Fendi, Fendi, bo bendy

Dear Fashion,

I'm looking for you. I've been saving, and I'm coming to find you. You're a wily bugger, let me tell you. I've scoured Vogue and Flare and In Style, and heretofore the clues to your whereabouts are few and far between. So far I've surmised you like black nail polish this season (dark plum for the working girl hesitant of the honcho's furrowing brow) and red, red, red anything (which is FAB-U-LOUS, since I haven't been able to wear that crimson silk scarf purchased in the heart of the Puerta del Sol for two winters now). Other than this, you elude me. I have faith that Grandma's recent studies in New York dernier cri will guide the way, and I will keep a sharp eye on anything that doesn't cut across the bias, or shorten when it should elongate. Though I admit to you here and now: I haven't quite resigned myself to downplaying my boobies. Because I love them.

Until we meet,

W.

Sunday, October 28, 2007: save the date

Pictures to prove Sunday afternoon is the new Saturday night.

A couple notes for next year:

- yes, yes, yes to Gido's chili recipe

- need clearly defined rules in place prior to pumpkin judging, and pumpkin guess-the-weight; preferably these rules need to be vetted by a representative sample of possible pumpkin carvers two months prior to the contest, only to be changed unilaterally five minutes before judging begins. Also, should add yet another bowl in the pumpkin gut chain. The first bowl will be dumped into a second bowl that is a bit bigger than the first, and then from the second bowl the guts shall be transferred into a third and even bigger bowl before dumping the whole thing into the garbage without even using the seeds, BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE WAY TOO ECONOMICAL, and we need to keep our jobs, right?

- maybe invite more non-public-servants to teach the rest of us about efficiency, and get us to lighten up about the integrity of our judging system, because, DUDE, ARE WE EVER NERDS

- everybody in attendance at the 1st annual pumpkin carving contest are mandated to attend the 2nd annual pumpkin carving contest. Violators of this policy will be prosecuted

Project RACE monthly update

Q: What's this post for? I thought you were done with that race. If you keep posting under something called "Project RACE", does that mean I still have to keep giving you money? Because I'm toe-tally broke my friend. And Christmas is coming up. And while it was for a good cause and everything, I just can't give you any more of my money. Those United Way people at work have been driving me up the wall, and now I have to spend my lunch breaks (which is the ONLY time I ever surf the net at work, right?) dealing with THIS?

A: Relax. Have an enima, or some BEERS, and chill. I'm not asking for money. I just think that if I keep posting a monthly progress report on how my running/weight loss/a life that's a lot less fun, or at least not as tasty, is going, then I'll do better staying on track.

Q: Oh, really. So that means we have to sit here and let you gloat about how healthy you're becoming, and brag about how well your running's going, and BLAH BLAH BLAH. Because you know what? WE DON'T CARE. You were fat, and now you're getting less fat. BIG BULL CRAPPY WHOOP.

A: Hold it there, Miss Hostility. I know how you feel. No one likes hearing about self-improvement, unless it's them. It makes them feel guilty every time they eat a chocolate bar, or breathe. Let me be clear (à la Paul Martin): I'm not doing this to crow about how awesome I am. I'm doing this to help me help myself. Example: this morning I really, really felt like staying in bed for as long as possible, but because I knew I had this post today, I got out of bed and got ready for the gym. At the gym, I gave my bootie three extra shakes, just because I knew I had to weigh myself and write it down for you all to see. And I'm glad I did, because the end result was nothing short of spectacular. It helped me break the 40 pound mark. That's right. I've lost exactly 4o FREAKING POUNDS since I started this thing. So, Judgy Judgerson, Mr. I Like To Rain On Peoples' Parades: put that in your pipe and smoke it. If you don't like these posts, you can bite my increasingly toned bum.

Q: -----

A: Ummm, Q? You still there?

