if only I could stow him safely in the overhead compartment

I am nervous. Tomorrow morning is the Babe's first plane ride, and I don't know how he (or me for that matter) is going to handle it. Though a well traveled boy in utero (he's technically been to Regina, Saskatchewan; Halifax, Nova Scotia; St. John's, Newfoundland; and even Addis Ababa, Ethiopia), he's so far remained fairly stationary since he's thrown open his arms to the world, announcing his arrival as if by proclaiming "I'm here, dahling! I poop, therefore I am!" I previously prepared to fly by not preparing at all. Two hours before my scheduled departure I would throw a load of laundry in the washer of all those things I needed to pack. Madly dashing to the airport, I would itemize and memorize those necessities I'd left behind in haste - toothbrush, tweezers, socks - and make a note to self to stop at the store upon arrival to stock up. You can't really do this when you're towing a Babe. The journey has to be finely choreographed as if it were up for a Tony. It is this requirement that had me make a quick trip to the St. Laurent mall last night equipped with a mental list of the items I needed to pick up for the Babe in preparation for his visit with the first batch of cousins, two little boys who he is someday going to get into so much trouble with that their interactions will require constant supervision.

Diapers and vitamin D. Diapers and vitamin D. A repeated duo, over and over, lest I forget what I had gotten in the car and set out to do. Diapers and vitamin D. Diapers and vitamin D. Whoops! Stop sign! And after hitting the brakes with just a little too much force, my mind wandered from the Baby Essentials aisle of Shopper's Drug Mart to the Seinfeld episode where Kramer stops short with George's mother in the car, infuriating George's father for stealing his move. I'm not sure stopping short is just a move, I thought to myself. I think you can probably tell if someone really cares about you if they stick out their arm in front of you when the car stops too quickly, as if this puny limb could prevent the full weight of a body from catapulting out the windshield in the event of an unfortunate accident. Mom used to do this for me. I remember doing it once or twice to the Bro on the way to school. Adoring and Wonderful Husband has in the past been my human seat belt as well. (Of course, always in addition to the real deal. Seat belts save lives kids!) Hmm. Maybe this is something I can blog about. How if someone sticks out their arm to save you when they're stopping short, it's a sign they really, truly love you. Ah! Look at that! What a great parking spot! I'll just turn the corner here and...and promptly lose my stream of thought, my mind off to the races with another random topic. (But I just want to point out here that this is what my days have been reduced to. Trying to pinpoint those moments or activities that are blog worthy. And then drafting a future entry about the topic in my head. It's sad really.)

Fast forward through one hour of focused and determined shopping. Getting into the Ford, I hastily threw my purchases on the passenger seat. Okay, did I get everything I need? Diapers? Check! Vitamin D? Check! Absolutely fabulous pointy toed leather sandals that were all the rage last season and so may be out of style this summer but I can't really be too picky about that kind of thing since I have size 11 wide skis that are a whole size bigger than even Adoring and Wonderful Husband's feet, and oh my god is he ever going to be maaaadddd that I just wrote that? Check! Okay, then, let's go! And cruising quickly down the main drag on the way home, my previous musings about stopping short didn't even occur to me until - lo and behold - I again misjudged my speed and was forced to come to a screeching halt and - what's this? - my hand automatically reached over TO SAVE MY SHOES FROM GOING THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD! I was confused. What did I just do, I wondered? PROVE my theory, or DISPROVE it? It's a fine, fine line, my friends. Because the shoes are just so cute (or, at least, as cute as size 11 wide can ever get).

cleanliness is next to godliness, unless you're stealing what you're using for the cleaning; if that's the case, you're going straight to hell

Life’s littlest indulgences are often the most delightful. Traveling, I always miss my own bed, even if the bed I sleep on while away is one that I’ve slumbered on through many moons, like the spare bed in my parent’s house in Dartmouth, or Justin’s old mattress in Regina. The smell and textile of my own pillow are always missed, because I always fail to pack it. The stiff muscles with which I rouse every daybreak because I dare not disturb the kitties at my feet are part of the routine that I begin to crave days before I am due to fall into it again.

But there are some aspects of staying in another house that always excite me. Most notably, shampoo and conditioner. I am always terribly curious about how the shampoo that others wash with daily is going to treat my tresses. Does this volumizer really volumize? Just exactly how long will my locks smell of ginseng and papaya? Is this a product that I should purchase now that I’ve been able to test it, free of charge and obligation?

