I will not accept hate in my country. I WILL NOT.

Last night a swastika was painted onto a Rabbi's front door in my city, my Capital of Canada.

The story is here.













This shit has happened before, and I've always been dismayed. But, unfortunately, I've never been as fucking livid as I am right now.

So I decided to do something. I wrote a letter to my elected representatives, at the municipal, provincial and federal levels. I encourage you to do the same.  In fact, your can copy and paste my text if it appeals to you.

I don't know what I will do next, but I will do something. I will.

*****

To my elected representatives and candidates:

As you know, a hate crime was committed today against a Rabbi in Ottawa. I suspect you agree, a swastika is not only a revolting violation, it is a distinct threat. I have a hard time believing this hatred wasn't incited by the horrendous, racist, misogynist, bigoted rhetoric being normalized by the recent US election.

This type of hate is not unprecedented in Ottawa or Canada, but it is perhaps often considered an isolated incident - an incident that we "condemn" but actually do very little to prevent.

However, in the rude awakening of the US election, I sense that some Canadians are becoming aware of how easily things can go awry; how quickly hatred that spawns in cold, dark places can find strength.

So today I want us to do something.

I can no longer accept my own or others' apathy. Empty "stances against" can no longer be the go-to response. This cannot continue; it cannot be shrugged off. In this country, in this community, in this national capital - or anywhere - hatred cannot stand.

And so, I need your help:

Could you describe how you extinguish the spread of hate in Canada? What specific actions will you take to support minorities, to educate and build cultural competency, to bring communities together, and to foster a dialogue that will strengthen multiculturalism in Canada? What organizations do you fund or support? How can constituents build on what you're doing? How can constituents get involved?

Sickness is catching / Oh were favour so.

But favour can catch. I implore you to use your voice, your platform. I implore you to speak loudly and with pride to those you represent and those you work with; to communicate widely about how we, as a collective, can fundamentally and consistently reject hatred in Canada.

Thank you sincerely for your time and consideration,

****

Dear Fraggle, Don't Ever Let Me Stop You From Being Who You Are

Dear Fraggle,

You are generally a polite and cooperative little person. But every single time we ask you to go to the bathroom, you squawk and resist with ferocity.

Once you eventually concede, you spend 15 minutes doing god knows what in there. It doesn't seem to matter how often we ask you not to play in the bathroom, you are not deterred.

I think it's because, most of the time, your play isn't "play." Your play is work. You're working on something. You're practising, observing, exploring - and doing so in the most direct, linear way possible. The way a surgeon practises sewing up dolls.

So tonight, just after you went to bed, you got up to go to the bathroom just one more time "Because... In the middle of the night, if I *really* need to go pee, I can. Yeah I can. It's ok Mama."

You were in there for a while, but Hubby and I didn't pay much attention.

And then, just now, when I came up to bed, I found this on my bathroom counter.

A handful of about 50 sheets of toilet paper. Individually separated and stacked in a perfect little Fraggle pile.

And I've never been so happy.

Because this is YOU my darling. Quietly working in the bathroom and then toddling off to sleep on your own.

I love you. You are my joy.

Mama

How to be good at chores in 16 easy steps

Parenthood is an unrelenting barrage of chores. It's a barrage of other things too, but the chores - good god the chores.

Now, to be clear, I don't really care about chores. My house is not one of those pristine magazine houses. On a good day, it barely passes for hygienic. My house is a solid tolerable, and often in some state of repair or renovation (thank you Hubby).

Generally my house borders on embarrassing, but can sometimes look like at least I turned on the robot vacuum.

However, I still do chores. A fucking endless, painful, surprising series of chores that keep my house precariously perched on the fence between "hmm what's that lingering stench?" and "holy shit we gotta call someone my socks are stuck to the floor wait is that poop of course it is what else would it be."

So today I had a single chore goal. Usually, I have zero chore goals. Each day passes with a three-year old yelling and running and making all matter of messes (including, but not limited to, playdoh on the table, milk on the couch, rice on the floor, and paint in her hair) as well as a six-month old who actively spits all of his saliva, food and breastmilk on any and all surfaces.

Whatever chores get done in between all that are a miracle. On an average day, the dishes don't get done and piles of clean and/or dirty laundry become excellent floor pillows for Hubby and I during our best "yes I'm parenting even if I am laying on the floor with my eyes closed" moments.

But this morning, Fraggle marched into our bedroom at her precise 7:17 and announced that her nighttime diaper had leaked into her pants, and therefore into her sheets.

Enter: chore goal.

Today's chore simply had to ensure that I am a good enough parent that my kid doesn't have to sleep in a possibly pee-ish bed.

Chore goal failed, as I'm sure you predicted. Because life.  Fraggle napped in her possibly pee-ish sheets this afternoon.

BUT - I did not allow myself to be deterred. I swore, tonight I will be a better parent than I was this morning. Tonight I will change those godforsaken sheets if it kills me.

And kill me it nearly did.

After washing windows, making dinner, sorting closets, and then feeding, bathing and bedding the baby, this is what it takes to complete a single chore goal in my house:

Step 1 - Strip the pee-ish sheets.

Step 2 - Realize you don't have a clean sheet.

Step 3 - Go down to the main floor to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, for the clean sheet.

Step 4 - Return upstairs, put away those clean clothes, spread out the clean sheet but then realize you don't have a clean towel to lay under the sheet to protect the mattress from other pee-ish nights.

Step 5 - Go down to the basement to retrieve a clean towel from the dryer.

Step 6 - Fold all the laundry from the dryer and put it into a hamper.

Step 7 - Put the wet stuff from the washer into the dryer.

Step 8 - Put new stuff in the washer.

Step 9 - Carry the hamper up - wait, stop - scoop the kitty litter.

Step 10 - Wash hands.

Step 11 - Carry the bag of cat feces up to the garbage.

Step 12 - Take the recycling out because it's overflowing on the back deck and Hubby keeps ranting about it.

Step 13 - Wash hands.

Step 14 - Return to the basement to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, dig out the clean towel buried at the bottom because fucking idiot.

Step 15 - Heave the clean laundry hamper up the stairs and make the child's bed.

Step 16 - Put the pee-ish sheets into another hamper - wait, stop - all the hampers are already in use fuck that - launch the dirty pee-ish sheets over the stair railing.

Oh, and, you have to do all that silently because - duh - sleeping baby.

There it is.  Now you, too, can be the best mediocre parent. You're welcome. Pass the beer.

Two days later

Two days past, and a hazy sadness lingers.

The Tragically Hip's 30 years of music is still playing on a desperate loop in my house /in my heart /it's in my pockets and in my eyes /in my blood.  The poignant conclusion to their final tour on Saturday - culminating in their (and my) hometown of Kingston, Ontario - has brought with it a sweeping sense of grief.

"I understand now how you feel about them.  I hadn't paid any attention before. I'm a fan! The whole thing is really hard to put into words." -- My mother-in-law, emailing to see how it all went.  She has captured the crux of this particular beast, hasn't she.  This idea that we all get it, even if you didn't before.

Try watching commentators and journalists grasp at thin straws of what this has meant, this swan song tour and its final show.  Yes, The Tragically Hip is quintessentially Canadian.  Yes, there is a simple pleasure in the mention of our hometowns in a lyric. Yes, the band has been around for 30 years. And yes, Gord Downie is a poet, and a nice guy. And yes, he is dying.

But it's more than that, isn't it.

