payday = presents from daddy

"Hey mommy, dontcha just dig my new chair?"

Welcome to 1832 THE PEOPLE THAT LIVE ON THIS STREET ARE FREAKING NUTS! Drive

Mexicans are nothing but trouble. At least that’s what Bush thinks and so apparently the GOP thinks it would be a good idea to build a fence that’s either 700 or 2,000 miles long between the good ol’ US of A and its neighbour to the south (how long the fence would be depends on what newspaper you’re reading). Fine. Whatever. I think the problem of the illegal immigration of hungry people willing to pick your fruit for almost free is less of a concern than is having an illiterate tyrant for a president but that’s neither here nor there. The question I really want the answer to is: when will the City of Ottawa build a fence around MY property to keep the crazies away?

It’s like Coronation Street over here, except for all the accents and pubs and stuff. While at first Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I thought it would be nice to be living in a community full of retired people – because then they can watch your house during the day while you're off at work and cook you casseroles and mow your lawn and stuff – we now know that retired people? They don’t spend their time baking chocolate chip cookies as much as they do GOSSIPING ABOUT THE OTHER NEIGHBOURS. To US. Because Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I? We’re FRESH MEAT. We haven’t yet taken positions, and who wouldn’t want the cool new neighbours to be on your side in the war against Joe, the jackass from down the street that HAD THE AUDACITY TO PAINT HIS FENCE GREEN. (What a jackass!)

Thus far, our strategy has been to keep our heads down and not look any of them directly in the eye lest their evilness burn our retinas into the size of ants that have been shriveled down into little ant jerky by some 11-year-old boy’s magnifying glass. But I think our strategy is backfiring, because when we walk by the gaggle of hens that congregate alternately in front of either 1830 or 1839, there is an odd hush that befalls the street, with smiles that are just a bit too plastic filling up the void where clucking was once rife. Is it because they think we’ve sided with 1834, who in fact does manicure the blades of grass and weeds that grow in our front yard once in a while (thanks Ronnie!) Or are we the new target of their maliciousness (because we DID paint the fence we recently erected a light shade of grey – how odd!)

Oh well. At least none of them are like the last neighbour we had in Regina who was a compulsive hoarder and put a pile of dog crap that she had accumulated in her basement on our side of the driveway because she thought we were the ones who called the humane society on her for neglecting/abusing her dog. (Though it was us who called - eight times – she didn’t know that, making the gift of feces uncalled for in my opinion.)

Winter and Justin: Bringing down property values in a neighbourhood near you.

even Einstein thinks Boh's a genius!

my son, THE GENIUS

apparently today is the day I bare my soul

Check out today's To-Do List blog.

gido's lesson #7: Write things down. It is amazing how doing this helps you to achieve your goals.

Lately I've found myself to be the queen of unsolicited advice when it comes to having one's body act as a pod for an alien child and the period immediately after that pod erupts into one goopy mess of poop and pee. "What? You're thinking of trying it WITHOUT DRUGS? You should really consider the merits of taxpayer funded narcotics, especially after nine months of sobriety...What? You're thinking of a MANUAL BREAST PUMP? You should really get the electric one. That way you can pump and blog at the same time." (Okay, how many of you winced just now? I bet Brad quit reading altogether.) All I have to say is: I'm sorry for being annoying, Jocelyn. But you should really take my advice. BECAUSE IT'S RIGHT.

And I guess it's time I start taking my own advice too. I need to write my goals down if they are going to have a good chance of being realized, just like my dad taught me. And so here I am, about to write the hardest sentence of a blog entry I've ever written, because I know it might come back to bite me in the ass:

I want to participate in the CIBC's Run for the Cure on October 1, which means I have to get in shape enough to be able to run 5 km in three months.

Okay, there. I wrote it. Which means that you've all read it, which means that you will all expect an update of my progress toward achieving this goal. The only thing I've ever dropped out of in my life is ballroom dancing (twice); I hope this blog entry helps to keep it that way.

There are a number of reasons why I want to run this race. Obviously, one of them is that I need to get into better shape. I would love to blame my weight problem on the fact that my body was recently inhabited by another human being, but that kid weighed less than seven pounds. And even though I ate strawberry ice cream with impunity while gestating the little turkey, I can't really blame my excess poundage solely on that either. Because I've been overweight since I was 10. And so I have to be accountable. I like to eat, plain and simple. I like to sit on my ass, plain and simple.

I want to run this race for Boh. I need to set a good example for him. If he sees me being active, he will be more likely to be active. If he sees me make healthy food choices, he will be more likely to make healthy food choices. I had a "yummy mummy" when I was growing up, and I want Boh to be as proud of me as I was of her.