Q: -----

A: Oh. I guess you left, eh? Whatever, Q. You're just jealous.

pumpkin carving contest, Sunday @ 2:00 pm

If you can read this, and you live in the NCR, you're invited. Don't wait for a formal invitation, 'cuz it ain't coming. Judging at 4:30 pm. We'll have the basic carving utensils for use, but bring anything special you might need. Get creative! Remember, there is a FABULOUS prize to be won at the end of it all (for the best pumpkin AND for the best costume, though no costumes are required. If you can't think of anything to be just come as a bed head who vows the whole afternoon to "NEVER, EVER drink that much at Patty Boland's AGAIN - NEVER, EVER! - now pass me a coffee and Bailey's along with a bowl of chili, STAT!")

Knowing this thing has been coming up led me to put off all the household cleaning for a couple weeks, because it'll just get dirty again, right? I might as well give the house a good once over with Monsieur Clean just before I have a load of pumpkin guts strewn across the floor, because that? That makes SO MUCH MORE SENSE. Anyway, I'm listening to moo-zach as I do this, and Avril Lavigne comes on, and I consider shutting her off, because remember that spitting incident she had a couple weeks back with the paparazzi? I HATE SPITTERS. I hate the big loogies they leave on the sidewalk that I have to simultaneously sidestep and redirect Gordie so he misses them too, and I ESPECIALLY hate spitters who spit on other people. Tony Murrell did it to me in grade two, and I was DISGUSTED. (But what do you expect from a kid named TONY??) I would rather be punched in the nose or kicked in the crotch than spit on.

(How's THAT for a tangent?)

happy 50th birthday, Gido!

My Gido had badger hands. Covered in liver spots, with long, thick nails caked with the clay that is Saskatchewan topsoil, Gido's hands were the only part of his body you would have to look at to know he was a farmer, and a good one at that. Never mind that his occupation could be divined by a quick look down at jeans always stained with tractor oil, or up to a cap soaked in sweat not twenty minutes after it was given to him free from the local implements dealer. Forget too that his skin was dusted with the dirt that was displaced into the air whenever Baba swept the kitchen floor (which was twice a day at least, if she wanted to keep the house at least presentable for the bevvy of visitors who would stop by for coffee while driving past on their way to the field. Tidiness at the farm was no small task for Baba, let me tell you, especially since none of those boys of hers ever took their shoes off when they ran into the house quickly for some such or other, like a bathroom break, or - if they were lucky - one of the homemade cinnamon buns she sometimes treated them to.) You could ignore all these things, and just focus on the hands. Gido's hands were what gave him away, and he never complained once (at least, not that I heard) when they eventually turned arthritic, and chapped from more years of back-breaking labour under the glaring heat of the sun than you or I will ever know, or can probably even imagine.

And so in addition to purchasing a new brand of shampoo and conditioner every time she went into Yorkton, Baba never forgot to bring home hand lotion for Gido. One week it would be Extra Aloe in a blue pump bottle, the next it would be a nail and cuticle formula in white, but unfailingly it was always Vaseline. After my bath, I would slather some on from a new bottle every time, testing out the claims made by each - anti-rash, ultra-sensitive, original - but I would always smell the same. Like Vaseline.

Like Gido.

Last night after my shower before bed I coated my hands with a Vaseline that promises to strengthen my nails and repair any damaged cuticles I might have. We'll see. Though the bottle label warns that apparently it's such a strong product I should probably limit use to my hands and nails, I've been lately also using this lotion for my legs in an effort to save money by not having to buy another brand. Far from making me feel deprived, this frugality has filled my bedroom for the last number of nights with a scent that immediately takes me back to the blue farm house, and I am a ten-year-old girl again, in a towel after her bath, standing in front of the shelf that sits atop the toilet, inspecting each and every bottle of Gido's Vaseline before deciding which one will suitably soften my skin that night.

He's been gone almost four years, my Gido, but I can still smell him. He surrounds me.

all the trappings a wedding dost bring

On Sunday, B., C. and I watched K. try on wedding gowns at Justina McCaffery, a ridiculously expensive bridal boutique that just happens to have the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life. It was all so Sex and the City, price tags and everything. The only difference being no champagne (boo) and that the designer is apparently from either Manitoba or Saskatchewan instead of Jersey (and I think if the shop girls can establish a definitive Manitoban connection, they could have an immediate sale to K.).

