Trite and Maudlin, Part Deux

I wrote this letter when Gabi was a few days old, but didn’t post it as I was afraid that my new-mom hormones were making me more trite and maudlin than usual (and also, what would a newborn do with a letter? She didn't even learn to read until she was eight months old!). Now on the eve of her first birthday, similar hormones are convincing me that this is acceptable to post. I owe you something funny. And maybe an apology. And a stiff drink.

I want to preserve this moment. Put it into my mental album so that it can be retrieved forever. My sensory album, if such a thing exists. The velvet feel of the wispy hairs on your mostly bald head against my lips. The satisfied sounds you are making as you gulp, gulp milk, the way you are grabbing at me with your tiny hands, alternately pulling my sweater between your perfectly formed miniature fingers and rubbing my chest.

I want to remember the way you are furrowing your brows above your very blue eyes that will soon turn brown, or green or hazel, and your sweet stare, wide and trusting, covered by long still-sparse lashes. I want to remember looking down at your little nose and little ears and wondering how anything that came from me could be so perfect.

I want to remember your baby smell and your baby warmth, and how it feels to hold your little hand. I want to remember the way your mouth looks, wet with milk as you lean into my arms, milk-drunk and happy. I want to be able to pull it all up in my mental Filofax forever.

Soon you will grow out of the clothes you are wearing and when I eventually put them away, I will be surprised by how small they are. I will forget how perfect and tiny your toes are, and the feeling I get when your still-new-smile makes my heart leap into my stomach.

I will not forget how much I love you. Or how happy I am to hold you. How lucky I am that you are mine. But I will forget how tiny you are, and the sound of those tiny little happy moans, even though I will be convinced that I remember.

A Mother's Prayer on the First Day of Swimming Lessons

May my baby enjoy the class

May she not be filled with gas

Let her not spit up in the water

or scream as loudly as my other daughter

And please let the class have not

Any dads who are hot

And if there is such a man who meets this description

Let him wear a very strong prescription

Big thick glasses, like a bottle

That make me look just like a model

Oh and it can't be available in a contact lens

(I am just talking about nines and tens)

I just don't want such a man

To notice my hastily-applied, blotchy self-tan

Oh and also, please no MILFs of twenty-eight

Who even wet, look really great

And finally, please don't let it be the day

To test if swim diapers are as a leakproof as they say.

The Six Stages of A Box of Chocolate

1. Denial:

These things are tasty. I have a whole box. I can eat six or seven of these babies and no-one will be the wiser


2. Anger:

There is no way I have already eaten half a box. Someone else has been eating my chocolate.


3. Bargaining:

As soon as I finish this box, I will be done. It will be the start of my healthy lifestyle. Chocolate will be replaced by kale. Caramel by spinach. I should eat more to make this happen sooner.

4. Satisfaction:

Done with you! You no longer have control over me dastardly turtles. I ate you and all of your friends!


5. Depression:

I miss you guys.


6. Acceptance:

Money can be exchanged for goods! I will buy another box. Hooray!

The Third Baby Myth (or Sleep is for Suckers)

As my last update was basically two years ago, a couple of things have changed. Shockingly, my children who were 1.5 and 3.5 are now 3.5 and 5.5. Wait, there’s more. My cat, formerly fifteen years old, is now seventeen. Also, I had a baby. Have a baby. She is seven weeks old today. I know what you are thinking, that having a baby has made me even smarter, wittier and more coherent than ever (as that was an actual attempt at humour, you can now cross wittier off the list)(and coherent)(and smarter will be taken care of by the end of this blog post).

In truth, having three kids has been the same as having two kids, but with one third more kid (thus leaving me with one third fewer brain cells) (luckily I had 9 left at the time of her birth, so there was no messy division).

There is this myth that the third baby is going to be an easy one. People with three kids come up to you and tell you things like “my third kid was so easy that we kept forgetting her places and not only did she not mind, she’d hitchhike home and bring dinner”. And frankly, I believed them. I felt like the universe owed me an easy kid after the second one, who was not easy. Not. Easy.

I have always known that my second child’s terrible sleep habits, extremely sensitive disposition and unwillingness to be anywhere other than my arms for the first two years of her life were my punishment for being a smug asshat when I had my first --ridiculously easy-- baby. And frankly, someone who says things like  “Read the Baby Whisperer. It changed my life” deserves a baby who doesn’t sleep through the night until she’s an adult. Just like someone who judges other people’s kids for screaming in public* deserves a kid who has constant, shrill, embarrassing public tantrums. And that’s what I got. And it humbled me. But then I thought we were even-- the Cosmos and me. Apparently I was wrong. So. Wrong.

My new baby will not sleep in her bassinet. She cries whenever I put her down and she is a constant spitter-upper (my second child’s one** redeeming quality as a baby was that she never spit up). Recently I took her to the pediatrician and she started screaming bloody murder when it was time to take off her clothes to be weighed. The doctor, who enjoys a spirited baby, thought this was hilarious, saying things like “you have your work cut out for you with this one!”.  Wait! No! “I thought that I was going to have an easy one after you-know-who” I finally sputtered, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the screaming. Her reply: “Nope. That one was just training you for this one.”

My new theory is that everyone gets one easy baby and you get your easy baby when you need her (or in my case, him) the most. Had I had one of my daughters first, my husband would never have agreed to continue our procreation experiment but as our son was just so easy, we presumed that we were awesome at parenting and kept going. And now I have three beautiful, challenging*** amazing children that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Not even for one of those well-behaved good sleepers you hear about****.

Postscript: If you have had more than one easy baby, I don’t want to hear about it. Really.

*”I bet that child would be much calmer if the parents followed the Baby Whisperer’s nap schedule. That poor, poor overtired baby” is literally something my husband and I would say to one another on a semi-regular basis.

