Told Me File #4

2007-10-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

.....that teething is so horrific.

Of course, everyone talks about the crankiness and disrupted sleep....and I must admit that we got off pretty easy there, so my beef is not with that.

My hurt comes from the half truths that were spoon fed to me over the months leading up to the 1st little shining white nub's appearance.

For example:

When someone says that the gums will get all swollen and red........

...naturally, they mean something very similar to a ugly little blister filled with nasty fluid will appear on the gums. Naturally.

And.....

If by, "It hurts the most when the tooth breaks through" you actually meant....."When that ugly blister pops and spews forth blood so that the tooth can cut it's way to the surface......and then an extra, angry red flap of skin will float around his gums for the rest of the day"...........then, yes, you would be correct.

Oh, and.....

I think that it is safe to assume that"They get really fussy" can be taken as "They open their mouth and randomly spew forth their stomach's contents throughout the day." And, honestly, if I was swallowing blood all day, I would feel queasy too.

So, will someone please come clean with me here???? Does this gong show happen with every tooth?? Cuz if that is the case, I need to mentally prepare.

And, yes, by mentally prepare, I do mean stock up on vino.

Note to Self:

Enroll my "friends" in counselling as they seem to have trouble communicating effectively. Maybe if they resolve their lingering issues, they will find inner peace (and start telling me the damn truth when I ask for it.)

I am here to help. I'm a helper. It's what I do.

Baby Rules

2007-10-09T22:24:00.000-07:00

Rules for The Boy

Never, ever, ever talk,, squawk, giggle, or cry louder than a whisper during Grey's Anatomy. Ever. Especially the season opener. (Seriously, kid. This is common sense. The sooner you learn it, the sooner we will get along)

If you must poop, at the very least, wait till your Daddy gets home.

When we are going out and I am trying (my damnedest) to look purdy, for the love of coffee, please do not pinch me, poke me, scratch me, squeeze me, pull my bottom lip, rip my hair from my perfect coif , drool or spit up on me. In short...throw a dog a bone here!

Do not grow up to have numerous piercings and/or tattoos, date hoochies, or wear your pants around your knees. All of the above mentioned will result in an ulcer for me and prompt eviction for you.

Humour me when I spit on my hand to clean your face. And fix your hair. All in one swoop. I am genuinely talented and you really should be taking notes.

I will be hugging, snuggling and smooching you long after it has become embarrassing for you. Get use to it.

Learn your ABC's, shapes, and especially your colours. I have included a visual learning aid that incorporates all three. Try to commit it to memory by....oh, let's say, Christmas????
Don't get sick and keep me up all night worrying over you. Just don't. If you just give me some time I will show you that I am quite adept at worrying and need no further practice.

If you are going to bite, steal toys from or in any way traumatize the other kids at playgroup, at least have the decency to wait until the other Mommies aren't looking.

Learn all you can from your Daddy. Except for talking about farts in public.

No matter how old you get, remember to always: stop and smell the flowers, stick your toes in the sand, run barefoot through the grass, sing at the top of your lungs.

Also remember that kissing will give you cooties. For which there is no cure. Dis.gus.ting.

You may be involved in professional sports, with the provision that you have no contact with other players. It is perfectly acceptable to be a water/towel/ball boy. Or on the special teams for Da Bears. Like a kicker. No tackling!!!!

Eat your veggies.

And, last (for this Version 1.0 anyway) but most certainly not least......drumroll please.........HEY, pay attention, this is the biggie......................

Don't ever tell me that you hate me (or my guts).

Naturally, I will chalk it up to wild teenage angst and hormones.......but deep down you will crush me. So tell your Dad, tell Grandma, tell your friends that you hate me, just don't tell me.

Note to Self:
Copy this and post copious prints around the house. He can't say I never warned him. And, anyway, it will help with his reading. He'll be a child prodigy. A child prodigy with permanent residence on a therapist's couch......but prodigy, none the less.

Note to The Boy:
Listen, Kiddo, just an FYI here......I reserve the right to change, rearrange and add to this as I see fit over the years. Don't bother trying to negotiate. Negotiating is for suckers. (With that said...go try Daddy.)

Gobble, gobble

2007-10-05T21:59:00.000-07:00

*****Sassy's Sappy Warning!!!!!! The following post was manufactured in plant that contains pure Autumn air and may contain trace amounts of sentimentality and sappiness. There will be no signature sarcasm. No punchline. Proceed at your own risk....******

Mmmmmmm, autumn has officially arrived, and with it comes the crisp autumn air, the ever changing colour symphony of reds, oranges, and golds that swirl through the sky, the glow of jack-o-lanterns, the roar of football season and the warm, toastiness of Thanksgiving dinner.

On top of it all, every store you walk into for the next few weeks is brimming with sweet, delicious Halloween chocolate. Goodbye Jenni Craig!!!!! It's been swell, but I have to come clean. I have been in a committed relationship with Hershey for the better part of my last 3 decades and I need to see this thing through. It's not you. It's me. Trust me. You're better off without me.

Whew. Thanks. I just had to get that off my chocolaty little chest. But, really. In all seriousness, I have to confess that I am SO excited for The Boy's 1st Thanksgiving!