Having been married just over four years, I have become the de facto matron to whom all of my newly engaged friends ask for advice. (Or maybe I've just been offering advice despite not being asked because I think it is my place to do so. You say "potato", I say "you probably shouldn't eat so many carbs before your wedding day." I know. I speak from experience.) And my words of wisdom?

Feed your inner bridezilla. Make it all about you, you, you (and your soon to be betrothed, of course). Don't want to invite your fiance's cousin who you almost got into a hair pulling match with at the bar last year? Then don't. Want to spend a pretty penny on a dress you look Drop. Dead. Gorgeous. in? Then do. (Because you looked so, so stunning in it, and I am still trying to catch my breath.) But want rather to see three extra countries on your world tour instead of paying for that elegantly sculptured fabric? Then do that instead. Because there will be another dress, and I'll help you find it. Because for the next year, my friends, it's all about you. After that, you just get to sit on the sidelines, hold the camera and recall a day that hopefully turned out to be one the best of your life.

keepin' it in the family

"I think he looks like your dad."

"Really?"

"Yeah, out of both sets of parents I see your dad in him the most. The hair, the eyes..."

"Ummmm, yeeeaahhh. Maybe you should have told me that when he wasn't sucking on your boob."

good morning Grandma!

Boozy McFloozy

People who dance around relationships bug me. This is one of the great benefits of being married; your status as someone who's successfully navigated the proverbial sea allows you to judge your single friends and the rump roasts they choose when they're shopping at the meat market. Nay, not just judge, but offer your opinion, which they sometimes even harken. There's nothing that makes me want to shake my Single Me comradettes more than when they hem and haw about whether or not they should call A Nice Guy Who Could *Possibly* Be "The One" for some silly reason or another. (Or when they let the WRONG guy get the best of them. You know who you are.) It's a bit like Pam and Jim from The Office. Can't they just get over their fear and admit their love for one another so that they can get married and throw One. Kickass. Wedding. that all their co-workers will get to come to, and, whoa, wouldn't that be a funny episode? You know what these two need? Friday cinq à sept drinks. Preferably double G and Ts. And preferably 6 to 10 of them. There'll be wedding bells in no time.

the eternal struggle between communications and policy

"I just got the email you sent out, and it's BEER, Winter. Not BEERS. BEER is both singular AND plural. You don't need the 's'."

"It doesn't really matter, since you're uninvited anyway."

Ingleside, Ontario (you knew it was coming someday)

Since I've started blogging, I keep a running list of subjects I could possibly write about on a Word file on my desktop so I can expand upon the one line titles I've already given to about 17 or so potential posts should the mood strike as I sit in front of the computer and waste away my maternity leave trying to think of something witty to write. Or at least comprehensible. Which I'm pretty sure that first sentence you just read there isn't.

After reading K.'s blog tonight, I was inspired to revisit this list and pluck from it some sort of gem that would make you think I spent the afternoon cleverly composing it, as opposed to napping for two and half hours with the Babe, which is how my script really read. First on the list: Brad organizing ski trip and price is right trip. Though I could probably pull three weeks worth of posts out of those nine words alone, that I've lazed the day away has made me impatient to produce something, even if it means I'm poaching from next month's blogging menu.

I came up with this topic after catching a couple minutes of The Price Is Right one day. This is how I've grown: Whereas I spent my year of grad school planning courses around a game show (the prospect of watching it was the only thing that got me out of bed before 11:00 a.m. some days), I now flip to Newsworld as I scarf down my instant oatmeal and make sure I have enough Pampers packed for my morning adventures with the Babe. I used to be able to guess the price of a toaster or Mr. Clean Magic Eraser within pennies (American pennies, no less), and now I don't even know which is the latest of Barker's beauties to sue him for sexual harassment. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Anyway, the couple minutes of the show I caught as I switched the Babe from one boob to the other (which must have been what I was doing at the time, because, really, what else do I do?) drove me down memory lane to the sunny place in my heart that once held dear the prospect of taking an MPA class trip down to LA over the Easter break to stand in line outside The Price Is Right studios where I would meet my date with destiny. I had it all planned out. All that was needed to proclaim success was a t-shirt bearing a poorly ironed on decal provocatively professing "I'm spayed!" (or "I'm neutered!", as the case may be), 10 or so of my closest friends, and an answered prayer that it was me who should come on down! Because me? I WAS THE NEXT CONTESTANT ON THE PRICE IS RIGHT!!