**not including extreme cuteness which is a trait all of my babies tend to possess (objectively speaking)

***easy babies don’t necessarily grow up to be easy five-year-olds
****or for a frozen yogurt franchise

Who needs sleep? How could you not love these little faces?

Resolutions from an Expert

Only once have I kept a new year’s resolution but I had to make the same resolution two years in a row for it to stick. That said, because most resolutions fail and because I did manage to keep flossing long past the one year mark, I do feel like a little bit of an expert on resolution making.

While it is advisable to stick to a very small list of resolutions, I, being a resolution expert (ask my dentist if you don’t believe me), have compiled a longer list for myself.

Sheri's List of Resolutions:

• Eat less candy
• Buy less candy
• Don’t feel obligated to eat all candy that was previously bought
• Eat less chocolate
• Buy less chocolate
• Don’t feel obligated to eat all chocolate that was previously bought
• Make new and exciting meals for my family on a regular basis
• Try not to get upset when family hates new and exciting meals that I have made for them
• Stop buying every hair product on the market that promises a silky sheen
• Be willing to throw out all previously purchased hair products that do not provide silky sheen promised on the package
• Show husband that I appreciate him every day (because I do)
• Pretend that I think husband is right about something every day (because he would totally fall for that)
• Stop swearing behind the wheel (because my children will not believe that “mother trucker” is a term of affection for fellow drivers indefinitely)
• Try to do at least .4 percent of the things I pin on Pinterest.
• Blog at least once a week

I realize that this is a very ambitious list, but that’s just the kind of person I am.


*UPDATE*

The new year is about happiness (which is why people say happy new year) and happiness is very strongly tied to self-esteem. This is why it is very important not to set oneself up for failure by setting unattainable goals. As such, here is my slightly revised list:


Sheri's List of Resolutions:

• Do not miss any episodes of Grey’s Anatomy
• Try to finish all chocolate  and candy in the house in anticipation of next year’s resolution
• Blog sometime

(Happy new year!)

A Journey of Self Discovery (or Why Unpacking My Closet is Like an Archeological Dig)

We moved last week. This has been a journey in self-discovery similar to what I imagine Anaïs Nin, Thoreau, Pi and Britney went through. The following are my revelations.

Things I’ve learned about myself while unpacking:

1. I am under the impression that chain belts are going to come back in style. Also shiny spandex running pants.

2. I had no idea whatsoever that the VHS tape might one day be obsolete

3. If you and I ever dated, I probably have a pair of your socks

4. I apparently thought that labelling computer disks was for suckers

5. I have enough slightly used hair products and gifts-with-purchase lipsticks to open a specialty store

6. I have an unconscious desire to start a business refurbishing old Bic pens

7. I will eat chocolate that is older than both of my children.

8. I have never worn anything I’ve bought at H&M

9. If we are friends, there is 67% chance that I have a signed and sealed birthday card for you that I forgot to mail

10. I have a tough time throwing things out

"Mommy it's An Emergency!" or Why Potty Training is a Lifestyle Choice

When one of my Facebook friends announced her pregnancy on Facebook, among the usual congratulations in the comments section was a piece of advice from a friend of hers advising her to potty train her older child as soon as possible before the arrival of the new baby. Because I don’t know that commenter (commentator?) and because I haven’t seen the aforementioned Facebook friend anywhere other than Cyberspace in 20 years (when we were both 4), I decided not to get into it with her friend, but I have been thinking about a way to get the message across that this is a terrible, terrible idea ever since. Obviously my only choice was to write a blog post (I wish there were a way to send private messages over the interweb-- someone should really invent that).

Potty training is not the hard part. Anyone who tells you it is has not finished potty training and/or has a kid who still wears pull-ups (or one of those really smart but hard-to-train cats). I wish someone had warned me ten months ago when I made the fateful decision to throw out all of Benji’s diapers that having a potty trained toddler or preschooler is a lifestyle choice. So as a favour to my Facebook friend and to any other parent who has not yet made the terrible mistake of introducing their child to the toilet, here is a handy list of things I wish someone had told me.

1. You will never again be able to make plans that don’t involve stopping at multiple public bathrooms.  

2. You will need to find clean, reliable, stroller-accessible public restrooms near the park, public pool and halfway between your house and anywhere you plan to go in the stroller. Or the car.

3. Every sink will be too high and automatic toilets are the most terrifying things ever. Stay away from those.

4. You will never again make it to the front of a very long line-up. You will make it most of the way and then there will be a bathroom emergency thus forcing you to leave your spot. Forget Toys R Us the week before Christmas. It will never, ever happen.

5. You will spend much time kibitzing on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night as your child will soon learn that while you will say no to providing middle-the-night entertainment, you are willing to hang out indefinitely when nature is (allegedly) calling.

6. The minute you sit down to any meal, nature will call. Usually twice. Three times if you are in a busy food court.

7. Same goes for car trips and haircuts if you are foolish enough to bring your child to one of those.

8. The only thing that could possibly make having a potty trained preschooler less convenient, is having a potty trained preschooler and a baby.

9.  Seeing you nurse your baby is always a sign to your older child that it's time to use the bathroom.

10. You will be faced with the choice of whether to put your younger child on the floor of a public bathroom or force your toddler to wipe his own behind.

11. You will spend a great deal of time breastfeeding in public bathrooms while waiting for your older child to do his business (should you still to choose to leave the house).  One day you will continue to breastfeed while pulling up your older child’s pants and washing his hands. You will not care that other people are staring.

12. There is nothing more appealing to a young child than the sanitary napkin disposal.

13. Once your younger child is old enough to stand or walk, he will use this newfound freedom to crawl under the stall door. Because who wouldn’t really?

So what’s my advice? Wait. Wait until your preschooler is old enough to get onto the toilet, do his own wiping and reach the sink. If you have two kids, wait until your baby is old enough to stand up nicely while you attend to child 1. Maybe you can just potty train both of them together. Or if you wait long enough maybe they will train themselves--or better-- eachother.