I want to run this race because I'm vain. When I go back to Regina this summer, I don't want to look so bloated next to my sister-in-law, who you wouldn't know by looking at her has been a pod herself. THREE TIMES. And I don't want to scare Krista or Jodie into not being pods either. Becoming a giant lactating boob is bad enough; it's even worse when that boob sits atop a GIANT COTTAGE CHEESE LIKE FAT ASS. And if Krista and Jodie see the cheese, I can kiss my dream of them getting knocked up good-bye.

And I want to run this race for my nieces. Because two summers ago they sadly lost their Grandma Judy to breast cancer. And I think as bad as it would be for me to lose my mother to such an ugly disease, it would be even worse for Boh to lose his grandma. So what better way to mesh two of my deepest wishes together: my goal of becoming fit, and my hope that my three little nieces will never be affected by breast cancer in their lives again.

when it comes to Australian terrorists and shower curtains, I am derelict indeed

I have been neglectful, but it's been a busy last few days.

Friday night I got a call. Well, Justin got a call but I answered the phone because the Babe was fussy and, these days, when the choice is between a fussy Babe and other chores (emptying the dishwasher, cleaning up after supper, answering the phone), I'll take the chores over the squawking anytime. It's not that I don't love Boh - I do! - but I just need to preserve my sanity. (Plus, it makes for good daddy-baby bonding, or so I tell myself.)

Anyway, so I answered the phone and the conversation went something like this:

Moi: Ahoy-hoy!

Person on other end: Hello? You still live at [insert my address here]?

Moi: Uhh...yeah.

Person on other end: [Muffle.] ... but is okay if I don't come tomorrow but in next two hour?

Moi: Uhh...okay.

Person on other end: Okay, see you later. In next two hour.

Moi: Uhh...who's calling again?

Person on other end: Flower. I bring you flower. [click!]

Moi: Uhh...Justin, did you order me flowers?

Adoring and Wonderful Husband: [A look of panic crossing his face as he searches his mind to try and remember if there is some reason he should have ordered me flowers, until he finally responds...] Uhh...no.

Moi: Well someone's bringing flowers.

Who would send me flowers? I thought. Nobody has ever sent me flowers. Oh. My. God. What if it's some weird terrorist thing. What if it's not flowers! What if someone wants to break into our house, and they just called to see if we were home! What if... And my mind raced with all the ridiculous thoughts that my mind always seems to race with when I'm...uhh...thinking. (I need professional help.)

And so you can imagine my relief when the flowers from Damian came. Damian, the wild and crazy Australian who we became fast friends with while drinking our way through Western Europe. Damian, the dude who we promised would be our first born's godfather, and now that we actually have a kid I have no idea how we're going to make that happen (unless he
comes for a long overdue visit to Canada, or Australia becomes the new cool place to lactate, in which case, I AM SO THERE.) Damian, who we stood on the tables and drank with at Octoberfest and absolutely did not smoke any dope with in Amsterdam. (Absolutely not!) Damian, who upon hearing that we had been blessed with Boh promptly sent a bouquet of beautiful flowers to congratulate us, reminding us why we loved him so much in the first place.

And I was meaning to thank him in a timely fashion for his lovely thoughts, but only just got around to it now. That's not a slight on you, Dame-o. I haven't put up the new shower curtain we bought over the weekend yet either.

55 @%$&ing minutes and 10 &$%*ing seconds

...is how long I was on hold with Service Ontario for only to be told that the forms we sent in at the hospital weren't for a birth certificate after all, and that I should wait for another month and a half until they send me something in the mail saying, Okay Boh's Mommy, let's see how long we can torment you before that blood vessel of yours bursts from the rage...this letter is to let you know to go ahead and apply for the birth certificate now...BECAUSE IT WOULD HAVE BEEN JUST TO %$*#ING EASY TO HAVE YOU FILL OUT ALL THE FORMS AT ONCE SO THAT THERE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ANY OF THE $#&*ING CONFUSION TO BEGIN WITH. Oh yeah, and that will be another $50 %$#*ING DOLLARS for the pleasure of dealing with us bitchy people who - even though we are supposed to SERVICE ONTARIANS - are pissed at YOU for calling in the first place even though it was you who lost almost AN HOUR of her life that you can never, ever get back (not to mention the cell phone minutes that just went down the drain since you refuse to have a land line. Oi.)

All I can say is THANK GOD that baby I'm registering is a good one, and was happy in his swing for an hour while mommy sat with a phone to her ear PLOTTING FIRST DEGREE MURDER.

bossy wife, 0; adoring and wonderful husband, 1

[Scene: Bossy Wife and Adoring and Wonderful Husband settling into bed.]

"Okay then, if we aren't going to get an inflatable pool for the backyard I at least need to get a new bathing suit for when we're in Regina and we're using your parents' pool."

"Hmpff."

"Wasn't that party fun last year, the party that your parents had for us when we first got into town?"

"Yeah, except for none of my friends came."

