Bedtime for Bozos

"COME ON GUYS! Get. Dressed!" I'm increasingly agitated. I can feel the clock heading past 8pm and they are fucking around. I know what J would think if he could see this nonsense. You're riling them up Nad, calm it down. They need to get to bed.

But Loogoo is in only a pull-up and shaking her booty and saying Gord-knows-what over and over. She recently cut her own hair into a mullet, which I've slowly cropped into a po-mo Dorothy Hamill in an attempt to even it out. N-dog is rolling on the floor in his holiday pajamas that should have been packed away after Armenian Christmas. He's holding his sides, missing teeth making him look older, but still quintessentially a kid. Peels of laughter reverberating from both of them, shaking the ground I stand on. And I give in to the moment. I laugh, because, heck, this isn't forever.

Guest editor at Dealuxe.ca

I miss my old job at the sweet place. I miss what it was like when we were new and full of ideas and possibility. Not that I don't love my new job. Not at all. I'm over the moon at the experience I'm gaining, where my career is heading, how much I get along with my boss and my editorial team. Love doesn't even cut it. Most days the new job doesn't even feel like work. It's certainly different, less writing and editing at the moment, but I'm growing and it feels grand.

But I miss the sweets. I miss the giggles we had which only people who bathe in pop culture and fashion and the humour in things vapid might understand. I am fully immersed in the mom right now, at work and home, and while it's lovely in its own way, I do miss having that daily dose of pink.

So when my friend Sari asked me to be guest editor at Dealuxe.ca, the fabulous new shopping site of one of my mentors, Joanna Track, I obliged. Because of all the things I thought I'd miss, who woulda thunk it would be fantasy shopping and sourcing? I got to pick out 12 items that I love on their site and write about six of them. To say I had a lot of fun with it would be like saying I only like the chef salad at Lola's a little bit. I think the end result really reflects my personal style, something I've cultivated and honed for years. That's the great thing about being 37 -- you don't have to guess about what might look good on you, you just know.

Anyway, if you feel like a bit of fantasy and frivolity, go peruse my picks. I chose mostly what I could afford and what I might splurge on should my tax return be generous. But I also chose items that I genuinely wear and use daily. I promise you'll have at least one giggle. http://www.dealuxe.ca/en/magazine/2012-01-w3/guest-editor-nadine-silverthorne

Daddy Dearest

So many times I've started to write about him. I can never bring myself to do it. There must be 14 drafts on here started and never realized. Because I'm scared. Because I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

If you've grown up in a house with someone who's not "normal," you've probably longed for just that. For just a bit of boring. For just a bit of a 1980s TV sitcom life. For just something constant that isn't pain or abuse or loathing.

He made me mad today. Actually he made me sad. He hurt my baby sister like when we were little, but this time with words not kicks. I had to step in, be the shoulder, be the clown. I felt 14 again. I hated 14.

I am working through lots of gunky stuff. 2011 was a nutty, life and death in your face kind of year and it's brought up a lot of shit. I want to blog, want to spill, but I'm guarded, protective. I don't know how to blog like this. I want to tear open the scabs and spill, raw, festering, oozing...

So I put it in a journal, the old kind, with lines and ink. There's no audience, it's not as satisfying, but in the end there will be The Work. The Work is all I dream about, all I long for. Yet I am afraid that The Work will not change anything, will not provide the fulfillment I seek.

And as I type this I know that I must provide that satisfaction for myself -- right now. That I can't put so much expectation on the future, which doesn't exist. So I write, in the now.

My daughter, myself... and my son

The Fisher Price lights and sounds thingy is scrolling images of stars and galaxies on the ceiling to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The air is damp with the faint smell of sleepy sweat and occassional bedwetting.

She is laying down on the trundle, perpendicular to where she should be, because she likes to be different, likes to forge her own way. Powder blue down throw up to her chin, 14 stuffies around her, all accounted for in a pre-lie-down census. Her brother lays above her, slurping his thumb and thinking of space and pirates and LEGO. I sit next to her, petting her hair, glad that I get to do this every night.

"When I grow up," comes the raspy whisper, "I am going to have two daughters: Sophia and Sarah Anne."

"Those are lovely names. I would be so happy to help you take care of them," I tell her.

"Yes, and maybe Nate could be the dad."

I should just say yes, but for some reason I am compelled to tell her that having a baby with your brother is illegal, unhealthy and 65 different kinds of wrong.

"NOOOOO!" she shouts, "You're LYING!" She does not want to believe that she will grow up and meet a stranger and then fall madly in love. Her brother is her prince. He is her sun and her moon and the person she loves most in the world.

"OK, fine, Nate will be the dad," I acquiesce. She is relieved and rolls over as I sing her a song.