Though most of the time I am quick to cover my shampoo stealing tracks by bringing decoy bottles – nearly empty containers that I save solely for future journeys so that I can leave the used bottles at my destination, thereby freeing valuable suitcase real estate for unfolded clothes, or the result of the always excessive time I spend in gift shops – this need not be the case when I visit family. But the relief I feel in knowing I never have to worry about getting caught with the botanical extracts that rightfully belong to Grandma A. or Grandma B. in my hair is offset by the predictability of what’s on the shelf in their showers. Grandma A. always has some blend of Infusium 23 and Pantene, with a miscellaneous bottle or two that are either impulse purchases or direct from the discount bin, while Grandma B. is consistent in her old stand-by of Matrix Amplify. (But it’s odd. Grandma B. never has conditioner. Perhaps she uses the leave-in variety and keeps it in another location? I will have to investigate in August.)

I can trace exactly where this fetish started, but I’ll leave that for another day. In the meantime, maybe Grandma A. will read this and surprise me on Thursday with something new on her shelf. Maybe some kind of fancy lotion as well. I also likey.

for auntie kimusan

Poop and pee filled pants
Do not a silly babe make - -
Because I haiku.

- Babe

for grandmas: what is this kid eating?

Boh, the early days, vs. seven weeks later.

"why yes, I most certainly would fancy another julep, thank you so much"

“Put the thing up.”

“What thing?”

“The thing, the thing! Put it up!”

“I can’t! It’s $%&ing stuck.”

“Just – here! – put it on the cement. I’ll do it myself.”

And against the background music of the Babe Screaming Bloody Murder, Volume One, we snapped him into his car seat and promptly bid farewell to the revelers, who we secretly resented for their ability to be up until the wee hours of the morning, the bourbon in the mint juleps increasing slowly but surely inversely in proportion to the fresh mint and crushed ice. The first of the guests to stumble home would probably do so at about the same time as the Babe would wake up for the day’s first shot of boob juice at around 3:00 am.

Sitting silently in the back seat next to Master and Commander, waiting for Adoring and Wonderful Husband’s fuse to slowly fizzle out (I am the one who had the potty mouth line above, you see), we drove through the recently darkened Ottawa streets, which were coming alive at the same time as Single Me died a little bit more (yes, I may be married, but if you can get a pedicure at your leisure, without having to hire the foot’s equivalent of a wedding planner to organize the event, then you are single, plain and simple). It won’t be like this forever, I tried to console myself. Things will get back to normal someday, and we can do all the things we used to do, like sit around the closest thing you can get to a campground in the city with a guitar strumming and beer flowing (the latter of which that would only occur after the bourbon ran out). But I knew this was a lie, is a lie. Things will never be the same again, and I suppose that’s okay, because it has to be. It’s what we signed up for when the little stick turned blue that day in Flin Flon last August. But it’s hard to say good-bye to Single Me, because she was just so damn much fun. And all is not lost, I reckon. The Babe stopped howling just long enough to stop at Saturday Night Soiree Number Two where the party playing field was a bit more level with the presence of another little Master and Commander, making it easier to deal with all the squawking, and the poop.

Moral of the story? To all my girlfriends reading this, GET PREGNANT NOW. I beg of you. Don’t let Single Me go down in flames alone.

why you hire a professional photographer to take your kid's first portraits

he definitely wasn't switched at birth

You know you passed on the right genes when he stops crying as soon as he sees the disco ball.

He's going to be THE most popular dude in grad school, that's for sure.

www.i dig it.com

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you the new cool phrase I learned this week: "harshes my mellow." As in...

Adoring and Wonderful Husband to Slothenly But Totally Worthy Wife: "Can you turn off Dr. Phil and come and make the salad for supper?" Response: "Dude, that sooo harshes my mellow."

And...

Babe to Mommy: "Mommy, can you put down that beer and come give me the sustenance that allows me to sustain life?" Response: "Baby dude, that sooo harshes my mellow."

We'll see how my new found coolness goes over with my two dudes. (And the Grandmas once they read this and realize the extent of my neglect.)

let me just check my Outlook calendar...

When I first went on maternity leave I was a bit bored at times, and concerned that I wasn't going to totally like spending the days at home, even if they were with an absolutely, positively fabulous little Babe.

Weather finally worthy of my time and the practice I got yesterday taking the Babe out on little outings (we left the house twice, just him and me, and not just for walks!) has cured me of any hesitation I may have had. I now say, bring it on. And Adoring and Wonderful Husband says, where is the bank card? Give it to me.

whatever Trevor!