Turkey Day is MY day. My favorite day off work out of the whole damn year. I wait 364 days for this, and can't wait for The Boy to enjoy it too. I can't quite put my finger on what exactly it is that I love about this holiday. It certainly isn't just the food factor, although, that is a big part of it. Mmmmmmm, the juicy slab of Tom Turkey that melts in your mouth, along with the creamy mashed potatoes and gravy topped with the tart deliciousness of cranberries........all washed down with a sizable chunk of sweet, smooth pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Oh and let's not even get me started on the leftover sandwiches with a touch of mayo, cranberries and stuffing on white bread. (Is it obvious that I've been dieting for....for-eva?!?!? I feel like I should go for a run, just thinking about all of this yumminess).

However, I really think that it is the whole ambiance of the holiday that sucks me into the whirling vortex that calls itself Thanksgiving. The sloshing through the mud at the pumpkin patch to find just the right gourd for pie, pulling on the warm, cozy sweaters while the nip of the October breeze turns your cheeks rosy and you curl your toes to keep them warm. Walking down the tree lined streets, you smell the cleanness of fall, a cool rain hovering just over the horizon, and the trees sparkle with the remains of morning moisture while you shuffle your feet through crunching autumn colours that have fallen. You walk home briskly and are enveloped by the wall of warmness from the fireplace within. the smell of roasting turkey fills you and the cheers of football fans from the televisions makes your heart race with anticipation. This quickly gives way to the Giving Thanks part of Thanks Giving which always brings a wave of emotions to my heart and mistiness to my eyes.

*Sigh*

The Boy is allowed to fall in love with any holiday he wishes (notice that I did not say "girl" there. Ha. It is the monastery for him, if I have my way!) but I sure as hell hope that it is Thanksgiving.

Or St. Paddy's Day. Nothing wrong with celebrating your Irish roots by nursing a green beer hangover the next day. But that's a post for another day......

Note To Self:

Start fasting now, to ensure maximum room in belly for the upcoming feast!!!

Therapy Anyone?

2007-10-03T22:29:00.000-07:00

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet"
-Juliet Romeo & Juliet

Someone once asked if Hubby and I have a nickname for The Boy.

Oh silly, silly someone.

A nickname?

As in singular? As in just one?

If only it were that easy......

(Some)Nicknames for The Boy:
Grades, Greidel, Graderoo,G-man, Graterade, Gratanator, Goof, Goofy Boy, Cutie, Cutie Patootie, Cuteness, Sweetie, Sweetness, Sweet Boy, Sweet Little Love, Loveydove, Newbie, Nube, Noonoo, Booboo, BooBear, BabyBear, BoobooBoy, Little Boobiddyboo, Buddy, Bubbala, Mr. Snugs, Snuggles, Snoogles, Snarffles, Snarggles, Snicklefritz, Snikkles,Dude, Dudie, Dudeman, Doodoo, Doodlebug, Little Man, Mr. Man, HandsomeMan, Clever Boy,Mr. Muskles, FunnyDuck, LittleDuck, QuackityQuack, Monkey, Little Monkey, Monkey Man, Chimpideedoo, Mr. Muffin, Muffin Man, Kid, Kiddlet, Kiddles, KiddyWink, Jingle Jangles, Bo Jangles, Bubbles,Bubby, Toots, Tootsie, Tootles, Gigglebritches, DingDong, DingDongDandyBoy, Cranky DoddleDandy, Squawky, Squawker Texas Ranger, Squawkideedoo, Petrie(like the pterodactyl from Land Before Time), Curious George, Friar Tuck(in relation to his hair line), Noodle, NoodleHead, CanoodleHead, SirFartsALot, FartyMcGee, Stinky, Stinker, StinkyStinkerton, .......really, need I go on?

So, I guess my question is this: Child Protective Services can't take him away because we, obviously, screw with his head right? Right?????

Note to Self:

Start saving for The Boy's shrink sessions immediately.

Don't.

2007-09-30T18:51:00.000-07:00

I wish that I could take credit for the following, alas, it is an email that I received recently. Thought I would share it with you and hopefully you will get a chuckle out of it. I sure as hell did. (If this one has already hit your In Box, come back tomorrow. I'll have a new post for you. :)

After creating Heaven and Earth, God created Adam and Eve. And the first thing he said to them was: "Don't"

"Don't what?" Adam asked

"Don't eat the forbidden fruit." said God

"Forbidden fruit? We got forbidden fruit? Hey, Eve, we got forbidden fruit!"

"No WAY!"

"WAY!"

"Don't eat the fruit!" said God

"Why?"

"Because I am your Father and I said so" replied God, wondering why he hadn't stopped after making the elephants.

A few minutes later, God saw the kids having an apple break and was angry.

"Didn't I just tell you not to eat that fruit?!?!?" asked God

"Uh huh" Adam replied

"Then why did you eat it?"

"I dunno" Eve answered

"She started it!" accused Adam

"Did not!!!"

"Did so!!"

"DID NOT!"

Having had it with the two of them, God's punishment was that Adam and Eve should have children of their own.....

So remember this: If you have persistently and lovingly tried to guide your children and give them wisdom, and they haven't taken it, don't be too hard on yourself.

If God has trouble handling his kids, what makes you think it will be a piece of cake for you???

Note to Self:

Seriously consider the whole going to church thing. This God guy sounds like he could use a sympathetic ear.

I PAID for this??

2007-09-21T23:23:00.000-07:00

So, when someone says the phrase," Stroller Fitness Class" to you, what comes to mind? Well, if you are me (and, to be honest, that would be creepy) you think:

'Hmmmm. Strollers. You walk with strollers. And "fitness". You walk fast with strollers. Meet other new mommies, The Boy meets new girlfriends, get a little cardio in....awesome!"

