setting mommy straight

Oh He Of Dirty Knees says: "Daddy, forget a skull watch. This is what mommy really needs for Christmas."

in living colour

I was a different person when I woke up this morning than I was on Saturday. More myself than I have ever been, I think. The physical difference? Minor. A few millilitres of ink, maybe. A light scab, perhaps. (More like sunburn, really). Marked. Branded. Both words better than: defaced.

Because that’s not really the truth. I’ve carried the design around with me for nearly seven years, across the prairies, through the Northernmost states, around the Golden Horseshoe, to Canada’s capital. The heliotrope flyer it was drawn on the back of at one point littered the U of R campus with an invitation to hear the veritable Marilyn Waring lecture on Valuing Women’s Work. (Ahh, the heady days of post-secondary radical feminism. So much more tranquilized than the suburban reality, with a baby and a dog and a man that brings home the bacon and the nipples-on-demand and the pooping scooping and the laundry that are the consequence of each.) Depending if you believe that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, or if it is in-your-face plagiarism, I am either paying Melissa who used to sit in front of me in Grade 12 Calculus a huge compliment, or I am breaching her intellectual property rights. Sitting in some greasy spoon on the Island, the memory of Melissa's ivy of ink running down the back of her neck inspired the sketch on a napkin that I pulled together for KP, who only minutes earlier mused, “Maybe I should get a tattoo in Victoria while we’re there.” We had nothing else to do; we only decided that the capital of Canada’s grooviest province would be a pit stop on our road trip through the mountains the night before we got there. “How about this?” I enthused as I began to doodle, but not before passing the cream and sugar. “It’s kinda like the one that girl Melissa has on the back of her neck. Remember her? From Grade 12 Calculus? I drew one for myself with my initials in it. Your initials are in this one. See? K and P. Right there.”

I would have gotten inked with her that day, only my own baby was fermenting in a container somewhere in Regina, waiting for its debut this past Saturday, seven years after it was born. Besides, I had already suffered through ink and needles that spring with J. in Calgary at the Smiling Buddha. With tatts you have to pace yourself, because they really are addictive. (I already know what my next one will be; I just have to let it simmer for a while before it can be served.) They have to mean something special, and reflect well the change on the inside that had to take place before the change on the outside could be realized.

Seven years. I don’t know how much a seven year old wine costs, but I bet it would be a good vintage. (Paired well with salmon, and an assortment of in season vegetables, no doubt.) Seven years. It was high time to uncork my own initials. Let them breathe.

(By the way, sorry mom.)

project RACE monthly update

I wish I had one or two more days before I had to write this post. I almost convinced myself to just skip it for the month, or at least postpone my accounting until a time I would be much happier to fill in the ledger. Not that things are going badly - they're not; it's just that this is a bit of a transitioning period for me, and I need to figure out a way to make the adjustment work. (Also, I didn't go for a run yesterday, and my weigh-in for the record this morning wasn't after a good sweaty workout as I usually like to make it. It was all me this time, baby. All me.)

This month's less than overwhelming weight loss can be attributed to a number of factors, all of which are instructive and offer insight into what I need to do to continue to make being healthy a part of my life. First up on the list: my trip early this month with the Babe to visit Grandma and Gido and their Big Drawer Full of Tempting, Luscious Chocolate and Irregular Eating Patterns Writ Large. Lesson #1: Simple avoidance is easier than will power. I personally cannot have a Big Drawer Full of Tempting, Luscious Chocolate in my house. I can have a couple reasonably portioned chocolate treats, but nothing that would easily let me over-indulge, such as the gluttony six extra large Hershey's chocolate almond bars inspire in me. Lesson #2: For me, eating healthily is all about routine. I don't know how their blood sugar levels do it, but my parents can eat supper at totally different hours one night to the next, and even skip a meal now and then. I cannot do this lest I become a ravenous lunatic who greedily eyes the Big Drawer Full of Tempting, Luscious Chocolate and snaps like a timber wolf at anyone who comes between it and my chops. I need structure, in terms of both what I eat and when I eat it. This helps me control my desire to binge on less than healthy food choices, and keeps my portions at reasonable sizes.