Trite and Maudlin

I haven’t been updating my blog lately -- partially owing to sheer exhaustion (I have one of those non-sleeping-babies-- one of the 2011 models every one has been trying to get their hands on) and partially owing to a weird case of writer’s block that has to do with only wanting to write serious, sentimental posts. And because my blog is titled Trying to Find My Funny, I don’t want my tens of readers to be disappointed. So perhaps I should just start a sister blog entitled Trite and Maudlin (Overtired and Stupid is another title I have been toying with). Anyway, I will try to get back to funny ASAP but the following is a letter that I wrote to Benji last night after his pre-preschool graduation (yeah, that’s right). To be honest, it wouldn’t have been that hard to make it funny, but in this instance I was going for sincerity as this letter was written primarily for me and of course, for Benji. That being said, I am happy to post it for the other saps who might be lurking among us. If you are not a sap (or at the very least a mother), stop reading here. Really. I would like to be able to look you in the eye the next time I see you.

Here it is:

Dear Benji,

Today was your preschool graduation. Actually, that’s a lie. It was your pre-preschool graduation because you are going back next year. So really, it was just the last day of your first year of school. It was the last day of your first year of school. How did that happen?

Soon there will be a mess of graduations that are going to be hurled my way faster than I can stand to think about as you metamorphose into a “grown up man” (the kind that can use knives and chew gum and have as many big dogs as he can fit into his grown-up-man-house)(which will be adjacent to mommy and daddy’s house, obviously) which is why today I am a little (read: very) weepy when I think about how adorable you looked in your little cap and man-shirt at your pre-preschool commencement ceremony.

I am so proud of you, my sweet boy. You are funny and affectionate and kind and musical. You speak in rhyme and in song. You dance for no reason (the “hockey dance” is currently my favourite) and you are the slowest walker I have ever met. You hold your baby sister’s hand in the stroller and you like to point out when she is being cute (or doing something wrong--- “No, Aviva, no!” are words we hear with some frequency).

You are loving and open -- declaring different friends to be “your favourite guy” after a fun time in the park or  at school. You love soccer (but hate the idea of someone taking the ball away from you) as well as baseball-- despite never having seen, nor played, a game.

You are smart. You have known the alphabet and have been able to identify all your letters and numbers since long before you were two. You learned our phone number on the way to school one morning. You are learning to spell and you remember names and stories and people. You are so smart.

You are shy around “big kids” as well as big groups of kids but are happy to charm any adult, regaling them with anecdotes, puns and knock knock jokes. You pick out your underwear every morning by laying out an “underwear buffet” though you will take off whatever underwear you painstakingly chose the moment you somehow get wind of the fact that “Thomas on the bum” is clean. You are currently in bed happily telling stories to yourself  so loudly that I can hear you through the door and across the hall.

You still love to hold my hair just as you did when you nursed (just over 2 years ago) and you still suck your fingers just as you did on the day you were born (just over three years ago). You like to cuddle and listen to stories and give hugs. When you sleep you still look like my baby. You always smell like my baby. But you are growing up.

The day you were born was the happiest day I had ever had and since then the days have been even happier. I am glad that my heart is one of those new burstproof models, otherwise it would have blown to pieces years ago.

Benjamin Bunny, next year is your last year of preschool. And before I know it, there will be another graduation.

I want this year to go by slowly. I want all the years to go by slowly. I love being your mommy and as much as I will love, adore, be amazed by, the next version of you, I need you to know how crazy I am about three-year-old you and how much I am going to miss that guy.  

Happy pre-preschool graduation Bunny. I love you.

On Hating Haircuts (or why I need to invest in a Flowbee)

I think there were about ten minutes in the mid-nineties that I wasn’t either growing out my bangs or deciding whether to cut bangs. I am currently doing both (as my longish side bangs are so annoying that I am trying to decide on the easiest way to end the misery).

This is not to say that I have never liked my hair. I had a good two year run with one stylist whose personality did not make the cut (wow. I’m so sorry) but more often than not, I’m either committed to a mediocre stylist whose personality I love or I’m bouncing from stylist to stylist like a crack addict with memories of that one awesome haircut that worked and the high the came with it. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I will also admit that sometimes it’s not my hair that’s the real issue--it's my face. I have had several haircuts (including, but not limited to the one that I am currently sporting) that would look awesome if I had someone else’s face.

I am not a cutter or a substance abuser or someone who engages in extreme (or team) sports, but I have been recklessly using Groupons for haircuts lately, my logic being why pay $100  for the same cut you can hate for $15.00? My husband thinks that I’m cheap and that I’m getting what I pay for. That said, he also claims not to notice any difference between haircuts. Ever. If this is in fact true, it’s kind of sad for him because when I do get that perfect cut, he won’t be able to revel in the joy that I am imagining accompanies a good haircut. I might not even invite him to the I-have-the-exact-right-amount-of-layers party.*

I feel like a big issue with my recent (10+ year) run of bad haircuts has a lot to do with communication. However, because I happen to be an excellent communicator (obviously) I have narrowed it down to two possibilities--either the stylists I’m dealing with are hard of hearing or the music they play at salons is just too loud. I mean what other reason is there to explain the fact that when I say “no layers”, the stylist hears “ ‘mo layers!”  Or when I say  “just a trim” she hears “short, like him” or if I say “just a bit off the back” she hears “if you don’t cut a big chunk off the front, I might have a heart attack!” So my next step is to stop frequenting salons that play music**.  

The crazy part is that I have easy hair and I’m not at all adventurous -- my hair has never been cut above my shoulders, dyed, permed or even highlighted which is why I have to get this issue under control NOW. I’m not sure how much time I have left before the grey sets in, but I need to find someone who can cut my hair before I venture into the scary and exciting world of colour.***

In the meantime, the longer this issue goes on, the more empathy I have for fellow sufferers- the most famous being Britney Spears****, who you may remember was so unhappy with a lousy haircut back in February 2007 that she shaved off  all her hair and immediately suffered a breakdown. Though I hear that it’s grown back quite nicely-- maybe I should find out who cuts her hair (and whether he accepts Groupons.)