Alas, it never happened. B-Rad, the evil mastermind who organized the MPA ski trip at Mont Blanc that led to the debauchery otherwise known as Ingleside, tried valiantly to pull off a Price Is Right tour on a student's budget, but never could quite swing it. Which is just as well, I suppose. The best memories are the ones you don't orchestrate; one snowstorm and four bald tires just help you to drift into them.

for grandmas: "guess what Grandma! my head circumference is now in the completely normal range!"

Height: 2'4"
Weight: 20 pounds
Head Circumference: 17"
Cuteness Factor: off the charts

I shop, therefore IKEA

Every so often I have I crisis of capitalism.* I will shove my way through the herd that congregates at the Entrance/Exit of [insert name of any evil megastore that provides lobodomies free with purchase of 24 pack of toilet paper, or stuffed rat, here] and wonder if this is really what I was put on Earth to do: consume and discard illimitably. Why spend Saturday afternoon trolling the aisles of [insert name of soulless corporate entity that will determine who the 44th US president will be, as well as next Spring’s fashions, here] when I could be exploring the hills of Gatineau, reading a work from the canon of English literature, or generally marveling at the sun, moon and quarks that make up this amazing world we live in? Does lululemon really define me as an individual? Will KitchenAid really help me build a better burger (if I even cooked?) How can I honestly say that I care about the fate of Mother Nature when everything I buy from [insert name of distributor of finely stitched cashmere blazers, a.k.a. the scourge of child labourers and their arthritic hands everywhere, here] is triple-packaged? And then I think: Where would I buy the shoes I need to go hiking if I gave up retail therapy? And those books that would lie on my bedside table if really wanted to poo poo the brand new flat screen TVs that bring us the news of what may or may not be detonation of North Korea’s first atomic bomb? Would I need to type them myself? lululemon? I haven’t found a better cap for running yet.

I don’t really know how to end this post other than to ask if anyone else is bothered that the hotdogs you can buy in the IKEA restaurant cost less than the coffee. You’d think the flesh and eyeball matter of a once living creature would cost more than a bean in a disposable paper cup. (I would stay and sigh, but I’m busy posting ads for our appliances on UsedOttawa.com. Reduce, reuse, recycle, right?)

* Guaranteed when Adoring and Wonderful Husband read this, he mentally said, “Yeahhh, rigghhttt. I’ve got bank statements that beg to differ.”

que sera, sera

I believe in fate. I believe that things happen the way they do for a reason. I believe that as long as you work hard, and try your best, good things will come your way, even if you're sometimes wondering when. Karma. Be a good person - be good to yourself, good to others - and whatever good great force whose hand draws our fate will give you a ride where you need to go, even if you're not quite sure where that is yet, even if you think you took a wrong turn somewhere back there, or missed some exit. This is what I believe for myself; this is what I believe for all of us. For you.

for grandmas: big boy bathtub

can't deny my heritage

I would love to say that I had no problems allowing Adoring and Wonderful Husband to throw out 4/5ths of the perfectly good (and tasty) pumpkin pie Auntie Ollie sent us home with yesterday. (I had already eaten the other 1/5th within a four hour time span.) After all, it was at my request, since I know full well that to have it sit in the fridge is to have it sit in my belly, the whole thing, because Adoring and Wonderful Husband doesn't like pumpkin pie. But I have to be honest: a little piece of me died when he did it. A little piece of me is gone and I think it was a fun piece.

thanksgiving, v. 2.0 (I am thankful for everytime I get off the 401 safe and sound.)