A second reason to account for my slowing weight loss is that I am no longer breastfeeding the Babe. He is weaned, which means all his calories come from formula and the goopy mess-in-a-jars the Heinz people like to call "solids", and not the fat stores off my rather rotund arse. Which sucks. I don't want to sound all preachy on the Boob Juice, because to each Mamasita her own, but breastfeeding was good for at least 15 pounds, I'm sure. It accelerated my early weight loss, making it easier to keep up with my running, and seeing such big changes early on kept me motivated. Lesson #3: I can't get complacent. I need to constantly reevaluate my strategy to stay successful.

Finally, a third excuse I'm going to use to explain why I only lost one pound this last month is because it's Christmas. How can I expect to report another five pound loss or something crazy like that when yesterday's menu consisted of six small gingerbread cookies complete with neon icing on top, two pan-fried blueberry perogies, and one rather large piece of H.'s to-die-for chocolate ice cream cake, consumed while doing a little holiday baking with the girls? I guess the question is, would I want to? Lesson #4: Sometimes living life is worth the pound or two you gain doing it.

All in all, I'm happy with the course Project RACE is running. I've kept up with my exercise, and Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I generally continue to eat well. And, hey, a one pound weight LOSS is better than a one pound weight GAIN, right? Still, the coming snow is sure to let my running slip if I don't do anything to ensure I maintain my output levels. And just because it's Christmas doesn't mean I can throw all caution to the wind and eat and drink like a 230 pound man. And nor do I want to, really. Fitting into a size 10 for the first time since high school is much, much sweeter.

Dear Daddy, I learned to crawl while you were at work today. Love, Boh

A couple nights ago, our good friend C. called us to say that he was coming to O-town for the weekend. The law finals sure to incarcerate him in his tiny Kingston apartment in just a few short weeks apparently are calling him to the bar early. Likely a couple bars, actually; bars that are likely in Hull. While just over a year ago we would have started the party right then and there with a quick trip to the store to buy both beer and clam chowder in bulk (don't ask), our response on Wednesday night was less than subdued. It was almost catatonic. "Really? That's great," we whispered, fearful that even the slightest increase in the volume of the spoken word on the ground floor of our house after 8:00 pm would re-awake the Babe upstairs, two rooms over, fanning the flames of another crying fit of fury that Adoring and Wonderful Husband just put out minutes earlier with the promise of a car at 16. A fast, red car at 16, one that will surely give Mommy ulcers in case there was any doubt she has them already. "You should really call us when you're in. Stop by for breakfast Sunday morning before you go back." And that was pretty much the end of it. These days we don't even pretend that we might make an appearance somewhere on a Saturday night, and certainly not an appearance together. As I've said before, Sunday afternoon is the new Saturday night. So C., in my mind I am speaking very loudly, and with much excitement, when I say this: "Sunday afternoon. Come see Boh and watch me make perogies. It'll be more fun than a night in Hull, I promise, mostly because you'll remember it, and I might even send you home with perogies."

The other thing we'll be doing on Sunday? BABY-PROOFING.

Christmas crushing (the first of many)

Anything by Monteal artist Peter Hoffer. Anything. (Estimated price: in the $000s.)




Black-banded skull watch. Not this one, but the one from Pom Pom. (Again, Adoring and Wonderful Husband, in case you missed it, THE ONE FROM POM POM.) (Estimated price: $26.)

The History of the English Language. (Estimated price: $99.95.)