*Extravaganza

**And to stop using stylists that can only communicate by reading lips without and interpreter who is fully versed in American Sign Language by my side.
***I can already hear how the conversation will play out “What? Dark brown? I thought you said you wanted a colour that you can see across town”.
****Or possibly, Sinead O’Connor

On Hating Cell Phones (or why yes, I *am* a 75-year-old woman)

I remember staying home sick from school one day when I was in the third or fourth grade, lying on my parents’ bed and watching a fashion show from the future on Donahue. I don’t remember much about the show other than models dressed in flashy metallic jumpsuits (so similar to the ones we all wear now....how did they know?) and a woman pulling a phone out of her handbag while the announcer talked about how the future would be communication-driven and that everyone would have a portable phone. I looked at the phone  (attached by a cord to the model’s handbag) and was pretty skeptical. The idea of a purse phone seemed just about as likely as the realization of my fantasies of having a TV in the car or my brother being abducted by aliens.

Surprisingly (given that I had been given so much time to prepare, thanks to my friend Phil Donahue), I was the last of my friends to get a cell phone. It happened one day when a friend marched me into a store, told me that I was unreachable and that I had to get with the times. Because said store was offering a free phone for signing up with a plan (I love free so much that I signed up for 3 different Visa cards in undergrad just for free oversized T- shirts) I signed up. For a three-year plan. And, as luck would have it, my work gave me a Blackberry later that month (also free) so quite quickly I went from being a tech loser with no cell phone, to being a tech loser with two cell phones.

I am a terrible cell phone owner. It took me 2 years to learn my phone number. I leave it in my purse for days at a time. It rarely has any charge (please refer to “purse for days at a time”) and I will not give you my number unless there is a very good reason (ie. we are married or you have temporary possession of my child).  If you do have my number and venture to use it, you will likely be met with a voicemail message warning you not to leave a message because I don’t check messages (my plan came with free voicemail so obviously I had to take it).

I do use my cell phone-- it’s great for calling to say that I am running late or for calling my husband to see why he is running late. But I still have as many reservations as the average tech savvy 75-year-old.

Most importantly, I think that they are dangerous. They cause accidents on the road (I suspect a drunk driver and texter have the same level of skill and awareness). They cause brain tumours and brain cancer (okay, this hasn’t been conclusively proven, but I I’ve read enough studies and compelling arguments to believe it- particularly in the case of children who start using cell phones at a young age). I will remind you that even people as learned and earnest as TV doctors used to say that cigarettes were safe too.

I also think that they make us rude. It’s entirely normal to pick up a phone call during a meal or while out with a friend (or your wife). People text while others are talking to them. People speak loudly on the bus, in the airport, in stores invading everyone else’s space and comfort level.

Cell phones make it free for our in-laws to call us from anywhere, any time of day or night with their ludicrously cheap plans (which would be annoying for people who don’t like hearing from their in-laws as much and as often as I enjoy hearing from mine).

I am also not comfortable talking on a cell phone (it doesn’t tuck behind my ear the way my home phone does) or touching someone else’s cell phone (I know you’ve had that Petri dish in the bathroom with you). But finally, I am not comfortable calling a call phone, which seems to be something I have to do more and more frequently as people ditch their land lines.

I don’t think that anyone needs to be reachable all the time. I don’t want you calling me when I am at the park with my kid and frankly, I don’t want to be calling you. I don’t like when you call me from the grocery store as you shop with screaming kids and announcements in the background as you tell me to “hold on” while you ask some dude about where the buttermilk can be located. Also, I am nervous calling you. I am nervous that you will pick up while you are driving or that my call will interrupt an important meeting (who hasn’t forgotten to turn off their cell phone during one of those?) and that I will somehow be blamed.

That being said, I do see the benefits of having a cell phone. I like to be able to call my husband to find out where he is or to tell him something important (read: important-ish). I like knowing that my kid’s school can get hold of me in an emergency (in theory- if I were to charge my phone) and I like having something to look at and play on when you are boring me (but hate when you do it when I am boring you).

I just don’t want cell phones to replace land lines until metallic jumpsuits replace jeans and sweaters (or until my brother is finally abducted by aliens). 

Someone please tell me how to make time slow down. Seriously.

Since the day Benji was born I’ve been sad because he’s growing up too quickly. Okay, I am obviously exaggerating. I didn’t start getting really sad until he was about 3 months old when I had to put away his tiny little newborn sleepers, hardly able to believe that my big three-month-old once fit into them. I realized then that even though 6 p.m grocery store line-ups and morning meetings that are still going strong past noon seem to take forever, they actually don’t. Nothing does. Time goes more quickly the older you get (don’t believe me? Think about how long a two-hour car trip used to take when you were six) and I know that soon-- too soon-- I will be one of those weirdos who stops people with babies on the street to tell them to enjoy every second because of how quickly they grow up. I know that I will blink and my kids will be grown-up people making excuses not to have to see me (please God don’t let this happen--please let my children live next door because they can’t live without me)(or at the very least let them have me on speed dial).

The thing is that it’s hard not to mentally rush things-- you look forward to your child sleeping through the night and learning to walk and run and speak and read and he does all that stuff and it’s the best, cutest stuff ever and then he is asking to learn to drive and before you know it he doesn’t want to cuddle with you or kiss in public and then he tells you that he is bringing someone else to the prom. Sad stuff.