Auntie Ollie and Boh.
Boh and Mr. Buzzby. (This picture does not do justice to the sheer size of this cat. He is GIGANTIC.)
Auntie Ollie and Joanne.













Regina and Boh.






















Paul and beer.






















Carving the bird.






















Boh's first Thanksgiving supper.
















Boh and Vivian.






















Taking a break on the 401.

thanksgiving

1. I am thankful for the CIBC’s Run for the Cure and dj steveboy’s podrunner podcasts. Both have done me a world of good.

2. I am thankful for waking up before the Babe from one of our afternoon naps together. It means we both have woken up because we want to, and not because the other is calling the shots that day, leaving us both happy. Also, it means that when Boh wakes up the first thing he sees is my smiling face, the face I use to communicate to him “I love you; I will always be here for you when you wake up.”

3. I am thankful for waking up.

4. I am thankful for every time I learn something new, like that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are two minor characters from Hamlet (I really have to read that play), and for every time I remember how amazing occupying this world truly is (see: acres and acres of maple trees halting the process of photosynthesis while driving to a mini Ituna in the midst of Canada's biggest concrete jungle, and Boh.)

5. I am thankful that the year after my Baba passed away I moved to the province where my Baba’s youngest sister, Auntie Ollie, lives. In Auntie Ollie’s tiny one-bedroom apartment in downtown Toronto, I have eaten three glorious Thanksgiving suppers (soon to be four!) in the company of the most representative cross-section of Canadians I can think of, people who’ve become family, even if I have to be reminded of their names every year. In Auntie Ollie’s tiny one-bedroom apartment in downtown Toronto, I’ve found a little piece of Saskatchewan that was exported over twenty years ago, modified, and still immediately reminiscent of home. In Auntie Ollie’s tiny one-bedroom apartment in downtown Toronto, I get to see a woman who once in a while laughs the same way my Baba used to, a little throaty from years of smoking, but genuine, in a way that makes her eyes sparkle, letting you know she is in that solitary moment truly happy to have you there, even if you are for the weekend invading her tiny one-bedroom apartment in downtown Toronto.

letter from mommy: month six

Dear Bohdan,

I'll just begin by telling you that early on this month you convinced mommy she will to need to take every single course in negotiation skills her employer offers, because you spent the first ten days in September flaunting your cunning abilities in the fine art of manipulation by holding your own poo hostage. What you were after, I have no idea. And to every seasoned mother out there is saying, "Ten days with no poo? That's no biggie. It's common, actually," I say, "Perhaps. Perhaps it is common for YOUR child to go for ten days without pooing, but it's DEFINITELY not common for MY child, a B-Rotten spawn. Anyone familiar with MY child's lineage KNOWS that B-Rottens poo after each and every meal, sometimes even after each and every SNACK, even if it's only a handful of Honey Nut Cheerios from the pantry as they're preparing supper. As such, I have no other explanation for MY child's ten days of clean diapers other than he was showing me just what I'm going to be up against the older he gets. He was a Nigerian guerilla and his poo was an oil worker, and while I don't know what his demands were, I nonetheless got to the point where I wanted nothing more than what every other ignorant unilingual Anglophone wants in this world: for HIM to speak MY LANGUAGE, so that he could understand as I pled with him, 'Sweetheart, PUH-lease, just prove your health is uncompromised by giving mommy one good BM and I will buy you a Mars bar, a pony, anything you want - just PUH-lease!'"

You've also kind of introduced us to your new best friend this month. His name is Guy, pronounced Ggggueeeeeeeeeeeeeee, just like it is in France, a bit phlegmy, and full of contempt. (This must have been what Trudeau envisioned when he instituted Canada's official languages policy.) And you're sitting up unassisted for longer and longer stretches at a time. Slowly, slowly, you inevitably teeter to the side and do a face plant into the hardwood, but you're getting there, kiddo. Soon you'll be sitting up long enough for daddy to plop you at the table to teach you Texas Hold 'Em, or for mommy to sit you on the bathroom floor and try on different eye shadows for you. Your gummy smile will determine what's à la mode this season.