"What are you talking about? Curt was there. And Krista was there. Auntie Loverne and Uncle Dave too. The Dureaus even! We killed a lot of birds with one stone that night."

"Hmpff."

"You should ask your parents if we can do something like that again when we get there."

"Why, so I can fall down again?"

"Noooo, daddies don't fall down. So we can see everyone!"

"Hmpff."

"So, will you ask them?"

"You ask them."

"No, you ask them. They're your parents."

"Ask them on your blog."

"No, just ask them next time you talk to them, okay? Please?"

"Hmpff."

[The light clicks off, and with it, the conversation does as well.]

He won't ask them, she thought to herself, eyes closing, and willing herself to sleep. And it might make for an easy breezy blog entry on a day when I have nothing else to write about.

We'll see.

for grandpa: okay so now that I figured out how to post videos in this blog I am going to do it all the time 'cuz grandpa will totally dig it

for grandpa (who is a video freak): babies in space

for grandmas: mr. cute

obedience training

Getting the Woof was the beginning of the end. The end of uninterrupted 12 hour solid blocks of sleep (Because Woofs? They have to pee). The end of after work drinks that you don’t get home until two in the morning from (Because Woofs? They have to poo). The end of Single Me (Because Woofs? They lead to babies).

While the Woof’s cute puppy face had me at “hello,” it was definitely his performance at obedience training that sealed the deal. Last summer at about this time, my favourite way to start the weekend quickly became our routine of waking up early on Saturday morning, getting a Starbucks coffee (or a greasy McDonald’s breakfast meal, if we had imbibed a little too enthusiastically the night before) and driving out to Orleans to attend the Woof’s Puppy Kindergarten class. Adoring and Wonderful Husband would stand in a circle with all the other proud moms and dads to go through the standard curriculum: Week One, Socialization; Week Two, Leash Etiquette; Week Three, How to Make Sure Your Dog Doesn’t Bite Some Kid’s Face Off So That His or Her Parents Don’t Sue Your Uninsured Ass; and so on… Whereas prior to the onset of the Bow Wow University semester we had been trying to train the Woof by smacking his nose with a newspaper or kicking him in the shins every time he did something we didn’t want him to do, we learned at this class that the key to successful obedience training is positive reinforcement. (I’m just kidding about that first part by the way. The Woof didn’t go to Bow Wow University. It was called These Bones Were Made For Digging Technical Institute. Bow Wow U just sounds better.) The result of this was that, instead of abusing our dog, we became quick to dole out a piece of dehydrated, compressed cow and horse tissue not fit for human consumption in the form of a Milk Bone every time the Woof’s bum hit the floor after we’d said “sit!” It worked like a charm. If we wanted the Woof to repeat his actions so that someday they would become second nature, we gave him a biscuit. The Woof wowed ’em at Bow Wow U, and was even offered a scholarship but had to turn it down because of family obligations. What a dog!

Fast forward one year. A Babe crying. A mommy rushing to pick him up to console him. An Adoring and Wonderful Husband sighing, “You’re such a good mom!”

The Woof is not the only one to get biscuits around here.

the MTV intern generation

The people in my age cohort get saddled with a lot of labels, though most of them are never quite accurate. Mid-20-somethings who are not really old enough to be confidently referred to as belonging to Generation X, we used to get paid to wipe the asses of Generation Y. And not the minimum wage that seems to be the standard nowadays. No. We cleaned the snotty noses of those self-indulgent iGenerationals for, like, $4.00 an hour MAX. And that was for TWO of them. So where does that leave us? Without someone to write a book about how we’re affecting the marketplace, that’s where.

Still, certain tendencies of those of us between 25 and 30 are easily observable, primarily in the workplace. This is especially so since the Boomers started driving up the prices of prime recreational property (the bastards), saying goodbye! to donut-laden 8:30 am meetings and hello! to pensions, health care and the liberation that comes with being able to drive with your signal light on ALL THE FREAKING TIME, NON-STOP, EVEN WHEN YOU HAVE NO INTENTION OF TURNING LEFT FOR, LIKE, 50 KMS. (Hey K, THIS MOTHER#@$&ING CAP USE IS FOR YOU!!!) The result of all these retirement parties and gold watches is that my people have been swarming an office near you in numbers never seen before. And we expect things. Demand things. We are not happy just to sit on our thumbs and watch our company-matched retirement savings grow. We want to sit on our thumbs and watch our company-matched retirement savings grow AND have our university night classes paid for by our employer. AND have bi-monthly social events scheduled for us. AND have a Blackberry. AND get promoted after only six months on the job. AND come in at 9:30 and leave at 4:15, with an hour for lunch. AND what do you mean Employer X won’t pay me my full salary for a year after I have a baby? Doesn’t Employer X realize my brilliance, and want to encourage me to unleash my progeny unto the world before returning to work where I will require every second Friday off? AND…well, you get my point.