At least once a day I remind myself to enjoy a moment. It can be a moment when 2-year-old Benji old and 4-month-old Aviva are holding hands while Aviva nurses or when Benji is singing the ABCs at the top of his lungs while simultaneously clapping and marching though the kitchen or when sweet Aviva is sleeping on me, her warm little body splayed out on my chest as she periodically sighs contentedly. Even in those moments I know that too soon they will be sepia memories (was it Benji or Aviva who used to march through the kitchen while singing ABCs? How did Aviva get the cat to hold her hand while she was nursing? ) but I don’t know how to make them last. I don’t know how to make time go more slowly (other than spending all of our time in meetings with my colleagues). Every day I find myself tucking Benji in or feeding Aviva at 3 a.m. and I realize that my babies are one day farther away from me.

It’s not that I don’t want my kids to grow up, I just want it to take longer. I want more spit up in my hair and diapers to change and play dough under my finger nails. I want more wet kisses and middle of the night cuddles and for bubbles to stay amazing for a while longer. I want to always be able to kiss any pain away. I want to be the protector and confidante and best friend for twice--no-- ten times as long.

Recently I was in a store while Benji was sucking on his fingers and an older woman came to tell me that her daughter used to do the same thing. I asked how she got her to stop and she told me that the daughter did it until she was ten, but in secret. Then she lowered her voice and said that she’d better watch what she says because her daughter is in the store. She also added that her daughter is now in her fifties but that she didn’t want to embarrass her. This gray-haired woman hasn’t sucked her fingers in over forty years but in her mother’s mind it was just last night that she snuck into her bedroom and pulled her fingers out of her mouth as she slept.

The reason those crazies stop you in the street to tell you that time goes quickly and to enjoy every second is because it’s true. I know that too soon I will be looking back at this post* and ten or twenty years will have passed and my heart breaks a little just thinking about that.

*Well, that’s assuming this Internet thing is still going strong. I don’t know about you, but I think that it might just be a fad.

It's been a while, but I had a baby, okay?

It’s been a while. I know. Since I last posted I had a baby girl. While I am delighted to have her, I did find the process of getting in her in much easier than getting her out. Also, newborns keep you busy. And tired. And often stained. But I feel like the fact that my kids are now two years and four months respectively, things are getting easier (I was going to add a joke about my third child being 35 years old but decided against it because I knew that I would get in trouble)(and also because of how mature and helpful my 35-year-old child husband is).

For the record, It’s not that I haven’t been blogging, it’s that I’ve been doing it for someone else’s website* as I’ve found having forced deadlines works best for me (as evidenced by the fact that I haven’t updated this blog in 6 months). That said, I prefer to blog without a fear of being edited (many of my good jokes were edited out because I tend to put them in brackets and some editors don’t like brackets)(I do)(see?).

So my plan is for this to be my last catching-you-up-because-I haven’t-bothered-to-update-update-recently post. Regular posts ahead. No joke.


*I will hopefully get around to including links to those posts in case you care to catch up on my very glamorous and exciting life. In the meantime, if you are super-keen you can look them up on www.Mommyish.com.

Everyone in My House Is a PIcky Eater Including My Cat (alternate title: I Hate Making Dinner)

Are you one of my Facebook friends who posts pictures of stuff they cook -or worse- grow and then cook for all the world to see? If yes, please don’t send a friend request to my husband. Seriously. I don’t need for him to find out that pita pizza, taco night and pasta isn’t what everyone else is eating on a regular basis. I mean it.

I do try really hard to make healthy meals for my family but there are a few complications, namely I have a new baby (okay, newish-- she is four months old but really doesn’t like to be put down for any length of time)(she is indeed on my lap as I write this in case you’re wondering); I am a vegetarian (who eats fish); my husband is a meat eater (who also enjoys fish but hates eggs, quiche, eggplant, lentils and most bean dishes) and my picky toddler is allergic to fish and seafood. In addition, at least 66.6 percent of us are lactose intolerant and finally, I really don’t enjoy cooking.

In the old days, I used to make fish a couple of times a week-- as an easy, healthy source of protein that my husband and I could agree on but now if we want to eat fish we have to do it after our son is in bed or eat at the table with him while he eats something else, which involves getting up about every three minutes to wash our hands using techniques gleaned from the movie Silkwood.

I won’t lie- the picky kid is the easiest to feed (well other than me)(and the baby who is not yet on solids). I make him casseroles and quiches and bakes and freeze them in individual servings. Unlike my husband, he is also happy to eat and omelet or crepes for dinner. However, the difficulty lies in the fact that everything I read says that we should all not only be eating meals together but eating the same meal together.

I spend a lot of time on cooking websites optimistically searching through articles with promising titles like “Easy Meals For The Whole Family!” and “Everyday Dinners That Everyone Will Love!” but generally three out five contain meat, one is a fish dish and the last one involves lentils, beans or both. I suspect that if I had unlimited time and a modicum of talent when it comes to cooking, this wouldn’t be an issue, but I really don’t. Entertaining is always stressful for me when I have to make something new, because cooking really just doesn’t come naturally to me (though, weirdly, I am a kickass baker-- if I could serve cake, pie and squares for supper every night, there would be no issue)(in part because most cakes that I make do not contain fish, lentils or beans).

This isn’t to say that I haven’t found any meals that we can all enjoy together -- I have -- and I’ve been quick to add them to the weekly rotation. But owing to the fact that it is a weekly rotation, my husband quickly gets sick of them and we soon find ourselves eating pita pizza or Subway or TV dinners while my son enjoys quiche and broccoli.  

I have come to terms with the fact that I might eventually have to start feeding my children meat, particularly if my son doesn’t outgrow his fish allergy --a fantasy of mine that has taken the place former fantasies, like waking up with perfect eyesight (or perfect breasts). I even took the step of buying free range, locally raised, humanely slaughtered, organic beef for my son, worried that I was depriving him of an important source of protein-- but he didn’t like it (we tried it a few times). And while I am okay with the fact that my husband eats meat, and even barbeques (aforementioned free range, locally raised, humanely slaughtered, organic) meat at our house, I just can’t bring myself to prepare it for him as vegetarianism is something that I truly believe in for health, environmental and ethical reasons (also, who the crap wants to cook three separate meals?).