Moving to Ontario from Regina wasn't all sunshine and roses by any stretch of the imagination. Adoring and Wonderful Husband wasn't exactly keen on the idea - which is putting it VERY mildly - because it was just so hard to leave the comfort and security of the only city that either of us ever really knew for Big Bad Ontario. In the period leading up to the move, I had to try to be the strong, rational one in the relationship, because Adoring and Wonderful Husband was doing enough freaking out for both of us. (This is why we work, Justin and I. At any given time, one of us is a complete lunatic while the other does his or her best to keep things grounded. This is the secret to our success so far.) But in my heart, I was far from feeling like I was doing any kind of decent job of holding things together. My world was falling apart; my parents had just moved to one of Canada's beautiful coasts (and it wasn't the coast I was familiar with), my brother just moved to Saskatoon (which is Regina's inferior twin, in case you've never been), and my Baba and Gido had just passed away, throwing the family farm - and everything that Saskatchewan meant to me up till that point - into chaos. It was simultaneously one of the most exciting times in my life as it was one of the most terrifying. And because Adoring and Wonderful Husband had his own issues, I couldn't blink, at least not in his general direction.

And so I turned to her. Of course. A friend so special I needed only her to stand up for me at my wedding, even though there were four guys on the other side. During the dark period prior to moving when I was dealing with the guilt of throwing my relationship into complete disarray, and when I was high on the self-righteousness that convinced me I should be allowed to do so, and who was he to complain about it?, I talked to her about anything and everything I was thinking and feeling, and she told me when I was justified and when I was spewing complete and utter bull shit. She judged - oh yes, she judged - but she never did it in that silent condescending way that others who don't know you so well do. She came right out there and told me when I was right and when I was wrong and the whole time she had my true interests at heart. And the whole time because I was consumed with everything else that was going on, I was never able to truly deal with the heartbreak of what it would be like not to live in the same city as her, just down the street or across the alley. I was never able to really tell her that even though we've never been the type of friends to be glued at the hip (unless you count that one glorious and boozy summer when Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I met, a.k.a. Best! Summer! Of! My! Life!), there is an elastic band from my heart to hers that will never break no matter how far it stretches.

Happy birthday, KP. Have a G and T for me.

things to do during a rainy Ottawa long weekend

1. See C.R.A.Z.Y.

2. Read Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone and/or I Know This Much Is True (especially recommend the latter to you, Bridge. It's about twins.)











3. Visit the museo Thyssen-Bornemisza in Madrid, Spain (at least the website) for the best collection this amateur art critic has ever seen.

4.Try to perfect "The Maddox" on your seven-week-old son.

the poopy menagerie

Each time we add to the Babe's government document collection it hits home just a little more that Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I actually made a real person together. Boh's new health card, which came in an envelope addressed directly to him, reaffirmed his status as one of Canada's newest taxpayers. So did the recent Census exercise. Question: How many people live in your residence? Answer: Three. Oh. My. God. Three. How did Justin and I go from living in sin just five short years ago to this, an arrangement it would likely take years for lawyers to neatly untangle were we ever to part ways. (You hear that sweetie? I said years.)

When Justin and I first got married, people used to ask if things were really that different after the exchanging of the vows. Yes, we'd answer, undoubtedly. Because whereas if we had a fight before, we always had the option of adding a bit of drama to it by throwing each other's clothes onto the front lawn. The neighbours response to this? "Tsk, tsk! Those kids!" After you get married if you throw each other's undies on the turf out front nosy Mrs. Henderson from down the street calls up Mertle from across the way immediately to talk about the fight those young marrieds just had that is obviously going to result in them going to the big D, and I don't mean Dallas. Now? Throw a baby on the lawn in the middle of a fight and I'm pretty sure Child Protection Services would be at the door before you could say "I'm bored with this fight, let's have a cookie." (At least I hope so.) And it's not just the Babe we've added to our little collection of dependents, either. There is a dog and three cats. And they're healthy too, so they're not going anywhere anytime soon.