"But mum, I have to tell you. I think I'm going to wait until I'm at least six to have a baby. OK mum?"


"No problem Lucy. In fact, if you could at least wait until you're 26 and you're finished school, I'd be really happy."

"OK, mum. Goodnight."


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I never got a push present for the birth of either of my kids. I did get stitches and stretch marks, and while a prezzie would have been a nice way to acknowledge my efforts, I got the best gift of all, a husband who cares about his kids and works as hard (if not harder) as their mom to ensure that they are happy and experiencing life to the fullest.

On SweetMama today, I'm asking what you think of Push Presents. Feel free to go over and let me know in the comments.

Arcade Fire's "Rococo" Interpreted a la Family Silverthorne

Yes, this is one of those posts, where I post a video and hope you'll forgive me for not writing.

We are aging hipsters. We used to be really fucking culturally relevant. Now we are every parenting cliche. Karate classes and swimming classes and ballet classes. I am officially a soccer mom, insofar that I watch my son attempt to kick a ball across a gym every Sunday. There are birthday parties and school fundraisers and all I talk about are my kids. What happened to us?

We used to go to concerts and shows. We used to hit the record stores on College and Queen Street, rush home with our new disc and spend a night drinking and listening and absorbing. Nowadays, we're excited when we discover an album that speaks to us and the kids and all the cool kids in between our two generations. It's like the world forgives us for breeding and getting lamer and older.

Like you, I downloaded Google Chrome last year and plugged in my first address and watched Arcade Fire's video for "The Wilderness Downtown." We weren't new fans. The first album came out when I still cared that my shoes were from the current season. But like you, I had goosebumps on the back of my neck as Google Earth showed my Scarborough townhouse complex, my first public school...

"The Suburbs" landed in our car and has been on steady play for months. Not a soul is tired of hearing it. I don't know when it happened, but at some point over the winter, possibly before Arcade Fire won a Grammy and blew up into superstardom, my kids heard the song "Rococo" and thought it said "More Cocoa." The idea marinated.

Then came the Bunch Family Luminato Fam Jam contest. My colleague Jes emailed it to me with a note that said, "I wish your fam would do one of these."

So we did. Arcade Fire, if you come across this, we love you.

I'm Alive... Oh, Oh, So Alive...

I woke up last Wednesday morning and removed the chipped polish you saw in my previous post. I put it in my head that we should really test polish removers at the office and tucked that mental post-it note away to tell the office chicklets.

Then I picked out a brand new bottle of Essie Ballet Slippers and I quickly covered my nails with it. I knew I would not get through the day without biting if I didn't. Little L is also trying to stop biting her nails and asked for the same, so I gave her a coat and two for myself. It got a bit smudgy, but it did the trick. Friday (the day this photo was taken) was officially the one-week of no biting. Three more to go before I'll be considered rehabilitated.

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I had my surgery yesterday and it went as well as can be expected. I was expected there at 8 am and at 7:30 I got a call from my dad who said he was around the corner and driving me to the hospital. He's smart. If he hadn't have just shown up like that, I would have made an excuse for him not to come. It turned out to be a great way to ease my nerves while J took care of getting the kids ready for the day.

My first procedure went well. Lefty was frozen with lidocaine and then a guide wire was inserted to the papilloma while looking at it via ultrasound.

The hell came when I had to have a mammogram with the wire in my boob. You haven't lived until you've experienced that. Wowzers. The mammogram technician was a bit puzzled, because the papilloma is not visible on the ultrasound. "Is this cancer?" she asked. I paused a moment. I don't think so... "It's a papilloma," I replied. I still had no certainty as to whether I was doing the right thing at that moment.

Then I waited. 4+ hours until my surgery. The Internets kept me company on Twitter, so that was nice. J showed up with trashy magazines, right before Jen the Domestic Goddess came to visit me (she works at the hospital). I had to act like we'd met before, because the huzzle is not on/into social media and doesn't understand that if you're at the hospital where your Twitter friend works, you've got to schedule a tweet-up. Fortunately J didn't pick up on that and we chatted amicably until they called me to be moved to the next holding area.

I was stripped and prepped for surgery, filled out forms, had an IV put in, etc. My male nurse was the gentlest and hottest African man ever (I'm a sucker for that accent). Say what you want about male nurses, they probably get a lot of poon. As he passed me a hairnet, he joked, "It matches your shoes," pointing to my hospital issue slippers. Love.

My doctor came in, joked some more (I have that effect on people) and before I knew it I was drowsy and waking up in the recovery room.