My hope is that with experience I will become better at preparing new and exciting things for dinner but in the interim if you are a Facebook friend of my husband’s and you do plan to post something about the amazing six course dinner you prepared last night, would you at least change your privacy settings? We’re having tacos again tonight and I’d like him to believe me when I tell him that you probably are too.

Note: An edited version of this post was originally published by b5media www.mommyish.com

Two-Baby-Guilt

It’s dinner time, my husband is out of town and my two-year-old is asking me over and over to go get him another piece of corn (which involves pulling said corn out of boiling water, running it under cold water and then possibly cutting it off the cob, depending on his palate). My three-month-old however is happily drinking milk -- you know, the kind that comes out of me. Apologizing profusely I pull the baby off me and put her in her bouncy chair while I go get the corn. She starts screaming, I come back with the corn and it’s too late. I have missed my son’s corn window-- he has suddenly remembered that he is a terrible eater who prefers to play during dinner rather than eat. I feel guilty -- but not just regular guilt -- two-baby guilt.

What’s the difference between two-baby guilt and one-baby guilt you might be asking yourself (assuming you have one baby or less). Well basically it’s the difference between worrying that you are letting down two children as opposed to just one.

I long for the days when the only things I had to feel guilty about were not working, taking my baby with me to get my hair/eyebrows/nails done on occasion instead of the library/art gallery/museum and serving eggs for dinner a little more often than I should.

When my son was a baby he spent his days being read to, sung to and going to baby-centered activities. My daughter on the other hand gets read to by default as she’s stuck listening to her brother’s books, is sung to when my son wants to sing (even when she is trying to sleep) and goes to activities aimed at two-year-olds (with the exception of a weekly mom and baby massage class which she generally sleeps through as she’s finally far enough away from her brother’s singing that she can get some peace and quiet). Even her bath time tends to be weirdly focused on trying to include my son and letting him “help” (luckily she is not at an age where she thinks it weird that her various body parts are being washed on her brother’s recommendation but I suspect at some point this might become an issue.)

Because I don’t want my son to resent my daughter, I’ve tried to keep his life pretty much the same (well if you don’t count the fact that I recently convinced him that a group cuddle in mommy’s bed would be a fun activity for the three of us after a particularly trying night with the baby or that he is occasionally stuck talking to himself in his crib long after he wakes up from his nap while I finish feeding his sister). While I understand that feelings of resentment after the birth of a sibling are generally temporary (I got over the resentment I felt after the birth of my brother within seventeen or eighteen years) selfishly, I am also worried that my own relationship with my son will change. But then --of course-- I feel guilty that my daughter and I might never have that same bond-- the one that my son and I forged as a result of him being the most important person in my life until just after his second birthday.

I keep telling myself that having a sibling is good for both kids-- that forcing my son to sit and do a puzzle at the museum while I nurse his sister for half an hour builds patience (and puzzle solving skills, obviously) and that even though she gets very little alone-time, watching my son and listening to him talk and learn is just as enriching for my daughter as having my undivided attention all day long, but sometimes I have trouble believing it. I do know however that in the long run they will be happy to have each other. They will know how to share. They will have less parental pressure to procreate (provided one of them steps up within a reasonable amount of time) and they will have someone who shares their history (assuming that they don’t compare notes about the first two years of life).

The cat on the other hand -- well she got screwed. Don’t get me wrong -- I do feel very guilty for ignoring her ever since I started making human babies, the problem is that I don’t feel guilty enough to do anything about it.

Note: An edited version of this post was originally published by b5media www.mommyish,com

Why Yes, I am Terrified of My Kids' Doctor's Receptionist

My heart is racing as I dial and I hear the phone start ringing at the other end. A machine picks up and I do exactly what the outgoing message directs me to -- speaking slowly and clearly, I leave my name and phone number twice-- trying to sound friendly but not too desperate for a return phone call. The person that I am trying to woo with my friendly telephone manner? The receptionist at my children’s pediatrician’s office.

I’m not sure why I find this blued-eyed woman with a blond perm so scary. What I do know is that I am so intimidated by her that when she called a couple of weeks ago to remind me about Ava’s next appointment- not only did I not have the courage to tell her that the time was not great for me, I didn’t even have the guts to tell her that Ava is not my daughter’s name (it is an A name though, so I figured that she was close enough)(besides, I do like the name Ava, so what’s the harm?)

For the first few weeks of my son’s life she didn’t seem to like me and that was not fun- particularly for a crazy person such as myself, who enjoys calling the pediatrician on a regular basis with random health concerns I have read about on the Internet. And then something happened. I said something and she laughed (bonus! I was actually trying to be funny- she wasn’t laughing at me this time) and I saw a glimmer of what could be. And since then she has been really nice to me- I’m not sure what I did right, but now I have so much more to lose. Now that I know what its like to be on her good side, I am terrified of going back.

Because of my newly acquired status (we’re not exactly besties, but I can say with confidence that she doesn’t loathe me) I will take ANY appointment she gives me and the one time I had double booked and had to reschedule I rehearsed what I was going to say with a friend (who shares the same doctor so that we could role play) before making the call. I also seriously contemplated rescheduling the other appointment -- with a specialist whom we’d been waiting to see for several months-- so that I could avoid calling to switch.

For the record, I am not simply motivated by a pathological need to be liked -- I know this because I am quite certain that my dentist’s receptionist hates me (I often switch appointments at the last minute) and really don’t care all that much. It’s the fact that the pediatrician’s receptionist has power. She can go ask the doctor a question on my behalf or make me schlep my sorry ass in to see her myself. She can call a prescription into the pharmacy, or not.  She can make me feel like an idiot when I call to ask about green poo or tell me an anecdote about her niece’s similarly coloured bowel movement. She is the gateway to my children’s healthcare (and okay, maybe sometimes my self-esteem).