Where am I going with all this? Having a dog and three cats and a baby that's soon going to learn to crawl all living in the same house together means I will shortly have to start cleaning the floors each and every day. And with all the fur and dirty paws, it's going to be down on your hands and knees scrubbing the floor type work too, lest the Babe have the "I just played in the mud and pooped my pants" look going all the time. (You know the look? It's the "I'm so dirty you can just tell my mom neglects me" look.) Now, I can take the midnight feedings and the fact that, after being wedged beneath my lungs for the last nine months, my bowels will never be the same again. But having to clean the floors everyday? That's just taking things way too far.

for grandmas: snakes and snails and puppy dog tails

t-minus 2 minutes*

Though the passing of Christmas and New Year's Eve is depressing, and can signal to some an end to the winter rituals that shake out the bleariness of the season, I do not drown in the cold until one last landmark has passed: the annual picking of vacation days. There is nothing better than looking at a brand new calendar and circling off those days that will from now on be known as "the day I took vacation." (Yes, I really mean nothing better, though as any fellow nerd will agree, picking one's courses for the coming semester comes a close, close second.)

This year, as you know, I am on one long "vacation." (I know, I know: raising a baby isn't a vacation. It's one of the toughest jobs you'll ever have. Blah, blah, blah. But any day I don't have to brush my teeth or put on clean underwear I think of as somewhat vacation-like. Not that that's what I like to do on my vacation, quit brushing my teeth and wear dirty underwear. I just said I don't necessarily have to.) Thus, this year's circling was not for my vacation time, but for Adoring and Wonderful Husband's. (It's funny how this job becomes part of a married woman's vows to her husband: "I promise to love, honour and cherish you, and pick your vacation every year for the rest of your working life.") Since we had a Babe on the way, I had to be smart about the use of his legally mandated down time. Not only did he need to be there for the birth of the Babe, he needed to have one week for the annual house/yard refresher and update, one week for travel back to the Old Country (a.k.a. Regina), and one week for "whatever" time. The only way to do this was to schedule around long weekends, and so here we are...May Long Weekend, and the first week of vacation, coming up. Though we originally planned this week to be Home Depot week, finances look like they might delay that until the next long weekend. And so it looks like "whatever" week it is.

I smell a breast pump and case of beer in my future. And it smells decidedly unpoopy-like.

* Adoring and Wonderful Husband just called to say he was going to stop for a quick beer with the fellas after work. Make that t-minus 60 minutes. (Hear that sweetie? I said 60 minutes.)

PS: Please still come visit me. I promise to wear clean underwear and brush my teeth. I am not disgusting.

the [truncated] love song of w. lee so-and-so

the [truncated] love song of w. lee so-and-so

Let us go then, you and I
Ten years past, how time does fly
Would I've remembered, were it not for
Classmates.com, who would tell me more
If I'd only "Just sign up now
For the special introductory offer!
And we'll tell you all about who's-that-again? and what's-his-name?
Maybe they'll be in the gutter!"
And I could smile smugly, half a country away
And what if? I paid $4.95 for three months
To talk to Curtis S., or Shawna M.
What in the world would I say?

Lament for an era I bid good riddance to long ago? (A decade, exact)
Play chess with our accomplishments?
Checkmate! (while maintaining tact
Because living well is the best revenge
Or so They say; those, no teenage wounds to avenge).

And at the reunion, the women (still girls) will come and go
Gossiping about you-know-who and so-and-so.

And of course there is no time
To prepare my face to meet the faces from a decade past
And certainly no time to prepare my waist
"A size 28? An Adoring and Wonderful Husband? A beautiful Babe?"
Murmurs about Me, now of higher caste.
No. There is no time for the hundred visions and revisions
How would I reinvent myself? The decisions...

And at the reunion, the women (still girls) will come and go
Gossiping about you-know-who and so-and-so.

And so before I knew about it I already knew
The answers to the questions, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Stiff and frozen smiles
[They will lie: "It's so nice to see you!"]
A dress, over-priced
[They will wax indifferently: "So what have you been up to lately?"]
Do I dare? Do I dare disturb the universe?
No. Like most of my fellow graduands, I suppose
I choose to check the box, "No Show."

I grow old . . .I grow old . . .
And I say nuts to them all.

***

(PS: Curtis S. or Shawna M.: If you're out there, you should call me. It would be great to see you. I would love to hear what you've been up to the last ten years.)

for grandma a: Boh says...

"Flying is exhausting. I sure hope someone is at the *** International Airport on Thursday, June 1st at 11:40 am to pick me up!"

for grandmas: baby Boh joke of the day

Baby Boh asks: "What kind of bee gives milk?"