The thing is, I think we’re completely justified in asking for these things. Because it’s all about living in a civilized society, isn’t it? And even more importantly, it’s all the fault of the Boomers to begin with. They’re the bourgeois who put us in all these short-term, internship-type jobs to begin with, and now that they need us to fill the grown-up positions wonder why we have no sense of loyalty and are completely schizophrenic when it comes to our career paths. So the next time I read some pre-retiree in the Wednesday Careers section of the Globe and Mail complain that my generation demands too much in the workplace, I’m going to just put that paper down and go back to enjoying my maternity leave by watching Oprah, and then maybe Dr. Phil. Because once in a while you’ve got to rage against the machine, you know?

I Love Regina!

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, about 3,300 kms or so…

Ah, screw it. I was going to use this space to write some kind of clever and romantic tale about how Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I are going to take the Babe on his first pilgrimage back to the Great Rectangular Province on holidays in August to hang out at some bonehead’s* cabin* to drink Pilsner* and eat Old Dutch* potato chips while wearing bunny hugs* and gotch*, but I just don’t know how to work these things into any kind of coherent plot, except this one. So will someone from the Queen City please just be at the airport on Saturday August 5th at 10:45 am to pick us up? Thanks. Can’t wait to see you!

Legend:

*, *, *, * and * denote things that I have learned during my time in Ontario are apparently unique to Saskatchewan (or the West writ large). I have included a translation below so that those of you who aren’t conversant in prairie-speak can understand what I’m referring to above.

bonehead (n).
i. Person of lesser intelligence.
ii. What people from the West and the Maritimes call people from Central Canada.

cabin (n).
i. Shit house by some source of water.
ii. Equivalent to what hoity-toity Ontarians call shit houses by some source of water “cottages.”

Pilsner (n).
i. Beer of the gods.
ii. The brand of beer you purchase if you go to a party and don’t want people to steal it.
iii. Piss in a bottle.

Old Dutch (n).
i. The brand of chips my Gido used to have a secret stash of in his bedroom.
ii. Mmm…chips.

bunny hugs (n).
i. Sweaters with a hood; known everywhere but Saskatchewan as “hoodies.”
ii. Embraces that rabbits give you. Yes, even our wildlife is smarter out West.

gotch (n).
i. One’s “unmentionables.”
ii. A white piece of cloth between a man’s bum and his pants that prevents his wife from having to clean skid marks from out of his jeans. Notice I didn’t mention Adoring and Wonderful Husband once in that last sentence. So in no way am I referring to him at all.

Dear Matt’s Primary Caregiver: I am not a pervert. Signed, W.

The American Pediatric Society recommends that babies do not watch TV before the age of two. Something about television ruining your baby’s attention span…blah, blah, blah…and…uhh…what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, how TV turns babies into malcontents.

Apparently people who make TV shows for babies also have hidden agendas. Hidden agenda #1: Encouraging kids to hone their gay-dar skills by debating the question to end all questions: are Bert and Ernie really… you know… flaming? Hidden agenda #2: Encouraging kids to START SCREAMING THEIR HEADS OFF UNTIL YOU HAND OVER YOUR VISA AND TELL THEM YES ALREADY JUST GO TO THE MALL AND BUY THE @$!^% X-RATED VIDEO GAME YOU SAW ON THAT COMMERCIAL BUT ONLY IF YOU JUST SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE ALREADY AND DON’T LET THE FRONT DOOR MAKE TOO MUCH NOISE HITTING YOUR ASS ON THE WAY OUT BECAUSE MARY MOTHER OF GOD I AM TRYING TO TAKE A NAP HERE!

So, good mom that I am, I have banished all Baby Einstein DVD products from our house until the Babe is old enough to START FREAKING OUT AND WAILING ABOUT WHAT A WICKED WOMAN I AM BECAUSE JEEZ LOUISE ALL HE WANTS TO DO IS WATCH A COUPLE CARTOONS AND OKAY I’LL TELL HIM HERE IS YOUR OWN BIG SCREEN NOW PLEASE JUST LEAVE MOMMY ALONE WHEN IT’S MARTINI TIME (which will just conveniently happen to be at the same time as Sesame Street is at 10:00 am…as in 10:00 am in the morning).

But while TV is out, I definitely think Hotmail is fair game. And so every morning when I wake up and check my email, the Babe is allowed to sit on mommy’s knee and read along with her about all the parties mommy will never, ever get to attend again, not in a million, billion years, and also all the spam from some broad named Debbie Dallason asking about whether or not mommy wants to elongate her you-know-what. And the Babe also sits on mommy’s lap mesmerized by the clickity clack clack while mommy types her blog entry everyday. And while she checks other people’s blogs.

Like Matt’s.