Tattoo on the back of my neck. (Estimated price: I'll see on Saturday.)

good citizenship

My tea water rolls, not just boils. I was finally convinced after this summer’s trip to the Holy Land of the benefits of a kettle. I had thus far been using a pot on the stove to do the trick, which really hadn’t. I never drank tea much, and when I did, tepid water always made the steep seem a bit callow. Not worth the effort, really. Grandpa’s kettle was a pleasure in Regina. A luxury. Coughing up the $11.67 at Loblaw’s for my own version was money well spent. All I have to do is fill it to the 1L mark (and just a bit over, if I’m feeling wolfish, and lazy), flick up the little switch, and wait for the roll. Premium. Steeping. Capacity.

I use the time between pouring the water in and pouring the water out to prepare my pot. It’s stainless steel; one of my mother’s garage sale conquests, I’m sure. It was part of the generational transfer of wealth that happened as part of my parents' cull before moving to Dartmouth. Its fee simple is now my responsibility.

I put two Tetley’s Decaffeinated Orange Pekoe at the bottom, and two packets of sweetener (usually Splenda, but in these tight, pre-Yuletide times every penny counts, and so the bounty from the most recent excursion l’épicerie was less than luxe - No Name all the way). And then, as soon as little switch I flicked switches back, I pour. I pour slowly. I pour very slowly, so that the first drops spit at the sides of the pot, so that the metal pings. Ping! I pour so slowly that I can watch my tea bleed into itself. So slowly that by the time I've finished pouring the water, my tea is perfection.

That’s so steeped.

bell-ringers

Sometime in the months getting prepared to move from Regina to Kingston, I developed an ulcer. I think. I've never had a formal medical diagnosis of it, since every time I happen to be at the doctor's office I conveniently forget about the pain in the pit of my stomach that doubles me over like a you-know-who who's been sucker punched every time I get severely stressed. Thus, in addition to the mega pack of Tums (various fruit flavoured, fortified with calcium) that saw me through my nerves as our cross country journey loomed ever closer, I had a couple motivational quotes sticky tacked to the wall behind my computer at work. I just had to look up past the briefing note I was typing to remember why I was uprooting our lives and dragging Adoring and Wonderful Husband away from the haven in our hearts that will forever be home. Two quotes were my motivation.

1. A ship in the harbour is safe - but that's not what ships were built for.

2. I have never let my schooling interfere with my education. (Twain)

(To be honest, that last quote had been on my wall for a while; it's what helped convince me that it was okay for me to take six weeks off work to travel through Europe with Adoring and Wonderful Husband for our honeymoon. Strange, how I should have felt so guilty for asking for that time off. I wonder if my former bosses even remember me anymore, but I will never forget sitting on the cobble stoned streets of Lyon having a beer with our new found best friends - some of with whom we never had a conversation in English, but were bonded nonetheless - watching and waiting to see who would be the first pedestrian to step in the pile of dog poo we saw being freshly laid only minutes before. Stereotypes are stereotypes because they're often true.)

At the gym the other day, I saw another motivating quote on the t-shirt of a member (who must have gotten it from the club when she signed up for her membership): "Don't let the things you can't do prevent you from doing the things you can." And today, watching Boh as he again proves to me what a marvel he really, truly is, I caught on TV an interview with Paul McCallum, former kicker for the Saskatchewan Roughriders, now the kicker for the BC Lions. Talking about his move to the cloudy waters of the West Coast after the horrible way Saskatchewan fans treated him after he missed the kick that would have taken the Riders into the Grey Cup two years ago (the year the Cup was in Ottawa by the way, and Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I had tickets), he explained how difficult his decision was. But, he said, "sometimes you have to take a step back before you can move forward." Think I just might add that to the list of things that move me into action.