Answer: "A boo-bee!"

for grandmas: cutie pie

'The Office' kiss

I am sure many of you have seen the hit TV show The Office. (At first I thought the English boss was better, but Steve Carell has grown on me.) Though not a regular viewer, I do watch every time I flip the channel and it's on. And I am obsessed with the office would-be romance between Pam and Jim. Click here for an ending that rivals (and surpasses) Ross and Rachel's kiss. (From the Egotastic.)

addiction, thy name is 'today on oprah'

If I were a regular reader of this blog, I would likely check today's entry with the expectation that the author would have written something touching about the day prior, her first official second Sunday in May as a mother. And that is what the subject of today's blog is going to be, but rather than celebrate all the wonderful things I did with my son yesterday, I seek penance. Because a large chunk of my day was not spent strolling through Ottawa's Tulip Festival with Adoring and Wonderful Husband and Babe, as other normal families likely did, but rather I sat in a sloth in front of what is proving to be the crack cocaine of my maternity leave, a Days of Our Lives time-wasting equivalent: this blog. And you, dear reader, are my enabler. My pusher. My pimp, as it were. "What in the heck were you doing all day?" you may wonder. "I see no marked changes since my last visit." And you are right. Except for the title box, and those snappy little snippets running down the upper right side (which I don't know why I put them there, after the last quote crisis I had), I got nothin'. (The chill little Shoutbox I put up was promptly taken down after I realized it came with a nasty little case of advertising pop-up-itis for the pleasure of its use. I refuse to give you that repugnant condition, because...well I'll just put it out there now...I love you.) Anyhoo, the thing about using this particular blog publisher is that you can see a list of everybody else's recently updated their sites and go to them. And when you are trying to "borrow" HTML code from those blogs you think are nicely set up, this is exactly what you do. And then you get sucked into the peepshow that is the OPB (Other Peoples' Blogsites). To wit: Ned's Mother's Day entry where he spews his total dislike for his mother (which is putting it mildly); Ana's latest trip to her psychiatrist (including a detailed list of all the latest drugs he's prescribed her); to-do-lists that include 'call cat psychic'; and a million other little neurotic things people do during the day and then write about that night when in Blogland.

I guess the way I spent my Sunday could be worse. I could've been doped up on Prozac, swearing about my mother, and deeply troubled about Toonces' apparent communication with the dead, or some equally bothersome behaviour.

Blogging is fun. You should try it.

for grandmas: happy mother's day

For Grandma Angel: When I was young, maybe ten or 11, I played community baseball, and my position was pitcher. I was pretty good, throwing more strikes than balls. This one particular game I was on fire: all I had to do was pitch one or two more out and my performance would have been one of the big reasons for winning the game that day. It might have been a championship game, too. (For effect, let's agree it most definitely was.) In anticipation of a major victory, the crowds started chanting my name: "Winter, Winter! ... Winter, Winter!" Rather than provide the added incentive for me to maintain my roll, the cheering freaked me out. Soon, I cracked. I couldn't take it; the pressure was too intense. What if I walk this batter? What if I lose this game? What if I disappoint everyone who's watching today? What if...? Tears soaked my glove as I covered my face with it, and though what I did was run to the bleachers and to my mom for safety, what I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and stay there, forever. Rather than cover me with a blanket, walk me to the car, and drive me home, as I wished at that time she would've, mom returned my hug, looked me in the eyes, and told me to get back out there and finish the game: "You can do it, Winter! I know you can!" And so out back to the mound I went, one (or three) snotty tissue(s) later. Did I do it? Did I continue my streak of strikes and bring the team to victory that day? I have no idea; I don't remember a thing after that. But it doesn't really matter, because the point is that she has always been there for me like that, my mom, my biggest cheerleader. All my successes in life are in part due to her, and her constant encouragement. She's always told me I could do it, that I could throw that strike. And even if I didn't, I knew she would be proud of me for at least going back to the mound, for trying as hard as I could. Happy mother's day, Grandma Angel. I can only hope to be as encouraging to Baby Boh as you've been for me. You're a great mommy role model.

***

For Grandma Brenda: Now that I have my own little boy, I promise to always take care of yours the way I would want my future daughter-in-law to take care of Boh: with a lot of love, and the recognition that I am not the only woman in his life. (In other words, I promise never to buy Justin a sky-diving lesson again!) Kudos on raising a son who turned into an extraordinary husband and father; thank you so much for lending him to me.

R.I.P.

It's never easy losing a loved one, especially when you've invested so much time in - and have been so devoted to - the relationship. Thus, it is with great sadness that I bid adieu to the dream known as Ottawa Senators, Stanley Cup Champions. But I believe in reincarnation; perhaps we'll meet again next year? (Maybe minus Spezza if you wouldn't mind. He makes little babies cry. Or at least their dads.)