If you’ll recall, I spent Mother’s Day on the computer, peeping into the Microsoft Windows of others via their recently updated blogs, and one of these happened to be “when matt gets bored.” Matt, whose witticism belies his age, is a soon-to-be grade ten student/fellow blogger from Wisconsin. One day I happened to leave a comment on one of his posts about how I liked his blog even though (or because) he was a bit of a potty mouth and the next thing I knew we became regular checkers of each other’s on-line diaries.

While a relationship between a 27-year-old woman who’s recently borne child and a minor niner would be weird in any other context, it’s not really that out of the ordinary in Bloggerville. But it did get me thinking about the social scene that is the Internet, and I have become concerned about the ways in which the Babe will someday be exposed to the technology. Will he too be reading some crazy Canadian’s blog about her baby when he should really be STUDYING FOR HIS FINALS, YOUNG MAN? So I’m laying down the new law: the Babe can watch all the TV he wants after the age of two, but he will get his own account on MySpace WHEN HELL FREEZES OVER.

*****

PS. Right after I published this post I went to Matt's blog and saw that he recently posted a picture of himself. Dig the thumbs up, dude. No wonder we get along.

he's an artist that suffers for his work

The Babe's Father's Day gift for daddy, a.k.a. evidence of what a truly rotten mother I am.

happy father's day: part three

Dear Justin,

I am at a loss about what I should write in this space. I don’t think there are any words I could compose that would adequately capture how I feel about you since our son was born. I always knew that only you could ever be the daddy of my babies, and now I know why I thought that. Because even though I may not think it’s possible for anyone to love Boh as much as me, I know that you do. I can see it in the way your face lights up when you walk in the door and see him. I can feel it in the way you kiss me on the forehead when I’m feeding him. I can hear it in the way you tell us both everyday how much you love our family.

I love our family too.

It’s a bit sad how fast our baby is growing up. Time is fleeting, so I'm trying to get in all the cuddles I can. But as much as I might like Boh to stay our baby in the truest sense of the word, I also can’t wait for him to grow up so I can watch you with him, doing all the stuff that dads do with their sons. Like teaching them to ride their bikes. And taking them to hockey practice at 6:00 in the morning. And going fishing with them. And ganging up with them against their mom in Monopoly. These are the moments I dream about.

Justin, there is no one in this world that I would rather be on this journey with than you. We have always been a great couple, but I think we’re going to make an even better family. And you have always been a great husband, but I think you’re going to make an even better dad.

We love you! Happy first Father’s Day!

Love, Winter and Boh
xox

happy father's day: part two

Dear Boh:

Things your Gido taught me. Things for you to learn.

1. Invest in elbow grease. Buying stock in hard work pays enormous dividends.

2. Accept responsibility for your actions.

3. Stick up for yourself even when it might not be cool to do so. One day your Gido and I were having lunch at Saigon by Night (best Vietnamese in Regina. And, yes, for all you snarky On-terribles, there IS more than one Vietnamese joint in Regina!), and three late 20-somethings at the table next to us were dropping F-bombs like…well, like they were in Vietnam (bad, bad joke, I know). If I had the guts I would tell them to shut their pie holes, I thought to myself, but instead I tried to ignore them and carry on as though their cussing wasn’t embarrassing me. And just then Gido got up and discreetly did what it was I wanted to do myself. The reprimand didn’t cause the losers to re-evaluate their behaviour; rather, they chose to respond by throwing out yet another four-letter missile, though this time in Gido’s direction. But he was still a winner in the little war that day, your Gido. By saying something about the swearing he was also saying something about who he was. Comfortable in his own skin. Brave. A role model for grandchildren and their parents everywhere.

4. Take lots of pictures. Especially “before” and “after” shots. Because your Gido will want you to e-mail them to him.

5. Keep healthy. You can’t be at your best if your body and mind are ill. Sometimes it’s not easy to make your own wellness a priority; sometimes it’s damn hard, in fact. But if you work to keep free from all things toxic, everything else falls into place.

6. Marry up.

7. Write things down. Once a year, put a pen to paper and produce your plan. It is amazing how doing this helps you to achieve your goals.

8. Open up. Say what it is you want to say to the people you love. Even if it means you have to turn your car around to do it.

9. Always take a quick scan of the bargain bin when you are at the store. ALWAYS.

10. Break things down into manageable chunks. Learn to walk one step at a time. Start talking one word at a time. Get your degree one class at a time. Achieve your plan one goal at a time. Live life one day at a time.

11. Once in a while, make a list of the things you like about yourself. More often than that, make a list of the things you like about someone else. It makes an inexpensive – yet priceless – present for special occasions, such as Father’s Day.

12. It’s okay to wrap non-list gifts in newspaper. They’re just going to get ripped open anyway. (But at least try to use the funnies section.)

13. Lists are not exhaustive.

14. Love is not exhaustive.

Happy Father’s Day, Gido.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

happy father's day: part one

Are you sure you want to say yes? joked my soon to be mother-in-law. And marry into this family?