Holy fuck it's scary waking up in a room with other people waking up in a room. It's like the friggin' Matrix, except there's no Keanu (and no more hot male nurse). "Are you in pain?" the morphine angel asked. Um, a bit, I replied weakly. Rate it on a scale of 1-10. 5, I say. Maybe 6. I've pushed a set of shoulders out my hooha. This was an episode of Glee compared to that. The fog of the needle washed over me.

How about now, she asked. 3? More fog. Ugh, I actually hate the fog. Someone woke up next to me and freaked out, "I don't know where I am!" Yikes. Get me out of here. "How about now?" Uh, 1? I finally got a pass and then hastily moved to a post-op section. J was there, which made me happy to no end. He had talked to the doctor who said everything went well.

Everything went well, except...

"They think they might be missing a tiny piece of the guide wire and they're not sure, but it might be lost in you." Um, what? Just when I thought I was going to be OK with everything, boom, a fuck-up.

I was too out of it on the morphine and too done with it to care. I decided today that I could freak out about it, or I could trust my gut that it's nothing. My gut says this whole thing is nothing, but whatever, I dealt with it. I want it to be over. But the wire, well, it's a bit like George Costanza leaving something at a girl's apartment so he has an excuse to go back.

I'm "resting" at home this week. I say "resting" because I'm not the type of person who knows how to stop. Also, there's probably another post here about how men are awesome in a crisis, but can't handle the follow-up nurturing. But I want to stay married, so I might just tuck that one under my pillow for now...

Week One

I had my nails done on Friday as promised, but, the asshole that I am, I couldn't really enjoy it. My kids were off for March Break and the weather was gorgeous and dammit, all I could think was, "Who has time for this?" Two hours in a nail salon. I should have enjoyed the me-time, reading about Kim Kardashian's ass instead of another issue of Tiny Titans, but all I wanted to do was be at the park with them, my family. I am one effed-up mama. I make it so that I can never win.

I use my nails more than I thought. It's been a weekend of jimmying keys onto key fobs and the like, which aren't great activities for maintaining a pale pink manicure. But I did OK. I still picked at the cuticles, but the goal was to stop biting the actual nails. And I did pretty good. Really good.

Until today.

Today I got a call from the Boob Doctor, who let me know that there was an OR opening on Thursday. I am tired of thinking of this stupid papilloma in my boob, but keep going back and forth about whether I should get it out. Should I leave it alone (it's not bothering me, nor is it causing other symptoms) or should I get it out while it's still nothing?

I decided to go for the surgery. Pretty much everyone thinks I should get it removed, except my homeopath and well, me -- some of the time. The rest of the time I just want it out, so I can stop thinking about it.

The call came at the end of the day and threw me into a tizzy. Should I do it? I just had two days off last week? Can I afford more time off work without screwing over my team? I have out of town friends coming into Toronto this weekend. Wouldn't I rather put it off and party? And what do you mean I have to spend a week to two weeks at home in bed recovering?

I am not prepared. But the truth is, I will never be prepared. I'll just keep running away and hoping the problem will go away. Also, I'd rather just keep having fun and not having to deal with it. There's always going to be some event I want to be present for. There's always going to be work to deal with. There's always going to be some fear I create to avoid the task at hand. (I am so good at that, I could win the Olympic competition of that... THAT needs a name... I can't be Olympic Avoid the Task at Hander... or can I?)

Anyway, funny how I wish to put life before health. I have been happier lately, finding my way bit by bit. I am enjoying living. But life keeps throwing me curveballs, so clearly I'm missing my great lesson (more on those curveballs soon).

So all this stressing about the surgery and my un-preparedness all evening. I was at parent council tonight and I just started to pick. Pick pick pick. I made a mess on the floor with my nail polish shrapnel. I know why I did it. I'd gone over to the dark side.

In fact I'm not sure I'm completely conscious, in the moment, right now. But I'm writing here in an attempt to clear some of the fog and digest it all.

A woman whose business we wrote about on SweetMama died last week. She had pneumonia, but (and I shouldn't surmise things about strangers from Facebook posts), from one of the last things she wrote on a friend's wall, I'm guessing that she was putting off investigating her health issue because she was busy LIVING too.

Time, time, time. We're obsessed with getting it, saving it, spending it -- much like money. And the hilarious thing is that it's a human construct. A tree or a dog doesn't know what time it is. There's no such thing as time. We don't have it. Any of us. All we have is right now.

So why am I freaking out? Because, like you, I'm trying to grab hold of something that doesn't exist. Time. Maybe if I let it go, my need to try to control time, I'll be OK. I don't know. I was hoping this post would have some sort of positive conclusion, but I'm not there yet. Any insights you might have are appreciated.

Oh, but hey, I didn't bite my effing nails in all this. I may have put them in my mouth, but they are still not bitten. It's something.