***

Wife to Husband: What are we going to do now that the Sens have lost and there's no hockey to watch? Talk?

Husband to Wife: Oh no, don't worry, we'll find something to do.

for grandmas: nap time

the view from here

How I Planned to Spend My Days, Pre-Baby:

8:00 a.m.: rise and shine after a restful slumber
8:05 - 8:30: leisurely breakfast of cottage cheese, fruit and coffee; watch the morning news, or listen to a little Coldplay
8:30 - 10:00: relaxing stroll through the field with Gordie and the Babe, maybe stop at Tim Horton's or Starbucks for another java
10:00 - 10:30: come home, take a refreshing shower, put on my face and get ready to tackle the day
10:30 - 11:30: clean entire house, Martha Stewart style
11:30 - 12:00 p.m.: cook a nutritious and delicious lunch for my Adoring and Wonderful Husband, Martha Stewart style
12:00 - 1:00: eat lunch with Adoring and Wonderful Husband whilst fawning over the Babe
1:00 - 4:00: Free Time! for gardening, painting, scrapbooking, reading, baking, writing, etc. etc., Martha Stewart style
4:00 - 4:45: nap with the Babe
4:45: Adoring and Wonderful Husband comes home (with flowers), tells me about his day whilst swooning over the Babe
5:00 - 6:00: cook and consume a nutritious and delicious supper, Martha Stewart style
6:00 - 7:30: go for a family walk, or engage in some other equally beneficial exercise
7:30 - 10:00: Free Time! for dragon boating, visiting friends, putzing around in the backyard, etc. etc.
10:00 p.m.: settle in for a night of uninterrupted sleep

(n.b.: I did feed the Babe when I was envisaging these days, but it was at my convenience and there wasn't any...ahem...leakage.)

***

How My Days Actually Go:

3:30 a.m.: wake up to the Babe fussing, wipe the sleep out of my eyes and whip out a boob
4:15: change poopy diaper
4:30: settle in for three hours (please, God!) of uninterrupted sleep
7:00: wake up to the Babe fussing, wipe the sleep out of my eyes and whip out a boob
7:45: change poopy diaper; swoon over the Babe - who at the moment is happy - with Adoring and Wonderful Husband
8:00: Adoring and Wonderful Husband abandons me and the Babe for the day ("I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too!")
8:01: wash and dress the Babe
8:05: brush teeth
8:06: calm fussy Babe
8:15: dress self in yesterday's attire
8:17: calm fussy Babe
8:30: go downstairs
8:35: wolf down toast and o.j., and any other carbs I can get my hands on; watch CBC Newsworld to see what new stupid thing Maurice Vellacott did today
9:00 - 9:45: go for relaxing stroll through the field with Gordie and the Babe
9:45 - 10:15: try and manage blood pressure while run-walking through the field to get home as soon as possible since I forgot the Babe's suckie and he is having a fit
10:15: madly rip off rubber boots, since the field is still sloppy wet with mud, and whip out a boob
10:45: change poopy diaper
11:00: check email or try to write day's blog (with one hand) whilst Babe is relatively contented in my arms
12:15 p.m.: Adoring and Wonderful Husband comes home for mac and cheese, or some variation thereof
12:50: Adoring and Wonderful Husband off to the sanctuary that is his office...again
1:00: try and finish emails and/or blog
1:15: calm fussy Babe by whipping out a boob; stress that I'm feeding him too much, that he'll grow up having to wash himself with a stick if I'm not careful
1:45: change poopy diaper
2:00: go upstairs for quiet time, and (please God) an actual nap
3:00 - 4:00: worry that I am neglecting the Babe's emotional and intellectual development, so spend time reading to the Babe or talking to him or just doing something that They say will help him grow up to be one the smartest kids in class
4:00: madly sweep the floor, unload the dishwasher or throw a load of laundry in before Adoring and Wonderful Husband gets home
4:45: Adoring and Wonderful Husband walks in the door; hand off the Babe to Adoring and Wonderful Husband for Free Time! to finishing sweeping the floor, unloading the dishwasher or throwing a load of laundry in
4:45 - 10:00: Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I play Hot Potato with the Babe (whilst still swooning!); more boobs, diapers, fussiness, TV and guilt, in no particular order
9:45: go upstairs; take shower for the day
10:00: whip out a boob
10:30: change poopy diaper
10:45: swoon over the Babe (who is more perfect than I ever imagined!)
11:00 p.m.: settle in for three hours (please, God!) of uninterrupted sleep

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

petty annoyances: item #2

Excuse me? Excuse me?! I have something to say, if I could just get a word in edgewise, please.