My other motivation?

the itsy bitsy belligerence in mommy got worked up, and up went the post that freaked the grandmas out

"Maybe I shouldn't put so much rice on the spoon and more would go in his mouth instead of everywhere else? Yeah. And maybe I shouldn't breastfeed him in a bar and give him plastic bags to play with and let him watch TV all morning. But a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do, ya know?"

for daddy, by special request

I debated on what I should call the following series of videos. The Rice is Right? Why We Have A Dog? Yummy, Yummy Rice: A Trilogy? Finally I settled on, C'Mon and Find Me Child Protection Services - I Am a Mommy Who Likes to Pimp Out Her Son for the Sake of Her Blog.

insomnia

10:00 pm. A quick channel flip to the Outdoor Life Network brings up Pilot Guides. Featured destination: Australia. "We should go there for the winter next time I'm on maternity leave," I say to Adoring and Wonderful Husband. "We'll take off for four months or something and rent an apartment on the beach. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Crawling into bed, my mind is racing. Australia. Australia. I want to go to Australia. We need to start saving money. I want to go to Australia.

I want to take the kids travelling for two years when Boh is 14. (The others will be 12 and 10.) I want three kids. I want to take my three kids to South America, put them in school for a year, have them learn Spanish. (They will already know French by then.) Then we'll go to Africa for eight months. Volunteer somewhere doing...something. Then just travel for four months. Start in Spain and work our way up the through Eastern Europe, to the Nordic countries, to London, and back across the pond again in time for grade 11. (But what about the eastern Pacific Rim countries? Maybe the kids should learn Chinese instead of Spanish? I could teach English in Korea, or Taiwan, or something. I want to go East.)

I want to be the Go-To Guy at work. I want to be excited every day I wake up and jump in the shower. I want to make a difference.

I want to learn French. I want to learn France French. I want to take my kids to spend eight months in the South of France. Check out the Cannes Film Festival. Lie topless on the beach.

I want to learn to write. I want to author a book. The ABCs of Policy Analysis. Or fiction to rival Atwood. Or just be able to blog something witty once a day.

I want to keep my house clean. I want to walk my dog everyday. I want to spend my nights watching Boh play hockey, football. I want my kids to follow their hearts. I want my kids to be kids. Have the time to follow their hearts.

I want to learn not to want.

I want my kids to grow up with their grandmas nearby. I want my kids to experience the world. To know how they would solve the crisis in Darfur by the time they are 18. To know where Darfur is by the time they are 18.

I want my kids to feel the Saskatchewan soil of farmers past course through their veins. I want my kids to smell a prairie spring day. Fresh.

I want a cabin at Regina Beach.

I want Adoring and Wonderful Husband to live his dream. I want a four bedroom house in Sandy Hill. I want to live out of a backpack.

I want to live the simple life. Learn to live in the moment, be happy with the day.

I want you to like me. I want to be the kind of person people like.

I want to run the New York City Marathon.

I want to learn to paint. Or sculpt. Anything that will outlive me. Capture my essence. Say something about humanity. Sign and signifier.

I want to understand the market. The world economy. The rise and fall of our empire. Mathematics.

I want to die an old woman, surrounded by my husband of 50 years, and our kids, and our kids' kids. Speaking Russian. Say to them, "There's nothing I wanted but you. You're all I ever wanted."

I want to go to Australia.

I want to fall asleep.

[I want to quit coming back to add things to this list of things I want.]

mixology

After Adoring and Wonderful Husband got me an iPod for our fourth anniversary, I spent countless hours searching the web for playlists that would lend themselves well to running. A good playlist is hard to find. How death metal can motivate your metabolism, I don't get, but to each their own, I suppose. Anyhoo, in lieu of posting anything interesting, I give you the two playlists for running I have come up with so far. The first one is called I'm f***ing beautiful, for reasons that are clear once you listen to it, and the second one is called New Running Mix, because a creative genius I ain't.