It's pride. And I suppose a form of awkward, indefinable patriotism (as patriotism often is). There's new appreciation for the band and their accomplishments, even though they have, until recently, been avoided or gently ignored by many and sometimes considered inadequate by others.  Now, The Tragically Hip is hoarded and held closely to our collective heart in a "you can't have them, they're ours" kind of way. Now we all finally get it. Now we all endear them, as we should. (Although, those who always did will happily prove it.)

It's talent. True, impressive, undeniable talent. The uncommon kind of talent that can be legitimately referred to as art in its uniqueness, its composition, its performance, and its literary prowess. A conscientious, intentional, intelligent - while imperfect - talent that often goes unnoticed until all of a sudden we notice it.

It's longevity.  Thirty years, the same five guys, consistently touring the country with our favourite soundtrack and a few new tunes tossed in.  The reliability of "Well, I saw them last time, so maybe I'll skip this one and see them next year." Each song and show with its own story to tell, and a dedicated crowd competing for who knows them better.  Songs that everyone knows, even if they don't, and with an endurance that most artists work their entire lives to achieve.

Add to all of that the profound sadness that our glorious, always recognizable frontman is dying.  He's dying, and somehow, as some unbelievable gift, he has offered us the opportunity to reflect on what he and his band have meant to us - and we've finally caught on. We've followed their biggest tour yet and then watched across the country with 11.7 million tv, radio, and internet feeds, of course on nothing other than the CBC.  He, and we, have been given the chance to /bask in the golden light/ one more time.

And this is the most intensely heartbreaking part: That Gord Downie's cancer will take his /world possessed by the human mind/ away.  And that it took this for us to really consider how much he and his band meant to us - even if we already knew it meant, well, a lot.  But he hasn't left us yet.  Not before we sang with him, collectively, simultaneously across the country, one last time.  Not before we figured it out.

Ultimately, it's this series of contradictions that ruin me.

It's the irony.  

It's the irony of our patriotism for a self-described non-nationalist, our new or revived appreciation for his talent, the end of what seemed like an endless loop across our country, and the dripping, cascading empathy for his diagnosis.

I can see now why it hurts so much - because irony is the surely the fiercest and sharpest ache in anything so definitively tragic.

I think my daughter is moving out soon

My daughter just turned three... and how does the rest of that story go...? She just turned three and then she got a car and then she graduated and then she had her own kids and then I died.

Ok, so maybe it isn't quite as abrupt as all that. But it feels like it.

Fraggle just turned three and she continues to remind me - in endless, hilarious, and infuriating ways - how quickly she's growing up and getting ready to leave me.  She's quickly becoming a not-so-small person.  She has (mostly) logical expectations and (usually) an effective method of articulating them. She has impressive skills and abilities. She's figuring shit out you guys. And it scares the hell out of me. I'm pretty sure I could leave her alone for, like, three or four hours and she'd be totally fine.  She'd probably make me dinner.  She'd at least wash the floor.  

This child has an astute memory and level of determination that rivals most adults. Not just the regular adults - the bold and feisty ones.  Months ago, when asked what she wanted for her birthday, she was quite clear: a(nother) pink stuffy cat, a teddy bear, and a big bucket of animal "guys" (to accompany her existing collection of no less than 80 miniature animals of various types).

When asked the same questions on subsequent occasions, she'd sometimes add something new ("And a train, Mama. And a dog. And a tv.") But despite these additions, her commitment to the pink cat, teddy bear and bucket of guys never wavered.  So of course we obliged, and she was not at all surprised.  She did, however, ask why she didn't get a train.  (No matter that her favourite gift was actually one she didn't ask for - a collection of fake food that she sorts and hoards like she's preparing for the apocalypse.)

This child is also very self-sufficient, and she knows how to use it to her advantage.  Each night after we jump through the 35 bedtime hoops, she says goodnight, all tucked in and ready for sleep.  And three minutes later she emerges to announce that she has to pee.  Again.  For the fourth time in the last hour.  She walks herself to the bathroom, turns on the light (pulling the ribbon we've placed for her), carefully (and quietly, so as not to wake her baby Warner Brother) places her stool, pees, wipes, washes her hands, dries them ("I dry dem berry berry way-o so I don't get all my fings wet"), turns off the light, and returns to bed.

Now, you may say that's great - and it is - but it's also frightening.  This is a prime example of my daughter very strategically working the system.  This child knows we will not - nay, cannot - say no to pee. She knows she gets to leave her bed, no matter what, and that we have to like it.  She knows. She reads it in our eyes.  And although her voice says "I have to pee, ok Mama and Dada?" her eyes respond to ours with "Yep I'm going pee.  Right? You're not gonna do anything about it, are you? Nope. See you in a few, suckers."

There are a million other examples of this little three-turning-thirteen masterpiece that are equal parts impressive and terrifying. She breastfeeds her baby doll. She finds the exclamation points in her books. She spells CAT. She weeds the garden. She climbs the rock wall at the park and swings on the big-kid swing, by herself. She knows the name of our street, city, province and country.  She dances at weddings.  She even watches Full House.

On the bright side, she may need me for a few more years - at least to help her pronounce anything with a second consonant after an S, and possibly to log her into Netflix.  So at least there's that.

We all know Gord Downie

This morning I woke at 6:30 to the sound of my new baby stirring in his bassinet.  When I brought him downstairs, I looked at my phone.  There was a single notification.  It was an email from @TheHipDotCom announcing Gord Downie's diagnosis with terminal brain cancer.

It took only a single breath before my mind flooded with the weight of this news; the weight of Gord Downie's voice in my life.  I was overwhelmed with how much I love this music, these lyrics, this band.  I'm what you call a true admirer... I'm a fan.

One look at twitter today and it's obvious that the rest of Canada feels exactly the same way.  The Tragically Hip is an emblem of our nation, a worthy representation of our pride.  Even if you're not a "fan" you hear this music wherever you are.  Gord's Downie's lyrics and unmistakable voice float in your consciousness.

Everyone who was struck by this news today - kicked in the stomach by it - knows Gord Downie.  He's our comrade.  We have followed him and his band for 30 years.  We have been to his shows and have sung alongside him.  He has written elaborate, honest, enduring stories about our hometowns, and we have walked with him on our streets.  We have heard these songs on our radios every single day, some of us for our entire lives.  Gord and his bandmates have driven across the country with us, they've strummed with us by the cottage campfire, they've lulled our babies to sleep and hyped them up for living room dance parties.  These songs are quoted at our kitchen tables.  These lyrics have become a national narrative, a collection of lore.  They literally tell the stories of our lives.

I have seen six Hip shows, including four in my Hometown, which is also their Hometown; two benefit concerts for someone else's cause; two in an arena perched on a street named for them; three standing in the grass on warm summer days; one at the National Arts Centre in fancy theatre seats that nobody sat in and that Gord walked across the backs of into he crowd; and one standing all by myself when Hubby got lost looking for beer.

These musicians are my neighbours. I have seen them at my movie theatre and been too shy to say hello. They have sat in the halls of my high school.  They have been awarded honourary degrees from my university. I danced the last dance of my wedding, in our Hometown, to their song.

Gord Downie's voice plays in my mind as a backdrop to my life.  His music is coming home. I feel like I know him, as we all do, and I am so, so sorry this is happening to him.

But let's not act like he's already dead.  His voice is still singing on every radio station and in every house in this country, and soon on as many stages as he can manage.  I intend to hear it.  I intend to add to my collection of powerful memories set to the tune of his music, with renewed appreciation; with will and determination, and grace, too.