Yes, I’m sure, I replied, and then turning to look at the man soon to be my father-in-law, added: Even despite the free wheeling farting that takes place around the dinner table.*

And the laughs got louder…

Though kidding around, the truth was I had given the issue serious thought. Marrying into Adoring and Wonderful husband’s family, that is. Because no matter how relaxed and easy-going your future in-laws might be, it’s always hard to adjust to being part of a different family. A family that has its own Christmas traditions. A family that has its own expectations about what the Sunday night supper schedule should be. A family that will one day become one half of the group of people in this world that love your children like crazy.

And it’s this last thing that was the clincher for me; my bonus for saying “I do.” Because even though it only took me mere months to know that I wanted Adoring and Wonderful Husband to someday be the daddy of my babies, it took me even less time to know that I wanted Adoring and Wonderful Husband’s dad to be their grandpa.

Baby Boh wishes you a Happy Father’s Day, Les. And so do we.

* Confession: Though I used to wince at the outright gassiness of Grandpa, I now rejoice in it. Why? I have recently learned that the key to a contented baby is that baby’s ability to pass gas at the drop of a hat. Long live the Rotten Braaten gene, and the smelly but smiley offspring it produces!

for grandmas: 10 weeks today

14 pounds and 5 ounces.
24 inches long.
Took his first needles like a man.
Saving mommy from an afternoon of crying.
Her crying.

MAMMOT

Look at how cute you are, gushed Adoring and Wonderful Husband. You little “me and mommy mixed together!”

Me and mommy mixed together, repeated Wife, slowly, silently, visions of acronyms dancing in her head. M, A, M, M, T... Mammot! ... You’re such a cutie, you little mammot!

Mammot? Adoring and Wonderful Husband sniffed, slowly, silently, sounding it out to himself. M, A, M, M, O, T... Mammot?

Oh, the “o” doesn’t stand for anything. It’s just there, Wife offered by way of explanation, though not asked for one.

Ohhhh…, recognition pouring over Adoring and Wonderful Husband’s face. A GOVERNMENT acronym.

this is why you hire a professional photographer to take your kid's first portrait, part deux

(Dude was actually a professional pet photographer. Hence the pictures of the Woof.)

21st century anthropology

If I were an anthropology grad student, I would do my thesis on how the websites people bookmark as their "Favorites" define them. What does it say when someone's Favorites consists entire of gardening resources? That they smoke a lot of dope, or that they like to stop and smell the roses? How about if there is a myriad of sites on the topic of tooting? Are their bowels in a sad state, or do they just have a really bad sense of humour? Such questions probably have nothing to do with anthropology, and real anthropologists are likely rolling their eyes at me right now, sneering that anthropology is about entire cultures and the general condition of humanity, not individual people, thank-you very much. But to them I say: suck it. This is my blog and what I say - no matter how ignorant or ill-informed - goes. However, since I am sure real anthropologists have better things to do with their time than read my ramblings, this confrontation will likely never need to take place. (Which I thank god for, since I heard those anthro types are a real surly bunch.)

Any-hoo, I reckon that what people read regularly on their computers says at lot more about them than the books they have on the shelf in their living rooms. Everyone knows that the more pretentious the literature one keeps in plain view of their company, the more intelligent and worldly they are. Like duh! The trashier pulp fiction - the Harlequins, the Star Magazines, the National Posts - these are relegated to in between the mattresses, and away from the judgmental eyes of one’s closest friends.

Which is why I was fascinated by the sites I noticed my parents had bookmarked when I was visiting them last week. Ever the nerdy engineer, I wasn’t surprised to see my dad’s bookmark for Conversion Factors (whatever those are). Nor was the site on Ethyl Mercaptan a particular shocker, given pa's business is bringing natural gas to the good people of Nova Scotia (and evidently Ethyl Mercaptan is the substance you put in natural gas to make it smelly. Kind of like what it smells like at night under your covers after a long hard day of eating egg salad sandwiches). Of course, there were also the old stand-by sites of prairie people who are just a little home sick. The Regina Leader-Post. Archway Home Plans in case they ever call that city home again. Indonesia Furniture to fill said house, because just because you’re a prairie person doesn’t mean you’re not worldly.

And I for sure wasn’t surprised to see a bookmark for Trafalgar Tours, since my parents are desperately deserving of a vacation this year, it being my dad’s 50th and all. That is, if my parents can accept that they deserve to spend a little money on themselves. Though they seem intent on squirreling their moola away for retirement, they should know that they can’t take it with them when the inevitable happens, and if they leave too much of it, we’re going to spend it all – and poorly.

So book that trip already you two! But – please – not on a trip to Iraq, which I’m concerned you might be planning on, since you also had Aljazeera Weather site bookmarked. Ireland – where you can sing that song you had in your Favorites – would be a much better choice. You really don’t want to stay at home all year just reading your daughter’s kick ass blog, which I noticed you also had bookmarked – twice!