Though when I was there last week I realized that maybe I don’t have to try quite so hard. The woman in front of me spent almost ten minutes trying to set up an appointment for her son, yammering about why each suggested day and time didn’t work for her. And in that time the best thing ever happened - the receptionist looked up at me (while aforementioned annoying mom was looking at her Blackberry) and rolled her eyes. At me! I won’t say that it felt as good as the first time my kids smiled at me, but it was pretty close.

Would It Be So Wrong to Lie About My Baby's Age?

My husband made me stop lying about my age while we were still dating (I used to shave off a year, just to take the edge off) and I truly haven’t done it since. Though recently I have been tempted to shave a couple of weeks off my daughter’s age. See, the thing is that I make small babies so my seven-week-old currently looks about three weeks (she weighs just over eight pounds) and I went through the same thing with my son.

Her small size is not something I worry about as she is healthy and growing and has been able to hold her head upright without support since the day she was born thankyouverymuch but I am still exhausted by people asking how old she is and then inevitably following up by telling me how tiny she is and how she looks younger than her age (as though I had not yet given her a really good, hard look).  I do have a bunch of stock responses along the lines of “small people make small babies” or “a big baby would have required a paternity test” or even the “my son was small too and look how well he’s doing” at which time I point to my 26-month-old (who still wears size 18-24 months) as proof that I do indeed feed my children, but it’s still a conversation that I dread. Incidentally, people’s follow-up question (yes. they have follow up questions) tends to be “how much did she weigh when she was born?” which I find so irritating that my follow-up question has almost become “Why? How much do you weigh?”. Of course these comments fall into the harmless if irritating box --worse are the ones that are downright rude.

Take what happened three weeks ago - I was sitting on a bench outside, nursing my daughter while talking to my son (we had been walking home from the grocery store when the baby got very hungry). A random woman sits down next to me and tells me that my daughter is pretty. I realize that she is talking about my son and I correct her, while thanking her for the compliment. She defends herself by bringing my son’s long eyelashes into evidence (they are apparently “too long for a boy”)(at which time I make a mental note to stop putting mascara on my two-year-old. Son) She then looks at my daughter, who is now finished nursing, and tells me that she is too skinny. At this point I muster up every ounce of self-control I have (as this woman was surely NOT too skinny and I was tempted to tell her as much), put my daughter back into the stroller and walk away with my skinny daughter and girly son.

Afterwards, friends were full of suggestions about what I should have said to this opinionated stranger -- from the overly-polite-too-highroad-for-my-blood “thank you for your comments” to the clever “she is a girl-- she can never be too thin” to the very rude “eff off” but the bigger question is not necessarily what I should have said, but why this woman felt like it was acceptable to say anything to begin with.  I mean, had I been standing there alone with my husband, would she have felt entitled to make similar appearance-related comments? (NOTE TO HUSBAND: I am not implying that you are girly-- I am merely tying to illustrate a point). Why are people’s children fair game? And by children, I am also including zygotes given that comments start the minute pregnancy is suspected (“is that a baby bump or a big lunch?”). And while most comments are harmless if inappropriate (for example the time a normally very respectful friend’s husband commented on the size of my usually-small-but-bigger-when-I’m-preggo-breasts) some really are not. For example, I was constantly made to feel worried and self-conscious because I didn’t show all that much until the very end of both of my pregnancies (“Wow! You’re nine months pregnant? You look less then six!”) and I have a friend who was constantly made to feel like a beluga whale during hers (“Wow! Only six months? You look like you’re ready to pop!”)

I wonder if people feel entitled to comment because of the manner in which pregnant celebrities and their babies are objectified in gossip magazines or because it’s assumed that once you are “with child” you are less person, more vessel. Though I have no clue why people feel a right to comment on our children’s appearances. It must come from the same place as their desire to constantly give unsolicited advice. Which I don’t know about you, but I find super helpful – in the same way that I find people who remind me that my baby shouldn’t be crying in public by giving me dirty looks helpful.

Note: an edited version of this piece was originally published by b5media www.mommyish.com

Co-sleeping is better than not sleeping, right?

Before having baby 2 I used to joke that there was no way that I was going to have another baby who was as good a sleeper as my son-- likely in a sad attempt to unjinx myself, thereby forcing fate to give me another awesome sleeper. 

So if you didn’t know this already, preemptive unjinxing doesn’t work. At least not for me. From the day she was born my daughter was one of those babies who needed to be held constantly and who would express her dissatisfaction at being put down with a shrill, piercing scream.

By day four I was so exhausted that when my doula suggested that I try co-sleeping (something that I’d already dismissed as too dangerous and too granola for my liking), I actually listened. She showed me how to lie in such a way that I wouldn’t roll over onto the baby and so that she could nurse when she felt like it.

To say that it was relaxing would be a lie- I was sleeping with the light on, without blankets, on my side with my arm raised in a crazy Twister-esque pose which is supposed to make rolling over impossible. I would wake up with a sore arm and a sore hip, but I was waking up (read: I was actually sleeping!) This went on for two weeks.

During this time I tried to convince myself that co-sleeping was okay- safe- natural- but it was hard. When I finally got around to sifting through the package of papers that I’d been given while in hospital, I found one which set out in no uncertain terms that co-sleeping is never safe. This scared me enough to start transitioning Captain Cries-a-lot to her bassinet. Then, at our two-week appointment my pediatrician asked about my daughter’s sleep and I mentioned that I often had to put her into my own bed in order to get her to sleep at night. Now I might have read her wrong, but the doctor’s response (“if you keep doing that you will kill your baby”) leads me to believe that she is not a fan of co-sleeping. She then told me about an infant patient who died when his mother rolled over in her sleep. And no, the mom was apparently not drunk or high- just tired. Because this story knocked the wind out of me, I didn’t ask any more questions but I kind of wish that I had. Had the mother been taking all of the precautions that I had been?  Were there other extenuating factors?