Yes, you. You know who you are. Like Oprah, you like the sound of your voice so much that you don't wait for the answers to the questions you ask. At least it's Oprah's show; what's your excuse? Much light was made a few weeks ago of George Bush's protestation that he's The Decider, but you? You're The Interrupter. Never one to pay heed to your fellow discussant (unless it's to stare vacantly at them until your opportunity to jump in arises), you are the worst person to share office space with, and it's absolutely no fun to have a heated and slightly drunken conversation about religion or politics at a part-ae with you. More than once I have snapped at you at work, assuring you that I would have gotten to that point, if you only you had let me. (And then I had to email you half an hour later, apologizing for being so terse with you, even though I think it is you who should have made amends with me.) I have had to sit through your diatribes, suffer through your sermons, and feign interest in your constant blathering. It's quite annoying really, especially when you...

What's that? Oh. Sorry for interrupting. Please...continue.

for grandmas: ultimatum

"If the Senators lose one more game, then I'm really going to freak out!!"

for grandmas: mommy and daddy and baby, oh my!

tetris, the game of life

I've never been big into video or computer games, my obsessive-compulsive side never quite stoked by the flames that fanned the Super Mario Brothers generation. It may have been a case of out of sight, out of mind; Atari and Nintendo were never Christmas gifts for my brother and I, and we were never upset with Santa because of it.

That's not to say I've never been momentarily besotted to the point where a computer game has taken over my life. I have. Three times exactly. My first love was Leisure Suit Larry, a game that made me a pretty popular girl back in grade six. Computers in the home were still relatively new back then, and their novelty for a 11-year-old was honed sharply by the fact that you could play dirty games on them. Needless to say, when the teachers went on strike for those two glorious weeks in 1989, I could have used a bouncer given how many kids wanted to come over to meet Larry. My most recent obsession occurred two short years ago, when I spent obscene amounts of time in grad school playing computer Solitaire. We're talking obscene. But the big kahuna, the mother-of-them-all? Tetris. Sweet, sweet, Tetris.

When I was 14, I borrowed a friend's Game Boy and was MIA for two weeks straight, until my friend gave me an ultimatum: either give him back his Game Boy, or ... okay, there wasn't really an ultimatum, he just wanted his Game Boy back. For those who have never played Tetris, it's based on a splendidly simple concept: you arrange a bunch of colourful and random shapes that fall from the top of the computer screen so that there are no black spaces left in between the shapes the end of the game (or blue, as in the diagram above). As time goes on, the shapes fall faster, making it more and more difficult to ensure everything fits perfectly, that there are no dark holes where you've poorly cobbled things together. The key to success - in my neophyte gamer's opinion - is not to focus on the holes you've accumulated: keep your eye on the top of the screen because those shapes keep falling, and they don't wait for you to make peace with the black.

Lately, it feels like I'm playing Tetris 24/7 again, only this time with life. The shapes are falling with increasing speed, and I ignore my own good advice and keep looking at the bottom of the screen, wondering if I'm leaving too many holes. The shapes in my life? The single girl's adventures, complete with Mexican vacation; falling in love with my best friend; the diamond solitaire; the white picket fence; the round-trip ticket, taking me to Brussels, Barcelona, Beijing; the sheep skin diploma(s); the fabulous career with a big paycheck and even bigger recognition; the rug rats; etc, etc. With time marching on to an ever accelerating drum, and those varied strings of squares dropping from atop post-haste, it's more arduous than it's ever been to ignore the caverns I've created; clearly, fitting everything together perfectly is next to impossible. Some shapes (like rug rats) preclude or delay others (like round-the-world extended vacations, or the absolutely-positively-fabulous, aren't-you-jealous? careers). It's hard not to kid myself that the shapes of my life could all have been perfectly aligned, if only I planned better, or smarter, as the chips were falling. When this happens, I try to step back from my game screen, and recognize that Tetris is a game more about colour than black, and usually when I do this I remember why I find it so addictive.

consumerism at its finest

Spring cleaning. Involving going through the junk we have piled in the basement. Including my pile. Of used cross-country skis (no shoes, just the skis). And a used electric drill (that doesn't work, unless as a manual drill). And other things that in five seconds I calculated I needed. There would have been an old wooden dresser; it was purchased, it just didn't fit in the truck. The common denominator among all these items? The antique auction at the Dartmouth Sportsplex, the bane of Justin's existence when we're visiting my parents in Canada's New Scotland.