A photo on my fridge for almost a decade.  

Easier doesn't mean easy

When I was pregnant with this Warner Brother, several of my friends told me how easy the second child was.  Less anxiety they said.  Less stress they said.  More knowledge, more tolerance, more confidence, they said.

All of that is true.

However: More or less of something does not equate to all or none of something.

Newborndom is certainly less anxious and less stressful this time around. I don't panic as easily regarding his well being.  I don't worry as much because I sorta have the hang of this.  I know when he's hungry, I can tell when his cries are gas, I have an idea how to teach him to nap, and I totally knew as soon as I saw his first real smile.   I don't have to learn as much, so I can enjoy more.

Although I feel tremendous empathy for the first-time parents in my life who have not yet caught up to my level of experience, I still want to be completely clear:

This is not easy.

I am not one of those parents who "forgot" how hard it was.  I remember the misery of newborndom. I remember walking her around the mall trying to get her to sleep.  I remember standing over her bassinet with my pinky finger in her mouth for endless minutes, maybe hours.  I remember the fear associated with her breastmilk intake - nipple shields, pricey consultants, painful boobs, and cold washcloths on her bare, sleepy back.  I remember late-night cluster feeds, kicky gas legs, and crying on the bathroom floor (me, not her).  I remember whisper-arguing with Hubby and assuming we'd be divorced by the end of the day.  (He would have called a lawyer if he didn't have a sleeping baby on his lap.  The survival of this marriage is attributed to a long nap and a rescue visit from @msfreshfish.)

After all of this, though, I also remember that IT GOT BETTER.  I remember drinking coffee while she peacefully napped, visiting with friends, playing in the sun, smiling above her on a yoga mat.

So, when we diligently weighed the benefits and risks of a second baby, I was not operating in a hormonal or sentimental illusion. I knew precisely what I was in for.  Disaster at first, and generally ongoing heartache and exhaustion in one form or another for the foreseeable future.

Until my friends confused me.  They somehow convinced me this would be effortless.  They claimed "It's so easy this time!" And sure, by comparison, it can be... easy - but only in relation to last time.  Not standing alone.

Standing alone, this experience is just a different kind of impossibly hard.  I still only get two hours of sleep at any given time, except I also have to entertain a toddler most of the day.  I still have a baby who won't allow me to set him down, but I also have a toddler asking for my help to reach the soap/put her socks on/play in her tent.  I still spray breastmilk all over the house, except I also spray it into my toddler's dinner.  I still have to whisper and tiptoe all day long while he attempts to sleep, but I also have to make a toddler whisper and tiptoe while she attempts to play live.

I still have the hard parts - albeit minus some of the anxiety - but with a whole other whack of shit to fill its place.

I still have to take off to the children's hospital when my infant seems to have a fever (with the same unnecessary panic attack). Except this time, I have to do it by myself while Hubby stays home with our other precious child who just wants me to tuck her in.

The constant competition between opposite emotions is staggering. Parenting is wonderful. It's bliss. It's joy. It's pride. It's a gift that we are ever-grateful for. It is an incredible satisfaction, a surprising sense of purpose, an indescribable love.  But it is never easy.

You don't have to read this, either

Nearly three years ago I posted my Fraggle birth story on this blog. You didn't have to read it; it was for me. Same with this post, which is also for me - because if I don't write it down I may later doubt that it ever happened.

***

Monday morning. 5:00 am. Contractions start. But they've started and stopped several times in recent weeks, so I figure who am I kidding? This baby is never coming out. 

Ok 5:30 and they hurt. But they aren't exactly regular. I wait and see. 

Alright. 6:00. I wake Hubby. I'm in labour. Yes for real, maybe don't just ignore me and go back to sleep this time. 

We decide to take Fraggle to daycare early. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. He wakes the sleepy (but surprisingly happy) toddler. 

Oh. Ouch. That's a lot of contractions isn't it. Or is it just one big, long one? It's impossible to tell. That can't be a good sign. I take a tooth-brushing break, leaning over the counter like women on tv often do. 

6:30. I ask Hubby to please page the midwife. Yes, now. 

Hi, midwife? This fucking hurts. No, contractions don't really stop, there isn't a break. Yep it's starting again. Ok, I'll see you at the hospital. 

Hubby feeds Fraggle. I walk downstairs. One. Step. At. A. Time. 

We have to go. Yes, now. 

Oh look. I got my boots on. Who needs socks. 

Fraggle screams because she doesn't get to finish her breakfast. The beginning of several disappointments resulting from this baby, honey. I'm so sorry. 

I walk to the car by myself. Win. 

Wow the car is cold. Hubby starts it. I try to wash the frost off the windsheild but there's no washer fluid. Better than no gas, like last time. 

I look at the clock. 7:17. Contraction. Yelling isn't an option so I breathe. I chant. "It's ok... It's ok..."  I wait. 

7:18. Contraction. Uh oh. "It's ok... It's ok..."

7:19. Shit. "IT'S OK..."

Hubby gets the kiddo in her snowsuit and into the car. Longest three minutes of all time. 

Hubby suggests maybe we drop Fraggle at daycare and then go to the hospital. Not gonna happen my dear. Drop me off first. Thanks for not asking if I'm sure. 

Hubby drives in the wrong direction. No, the hospital is *that* way. I wish yelling was an option. 

Fraggle's very quiet but asking where we're going. I'm answering through my breath. Hubby can't even hear her, he's too busy scraping the frost off the windshield with his credit card at the stoplight. I praise his ingenuity. He doesn't hear me. 

Oh good the hospital. Fraggle asks where we are. "At the midwife's office" seems like a good answer. I walk out of the car, wishing in retrospect that I'd had the capacity to remember to say goodbye to her - a fuck up for which I may never forgive myself. 

Hubby starts to walk in with me, but he can't leave her alone in the car. It's fine. I walk in on my own like a soldier in a trance. 

7:24. I pace into the main doors and request/demand a wheelchair and a ride to the birthing unit from the poor old hospital volunteer man wearing a blue vest. He wheels me upstairs, nice and slow. He asks if I think the baby is coming this morning. I tell him the baby is coming right *breath* now *breath*.  When can I yell?

He wheels me to the birthing unit triage. They know who I am thanks to my midwife who called ahead. It's a good thing because I couldn't tell them my name anyway. I thank the nice volunteer man (A simple "merci" is all I can manage in French at the moment), and I wait for a nurse to help me. No midwife in sight. 

I tell the nurse I'm scared and all alone and yes the baby is coming. I climb on the table and yell for her help. Yelling is finally an option. I vaguely remember arriving here last time and never getting checked by a nurse because six other poor women kept coming in ahead of me, yelling. As I've always said, yelling gets shit done. 

She returns and tells me I'm nine and half centimetres. I get wheeled to a room, leaving my coat and wallet and phone in triage. I don't know where my boots are. I might still be wearing them. 

I tell them that Hubby's coming. He's kinda tall, thin and blonde. His name is Hubby. 

Several nurses help me climb on a bed. I'm loud now, this fucking hurts and it's the worst and YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. Yes I want gas. One nurse asks another nurse where I came from. She answers that she doesn't really know, I've been here for four minutes. 