Q: How do you clean a dirty baby? A: With a baby shower!

SUBJECT: Out of the light of lazy weekends and hard liquor, and into the darkness of domesticity
-----------

Hi all. I hope you can join us as we bid au revoir to the wild cats that J. and S. currently are, before they turn into the GIANT LACTATING BOOBS that they are sure to become. I know. I speak from experience, my friends.

The deets:
Saturday, June 17th
Starting anytime after 5:00 pm and until my little Master and Commander STARTS SCREAMING HIS HEAD OFF AND FORCES YOU OUT AND INTO THE SANCTITY OF YOUR CONDOM SUPPLY
**** H. Drive, off of S.
Call 769-**** if you need directions getting here

This event is BYOB. I also speak from experience when I say that WE NEED TO FEED THESE PREGNANT WOMEN - AND FAST! - so I have compiled the following suggested list of BBQ appropriate dishes. Please pick one AND ADD OBSCENE AMOUNTS OF SUGAR TO IT BEFORE J. AND S. RESORT TO EATING PACKETS OF ASPARTAME TO SATISFY THEIR SWEET TOOTHS. (Just kidding. But if you make a kick ass dessert, bring it. You will be the hero of pregnant women everywhere.)

Burgers - J.
Buns - W.
Pasta salad?
Caesar or garden salad?
Some kind of vegetable dish?
Dessert #1?
Dessert #2?
Chips and dip?
Pop?
Some kind of fake meat for L.?
EXTRA BOOZE?
EXTRA BOOZE?
Your specialty?
EXTRA BOOZE?

Please let me know if YOU HATE BABIES and cannot make it. I'll be sure to pass on your regrets to our guests of honour.

Can't wait to see you!

W. :)

PS - If you know of anyone else who is not on this list AND LIKES BABIES - or, at least, J. and S., please invite them. The more ADULTS I have to talk to talk to, the better!

conversations (also entitled "to know her is to love her")

Conversation #1: Make Sure Your Readers Know It's Your Dad Who's The Cheap One

After expressing my delight at her more than ample stock of shampoo and related product (which I forgot to take a picture of for the benefit of posterity), she delighted: Yes, after I read your entry I laughed to note how right you were about my shampoo supply! But you should have clarified that it's your dad who's bargain bin friendly when it comes to shampoo, not me!

Done.

Conversation #2: "Oh, How I Love This Province" (The Praises of An Eternal Optimist, or a Short Memory? You decide.)

[Setting: Noon. At the coffee shop in the mall where the dental office she works at is. Daughter and grandson stop by for a visit.]

Daughter: How was your morning, mom?

Mom: Horrible. My second patient of the day was mean to me and made me cry. She was mad that I was cleaning her kid's teeth. She wanted to see the person who worked here before me instead. But seeing my baby Boh makes me feel better now!

Daughter [in her head]: If I would have been there I would have TAKEN THAT BITCH DOWN. Hoo-rah! (in my best marine voice)

Daughter [aloud]: I'm glad you're feeling better, mom.

***

[Setting: Evening. Walking around Lake Banook with the Woofs.]

Mom [after seeing Daughter cross the street a little too carelessly with the Babe strapped to her in a Baby Trekker]: You really have to be careful walking around here, Daughter. The people here won't stop for you. They'll turn their heads away as if they don't see you and just zoom right by. A lot of people get hit by cars here.

Daughter: Thanks for the heads up.

[And later, nearing the finish of the walk.]

Mom: I really love it here, Daughter. Nova Scotians are just such nice people.

Daughter: Yeah, except when they're making you cry or trying to run you down. They're just ducky.

Conversation #3: Unsolicited Advice About Parenting

...

...

...

(That is the sound of silence. I don't know if she was biting her tongue, or if she thought I was doing a good job, but - either way - I noticed...and appreciated what I will assume was silent approval.)

Conversation #4: The Way To A New Mother's Heart...

Mom: You know how wonderful it is to be a mom?

Daughter: [nods]

Mom: Well, it's even better being a grandma.

And when you've recently realized that you love anyone that loves your kid, having your mom say something like this makes you love her even more.

Thanks for the great week, mom. I miss you already.

for grandma b: happy birthday!*

Happy birthday Grandma! I can barely stand to be away from you on your special day! I love you lots and lots and can't wait to see you soon!

Love,

Boh

xox

* note from mommy: we know your birthday is on the 8th, and this is posted on the 7th, but we wanted to make sure our birthday wishes got to you in time. We hope you have a super-duper day!

mmm...shepherd's pie

"Daughter, have you seen the supper I made?"

"Yes, dad. It looks really good. I can't wait to have some."

"Come look at it."

"I've seen it."