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Right?

Well, imagine my confusion when I found myself smack dab in the heart of Stroller Purgatory. And may I just say, right off the bat, that I consider myself to be a fairly fit person. You probably neither need nor want the details of my active lifestyle, but just trust me on this one.

Anyway, on with the story...

Well, when I looked into this class, nowhere did I see the words: boot camp, pain or agony. And the stroller that was mentioned? Oh, the stroller. It was in use for about 2 minutes, and the other 88 minutes of hell...sorry...of the class, it was parked. Yup. The only thing left to hold up my broken little body and keep me from eating dirt....and it was just sitting there. Off to the side. Within spitting distance. Talk about a cruel, psychological mind game. Oh, and when I say "broken body" I mean broken. I thought that childbirth broke me, and I was sadly mistaken. (Ok, that's not entirely true. Childbirth definitely broke parts of me. And all the good parts, too. Hmmmm, I guess I should have prefaced that with a large Overshare Warning. Oh well. Too Late. Suck it up, Princess. Anyway...I digress...where was I? Oh yes, fire and brimstone.....)

As I mentioned, there was no stroller involved. Instead, it was 88 grueling minutes of lunges, squats, push ups, sprints, resistance cords and, to cap it off, a mini step class at the end. I am sure you are wondering if I actually made it to the end and I here to say, "Damn Skippy, I did". I paid my 12 bucks for the stupid class and I wasn't about to admit defeat. Nope, I kept up to all of the other psychos, with a smile on my face all the while.

Aren't you proud of me?

Yeah, well, don't break out the celebratory bubbly just yet. It didn't end with the finish of the class. You all know where this is headed....we've all been there. The pain after the I'm-a-dumbass-and-pushed-myself-too-hard workout. Mine went a little something like this:

2 hours later: "Wow. Glad that shite is over. Maybe I should stretch. Ooooo, or maybe I should partake in some on-line shopping to sooth my aching bones...." (Three guesses which one won out. First two don't count)

8 hours later: "Man, I'm a little stiff. Nothing a glass of red can't cure...."

8.5 hours later: "Wow. I can feel it in my outer thighs. I don't think I ever felt that before. Sweet." More wine.

12 hours later: "The tendons around my knees hurt. WTF? How on earth did I manage that?"

4 freakin' days later: "Oh, hunny? Can you come here a second?" Me, from la salle de bain. (Bathroom. It just sounds prettier in french.)

"Did you run out of toilet paper?"

"Not exactly. I just need your help."

Let me end your suspense and cut to the chase. I couldn't stand up from la toilette. (See? Prettier.) That's right. My legs were in so much pain that I could not pull my bony little butt up off the john.

You know that horrible feeling right before you get a raging fever when you are sick? The all-over body ache where even your eyelashes hurt? It was worse than that. I didn't think I was getting sick. I thought I was getting dead. And Hubby had to save me.

(Mommy Tip: Mmmmm, humble pie tastes much better after half a bottle of vino.)

So, remember folks, the next time you even think about getting into the exercise scene, stop, back the truck up, and then get the hell outta Dodge. This class whooped my butt. Bent me over and spanked my bare bottom. Don't make the same mistake.

Note to Self:

Nobody wants to hear about your bare bottom.

Note to You:

Hubby, The Boy and I heading out of town for some family "stuff" and then to celebrate four wonderful years of wedded bliss. Or something along those lines.

Either way, will be back Monday October 1st! See you then!

They Never Told Me Files #33

2007-09-19T10:14:00.000-07:00

They Never Told Me....

......that days once filled with shopping, spa retreats, ocean kayaking, gabbing with girlfriends for hours over coffee, endless hours parked in a comfy chair with a good book.....

.....and nights once full of tripping the light fantastic, enjoying the city's finest culinary delights, live theatre in the park, dinner parties full of intelligent digressions on the state of the world ( and rousing rounds of Cranium), candlelight, red wine and fine cheeses....

...would all be replaced by this little beauty:For those who are unfamiliar with the above, it is commonly known as a nasal aspirator. A.K.A Mommy's New Hobby.

It is used by health care professionals and (twisted) parents the world over in a manner quite similar to how you would use a turkey baster. Suck and spit. Only, this one doesn't end with a tummy full of bird and pumpkin pie. No, it is for eliminating those pesky little pockets of mucus that reside in The Boy's nose. Poor kid. He's working on it, but he just hasn't quite mastered the whole blowing the nose bit. So, obviously, it is my duty to help him out.

I don't even know where to begin to explain how satisfying this is. Like when you have a crick in your back and it finally pops? Nope. Better. Like someone finally scratching the itch between your shoulders? Better. Pushing on a bruise? Better! Flossing that chunk of food camping out in your back molars? Popping a zit? Biore Pore Strips?????? Waaaaay better.

The Boy, for his part, is pretty darn obliging. However that could just be because he really doesn't know any better and at this point in his life the little dear trusts me implicitly. (Oh, you've so much to learn, my child. Sooooo very much.) At any rate, he lies back and smiles while I gently place the tip into his nostril and wait for him to wrinkle his nose slightly as I squeeze the air from the bulb, release, and wait for that satisfying SUCK sound.

And believe me when I say that there is quite the technique that is required to get just the right desired effect. Those boogies don't move for just any old, willy nilly technique. Nope. It has got to be just the right depth, just the right angle, just the right amount of suction. Oh, but when you finally get that big, gooby snot ball that you have been listening to rattle around in The Boy's nose for the last hour.......oh, the joy of it all.