I tell every nurse to stop telling me I'm doing a great job and distract me with questions. Some of them ask questions and I nod or shake my head. Is this a boy? *Nods* Do I have another child? *Nods* Is Hubby tall? *Nods/shakes head* (Translation: Yes, compared to me but no, not really.) They eventually run out of questions and revert to telling me I'm doing a great job. I hate them. 

Midwife! Thank god. I very slowly and deliberately move my eyes to her eyes. She seems to want me to calm down. I don't, and I kinda start to hate her too. 

She asks a nurse to help her. She rushes around (much like the poor nurse last time but far more competently). She says we'll just need to break my waters but we'll wait for Hubby.  I - with gas mask locked firmly on my face - shake my head NO with fierce insistence that cannot be mistaken. 

Do I want more gas? Hmm. Is it helping? *Shakes head, shrugs shoulders, can't move muscles in face, shakes head again*

Ok. Not waiting for Hubby. Waters broken. I can start pushing if I want. Oh, ok. 

And then I scream bloody murder as I feel a human person's small-but-not-small-enough head move through my body and I can't seem to stop screaming even with three or five nurses trying to calm me the fuck down. THIS IS WHY I WANTED AN EPIDURAL YOU SHOULD NEVER DOUBT MY JUDGEMENT. 

I look up to the right and there is Hubby's glorious face through my scream. Relief like I've never felt. 

The baby falls out. 

Even more relief. 

One push, and a very long scream, and holy fuck what the fuck. 

It's 7:49. 

I whimper for a while. Do I want skin-to-skin? *Nods vehemently.* 

Hey look a baby. 

Now, god knows how long I endure body repairs by a midwife with very little patience for my complaining and even less interest in updating me on her progress - but a Hubby with remarkable patience (guilt? pity?) for my complaining and incredible tolerance for me squeezing his hand too hard. 

And yet there's a precious (although unnamed) 7lb 3oz baby boy on my chest which seems to make it all ok. 

A couple hours and some rushing by the midwives and we're home by 11:45 texting pictures to everyone we know. 

What is this life? 

Dear Fraggle, My favourite little girl

Dear Baby Fraggle,

Except you're not a baby anymore.

When I was pregnant with the Warner Brother, another mom told me that when she left for the hospital in labour with her second child she had a little toddler at home.  But when she returned home with a new infant she had a giant child waiting for her.  In those few hours her baby had become a life-sized person.

This is what you are, my darling.  A person, the size of life.

You have big finger-paint handprints and a big grownup head that you squeeze through a 3T shirt hole all by yourself. You tell jokes. "I am going to... put DoDo Cat in the toilet! Nooo!"  You play. "Ine just tryin to be funny!" You run away from a Mama Monster. You hide and seek (mostly hide and then reveal yourself shortly thereafter.)

You elaborate. "When, when, when it's Friday? When it's Friday, I stay home and watch *whispers* Peppa Pig and I can have branna cake and when it gets womma out we can, we can play with my water table. You remember my water table Mama? And we can put bubbles wit soap in dare."

You sing full songs with perfect pitch.  "Down by the bay.  Where the watermelons grow.  Back to my home. I dare not go. For if I do. My Fraggle would say.  Have you ever seen a ducky, driving a fucky? Down by the bay!"

You help.  With everything.  "Can I HELP?" Laundry, dishes, dinner, washing the cupboards, washing the table, and now bathing and changing the Baby Brother.  You totally understand his existence. You know that he was in my belly, but now he came out ("You push him out yike dis uhhhh and now you can bend over and put my boots on.") You know Baby Brother is crying because he can't talk.  And he sleeps a lot.  And baby brothers will poop, and baby brothers will cry, "and you better watch out or he pee in your eye!" And he loves you; you know he loves you.  

And my darling, when I was in labour - major active labour - waiting in the car to drive you to daycare, you were so patient and calm.  You were quiet, but not too scared.  You just wanted to finish your breakfast, but there wasn't time.  You knew what was happening.  You are so smart my dear, so clever, so understanding.

You are such a lovely person.  I am so proud of who you are.  I sincerely adore spending time with you.  You are a joy.  You are my joy.

I miss you so much right now, two weeks into newborndom.  I am pulled toward two little beings for whom I have unimaginable, aching, heartbreaking, all-powerful, knee-weakening love.  Two beings that I want to be with, want to be for, every single moment of every single day.  But life doesn't work that way, does it? As I'm always telling you, sometimes we can't have what we want.  And that fact makes me want to scream like you do when things don't go the right way.

I wanted you both so much. I wanted this big, full family that I didn't have when I was small.  Now I have you, but I can't quite have enough. I sit here with tears down my face because I am in so much love and there just isn't enough of me.

Wait for me, my lovely.  I will come back.  I will always, always, do everything I can to be there for you, even when it isn't enough.  Ultimately, we will all be here, all four of us, together in this life.  I love you my baby.  My favourite little girl.

Dear Warner Brother

Dear Warner Brother,

Welcome to our family, my darling boy.  I am so happy you are finally here.  After just over 40 weeks of pregnancy, just over an hour of labour, and just under two years beforehand wondering if we'd ever be ready, you have completed our family - a family that was previously miraculous, but not quite done. 

Now we're done.

You've joined our family with unexpected seamlessness and fulfilled a gap that we knew was there but didn't know if we had the strength to fill.

Before you arrived, I couldn't quite imagine what you would be like.  To begin with, we could not for the life of us find a name that suited you.  We had 35 names that may have been acceptable but none that were exactly right.

Although this time I was able to picture what having a child would be like, I wasn't exactly able to picture you.  In my mind you were maybe a girl (even after we knew you weren't) and you didn't have a face, let alone a personality.  You were a mirage, sitting on the floor in my mind's eye, playing with blocks - but you weren't yet a real person.  I think I knew you would be completely different from Fraggle, but I didn't know in which ways.  Honestly, my darling, you felt a little like a stranger coming to live with us.

Until the day you were born.

On the day you were born, I truly loved you.  I began to feel that well of emotion that is "supposed" to come with a new baby (which I don't think the panic of newborndom permitted the first time).  You had a face, you had a voice, you had a tiny little hand that waved at me.  You were ours, and I was so... grateful to have you.

Within one day, we got to know you.  You had a name and a definitive personality. You became real.

Like your dad, you furrow your brow.  And like your mama, you cry when something isn't right - but I can usually tell what the un-right thing is.  You don't scream, not anymore (although you do have a strong dislike for cold diaper wipes).  You can always be calmed when we hum near the top of your head. You don't crunch up your hands or grasp our fingers with that normal newborn grip, you prefer to stretch and wave. You already love your big sister - you never cringe at her toddler screams and you always let her hug and kiss you. You have a very strong head and neck that leads us to believe you'll actually like tummy time and that you'll crawl before you walk. You don't like to be bounced, you'd rather lay still, dangling weightless in our arms. You want to be nestled, you want to be hugged. If you could choose, you'd breastfeed all the time.  You would stay cuddled there for hours if I let you, and you're growing like a prized pumpkin because of it. You make contented wimper sounds when you're feeding that make me believe I can keep you warm and safe in my arms forever.

I can't wait to nestle you for the rest of my life; to protect you from anything that makes you unhappy; to support you, wrap you up, calm you, and keep you tucked in my arms for as long as you'll let me.  I love you my baby boy. Welcome home.

Goddamit, New Year. Gimme a break.

Happy New Year!  And sincere apologies if you, too, are in the process of readjusting to the throes of Real Life.  