I'm f***ing beautiful - 1.1 Hours
Continental Drift (Intro) - The Rolling Stones
Let's Get It Started (Spike Mix) - Black Eyed Peas
Deceptacon - Le Tigre
The Empty - Le Tigre
Steady, As She Goes - The Raconteurs
Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes
Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
Rebellion (Lies) - Arcade Fire
Hung Up (SDP Extended Vocal) - Madonna
Friendship Station - Le Tigre
Children Of The Sandstorm - Darude vs Robert Miles
The Most Wonderful Girl - Lords Of Acid
Slid - Fluke
Hey Ya! - OutKast
Crabbuckit - k-os
Hot in Here - Nelly
Don't Cha - The Pussycat Dolls
When It's Good - Ben Harper

New Running Mix - 52 minutes
Tom's Diner - Suzanne Vega
When the Night Feels My Song - Bedouin Soundclash
Float On - Modest Mouse
When It's Good - Ben Harper
The Hardest Button to Button - The White Stripes
White Rabbit (Club Mix) - Latin Headhuntrz
Tainted Love - Soft Cell
Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani
Let's Run - Le Tigre
Mind Flood - Sam Roberts
Music - Madonna

(Oh yeah, and if anyone is interested in having me burn these onto disc for them, don't ask, because I won't do it. I especially won't respond to any emails that ask me nicely to make them a couple cds, maybe as a Christmas gift or something, because burning cds for distribution is wrong. Very, very wrong. So don't ask. But if you wanted to email me about other things, you can click on my picture at the top right hand corner of this blog to get in touch. I am a law abiding citizen. Most of the time.)

tales from the cubicle farm

It’s started. Sifting through my mental list of possible blog topics inevitably takes me to one flavour: bold, dark roast coffee, from either Africa or Mexico (it doesn’t really matter which, because they’re both under-developed regions I can put my $1.79 behind.) In another word, work. Because high octane java is what I’m going to need to get my juices flowing everyday in just two short months, instead of the 9:00 am cuddle session with a warm and slightly snotty baby I currently count as part of my morning breakfast. (Zero calories, BTW.) Work. Is this the only topic that’s going to inspire fodder for this blog now? Because blogging about your 9 to 5 agenda is a slippery slope, my friends - one garbage mountain covered in dirt and snow I refuse to slide down this winter.

I have no doubt this will be hard. Because garbage mountains covered in dirt and snow can be so, so fun to slide down - if you have the right toboggan. And the right snow pants. And a helmet in case you happen to smash head first into a tree on your way down. Because garbage mountains can be dangerous. Especially if you write about sliding down them. And especially if your boss comes across your blog and decides that he or she isn’t comfortable with you writing about how your co-worker stole your low-fat yogurt out of the mini fridge, or about how your boss’ boss hinted in your private meeting with her that your boss might not be around for too much longer. It can be the stuff of Desperate Housewives in those ivory towers sometimes, except for all the warm and slightly snotty babies.

Yes, garbage mountains may be fun, but they pay for neither the mortgage, nor the morning coffee you pound back on the bus at 8:45 am like you do Jagermeister on a Saturday night. So on this issue, I am willing to self-censor. Which may mean there will be a lot more pictures of a warm and snotty baby on this site to greet you as you sip your morning java and do some blog checkin' come January, but I can honestly think of no better way to start the day.

take two sloppy Boh kisses and call me in the morning

A quick trip to a daycare last week to see about fee schedules and visceral reactions resulted in one baby with a cold and two people posing as adults figuring out ways to break it to their own parents that the Babe? He will likely be an only child, because responsibility? We can’t afford it.

Dealing with Boh’s first cold had me thinking a lot about what makes me feel better when I am sad or under-the-weather myself. Logic goes out the window when you are dealing with a child, because babies don’t understand that the ability to pass oxygen through the nasal cavity is regained after you blow your nose to get rid of all the icky boogers temporarily camped there. All babies know is that, MOMMY, I CAN’T BREATHE, AND I AM SCARED THAT I WILL FEEL THIS WAY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