Of course, there are times that The Boy decides to squawk his displeasure (freakin' killjoy) and that is when your skills are really put to the test. Get in and get the hell out, before Hubby yells from the next room to stop torturing the poor kid. Torturing? Torturing? Come on now. It's not like I'm making him watch The Wiggles. That would be cruel.

Note to Self:

Seriously, try to contain enthusiasm while talking about boogers.

What Not to Wear

2007-09-18T09:14:00.000-07:00

As someone who puts quite a bit of thought into how I present myself to the world (on most days anyway) I feel that the following atrocity is self explanatory.....

Shock and awe, people. Shock and awe.

Note to Self:

The next time Hubby dresses The Boy, affix this "accessory" in a subtle, yet highly visible spot.

Stressed is Desserts backwards.

2007-09-17T13:07:00.000-07:00

Setting: Our dining room, one week ago. Dinner time.

Characters:

The Boy, seated at his brand spankin' new highchair with 4 course spread in front of him.

Good Mommy (aka ME), picking tufts of hair from in between my fingers (Do i really need to explain how they got there? Really?).

Daddy (aka Hubby), sitting in the background, feet up, adult beverage in hand, surveying the scene before him.

Annnnnnnddd........................... ACTION!

Mommy spoons up bright orange concoction that vaguely resembles sweet potatoes (so says Heinz) and calmly brings it to The Boy's wee little nose thus allowing him to smell the sacrificial veggie and not be startled when it is actually shoved into his mouth. (Good Mommy class 101.)

The spoon is then gently brushed across his precious little lips, whereupon they part just wide enough for a lizard like tongue to dart out and lick just the moisture off the top of the orange mixture before them.

Waiting....hoping.....praying....will his mouth open??

Yes! It opens but for a moment and that is all the Good Mommy needs to swoop in and quickly, deftly deliver the remainder of the spoon's contents into the mouth of unsuspecting child. (Which really negates the above "smell so as not to startle" technique but you gotta go what you gotta do).

Good Mommy sighs relief and sits back for a well deserved rest and to allow herself a moment to marvel at her skill and expertise......

....and it's back out again.

A little slimier, a little gooier but, none the less, there it is pooling on the once pristine giraffe (and now sweet potato) adorned bib.

GM takes a sharp intake of breath, counts to about 3, then pushes every last ounce of air from her lungs and comes dangerously close to passing out.

(Daddy still sitting quietly in back ground, probably day dreaming about the upcoming football season, or how much glorious sleep he got the previous night....or some other such frivolous nonsense.)

GM repeats the above procedure numerous times with numerous foods but with slight variations for each. Such as airplane noises, chimp-like movements and sounds, automobile sounds and reenactments, all round tomfoolery, in general......all ending in a similar manner---a puddle of potatoes.

Then Good Mommy makes the decision to try the new, following tactic:

"Mmmmmm, yummy rice cereal!" sings GM as she slurps up a healthy spoonful.

"Ummmmm....." from Daddy's end of the ring.

"Oh Look! Mommy likes it! See?" More slurping and lip smacking.

"Uhhhhh, honey?"

The Boy appears to be pleased by GM's antics as he is laughing and waving arms about in air.

"Oh whatever could it be, Daddy?" asks GM, still in sing song cadence. "Can't you see I'm modelling good eating habits here???"

"But, I really think......"

GM is all but licking the bowl clean at this point and thinking to herself that it really doesn't taste so bad. It's actually surprisingly sweet. And right about the time GM is making a mental note to check the rice cereal box to see if there is added sugar she hears:

"YOU'RE EATING YOUR BREAST MILK!!!"

Pause. (Did he say something?)

Pause. (He did. But that's ridiculous. How does he figure.......????)

Pause.

Exit Good Mommy STAGE RIGHT to kitchen sink. Gagging, spitting, sputtering, dry heaving, flailing for (Bad) Daddy's "adult beverage" to gargle with.

GM slides slowly down into a crumpled mess on the floor. (Bad) Daddy and The Boy are laughing uproariously....with the former rolling on the floor, clutching his sides and gasping for breath between each laugh of hysteria.

Note to Self:

Screw nutrition. Try mixing the rice cereal with water next time.

Not breast milk.

True Tales from the Front Lines of Motherhood

2007-09-14T09:57:00.000-07:00

I can just imagine all you more seasoned and experienced mommies and daddies out there shaking your heads, rolling your eyes and sighing "Par for the course, hunny. Welcome to the club". However, in my defense, it wasn't always like this!

(Having said that, I would like to take a quick moment here to say a big thank you to all those who met The Boy in his early days and said, "Oh, he's such a good baby!" Jerks. I told you that you would jinx it -didn't I tell you??- and now you have.)

No, we used to get up to 8 hours of sleep (no kidding), there was no spitting up, no unnecessary crying, no fussing, no drooling, fairly mild diaper contents, etc, etc...the list goes on. Then, one day not so long ago Sor, the God of Teething (distant cousin to Thor) rode his pony into town and brought the hammer down on our happy little world. Now it's gone. All gone.

Sleep? Sleep? What is this magical, fairy tale word? In the small village that I grew up in the elders spoke of this fabled word in hushed tones. I thought I knew what it meant. Alas, no more.

Here is what can be witnessed at our house at any given time of the day (or night):

-me pouring French Vanilla coffee creamer into the bottle warmer.