"Well, I gotta take a picture of it," even if you won't, I could hear him continue in his head.

"You should start a blog so you can post pictures of the suppers you make on it," I said, knowing full well that he was calling me over because he wanted me to post a picture on my blog instead. And so I am. Because I guess we all want our 15 minutes of fame.

letter from mommy, month two

Dear Bohdan,

Wow. Happy two month birthday, little sweetie. I thought I would use this forum to do what I have wanted to do since I first found out you were in my belly - write you letters. I don't know why this has taken me so long; inertia, I guess. If you grow up lazy, you know where you got it from, kid.

I can't believe how quickly the last eight weeks have flown by, and how much you've changed since the day you were born. And how I can barely remember what life was like before you got here. And how no matter how much I might sometimes lament for the freedom that Single Me enjoyed, I would never, ever trade even just these last two months I've had with you for any wild and crazy party in the world. Even if there were six disco balls at the party and a smoke machine. Seriously.

Okay. Seriously for real now. Boh - you are the love of my life. I know that already even though you are so small, so fragile, and I barely know you yet. But what I do know of you so far, I am blown away by. You have the most wonderful disposition of any baby I've ever met. You are always happy, ready to learn about the world, and trusting of everyone who crosses your path. Because of you, I have discovered that the most wonderful feeling in the universe is the love that fills my heart to the point of it breaking every time you smile at me. If I could bottle that feeling and sell it on e-Bay, I would be a rich, rich woman. But not as rich as I feel for having you in my life.

What I wasn't prepared to discover since your birthday, however, is the sadness that I sometimes feel when I think about the future. It has nothing to do with anything you've done; I just have never been more acutely aware of humanity's mortality than I am now. My heart gets heavy with dread and sorrow every time I think of the nasty accessories that can come with life when you buy into it. I am terrified of what might hurt you someday, and I feel so inadequate that I can't protect you from these things. Like global warming. And the West Nile Virus. And mean bullies on the playground. And drunk drivers. And Don Cherry (because he might make you feel pressured to not wear a full face mask when you're playing hockey. There's a reason you don't wear a full face mask. It's cuz you've got nothing to lose. And - trust me - anyone who has seen your pictures will agree with me when I say that you've got a lot to lose, you handsome little devil!)

So I recycle more now since you've been born. And I remind myself every day that even though there are a million bad things in this world, there are a million more that are good. Great, even. Like the fresh smell of the city streets after the rain has cleaned them. Like the sound of a guitar and friends laughing while sitting around a campfire. Like the sight of your family when you walk off a plane and into their love after going for far too long without seeing them.

Like you.

Baby Boh, I am so humbled that you love me, since I know you didn't choose me to be your mommy. I just got incredibly lucky. So I promise I will try every day of my life to earn the love you give to me, to earn your smiles. (But that doesn't mean that you will be able to stay out late or not eat your vegetables, so don't even try it.) Happy two month birthday, little guy. I love you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so much.

Love,

Mommy

(P.S. You liked red grapes when you were in my tummy. Just wanted to make sure you knew.)

fast forward 14 years...

Cousin #1: "Socks from Grandma again? What a boring present."

Cousin #2: "Well what's up with Auntie Winter giving books all the time? Blech!"

Cousin #3: "How about Gido? He gave me the same bottle of vitamin E he bought from that discount bin last Christmas! How many bottles did he buy of that stuff? 50?"

Cousin #1: "Yeah, everyone got a bottle."

Cousin #2: "I know what would make this Christmas better! Let's go shoot paint balls at people's bay windows!"

Cousin #3: "Great idea! Why didn't I think of that?"

***

Cousin #1: "Wow, this family reunion is really lame."

Cousin #2: "Yeah, we should like totally go and buy some beer as underage minors and drink it."

Cousin #3: "Great idea! Why didn't I think of that?"

***

Cousin #1: "So Cousin #2, I heard you got your learner's license."

Cousin #2: "Yeah."

Cousin #3: "We should take Gido's car for a joy ride even though we can't legally drive!"

Cousin #1: "Wow Cousin #3! Great idea! I can't believe you thought of that!"

visiting grandma and gido

I am happy to report that we made it to Halifax without incident. The Babe was a perfect angel on the flight...not a peep out of him!









Thankfully Gido was at the airport to pick us up. Transporting a small baby and a large breed dog halfway across the country is no small feat, let me tell you! It took us almost as long to pack the truck and get ready to drive to Grandma and Gido's house as it did to fly from one airport to the other.




First picture of Boh with Uncle Harvey. As you can see, Harve's an old pro with little babies. The perfect baby-sitter, non?

Grandma Angel with her little angel. More pictures of the angel wing photo shoot to come...I just don't want to overwhelm you with the cuteness now. The pix are so sweet your teeth will rot just by looking at them. No foolin'.

life as a stick person