It’s a feeling I can relate to, though thankfully not that often. And so in dealing with the Babe and his mean little virus I had to think hard about all those things that unconsciously lift me when I’m down in the dumps. Thing #1: Timeliness. When someone wipes my tears away before the salty wetness can get into my ears, I know everything will be okay. But if the tears make it to my lobes, it’s game over, at least for the next half hour, because all I can do then is whimper and wait. Thing #2: Hugs (of course), but the kind of hugs where the other person’s arms are wrapped so tightly around you that your world shrinks down to the size of a cocoon, and your hurt or sadness shrinks too, and becomes manageable, something you know you can deal with. Thing #3: Faith. Actually, this is one the Babe is teaching me. To put your head on hold and trust your heart. Trust that mommy’s hugs will be enough to make you feel better. Trust that everything will turn out okay despite logic and reason. Trust that logic and reason sometimes aren’t necessary - sometimes all you need are Cheerios.

(Turkey Monkey is doing just fine, if you’re wondering. A few coughs here and there but other than that he’s happy as a clam.)

we remember

And for every mother who's lost a child so that mine could live freely, thank-you.

babies, lies and the Standing Committee on Citizenship and Immigration

I go back to work in less than two months. Two Christmas season months. So, basically, I start my new job tomorrow.

I've been trying to get into the head space of someone who's in paid employment for the last little while in anticipation of my return to the cubicle farm. First stop: a new bra, because I don't think I'll need my nursing bra in the boardroom. (At least I hope to God not.) Second: figuring out what the heck is going on in the real world.* So this afternoon is a trippy juxtaposition of watching the Standing Committee on Citizenship and Immigration discuss the Supplementary Estimates (A, I presume?) and reading about Borat and FedEx on the gossip blogs. (And of course, watching the Babe as he squirms and sqiggles along the floor, having recently - like yesterday recently - learned to pull himself up into the sitting position from his stomach). In addition to looking forward to the dinner party B-Rad is hosting at our place tomorrow (what shall I bring, I wonder?), and planning my December calendar obsessively, much like K. does, I'm sure, I'm secretly loathing the person (man) who said that moms can have it all: a career, a happy family, a fulfilled and actualized self. Oh really? Where does Borat fit into this? Answer: HE DOESN'T.

* I am so sad that my real world consists of Supplementary Estimates. Even more sad that I find pleasure in guessing if it's Supp A season, or B. Puke.

workplace crushes I have had (in no particular order)

1. A baked potato topped with brown beans, cooked mixed vegetables and grated cheddar cheese at Bonanza. (Ahh, luscious, luscious carbo loading, with nary a run in sight. How I miss yee.)

2. Jim. Even though I don't work in The Office, and I know it's just a show, I. Heart. Jim. Like, REALLY heart Jim.

3. At the first job I had when I moved to Ottawa, we had a secret Santa exchange at my boss' house one afternoon. J.'s gift was a baby bonsai tree in delicately wrapped paper. A BABY BONSAI TREE. Who wouldn't have a secret work crush on a guy that buys baby bonsai trees for secret Santa exchanges?

4. Adoring and Wonderful Husband. Only he wasn't Adoring and Wonderful Husband then. See what after work Friday cinq à sept drinks - preferably double G and Ts, and preferably 6 to 10 of them - can do?

5. Jim from The Office. Did I mention Jim?

it's posts like this that will come back to bite me in the ass someday

A recent tata injury that kept me off the pavement for the 72 hours it took until the first signs of healing appeared made me once again consider my addictive personality. (Regarding my Booby Juicer damage, suffice it to say that sometimes lemons get bruised when lemonade is on the menu. And for all you men who think that doesn’t sound like too much of a big deal, consider how your own fruit might feel if they were damaged from the inside out. Damn straight you should be cringing right now, in addition to picking up the phone to call your mother for everything she’s done for you.)