-Kitty Kurling. A daily event that takes places in our hallway. The fun starts with the cats meowing loud enough to wake the dead (not to mention the kid that we finally got to sleep) and ends with a physics lesson ( cat + tiled hallway = velocity). We are in talks with ESPN now.

-me falling asleep next to The Boy while giving him a (French Vanilla scented) bottle, then waking up to him smacking me in the face. Who knew he didn't like milk up the nose?

-Jenny Craig Beef Chow Mein hitting the wall when the neighbours were staging what can only be described as a 6.8 earthquake.

-me a jumbled, crying, oh-so-hungry mess on the floor as I watch chow mein slide down the wall.

-hubby passed out on the couch at 8:00pm. Snoring, drooling out the side of his mouth..... with my big, white, Nicole Ritchie-style sunglasses on. Don't ask.

-days that start with incoherent mumbling and end in primitive grunts passed between Hubby and I. And, no, not the good Let's-make-another-one kind of grunts either.

-hitting the "blend" button on the smoothie machine....with the pour spout turned on.

- confused, dopey look appearing on my face upon finding common everyday objects in the most unexpected places. Like chopsticks. On my bathroom counter?

-me, sniffing my arm pits before going to bed and wondering, "Did I put deodorant on today?" Or, for that matter, yesterday?

Oh, I could go on for days (I am sure we all could!) but I will leave it at that for now. I have to go now and convince The Boy that teeth are highly over-rated and that he should stop growing them. Immediately.

I mean, come on. What kid doesn't want to live off of chocolate pudding and ice cream for the rest of his life?

Note to Self:

Go put on deodorant.

Charlie Brown head

2007-09-13T12:56:00.000-07:00

Last week, The Boy had his immunizations (and Mommy had a stiff drink, or two) as well as a routine check up. The doc said everything looks great, good length, good weight, blah, blahdy, blah.

So, I make the mistake of calling "Grandma" to relay the good news....'cuz she just eats that stuff up (Come on, Mom, you know you do!) and I am right in the middle of bragging that his head circumference is in the 90th percentile (which, for those without kiddlets, is a scale doctors use to assure you that, yes, compared to other babies your child's noggin is freakishly large) when she asks: "But she said that's ok, right?"

Naturally, at this point, I assume that she is out of practice on the whole baby thing and, as per usual, over-reacting a bit. So without giving it a second thought, I shoot back a quick "Of course, Mother. (Insert rolling of eyes and highly annoyed tone) Anyway, like I was saying...."

...and was promptly interrupted. This is where my very thoughtful and caring mummy told me all about another family member who had some sort of horrible tumor on his brain and had to have surgery on it before his 1st birthday. (Don't worry, he is now a happy, healthy little 2 year old, so it's a happy ending.) However, (and this is the kicker, because I don't have enough to worry about already, right?) the only reason the tumor was caught in time was because.....wait for it.....you know what's coming......yup, the little dude's head was big. Bigger than normal. Looking normal alright, but definitely bigger than most. Right around where The Boy's head is.

Of course, I couldn't let her know that she had rattled me. Shook me right down to the core but, of course, my mostly sleepless nights turned into definitely sleepless nights and I was thinking that I may lose what little was left of my mind.....

....until it came to me. A plan. A deliciously brilliant plan to see if The Boy's head really is too big. Granted, you probably won't be seeing my highly scientific findings in the New England Journal of Medicine anytime soon, but I think you will be pleasantly surprised and, dare I say, impressed by the accuracy and simplicity of my experiment.

Please scroll down to view the results..........................................................................................
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.....................don't worry, you don't have to make a wish whilst you are scrolling..........................
...............................................................................................................................................................
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................................................................................................................................................................
you don't have to forward this to 83 friends in the next 30 seconds with the threat of impending doom should you not.........................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................................
..................................................................................................................................................
....................................................almost there...................................................................
....................................................................................................................................................
.............................................................................................................................................................
.............................................................................................................................................

And there you have it, folks! He is a perfectly healthy C cup!!!! Nothing to worry about!

Now, if he fit into my parachute sized nursing bra, that would be a problem....

Note to Self:

Keep this picture tucked away in a safe place for The Boy's prom date.

Or first day of Kindergarten. Either way, it should come in handy.

So it's like that, huh?

2007-09-12T11:35:00.000-07:00

Do these things come with a warranty? Because mine is definitely broken.

Someone decided that it would be fun to scar his mommy and cause irreparable emotional damage.....to the lady that feeds and clothes him.

Hmmmm. Well, he is only 4 and a half months old, so we should give him at least another month to grow into his rocket scientist potential.

However, for the time being, I have seniority and heaps more maturity (SO mature), so I will have the last laugh! Here it is, emblazoned across your chest for the world to see. Now, all the world shall know of your unscrupulous deeds....

Too bad the letters don't come in scarlet......

(Ooooo, look at me, with my pretty colours. I'm so fancy.)

Note to Self:

Read up on the Stork's return policy. It's gotta be around here somewhere......

Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

2007-09-10T13:46:00.000-07:00

Whatever you do.....

do NOT tell your Hubby (or yourself) that you need fruit and veggies for the week and
do NOT hop in your car and
do NOT drive yourself to the closest major grocery store and
do NOT make a b-line for the bulk cookie section of the bakery area and
do NOT tell yourself that one innocent little tidbit of cookie won't hurt and
do NOT buy 4 huge Raspberry White Chocolate Almond cookies because.....

they WILL wake you from a dead sleep and call out for you. (They are clever that way.)