Having 10 days of vacation during the Christmas holidays is a blessing and a curse.  What we actually need is 10 days off beforehand to prepare all the things (Sorry Gram, I haven’t mailed your gift yet but I still love you.), and then 10 days off afterward to recover.  

If you’re like me, you run yourself ragged before and during Christmas (Sure, let’s make lunch for 15 people on Boxing Day.), and then spend the remaining holiday sitting in your pajamas eating Lindt chocolates and watching Downton Abbey.  

Until.  

Until the return to Real Life, where all of a sudden it snows two feet, and shifts from a balmy, non-winter 16 degrees on Christmas Eve, to a painful, colder-than-a-witch’s-titty minus 30 degrees the Monday I return to work.  

This is all miserable for most people, I’d venture.  For me, add a toddler who needs to wear nine layers of wool and can’t zip up her own snowsuit because her giant mittens turn her arms into little, useless, puffy snowman sticks floating off the side of her body.  Plus:  A tiny human growing increasingly cumbersome in my abdomen, making it near impossible to bend, sit, stand, breathe, or otherwise function.  

It’s all a bit much.  

Then today happened.  Still minus 30 degrees, still a floating arm toddler, still a breathless mess, and – wait for it – stuck in a snowbank.  

Driving away from daycare, I misjudged (read: didn’t look at) the width of the poorly-ploughed residential street and drove into a pile of snow/ice boulders and couldn’t move an inch.  I don’t know if you’ve ever floored your car in reverse, but if you’re stuck, nothing happens except a big cloud of exhaust.  

The whole situation left me hunched over the front wheel, seven months pregnant, sad and tiny yellow shovel in hand, ridiculous pashmina scarf in my face, hacking away at the bottom of my already demolished bumper.  At minus 30.  With the gas light on - because of course it was.  

Fifteen minutes and several cursey rants later, I managed to rock my car free and make it to a gas station in time to pump 17 dollars’ worth of over-priced gas at a freezing, windy gas station.   

I’ll take my year on maternity leave with no sleep and a screaming baby now, thanks.  

Because toddler.

Insisting on being left alone to pee with the door closed, and proceeding to unravel and entire roll of toilet paper and feed it into the toilet. 

Singing Happy Birthday to the candle inside the jack-o-lantern. 

Singing Happy Birthday when the Christmas lights turn on. 

Insisting on singing the wheels on the bus all. the. time. 

Singing the ABCs and completely messing up the LMNOP part. 

Counting to 30 but always forgetting one of the teens. 

Playing make-believe with several small figurine horses inside a giant styrofoam box on the front lawn. 

Apologising to her own toe for stubbing it. So-yee toe! 

Carrying handfuls of leaves to the paper garbage bag. 

Yelling "self!" whenever anyone offers to help, or hands her something, or touches her. 

Asking "What *dat* noise?" for EVERY SINGLE SOUND EVER HEARD BY HUMANS. 

Yelling MAMA from her bed. Repeatedly. For 15 minutes. 

Peeing the couch. 

Doing puzzles better than I do. 

Running in giant, endless circles around the dining room, fanatically screeching at maximum lung capacity with surprisingly ear-piercing pitch, until she's falling-over dizzy and punch-drunk. 

Working Parent Morning Parenting

Of all the brands of parenting I've been attempting for 22 + 9 months (Late Night Feeding Parenting, Child Throwing Food Parenting, Child Falling of the Bed Face Bruise Parenting), I think the most challenging/ridiculous brand of parenting is Working Parent Morning Parenting.

Yesterday morning, I arrived at work having forgotten my office employee pass, so I borrowed one from the security desk, thereby having to trade my driver's license.  Seems like an unfair trade, but there it is.  

Then yesterday evening, upon leaving work, I forgot to trade back, so I drove home without a driver's license.  ("Sorry Officer, will my temporary employee pass suffice?")

Last night before bed, I carefully and deliberately set my temporary pass on top of my employee pass, perched on the bathroom counter, so I would remember to bring both to the office in the morning.  

Enter: Working Parent Morning Parenting.  

Working Parent Morning Parenting means frantically brushing my teeth and curling my hair while Fraggle yells "MAHMA!" from her crib.  It means pulling Fraggle away from the cat, whose tail does not want to be yanked like tug-of-war. It means forgetting deodorant at least twice a week.  It means forgetting to put socks on, but deciding to go without because running back upstairs to get some isn't worth it.  It means arriving at work with sweaty bare feet that won't come out of my boots.  It means that I'm a coked-out chicken with multiple heads, all cut off.  

And so, of course, this morning I did not remember either of my employee passes.  Both are patiently waiting, as we speak, on the bathroom counter, meaning I had to approach the security desk this morning, requesting a second temporary pass.  

Why can't I just go home?

Dear Fraggle, Just learn the good stuff, k?

Dear Fraggle,

Newsflash my baby: Lately you are less "baby", more "small human taking over our house." You recently turned 18 months old, and it is finally becoming clear to me what people meant when they promised this parent job would get fun - because holy hell my little monkey, you are so. much. FUN.

Sure, raising a small human is still hellish on a fairly frequent basis.  There are moments when literally pulling out my hair seems like a perfectly reasonable reaction to a toddler who just hit me in the face or chucked her dinner across the room.

That said, those hellish moments are becoming more balanced with neat, hilarious, fun things that I had never quite anticipated, that I am grateful for, that I wish could be bottled and preserved forever.  Like scotch.  (That's a bad example.  Don't drink scotch.)

My point is, Fraggle, you're making our lives so much more fun than they were before.  Life before you was, well, boring, as far as I can tell.  Life now is exhausting, yes, but also exceptionally engaging.  For example...

You talk.  

Like, a lot.

Before I went to sleep the other night, I was counting sheep baby words.  You have almost 40 distinct, regular words - plus a dozen hand signs, a couple special squeals, and a minimum of 50 animal sounds, including camel and penguin.

Obviously there are only a handful of people who can understand these "words," but that fact matters very little when you look at me and say "sheesh" (meaning, please, I want that, help me mama); or "bAL" (meaning, hey look, a balloon); or "WHOA" (meaning, WHOA LOOK AT HOW COOL THAT IS I CAN'T BELIEVE IT).  Or my personal silent favourite: tapping one hand on top of the other when we chase/tickle/toss you (meaning, more! more!).

Communicating with you, my darling Fraggle, is the highlight of my day.


You dance.  

You adore music, bursting a giant grin and wide eyes that light up your face when you hear a guitar strum or a drum beat.

Even better than witnessing the beaming smile is watching you dance (aka run) around our kitchen - with moves including the Knee-bend, the Moonwalk, the Smooth Criminal, and your most recent addition, the Peg Leg.


You count.  

Kinda.  It's more like pointing. You point at all the frogs, or bears or butterflies and say "da da da" as I count.  You understand the concept - a concept that you wouldn't catch if someone (that is, we, your parents) didn't teach you.  

What I'm getting at is that you learn.

You are a person that I grew inside my body, and who, since that time, has absorbed every minor tidbit of seemingly useless information, and then somehow successfully applied it to your own little world.

You use a spoon.  You stack cups.  You tidy up.  You carry your pajamas into the bathroom.  You clap and say "yaaay!" when you place a puzzle piece.  You have a hand sign for toilet, and you run to your potty, hand waving, when you're about to pee.

You copy everything.  You hear everything.  You observe everything and store it away for later.  And when you reveal some new thing you've learned, I get to think to myself: "I taught her that. She got that from me."