Luckily for me, the same compulsive tendencies that witnessed me start a half a pack a day habit at age 13, and convince me that the words “two” and “beer” should never be uttered in the same sentence (unless that sentence is “I’ll bring twenty-two beer to the party, if you bring the cake”), motivate me to make a run for it every day I can. Whether the course is 5K or 10K matters not; the high I achieve when I walk in the door after a solid run keeps me coming back for more. The walking I was forced to resort to for a couple of days a week or so ago now seems so pedestrian (“har-dee-har-har, Winter”), even though that was my exercise of choice for a full year before I took up running. Small steps, right? (“GUF-FAW.”)

I don’t often write about how much I’ve started to enjoy running, because I don’t really want to be that person who sometimes inspires, but always annoys, every time he or she writes about a recent run. I know this is how I will portray myself, because there is no other way a runner can portray themselves to non-runners, even if they never utter one word about their habit. Just the mere fact they run past you as you walk down the street is enough for you to simultaneously think “What-EVER, Exercise-y. Give. Me. A. Break.” And then to also secretly pout: “I wish I could do that.”

Because admit it, all you runners out there. You’re pretty darned proud of yourselves for running, and like to brag about it once in a while too, even if that brag is silent, and consists only of owning the latest shoe that communicates with your iPod to tell you how far you’ve run, and at what pace. (How. Rad. Is. THAT?) While I usually shun the cool kid’s club (partly because I’m, like, so anti-establishment, maaannn, but mostly because I don’t want people to stare at me with a puzzled look on their face that asks “what the heck does that fat girl think she’s doing here?!!”), taking up running has been for me like getting into the Wisha Coulda Eata Pie sorority: it’s a license to download all the latest hip-hop I can shake my booty to, and collect the Do Not Pass Go card when I think I might be turning a bend that will take me someplace where I might feel bad about myself, and how I look. So, yes, hate me for a moment like I loathed all those runners who came before me, with their snide v-neck long sleeve running shirts with moisture wicking, and contemptible cardiovascular capacities, and all. Hate me when I say this, but: I love running, and not even a swollen jug can take me down.

letter from mommy: month seven

Dear Turkey Monkey,

Yesterday you turned seven months old. I would have written earlier, but I was too busy yelling at Gido for letting you have some of the ice cream cake from Dairy Queen that we got for Uncle Harvey's birthday. "What are you DOOOIIIIIIIIINGGG? He can't have SUUUGGGGGAAAAARR before bedtime! He can't have MIIIIILLLLLKKK before he's a year old!" I whisked you out of Gido's arms as though he was shovelling uranium or boogers into your mouth - or something even more awful, like Super Baba's head cheese - and five minutes later, I realized I have to get a grip. Because you're seven months old now. You might as well be a teenager. A drooly, sometimes smelly teenager who can't walk (or crawl) yet, let alone steal mommy and daddy's car to joyride over the bridge to Hull to see strippers with Lucas. It's just a matter of time, I know...

Speaking of which, I think you must be a leg man, because this past month you started drinking formula from the sippy cup with such gusto that it's almost like you've forgotten about mommy's boobies altogether. Which may be just as well, since you just cut your bottom two teeth, and we all know nipples and incisors don't mix. At least not all the time.

By far your best parlour trick is waving hello and good-bye. I don't think you know what you're doing it for, but you still do it, and this morning when we pulled out of Grandma and Gido's driveway to catch the plane back to Ottawa from Halifax and you waved good-bye to Grandma, I think you made her very proud and broke her heart all at the same time. Or maybe that was just me.

Boh, when I first met your daddy I knew he was the one for me because I could share my air with him. We could lie together, nose to nose, and I wouldn't have to move my face so I could breathe my own oxygen, so I didn't feel like I was choking, which is how I would have felt with anybody else. I could breathe with him; that's how I knew. It's how I knew he would be the great love of my life, how I knew he would be the daddy of my babies.

I feel kind of the same way about you, except for you? For you I would not only share my air, I would give it to you if you needed it. All of it. If only one of us was allowed to breathe, there is no question who would get the O2. This is how I know; this is how I know you are my baby and I am your mommy, how I know I love you more than anyone or anything that exists in this world.*

Boh C'est Bon, I love you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so much. And so does your daddy. Now could you please just put the learning to crawl thing on hold for a couple more months? Thanks. Owe you one.