This can have some serious ramifications where your post-baby, fit-my-skinny-jeans-again- plan is concerned. Especially for myself, given the neighbourhood that I live...sorry, that I rent in.
It is a picturesque little corner of Vancouver that is known for the 80 year old homes that start selling at $1.8 million. Not to mention the stores that sell $200 t-shirts and the abundance of Trophy "Waifs" that roam the Starbucks coffee shops with their designer children and live-in nannies in tow. Our cheap little Ford Focus looks down right silly next to the cornucopia of Lexus', BMW's and Escalades that zip down the beautiful tree canopied streets.

I mean, if I can't win the lottery, I might as well try to be a Yummy Mummy. Right?

Note to Self:

Stop being a damn idiot and eat the cookie. (Or four.)
Just don't let your Jenny Craig consultant see this post....hmmm, or Jenny partner, Jasmine. Avert your eyes, Jas! Nothing to see here. Move along, move along.

"Oh, it was all very tongue in cheek"

2007-09-09T18:10:00.000-07:00

Just the wrong tongue in what was most definitely, the wrong cheek!!

Here he is, ladies and gentlemen. My son- the pervert.

Don't be fooled by the clever disguise! He has more sneak and grope in his little wee pinky than your slimy Uncle Roy after his bottle of Christmas "cheer".

The violation occurred a couple of weeks ago, but I shudder even now to recount it. I still feel dirty. Used. Cheap. I can't sleep at night, what with all the horrific flash......

Ok. I'll stop being dramatic. It's just so fun.

It was early morning. The sun was just peeking up over the horizon as I lay, fetal position, tucked into the comfort of my 600-thread count sheets. (Great for newlyweds, not so hot for explosive diapers. The Boy's, not mine. Smart asses. ) The house was quiet and still, and I was working on an uninterrupted 3 hours of sleep after a long night of diaper changes and projectile burps. When, suddenly, the last blissful moments of rest where ripped away by the shrill mating call of the pterodactyl in the bassinet beside me.

Oh wait, it was The Boy, pardon me.

Dutifully, I tossed aside the last vestiges of slumber and dragged myself to the edge of the bed so that I could peep timidly just over the side of the bassinet.

And then a peculiar thing happened. The sound stopped. Dead in it's tracks, stopped. Instead, it was replaced by a big, toothless, ear to ear grin accompanied by the most precious little giggle. It was enough to melt my sleep deprived little heart.

At this point of the story, and I'm a bit ashamed to admit it, I have to say that I missed the foreshadowing of dark things yet to come. You know, like in Shakespeare when the weather goes wacky or the animals run rampant.... foreshadowing. Big dummy me, missed it. The universe was sending me a red, flashing cosmic warning and I missed it.

Anyway, getting back to it....

It was enough to melt...blah, blah, blah....ok.

Well, how could I be tired after receiving such a welcome? Not to mention that it did wonders for my ego. I reached in, scooped up my little bundle of love and cozied him into the bed with me.

He was just so cute (kisses on his toes), so sweet (kisses on his tummy), so adorable (kisses on his hands), so precious (kisses on his cheek...maybe a little too close to his mouth....) I just couldn't resist...and then I felt it.

It wasn't my tongue. It definitely wasn't Hubby's tongue. What on earth could it....OH MY GOD!!

Again, hubby comes running (poor boy) and arrives at the bedroom door.

Hubby: "What?!?!? Holy crap! What happened?!!??!?

Me: "Sputter, sputter, gaaawk, spit, pplllllffftt!"

Hubby: "What the hell happened????"

Me: "Your son just slipped me the tongue!!"

(Cut to The Boy- full on belly laugh and arms and legs in whirling frenzy of excitement.)

Hubby: "What?" Stern glare. "That's what you're all worked up about?"

Me: "Easy for you to say! He didn't just give your tonsils the once over!"

Hubby: "I'm going to work."

Note to Self:

See doctor about a prescription for Valium.

Vicodin and wine is so 2005.

From the "They Never Told Me" Files....

2007-09-09T08:23:00.000-07:00

They Never Told Me #62

....that one day, quite unexpectedly, I would wake up and do a double, nay, triple take....only to confirm that, yes, a toy factory had indeed thrown up in my living room.

Word to the wise here: If your child receives a gift, check out the box before you open it. If it requires batteries, you should immediately drop the package and back away quickly. But not before slapping a Return to Sender sticker on it first.

Note to Self:

Issue a "No Obnoxious Toys" warning to all friends and family members before Christmas this year.

Three's Company

2007-09-08T14:37:00.001-07:00

Don't you love having company over? I sure do. Especially since The Boy came along and especially those that either don't have children or do, but haven't been around babies since the Nixon campaign. I find these breeds of guest easiest to take the piss out of. Not to mention that the sheer entertainment value of these visits is well worth their weight in wine (more on that later).

Let me set the scene....

Guest arrives and throws a brief salutation our way before ooooo'ing, awwwww'ing, cuddling, and generally falling all over The Boy. The Boy, egomaniac that he is, eats it all up and responds by being quite lovely and giggly, if not a tad drooly, but none the less wins over the hearts and minds of his audience immediately.

Until he gets hungry. Or gassy. Or cold. Or tired. Or generally anything that will bring on the water works and his new found lungs. From the dark, murky shadows of our dwelling in the corner, Hubby and I emerge and quickly take charge of the situation. We are again back in the spotlight, heroic, victorious and finally worthy of conversing with.