Last week there were a bunch of reports on a new infant sleep study being conducted by a nurse by the name of Jennifer Combs. Combs reviewed 45 infant deaths and found that because some infant sleep deaths had not been classified as such, the number of sleep-related infant deaths was 1 in 3, as opposed to 1 in 5 which is the standard number. She is now reviewing a much bigger sample and says that she is seeing the same 1 to 3 ratio.

According to Combs the two main causes of sleep-related infant deaths are accidental smothering with a blanket, pillow or other soft item and adults rolling on top of babies while sharing a bed. But the media reports covering the study made it all about co-sleeping - about how we should never co-sleep.

Now it seems to me (in my sleep-deprived mostly stupid state, please see above) that there are a few things wrong with the way this story has been reported by the media- the most obvious being that the story should not be mainly about co-sleeping, it should be about safe sleeping. It should be about keeping soft toys and pillows out of cribs and about putting babies to bed on their backs and-- yes-- it should be about helping those people who will co-sleep despite scare tactics to find a safe way to do it. In fact, I think that my pediatrician should be doing that too. So should the hospitals.

This is not to say that I think that co-sleeping is completely safe even when no booze or drugs are involved and every precaution has been taken because, like my pediatrician says, new parents are sometimes so exhausted they are basically drunk*. But I’m a crazy person - the minute that I hear that there is a modicum of risk to my child, I will stop whatever behaviour is in question, even where most rational people might not. I am my doctor’s target audience. But some people are going to co-sleep regardless and because of that I feel as though our medical community has an obligation to provide information about safe co-sleeping practices.

After seeing the pediatrician I started putting my daughter (now five weeks) in her bassinet at night and for naps and she has somewhat adjusted, but it has not been easy. There are times I want to cry with her. And, there are times in the early morning when because it’s light out, and because I know how to co-sleep safely, and because I don’t want to start the day so exhausted that I won’t be fit to take care of my children or drive safely or remember my husband’s name (or that I have a husband), I put her into bed with me. And we both sleep.


*As someone who is currently “drunk” I will use this opportunity to remind you that this post would be at least 40 percent more readable if I were sleeping at night.

Note: An edited version of this piece was originally published by b5media www.mommyish.com

Why I Wish I’d Bought a Designer Handbag Instead of a Doula

A doula can provide comfort, support and guidance during pregnancy and labour and that extra boost of confidence you need after your baby is born. The cost? About $750. Or you can buy a really great designer handbag - a handbag that can also provide comfort and support (it would carry all you r stuff, right?). And, not unlike a doula, your fancy new purse can give you an extra boost of postpartum confidence when you are walking around in your stretchy pants, not quite able to fit into your pre-pregnancy jeans (as people will be looking at your awesome bag instead of your post-baby muffin top). The cost? About the same.

Two years ago I would have told you that the doula is the way to go, no matter how nice the bag. The first time I gave birth my husband and I engaged the services of a doula. It seemed only logical given how apprehensive my husband was at the thought of seeing our beautiful child burst out of my body. And she was fantastic- calmly guiding my husband through my labour and convincing me that pushing was the ONLY way to get the baby out when I refused to do so after learning that it was too late for an epidural. She helped me with nursing and our son’s first bath and showed me how to use our carriers. She was such an invaluable resource that we called her immediately after the 18-week ultrasound to book her for baby 2. And when we learned that she would not be available for our baby’s birth, we hired the woman she recommended after one meeting-- no references necessary.

Thirty-six weeks into my pregnancy my very conservative OB suggested that we induce around 38 weeks. Not sure what to do, I called the doula for advice. And then I called her again. And again. It took so many tries for her to return my phone call that I started to worry about what would happen when I was actually in labour.

When she finally called back I could tell that she did not think the induction was a good idea, telling me that my baby was obviously a tough baby and didn’t need to be born early (what?). She also told me that the best (and only real) way to know what to do was to lie down in a dark room and ask my baby whether she was ready to come out. Now I am not a medical professional (okay, I haven’t taken science since high school), but from what I understand, most babies are not super-keen on coming out (hence all the pushing). I also feel like it is probably hard to communicate with one’s unborn child about such issues, no matter how dim the lighting.

Once the induction process was underway we called the doula from the hospital to give her a status report at which time she reminded us that we didn’t have to go through with the induction (super helpful). She also told us to call back in a couple of hours because she was one hundred percent (!) sure that I was going to have a baby that night.  But I didn’t have a baby that night. Or the next day. So when we finally called her after twenty-six hours of contractions to tell her that my water had broken and that I was in active labour, we thought that she would be almost as excited as us to get this baby out. As it turned out, she was more excited about her supper, which she told us that she was just sitting down to and would need to finish before she got ready to come meet us. My designer bag on the other hand would have been at the hospital with me as soon as I needed it, radiating beauty while holding precious things.

When she finally did arrive, I wished that she hadn’t. Her advice was annoying (No. I don’t want a bath) and often contrary to what the (amazing) labour and delivery nurse was suggesting. And as the evening progressed her questions went from irritating (are you sure you don’t want a bath?) to downright annoying (are you going to eat this sandwich?)(I gave her the sandwich but was tempted to do so on the condition that she eat it somewhere else).

Around 2 a.m. my husband decided to take a nap, which I fully supported. I was less supportive of the doula’s nap owing to the fact that I was paying her to, well, not nap. Also, I feel like the least she could have done was ask if I minded. That being said, my biggest regret was waking her up when it was time to push four hours later. If I had to do it again I would have let her sleep. In fact, I would have had everyone whisper while I pushed on the chance that she might wake up.

It will not come as a surprise to learn that her post-partum support has been less than stellar, though happily I remember most things from the last time I did this. I guess the thing with a handbag is that you know what you are paying for when you buy it. A doula on the other hand, requires a little more research as she -unlike a handbag- is not returnable.

*An edited version of this piece was first published by b5media www.mommyish.com.