You become clingier everyday, which of course is a mixed blessing. Love, love, love the extra cuddles, but going downstairs to do the laundry has become even more of a challenge than it was before (remember Moto; this is our story and we're sticking to it. Wink, wink.) Six months is a big milestone. Every baby book I have tells me to prepare for an impending mobility fuelled by a never ending curiosity for electrical outlets, and small cylindrical objects that pose potential choking hazards. So I'm arming myself with two things: an Infant CPR certificate, and unbridled excitement to witness your transition from one Boh-dacious baby into one terror-ific toddler.

Baby Boy, there is a hole in my heart the shape of you, and it grows by the second just as you do. I am the happiest I have ever been in my life; thank you for being here, and thank you for being you. I couldn't be prouder of my special little guy, a little guy your daddy and I love so, so, so, so, so much.

Loving her little Turkey Roll since April 5, 2006,

Mommy

PS: And, this month's piece de resistance? Your turning six months gives mommy a good excuse to try Dairy Queen's new Blizzard of the month, the Peanut Butter Butterfinger Blizzard. Did you know that mommy's sweet tooth is also the reason we spell the short form of your name B-O-H as opposed to B-O? When daddy and I were contemplating the two possibilities just before you were born at Easter time, it occurred to mommy she would get to eat more of the letters made out of chocolate on sale at the drugstore if we went for three letters instead of two. True story, ask daddy. I've been running off that H ever since, but I'll suffer through the Peanut Butter Butterfinger Blizzard just to celebrate the big half-year mark, Baby. BECAUSE YOU ARE SO, SO WORTH IT.

there is no easy way to say, "thanks, but these leave a trail of poo all over the living room floor"

Not everyone that lives around 1832 THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE ON THIS STREET ARE FREAKING NUTS! Drive are freaking nuts. There are also some very gentle and slow moving retirees, who often look at Adoring and Wonderful Husband and the Babe and I as we pass by with the same expression they might have if they were looking at the scrapbooks that document their lives. The look is sweet and just a bit sad, and I hope to have it cross my own face someday.

One older woman who lives at the bend of the street often happens to be outside at just the same time as Adoring and Wonderful Husband passes on his way home from trekking through the field with the Woof. He’ll come home with a wet and dirty and smelly dog, as well as a fistful of coupons.

“What are those?” I nose.

“Coupons for Huggies from the lady down the street again.” The first time she gave them to him she said she’d been holding on to them for a while.

“Aww, that’s so sweet.” And so they pass from under the magnet of her fridge to under the magnet of ours, where they stay until they expire, because we prefer Pampers, but can’t bring ourselves to tell her that.

Emily Post-ing

Not acceptable: Responding with a scant “Okay” when someone mannered acknowledges thanks. (I am thinking Jeannie Lee from CBC Newsworld here. Love her, but would it kill her to properly respond to Heather Hiscox's “Thank you” with a simple “Yer welcome?”)

Acceptable: An “I know” to someone’s “I love you.” “I love you” doesn’t always need to be volleyed back with “I love you too.” What better way than "I know" to tell someone their actions need not be prefaced or summarized through three small words that - while nice to hear, don’t get me wrong - are only just words? “I know” says “I feel it. You show me your love for me when you feed me, when rush through your own pee so I can have mine, when you carry all the heavy bags in after an afternoon of grocery shopping, when you humanely dispose of the rodents that infest our basement, even if do I have to get on your ass to do it. I don’t need you to tell me you love me, because you show me that you do.”

rat #3

I’m pretty sure it was November 5th last year that Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I walked the six blocks or so it takes to get to the Ottawa General Hospital from our house. We were going for our 20 week ultrasound, our second one, the one that could tell us if we were having a boy or a girl, but we wanted to keep it a surprise. It was a bit chilly, so we moved briskly, passing the elementary school that backs our house. The sign out front encouraged parents to enroll their child in the school’s gifted program. “We’re going to have to put our little guy or girl in there someday!” we smiled at each other.