The visit continues, The Boy eventually heads off to rest his pretty little head, and someone (me) breaks open a bottle, or two, (ok or three) of vino. Aaaaaahhhhhh, to feel adult again. Not that being a parent doesn't come with some new found maturity, but this......this is a precious, seldom occurring time when we aren't covered in spit-up, we aren't desperately searching for a soother (actually his name is "Soothy" and he is now a family member, so you might as well go ahead and add him to the Christmas card list. Seriously.) and we aren't feeling guilty about strapping him into his bouncy chair thereby not giving him "tummy time" and , obviously, scarring him for life. Not to mention the fact that wine (aka "Mommy's Little Helper") shuts out the Raffi songs that are constantly bouncing around between my ears.

Side note here: Just kidding about the Mommy's Little Helper bit. You can put the phone down now.....

Anywho, inevitably, at some point during the visit over the baby monitor sounds waves comes The Boy's primal call for sustenance. Like Pavlov's bi-otch, someone (me) jumps up to get a "bubba" ready. (Oh gawd, I can literally see post secondary English class tuition going up in smoke as we speak. )

At this point, the wine has had a chance to kick in and perhaps, to their credit, our guest is somewhat disoriented by the sound, as it is not something that was ever heard in previous visits to our home. At any rate, this is where the fun comes in.

Guest: "Oh, is that him?"

Hubby: "No, no. That was just the cat. Pay no attention to him."

Guest: "Oh." Pause. "Really?"

Hubby: "Yeah, he just has a baby stuck in his throat. We've been meaning to get it checked out....."

So, the moral of the story is: If you don't already have children, you should seriously reconsider. They will open up a whole new world of comedy to you. (And, I guess, they're kindda cute.) Your Saturday nights will never be the same.

Note to Self:

Have the cat's throat checked out. Just in case.

Wiggle this....

2007-09-07T20:40:00.000-07:00

O.K. A few questions about The Wiggles.....

1) Who the hell are these froot loops dancing about like complete ninnies and acting like morons in front of our children?

2)Do they really think kids are that dumb?

3) Am I the only person that feels an inexplicable rush of violent rage when they see said dancing and moronic behaviour?

4)Who the hell are these froot loops dancing about etc, etc????

I am generally a very even keeled kind of gal but, hand to my heart, if I ever meet one of those nut bars I will smack the Wiggle right out of him.

Note to self:

The dinosaur too.

Dirty Dancing...Baby Style

2007-08-23T23:24:00.000-07:00

So..... The Boy has a new trick.

Normally,this is something that would have me all obnoxious and gloating and what not; however, this one is quickly racking up my Bad Mommy of The Year nominations.

Let me explain.

I am not such a bad mommy. I love him and I hug him and I feed him and I change him AND I have a daily schedule that we stick to with some regularity, with one of the daily activities being a walk around the neighbourhood. Well, The Boy is an Aries and does not, I repeat, not enjoy being strapped into his little infant seat in the stroller. So, being the flexible and accommodating parents ( push overs) that we are, we don't strap him in when we are out for walks. Car rides, absolutely, but with walks we throw caution to the wind and let his hair hang free....if he had any. Anyway, enter the trick.

It started on a Wednesday. We were out for a walk and The Boy started to get a bit ants-in-the-pantsy towards the end, as per usual. However, on this particular walk, on this particular day, he decided to try something new.

He decided to become a member of Cirque du Soliel.

Ok, not quite, but he's working on it. You see, what he has mastered is the art of launching himself to the very end of his seat and dangling precariously there until I, good mommy that I am, shuffle him back into place. This, in itself, is not the extraordinary part. It is the method by which he manages this feat that worries me.

He starts by putting both arms above his head to steady himself, sticks out his wee little tongue (for concentration, of course), plants his feet firmly and then, with great panache, thrusts his pelvis skyward and lands with a thump at his destination.

The first time he did this, I stood and watched the whole thing, start to finish, with a mixture of awe and shock. Normally, the proud momma in me would be saying, "Hooray Gross Motor!!!" while visions of The Boy playing in the World Cup or standing on an Olympic podium played out in my head. Yet....it wasn't exactly what you would call graceful.... or attractive. One could almost consider it a bit lewd.

Which leads me to the little incident we had today.

While out enjoying our walk this morning, we happened upon another Good Mommy and her little girl strolling the neighbourhood. Of course, we stopped to exchange pleasantries and after all of the "How old is your little one?" and "What a great stroller!" I actually happened to get a look at this little girl....and she was a knockout! No, really. I noticed The Boy smiling bigger and drooling more than usual, so I am fairly certain he shared my sentiments. This girl was a looker. Big, bright blue eyes, long dark lashes, full head of beautiful dark locks and perfect little cupid bow lips.

Naturally, within about 30 seconds I had the wedding planned and the cake all but ordered. And right around the time that I was pondering whether arranged marriages are legal in Canada is when he did it.

Yes, it.

The trick.

Before I could even think to react, his little diapered bum had achieved liftoff and, I swear, he actually looked right at her while his hips launched her way.

Well, if looks could kill I would be six feet under right about now. Not from the other baby, of course. No, she actually seemed rather amused by the display. Her mother, on the other hand, was shall we say...less than impressed? And she looked at me like it was my fault. As though I had something to do with this highly inappropriate behaviour that had stolen her daughter's innocence. As though I had taught him this and was raising a little gigolo that I just couldn't wait to let loose on the first Mommy and Me playgroup I came across.