Unfortunately, that whole copy-cat thing is bound to bite me in the ass.  One day you'll crack your neck like a prize-fighter, or argue with a stranger in a parking lot, or shovel a slab of cheesecake into your face like it will save your life.  And on those days, I'll have to be there apologizing for teaching you the wrong thing, showing you the wrong example, leading you down the wrong path.

I only hope you'll also be glad that I taught you how to count frogs, how to host a very exclusive living room dance party, how to spit like a camel - because these are the things I want most for you.  I want you to be clever, independent, active, helpful, polite, communicative, engaged, and a fan of Michael Jackson's music.  I want you to absorb the good stuff, the fun stuff (and ignore the shit) because I'm starting to realize that nothing else much matters than being happy.

You're happy, my doll, and I hope I can help you stay that way.

PS.  Seriously, don't drink scotch.  That never ends well.

The Strangercare Show

After 23 months (9+14) of being my baby’s sole provider of care (i.e., eat, drink, sleep, play, learn – let’s be honest, I was her sole provider of life for all intents and purposes), I am now two weeks into my ominous Return To Work. 

This unfortunate Return To Work ritual is one that apparently every parent can relate to – some after only a few weeks of parental leave, others after several months or years.  There seem to be some customary phases of this momentous event, putting your child into Strangercare. 

The Strangercare Dress Rehearsal

Also known as The Transition.  Partial days, or partial hours, easing into the reality of leaving your most precious being in the hands of some hack who will probably drop her on her head and let her play with cigarettes.  Usually exudes only a small portion of the total strength eventually required for the actual Strangercare opening day, partly due to your continued significant daily role, but mostly due to denial. 

The Home Nesting Interpretive Dance

A fast and sometimes furious flutter, organizing and cleaning in an attempt to prepare for the new world order.  An often fruitless but necessary exercise. 

Before you know it, though, it’s opening night and the performance truly begins. If you don’t know your lines by now, it’s too late.  The show must go on. 

The Opening Prayer

A slow and cautious pleading to anyone who will listen, begging for empowerment.  Usually in the vein of “This is good for me.  And for her.  She’ll get used to this.” and ending with a single repeated phrase “I can do this.  I can do this.  I can do this.”

The First Day Acrobatic Display

Usually accompanied by a sense of confusion and awe that fogs you into a convenient submission. Running out the door in high heels, carrying 1-2 children on your hip, 3-to-4 bags on your shoulder, and a giant coffee mug in your hand. Followed by an 8-hour intermission. Then followed by a dash home in the same fashion with desperation in your eyes/heart/soul.   

The One-Woman Show

Also known as The Panic Attack.  When the reality of this being reality becomes a reality and the whole show almost comes (or does come) crashing to an end.  Usually accompanied by frequent (possibly extreme) crying for everyone involved.  This image is a hard one to shake – spectators be warned.

The Team Building Exercise

The rally.  The getting-to-know-each other and setting-a-plan group activity. Comes in the form of a meal planning diorama, or a "Juggle the Flaming Schedule" show, or a guest-starring role for your psychologist.  Or all of the above.

The Meditation

A slow and steady decline of emotions into a pattern of rhythmic movements. Not necessarily in a state of calm, but a state of acceptance. 

The Finale

The reflection on the overall event and how it has impacted your life.  Consideration of how you might change your life based on its influence.  For some, this will have shifted their perspective entirely – finding a new job, or a new income, or a new approach for their family.  Others will make moderate shifts – selling their house, moving close to work.  Some will make small allowances – hugging their kids more often and more fiercely. Some will do all three.  Ultimately, the finale is what brings you to your new you, your new world.  Or at least inspires you to create your own spin-off soap opera entitled Wine and Tears: My True Life Story.    

The truth about Baby-Led Weaning

If you have children, you're probably accustomed to the constantly shifting rules of acceptable parenting... Your baby should sleep on her stomach, NO WAIT HER BACK. Breast milk is all your baby needs, NO WAIT VITAMIN D SUPPLEMENTS. Your baby should sleep in a crib, NO WAIT YOUR BED, NO WAIT HER CRIB, NO WAIT HER CRIB BUT YOUR ROOM.

I think most of us eventually figure out that we just gotta do what works - short of, say, leaving our babies at home alone while we go out for beers.  (I would never do that.  Probably.)

Regarding solid food, Hubby and I adopted a baby-led weaning approach.  Essentially, we skipped the cereal and purees and jumped straight to finger food, for a two reasons:

1) we hate cooking, so preparing separate baby food was a traumatic thought; and,

2) we liked the idea of her feeding herself alongside us, rather than us shovelling food into her face.

This approach has to do with our general laziness, but also to do with acknowledging that Fraggle is a person with independence and free will.  But mostly the laziness thing.

And so I bring you: the truth about baby-led weaning.

("Truth" is a relative term, as in: it's my truth, and I'm no expert.  But I assure you it isn't false.  Or at least I wouldn't lie.  About this.  Although, there is a distinct possibility that the absence of adult interaction has skewed my view of reality.)

Tip #1 - Read the book
But maybe buy it used. If you're already on board with the whole my baby should just feed herself philosophy, then you don't need the propaganda.  The book spends a lot of time convincing you how crazy you are if you don't choose baby-led weaning, with very little time teaching you how to actually implement this genius idea.

Tip #2 - It's messy, get over it
Hubby dislikes Fraggle's grubby food fingers and the pile of sloppy mess spread across her highchair and caked onto the floor.  I could care less.  I just hand-bomb that goop like it's my job (because it kind of is).  I take one cloth, wipe her face and hands, then her chair, then the floor.  One cloth, moving on.

Tip #3 - She didn't choke
Each parent has a certain level of comfort with certain things.  I'm (irrationally?) afraid of jolly jumpers, but choking doesn't worry me.  I might be unfit, but I trust her gag reflex to push out any food that isn't quite right.  If it worries you, stick with purees.  But keep in mind that by six months, rugrats are far more capable of eating and digesting solid food (rather than at four months, when babies used to start cereal).  Also, I actually think learning to chew before swallowing is helpful. I suspect switching from puree to solids is challenging.

Tip #4 - Don't expect too much too fast
As with all of my parenting decisions, I second-guessed myself hourly.  For six weeks, I watched Fraggle chew a ton of food but swallow very little, while her cohorts inhaled giant spoonfuls of mashed goodness.  HOWEVER, by the time she grew two teeth (around eight months) and figured out what we were trying to accomplish (um, eating) she was feeding herself large volumes of hamburgers, avocados, and sweet potatoes and LOVING IT - while my friends were trying to sneak peas into their babies' yogurt.  Also, be patient for the pincer grip, which may actually develop quickly with lots of practise.  Like all aspects of baby-raising, it gets better precisely when you think it never will.

Tip #5 - Roll with it
Some people prefer a hybrid approach - some finger food, some sauce.  The book will tell you that makes little sense, and I think I agree.  Jumping back and forth seems like an unnecessary and confusing endeavour.  The bottom line is that after a few weeks, Fraggle was eating more than she would have been otherwise, and we were all happier.  Just do what your baby seems to want.  For example, Fraggle likes those store-bought puree packets.  This works for me because it tops her up after dinner and I don't have to make it.  It works for her because she can just suck the mush out herself, as much as she wants, and then throw it on the floor to spray across the room.  Win-win?