Love,

Mommy

* Caveat for potential future children: I love you all the same. Swear.

it's all just degrees of The Running Man, isn't it?

Recently spent An Hour Of My Life That I Will Never Get Back watching Deal or No Deal for the first time. Apparently Howie is coming to Canada, and you can apply here to be a contestant on the show.

I think my passport application required less information. Also, if you get on I better be one of your supporters. NO DEAL, BAY-BAE! NO! DEAL!

transplanting prairie lillies

The first six months I lived in Ottawa, I was introduced to the same Saskatchewan ex-pat at four different parties. "Where are you from again? Oh! Saskatchewan. I should introduce you to one of my friends who's from there too!" And so I would be led into the living room, away from the fridge full of beer, and invariably meet Matt D. yet again, so that we could do the ritualistic exchange of pleasantries and make some idle chit chat until the awkward pause when I excused myself to get another drink. And then I would park myself back in the kitchen where all the good action is, because the kitchen is never far away from the gin. My kind of parties pulse in the kitchen; I've met all my best friends there.

Aside from Matt D., the other institution for newly transplanted Westerners in Ottawa is Friday morning French at work. The best and worst classmate is always the fifty-four year old pre-retiree who's counting down the days until his pension kicks in and who cannot for the life of him understand: a) why he's being forced to take the class in the first place, and b) why the partitive article has three forms. Aging Bureaucrat X, as belligerent as is possible at 9:30 am while sipping bad coffee from a Styrofoam cup in a workplace boardroom, thinks he is obliged to take the poor instructor to task, a cute little woman from France who's just trying to make a go of it in this True North of ours, Strong and Free. "Why is it this? and Why is it that? and Why do they do THAT WAY?" he grills, sneering as if the language police will suddenly burst into the room at the genius of his observation, declaring that, Guess What? We Anglophones? We were right all along! English really IS the best language going! Enough of all this verb conjugation and other Franco-silliness! GO BACK TO YOUR DESK RIGHT NOW BECAUSE FRENCH CLASS IS CANCELLED...FOREVER!

I love Aging Bureaucrat X, because I can empathize. He means no harm; he's just frustrated. Also, I look good compared to him - not because I necessarily know more of what supposedly should be my second language given that I was born in, you know, SASKATOON, but because I don't question it. I know enough about my own first language to know there are some things about language you can't know. Like this, taken from a recent Maclean's:

The median age [in] Gaza is 15.8. How do you persuade a pseudo-nation of unemployed, poorly educated boys raised in a death cult to see sense?

Obviously, the big question here is not, How do we massage the peace process into something less knotty and prone to spasms? or, What kind of rag has Maclean's turned into since Anthony Wilson-Smith resigned? but, How does ANYONE see sense? What, exactly, does sense look like? What colour is it? Is it 3-D? Does it stand in the contrapposto pose? What? If you know, PLEASE, tell me, because I would really like to take a picture of sense and have it framed it for my wall. I would hang it in my front landing so Adoring and Wonderful Husband could be reminded of sense everytime he left for work, or to go out for BEERS with some jackass. Like I said though, I don't usually ask about these kinds of things, because I just take language for what it's worth. Questions like mine and Aging Bureaucrat X's always seem to have the same answer anyway: go vote, dummy. Because if you don't like it, you shouldn't have let Trudeau get elected in the first place.

ingrates

And the best line of the night goes to...

35-year-old woman with pillow sack: "Can I get some more?" [as she reveals yet another pillow sack hiding beneath her jacket] "My son is too lazy to come up to the door himself."

Yes. That's exactly what your lazy kid needs then. MORE CANDY. GET A JOB. THE BOTH OF YOU. AND GET OFF MY FRONT STEP. NOW.