The ultrasound was routine. Or so we thought. In hindsight red flags should have went off when the technician kept insisting that she couldn’t get a good shot of the baby’s skull, even though I myself could see what she was apparently looking for. The long walk down a hospital corridor to a private room accompanied by one of the doctors on call confirmed our worst fear: something on the ultrasound didn’t look right, in this case the baby’s brain.

Suspected ventriculomegaly. Don’t google it; the search only yields ugly “what ifs?” and a scary “please God, I’ll start going to church, just please.” Suffice it to say it’s a condition where one or both of the brain’s ventricles is enlarged, possibly preventing normal cognitive development. Nearly a year later, anyone who has been subjected to pictures of the Babe ad nauseum on this blog will be shaking his or her head, saying, “I should hope that kid has a bigger brain than normal! Look at the size of the noggin it’s in!”

But we didn’t know that then. And so the next couple months were filled with more ultrasounds, even more worry, and the stinging possibility that things might not turn out well. For the longest time we weren’t able to let ourselves do any of the things normal mommies- and daddies-to-be like to do, like spoil their first child to the point of bratty-ness even before he or she is out of the womb. We would cuddle a cute teddy bear at the store, and promptly put it down, because no one wants to pack a room full of toys away when no baby has even played with them yet. But over time things got better. The repeated ultrasounds showed no growth in the size of the ventricle, which was a very good thing, and the shock of it all started to wear off. Enter a big ol’ bin of rats at IKEA, at $3.99 a pop.

Of course, because I am the type of person who loves bins full of cheap stuff, I got one. And it has since turned out to be the best baby toy in the history of baby toys. It has little arms and legs for chewing, and a long, long tail for tying the suckie to, so it can’t get lost. And whiskers for tickling, and a pointy nose for kissing. It’s perfect, and the Babe goes everywhere with it, earning him the nickname Rat Boy. The rat gets almost as many smiles as he does, especially from me, because that little piece of fabric and stuffing has done so much more than sop up my baby’s drool: it gave me hope when I needed it most, and represented a future in which everything worked out in the end. It made me excited to become a mommy, even when I wasn’t sure I would get to be one.

A month or so ago, another bin of rats popped up at IKEA. I bought five. Thank goodness I did, because we are now on to rat #3, the first having met a sorry fate up against Super Cooper, and the second losing his way somewhere in the cavernous aisles of Loblaw’s. Hopefully IKEA springs as eternal as hope does.

Project RACE, the conclusion?

So that's it. It's done. Months of training for a measly 30:22 (!) 5k run looping the Parliament Buildings and Museum of Civilization. It was a nice morning for a run...after the cold, cold rain stopped viscously spitting on me, just minutes before the horn blew. The blustery weather prevented the Babe and Adoring and Wonderful Husband from seeing me off, or digitally recording my departure from and arrival at the finish line for posterity, and this blog. The urge to pee the minute we pulled out of the driveway wasn't quelled by the prospect of toilets at the run site, toilets of the Porta variety. I held it as I stood alone in the chilly wetness and vainly searched for H. or B., feeling sorry for myself just long enough to remember I still had boobies, and my mom, and less fat on my bum than I had just a few short months ago when I nervously filled in the on-line registration form, thinking "What am I DOING this for? What if I FAIL?" The same feeling I just had as I filled out the form for the 10k Resolution Run on New Year's Eve (but don't worry; this one won't cost you anything. It's just for me.)

So in the end you all contributed a total of $390.00. Thank-you so, so much! And I would be remiss if I didn't give extra special thanks to the following two extra special people who helped me reach my goals: H., for cracking the whip as I huffed and puffed my way during the early days at Strollercizing (and also her words of encouragement when I wheezed to her "I don't think I can do this!"), and Adoring and Wonderful Husband, for standing on the front step with the Babe in arm, waiting to cheer me on as I come around the corner.

While it may be true that the important things in life are more about the journey than the destination, it's still pretty cool to get to where you're going (especially if there's a warm and clean toilet at the end of the line). See you next year.