Tip #6 - What to make and how to make it
The book claims you can give your baby whatever you're eating.  I'm here to tell you that isn't exactly true, at least for the first few months.  Just don't get discouraged.  The little turd will be eating you out of house and home before you know it.  For some more detailed observations, read onward.  Otherwise, however you decide to feed your offspring, good luck and have fun.  Or get a nanny.  Whichever.




The Details

It was a bit of a pain at first, but still not as bad as blending food (in my opinion).  For example:

• I had to prepare our food without salt and without bottled/jarred/canned sauces. A life without mustard is a travesty. 
• I had to cut it into finger shapes. 
• I had to cook it longer.
• I had to take it out sooner so it would cool. (I still have to do that.  Obviously.)
• Eating away from the house was a bit trickier, messier at least. 
• At first there was a lot of food she simply couldn't manage. It was too small (like peas), or too awkward (like tortillas), or impossible without a spoon (like soup).  
• Another annoying bit: she doesn't eat an entire anything, so a tupperware container stocked with half-eaten oranges and tomatoes lives in my fridge.  

However, there are ways to make food that works:

• In the early days, leave the peal on fruit to make it easier to hold, like bananas, avocados, and oranges.  Just wash them well.  
• The microwave is handy.  Zuccinni sticks cook quickly when they're wrapped in wet paper towel.
• Meatballs are a godsend.  I make dozens, freeze them, and warm them before her meals.   
• She learned to pull apart chicken and turkey breast early on.  I cook, cut and freeze.
• Pork remains difficult to chew, but I suspect that has to do with my terrible chef skills. 
• I found one brand of frozen burgers with minimal junk added.  Thanks to George Forman this was an awesome quickie meal.  If you make your own, make them very loose so they're edible. 
• Eggs!  (Read the latest on eggs, but basically, they're safe).  Mix them with lentils for iron (but beware of gas) and cook them omelette-style, then slice.  
• Carrots and apples are a myth.  They never get soft enough to chew, even when cooked.  Bell peppers and non-ripe pears presented the same problem until she was old enough to pick them up in tiny pieces to swallow whole.  
• When in doubt, spread cream cheese on it.  This is also good advice for life in general.
• Soft cheese like Havarti is easier than Cheddar. 
• For someone who doesn't like making food, I seem awfully willing to peel her grapes. They're easier to eat and the skin actually does worry me as a choking hazard.  I slice them in quarters and then the peel comes right off.
• Roma tomatoes are good in early days, sliced in hand-held pieces.  
• Asparagus is easy to hold and the tips are easy to eat if they're soft.  The stems are too stringy so get ready to eat the remnants yourself. Also, beware of smelly baby pee.  
• I steam sweet potatoes, but in hand-held slices with the skin for easy gripping. 
• Cauliflower is softer than broccoli but both are good because they have a built-in handle.
• Rice was impossible until she got older, but now it works - especially the next day after it's been in the fridge because it sticks together.
• She loves berries.  Strawberries (if they're mutant ones) are big enough to slice long for easy gripping. Smaller berries need to wait for pincer skills. 
• Pineapple strips. Mmmm. 
• Penne noodles aren't bad in early days.  
• She learned to pull the little green beans out of the stalk.  She's a genius.  
• She likes frittata (potatoes, veggies, eggs, cheese). Just chop everything to the necessary size.
• Mushrooms were impossible until she could eat them in small pieces because they're too rubbery (but I used to chop them up tiny in her omelettes).  
• I never found a good baby cereal in cookie form, they are all impossible for her to eat.  It doesn't matter anymore because now she eats oatmeal on a spoon mixed with fruit sauce, but for a while there I was super pissed.  
• Some people claim to make healthy muffins mixed with baby cereal.  I don't know who these people are. 

I'm on the #BanBossy bandwagon

For those who don't know what this whole "Ban Bossy" thing is, in a nutshell:

Ban Bossy is a campaign.  Its aim, according to its website, is to encourage girls to lead - without calling them "bossy."  It was launched by LeanIn.org, a nonprofit founded by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg to "empower all women to achieve their ambitions."  Sandberg is building on her book's message with partners like the Girl Scouts and Beyoncé to, well, #BanBossy.

"I'm not bossy.  I'm the boss."

)

Now that we're all caught up, I want to be clear:  I LIKE this campaign.

True, no campaign is perfect.  No campaign reaches all the right people in all the right ways.  True, there are things to be said about the appropriateness of any role model/spokesperson (including Beyoncé, whose recent Grammy performance was incredibly impressive but also very sexual).

However, this is a message that makes sense.  It's a message about empowering women and girls, about strengthening our confidence and our leadership skills, and about making it ok for us to be assertive and successful.  At its core, this is a good message, and I'm on board.

Unfortunately, (and this is where I jump up on the #BanBossy bandwagon like a squirrel on peanut butter; or like me on peanut butter), there are those making arguments against this campaign that in my opinion are fundamentally flawed.

Primarily, there's an editorial by Margaret Wente in the Globe and Mail entitled "Ban 'bossy'? Suck it up, girls".  I've also had some thoughtful exchanges with friends and other twitterers on the subject.  None of these opinions are wrong - I just have a sincere and significant opposition to them.

Critique #1: The word "bossy" isn't a problem.

Wente writes that the word bossy destroys a girl's "fragile self-esteem."  Only, she writes it sarcastically, as if it is the stupidest thing she's ever heard.  Well newsflash Margaret: any term that insults a child's personality shouldn't be uttered in his or her direction.  And yes, SELF-ESTEEM IS FRAGILE.

Yes, Margaret, we could also ban the term tattletale.  Perhaps also B*tch, Sl*t, Wh*re, N*igger, Pr*ck, R*tard, Fagg*t, and P*ssy while we're at it.  Those other words, though, are known "curse" words and have their own debate raging about context and reclamation (see below).

Words like bossy (or even tattletale, although it's fair to say that is not a uniquely male or female word) slip into the vernacular and contribute to a broader socialization of our children. Even if more girls are entering law and medical schools, as Wente points out, does that excuse discouraging girls from the get-go?  I should hope not.

These are not just words, they mean something.  A campaign that raises awareness, encourages critical thinking, and challenges the social construction is not the wrong approach.

Critique #2: Teach girls to live with the word and "overcome adversity"

Wente writes that being called bossy didn't get in Beyoncé's way, so isn't that what we should be teaching our girls? To soldier on, "overcome adversity and suck it up."

I tell you what, Margaret.  When your peers are hurling insults at you, you can suck it up.  You can overcome adversity and be better... 20 years later.  I, on the other hand, when insulted as a child would have judged myself and tried to be more likable.  Even as an adult I'm among those who work damn hard not to judge themselves but often take it personally when other people do.

For my daughter, I will under no circumstances tell her to suck it up.  I will tell her lots of things, but to ignore her feelings or dismiss the power of words? I don't intend to do that. Likewise, as Margaret seems to argue, I won't ban bossy as an idea. Fraggle will be strong and assertive, I've no doubt.  But the term as an insult?  Banned.  It's a good place to start.

There is no harm in being aware of the words we use and the social idea beyond their dictionary definition.  Words are symbols - like the American Flag or the middle finger - each having an implied/emotional meaning in the background.

Critique #3: Reclaim the word

This argument is an interesting one, made by a friend this morning.  I adore this friend and her perspective, but...

A couple months ago I said something stupid like "I'm a candy sl*t."  I didn't mean anything by it, except to be funny.  I do eat whatever candy crosses my path, I don't discriminate, and it can't be good for me... but what about the word?  My initial reaction was "It's all context!" or "I don't mean it like that!" And then I called bullshit on myself.