Sigh.

Way to go, Boy. There goes the dowry.

Note to Self:

No more Treehouse channel, as it is obviously Dora and her little short-shorts that are rotting his brain and corrupting him.

Hope you're happy, Dora. Cheap floozy.

The truth, the whole truth and nuthin' but the truth...

2007-08-21T13:27:00.000-07:00

I think that it is a universally known fact that your mothers, grandmothers, sisters, girlfriends....pretty much anyone you know who has already given birth....do not tell you the truth about motherhood. That's isn't to say that they lie to you. No, it is more like a few carefully selected omissions, if you will.

So, this being said, I have made it my new mission to be completely, brutally honest with you, my captive audience. I know, I know.....it isn't quite up to par with some people's lifelong missions, but what can I say? I'm no Nelson Mandela.

I think we shall begin this new journey into the heart of darkness...er...sorry...motherhood with none other than The Deadly Deceptions of Diapers.

Little known fact: Not all diapers are created equally. Or maybe it is widely known, but never discussed. Either way, I feel it my duty to warn you about a certain name brand. I am not sure if I am legally allowed to bash a trademarked product, so let's just say that the diaper in question begins with an "H" and ends in "uggies". (See that? See how tricky I am?)

Now, this brand has been around for quite awhile and seems to be quite reputable. My problem is the damn Velcro tabs. NOBODY told me that these diapers come equipped with Velcro that must have been created by our dear friends at NASA. It can, and will, stick to anything. Yes. Anything.

Case in point:

Imagine me, new mommy, just arrived home from the hospital with The Boy. My eyes are all glazed over from lack of sleep (cuz you have to watch him, even when he sleeps. Duh.), normally coiffed hair is borderline rat nesty, and am emitting a lovely "au natural" scent due to not showering in a few days and being covered in milk. (Also note the severe case of testiness from having to endure hospital food. <Shudder> Let's leave it at that, shall we?)

Fast forward to dinner time for The Boy. I drag my semi comatose self into a position that just barely passes as upright and cozy up with the new object of my affections. Naturally, I am half naked(who has the energy to dress?) and The Boy is sans clothing as well, just diaper, thanks to a lecture about "skin to skin" from one Nurse Ratchett.

All is going smoothly....The Boy is latched fantastically, snorting and grunting away like the little wild boar he is....I close my eyes and doze a little, relishing in the perfect, loveliness that is my world at the moment....when I feel it. At first, I admit, it feels great. A slowly spreading warmth that is emanating from somewhere around my middle. It takes a few seconds before think, "Actually...this may not be a good thing." I look down and realise, in horror, that said Velcro tab of The Boy's diaper has cemented itself to my nursing bra and ripped itself wide open. Leaving me directly in the line of fire.

Now, at this point, any sane person probably would have calmly and gently removed the nursing child and cleaned up the new puddle that had formed in her belly button. However, I think it is safe to say that I was so far down the rabbit hole and in to LaLaLand that "sane" seemed about as attainable as world peace. So, of course, I promptly burst into tears and screamed bloody murder until my husband came flying into the bedroom with a look of terror on his face.

Needless to say, I received a lengthy (ok, and deserved) diatribe on the evils of crying wolf. And the "temporary-insanity-due-to-wild-unbalanced-hormones" defence did not hold up. At all.

When both my husband and I calmed down, we vowed never to buy the (trademarked name brand) diapers again. We would boycott them completely and rally everyone we knew to do the same. We would not rest until justice had been served.

That lasted about 2 days.

Then we found out that they are the only brand that Costco carries in ginormous, ridiculously huge size. Well, other than the No Name brand....but seeing as how we rent in a fairly chi-chi neighbourhood and we have the keep up with the Jones', we couldn't possibly buy No Name. Or I'm just terribly insecure and need to feel accepted. Haven't decided yet.

Note to self:
Since you have decided to buy the evil diapers......remember to keep them out of arm's reach while changing The Boy. Flailing arms, full diapers and super stick Velcro do not a happy partnership make.

Welcome to my world, folks!

2007-08-17T14:33:00.000-07:00

Let the neurosis begin!

Well, here we are at my very first post. Me, racking my brain for a clever witticism or some small nugget of humour to share with you. You, perched anxiously at the edge of your chair, waiting with bated breath to experience the sass-o-frass that is moi.

However, before we begin I feel the need to issue a warning to you.

If you have come in search of a smart, hip, artful commentary on current global affairs....well, my friends, you have made a grievous error. I would advise you to continue on in your noble quest, cuz it ain't here, baby.

You see, I have just recently entered a new phase in my life. Experienced a rite of passage, if you will. Those of you who are cool, single, swingin' and lovin' it would most likely refer to it as joining "the Dark Side". (Believe me, there are some days when I would be apt to agree with you.)

I have just had a baby.

"Oh, joy. Rapture." say the aforementioned cool people, with a healthy dose of sarcasm dripping from each word.

But honestly, he is probably the funniest person I have ever met. And really, I have met quite a few.

SO, now that you have that little tidbit I am sure you can guess which direction this blog will take. That's right.... another damn "Mommy Blog". But, if you promise to swing by regularly to check in on my little man's (and, occasionaly, mine) slapstick antics , then I promise to.....awwww, hell...I can't promise much of anything these days. How about this? I will TRY to drag my sorry, sleep deprived ass to the computer and not bore you too much.

I sure hope that works for you cuz it's all I got.