But I have to do it. Because if I don't, the terrorists win.

for grandmas: one month old today

My, oh my, how time flies when you're having fun. Or when you're sleep deprived. Or when you're changing poopy diapers (though I wish that time would fly faster). Or when you're watching a new little person learn how to smile.

Happy one month birthday baby Boh!

for grandmas: Boh and mommy - a who's who?

for grandmas: bath time

petty annoyances, item #1

I am addicted. Nearly everyday I find a way to acquire and consume a grande decaf coffee from Starbucks. Coffee cream and sweetener mandatory. For the last few days, Justin has been picking up a coffee for me on his way home from work and the volume of liquid is always about an inch down from the lip of the cup. I realize that some people pour gargantuan amounts of cream and sugar in their coffees, but I am not one of those people, thank you very much. And I want all the coffee I paid for, even if it means it slops all over the front seat of the car on the way home because my cup runneth over. Cheap? Maybe. Justified? Clearly. Because who wants to berate the barista for two extra ounces of coffee?

But I'm going to do it next time I get ripped off. I swear.

poser

Putzing around with this web log - or "blog," in the techie vernacular - has been quite enjoyable in the week since I've started it. It occupies my time for either five minutes or an hour at a time, and when you have a small baby it's those projects that require no predetermined time commitment that are probably the most successfully completed. When I go for a walk with Justin and The Woof, Justin and I often use that time to catch up on our days (most of the time), learn about each other's past a little more (sometimes), or ponder our future (most rare, but also most fun). Lately, though, walking solo in the mornings (or at least with a little person who doesn't give me much feedback at this point), I think about topics that I can write about in this blog. The ideas come fast and furious; only one or two actually stick by the time I take the dog's leash off in my driveway, if I'm lucky. I haven't felt this creative since I was 13 and writing poems about losing my true love...for the fourth time that year.

One of these topic ideas - albeit not the most creative one - was about the history of the blog itself. I thought I would do a bit of research about the phenom that is the blog and elaborate a bit for those readers who might be new to blogs (i.e. my parents, and, truth be told, myself). Quickly scanning Wikipedia's entry on the history of blogging, what caught my eye is how blogs are now a kind of news medium, usurping more traditional media outlets like the daily paper and the evening newscast. Now, I don't consider this blog to be a serious news source in any way, shape or form (unless making you read my self-indulgent stream of consciousness is considered news), but it did make me think about the authenticity of what I write about. And I immediately thought about that philosophic little quote from Faust I put in the top right corner over there.

Well, apparently it was from Faust. I couldn't really be sure. If blogs are fast becoming a news source, my journalistic integrity compels me to disclose that I've never actually read Faust, nor - prior to again referring to Wikipedia - was I sure what it was even about. I just really liked that quote, which I "borrowed" from a web site dedicated to inspirational thoughts. (You see, I really do believe that attitude is everything, and that perspective is the difference between believing you've won the lottery of life or wallowing the time away in your own self pity. But that's not the point.) Faust, it seems, is a tale about a bargain made between some dude and the devil; if The Simpsons is any kind of news source, the brouhaha is over a donut.

This is all well and good, I thought. Now I will know the general tale of Faust if anyone calls me on it. But my problem, I realized, was that a pact with the devil seems to be a pretty popular thing to write about, so I still really had no idea where that actual quote I posted came from. And while omniscient Google revealed that Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was the scribe of the particular version of Faust in question, I still feel like enough of a poser that I now have to read the damn thing.

the squeaky carrot

Dogs can really bring out the patience in a person. Prior to getting Gordie - a super-sweet golden retriever who is also so smart he broke the bottle-bowling record at puppy kindergarten Olympics - a dog chewing a squeaky toy while I would be trying to watch TV or have a conversation, no matter how mundane, would have been cause for a rise in my blood pressure and a severe testing of my patience. And as anyone who has ever lived with me can attest, patience is not one of my virtues.

Enter Gordie, and his favorite toy in the world: a $2.99 squeaky carrot from PetValu. That dog could chew that carrot pretty much anywhere at anytime* and it's like something in my brain (or my heart) switches on and dulls the noise that grates the nerves. I think it might be puppy love.

(*Okay, I admit I would take the carrot away at 3:00 am. And you may have noticed that the carrot in question was photographed as it lay on the lawn in the backyard, where it remains. I said I was getting more patient. I didn't say I was becoming some kind of Mother Teresa.)