If years ago I banned the C word from my vocabulary, and then banned "that's gay!" followed by "how retarded!", why should sl*t be any different? No. These words have a meaning and I have no place invoking it.

This morning my dear friend made a fair point: she may not use a word but she wants to give others the space to reclaim it if they so choose.  Ok, good.  Except I have yet to think of a word that has been "reclaimed."  Even people who ironically or critically use words have not managed to undo the damage caused under other circumstances.

Further, I have no idea where the line is drawn regarding who can use a word and who can't.  Your grandfather is black so you could use the N word. Her Aunt has Down's Syndrome, so she can use the R word.  I am Depressed and Anxious so I can say "Crazy."

Sure, I'm all about context.  When I call myself Crazy I do it in an ironic and self-deprecating (hopefully humourous) way, essentially aiming to bring mental illness into the socially-acceptable forefront.  But it's still self-deprecating.  If I constantly called myself fat (in front of my daughter?) an impact is undeniable.

It comes down to using one's judgement and tact, walking an informed and critical line.  So yeah, I'll give others space to "reclaim" their words, but I have no idea if they're reclaiming them right.

Critique #4: She's going to hear it anyway

"People aren't going to read the article, and they don't have the internet, and they won't stop saying it."

Oy vey.  That's the point of an awareness campaign, no? Can we remember my first point? I LIKE this campaign, for the exact reasons you're noting.  #BanBossy is just a slogan.  The root of the word's use and its potential impact is now entering the discourse BECAUSE of that slogan.

True.  My daughter will hear it anyway.  And very true, she'll hear and see lots of things that I will discuss with her (The Little Mermaid included) - but raising awareness about the potential harm behind bossy as an insult is not a fruitless effort.  

In the end, let's get personal...

As a kid, I directed the neighbourhood plays, I edited the yearbook, I went to leadership camp.  I grew up successful and relatively well-adjusted, despite (or perhaps in spite of) the fact that I was called bossy.  My confidence (or lack thereof) and Type-Aer style evolved from a world of influence, not one word or one personality trait.  I still ended up Depressed and Anxious (aka Crazy) due at least in part to that leader-ness and to my drive to "overcome adversity."

None of that changes the fact that when I was called "bossy" as a young girl, it fucking hurt.  It was an insult, a sting.  It was something I didn't want to be.

We have lots of things to teach our girls, but to "suck it up" is NOT one of them. Neither is to skip an attempt to make a change because it probably won't have an impact so who cares.  We need to foster leadership in those who are socially and systemically deterred from it, minus the judgement.  A campaign that jolts the conversation is a perfect place to start.  

Tomorrow is the end. Fucking balls.

Tomorrow is the end - the end of Birthday Month. It wasn't necessarily as glorious as I had hoped (not exactly a 28 day wacky celebration), but it was still pretty great. 

My actual birthday was in fact last Saturday. It was a good day! Hubby tricked me into taking Fraggle downstairs ahead of him in the morning, only for me to find several gifts scattered around the main floor, beautifully wrapped and tied to helium balloons. He also planned a lovely eat-in dinner. We shared delicious food and lovely conversation in our kitchen, sitting at Fraggle's tiny Ikea end table (aka our temporary dining table during renovations). Dinner was followed by the one true birthday necessity - Dairy Queen ice cream cake, with lots of cancer gel icing. And, most importantly, I DRANK WINE. 

So, all in all, a pretty wicked day. 

I wouldn't call the last week of Birthday month much to write home about, but I did eat plenty of junk food, visit with lovely new friends, and buy an "I'm not thirty" outfit for the big night tomorrow. 

I'm am so looking forward to my dinner with friends. The best part is that I seem to have taught Fraggle how to take a bottle (!) so I'll be a little less worried about leaving her with my mom for the evening. A little. 

If I'm bein honest, though, tomorrow is the really scary part. Tomorrow makes it real. You guys. I'm thirty. Fucking balls. 

Emotional schizo

Today I learned that parenting is one of the more, um, emotionally schizophrenic experiences a person can have. (And coming from me, that means something.) 

Today I flip-flopped from feeling to feeling like an attention-deficitted captain kangaroo. Emotions ping-ponged me over the head while the audience in my head hysterically laughed. I was: pissed right off, exhausted, tolerant, happy, impatient, lazy, contemplative, frustrated, bummed, exhilarated, refreshed, proud, thrilled, joyful, impatient again, curious, worried, anxious, lazy again, frustrated again, disappointed, sad, a little bit panicked, irritable, lonely, cautious, and now tense. There was also some hungry and thirsty in there, and I think once I had to pee. 

The point is, I had not anticipated how intense all my mom emotions would be, let alone how easily they would frantically run away - sometimes with me still attached. I can't keep up.  The only constant is how much I love her - which isn't even constant, rather erratically and exponentially accelerating - WHICH only increases my worry and general angst. See? Emotionally schizophrenic. 

Days like today leave me so mentally worn that the mere thought of doing this again with some other child that I've grown and birthed is exceptionally terrifying and seemingly impossible. I'm not sure how to take it all in... How does one absorb this? I feel like I have no room in my brain for anything unrelated to my mom-ness. 

This unfortunately makes Birthday Month a much larger task than even I had expected. Although I have managed to arrange some lovely celebratory moments over the past days (such as walking outside, visiting friends, or watching movies with Hubby), the truth of the matter is that most things I do feel like chores. Mostly because they are chores, and in some cases gigantic life-dependent responsibilities (such as shopping, baking, or children's hospitals). 

Some activities do feel like a brief respite from chores (such as watching The Young and the Restless) but these are basically survival tactics to which I cling for sanity. In any case, they usually get interrupted and almost always carry guilt right along with them. 

I haven't yet learned how to be a whole person. Right now I'm just a mom, very barely a wife, and basically nothing of a me.  

Like Groundhog Day. Or that song by Meatloaf.

I'm not sure if y'all are aware, but winter is never stopping. It is just going to keep going and going into the abyss of forever. Like Groundhog Day. Or that song by Meatloaf. 

Up here in the Great White North it dropped into the minus 20s in November and it has never. let. up. I'm not even sure I saw the sun for a solid 9 weeks. I now share the baby's vitamin D drops because save me. 

I'm finding it harder and harder to imagine motherhood in a non-winter setting. I think? the first couple months of Fraggle's life occurred during the summer, but who can remember the foggy first couple months of a baby's life?  From what I recall, there may have been a river picnic, some Strollercise, and some 40-degree days that gave her a nasty heat rash. 

But into the future? What do you mean I'm going to play outside with her? What do you mean she won't be burried in blankets for a six-second walk to the car? What do you mean there will be grass? What do you mean she won't need socks? These are concepts I cannot fathom. 

Today I had ENOUGH. Today I had to imagine a world that was not a deep, white, salty, iceball - a world in which a city worker was not shoveling out the neighbourhood fire hydrants. Today I needed outside. 

I bundled that baby up like a tiny, fuzzy arctic puffin, plunked her in her stroller, and walked her around my 'hood for a good 20 minutes. My face got sore from the cold but it was only about -15, so basically a heat wave. 

Believe it or not, that was my Birthday Month activity for today. I needed the fresh air. I needed the movement. I needed the change of scenery. Most of all, I needed hope. "Look, Fraggle! This will be GREEN one day!"