Holy Mother of Tired

OK - bathroom photos next week. Promise.

I worked Monday and then had Tues and Wed off. It was strange. I felt guilty leaving on Monday. "See you guys Thursday," I said sheepishly as I crept out the door. I must remember that they are not paying me for Tues and Wed. Let. It. Go.

Tuesday was farm day. The Dog took the car to the shop (now that I am a commuter. Barf) and I took Nate on the streetcar. I love the streetcar. It's above ground so you are surrounded by light and that totally makes a difference in the mood of commuters in general -- vs the subway, I mean. We always have fans on the streetcar. Nate is a total flirt and will smile at just about anyone, particularly attractive-souled females. The woman I mentioned before, the one who was talking about food banks on her cell phone, was also neglecting her severely disturbed son. My back was to them and I could only hear their conversation and judge the look on Nate's face. He looked worried. It was as though he was assessing their problems. With his large eyes, people are often blown away by his powerful stare. He can see right through everyone, right down to their core. This is disturbing to some (those with dark, cloudy souls) and appealing to those who have nothing to hide.

We met Mommy M at Logan and Gerrard and walked through Chinatown East (yes, Toronto has two Chinatowns downtown alone. If you count the suburbs, we probably have upwards of 6 Chinatowns) and entered the farm the back way. We came upon some ducks, tried not to be patronizing with some parents who were trying to get Lil Jojo to feed the ducks her bagel and took some photos (Mommy M -- any good ones of Nate?). We had our weekly hot chocolate and cookies with a side of bitchiness. We saw the pigs eat their own feces and I purposely pointed that out to Lil Jojo, knowing full well that she would be saying, "Piggies eat their own poopies Mama" all day. Mommy M will get me back in due time. Then we walked home all together in the sunshine. It rocked.

Then FuckFace resurfaced. My adorable boy turned into a total asshole the second I put the key in the door. WTF? He had a hard time falling asleep and woke up in the wee hours of the morning -- more than once. The Dog went down to warm some milk for Nate and when he came back, I was fully in the middle of the bed with the babe. "You'd better take the couch sweetie. You'll get more sleep that way." He mumbled in agreement. Or so I thought. Next thing I know he's totally getting into bed. Um... I thought we had an understanding homeboy...WTF? So of course, the boys slumbered away while I "slept" with my ass off the bed and my head on the nightstand.

The next day we laid low. FuckFace only appears when something is brewing. He started daycare last week, so he's gotta get sick. Plus he's cutting some back teeth. We picked up Nate's cousin Bex from school and headed home to enjoy the sunshine. That's when I noticed his nose was running. And in true FuckFace form, once the mucous hit, he was all smiles. Funny that.



Pooped from the cold and the fun, he fell asleep at 6:15 pm. But darkness hit and Nate's alter ego would not relent. FuckFace woke up EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR. I kid you not. He woke up at 7:14, 8:14, 9:11, skipped 10 pm somehow, 11:10 and then he was up until nearly 2. Which means we were up until nearly 2. That hasn't happened since the night before I left for Paris. He slept between us, barely able to get air through his congested nostrils. In fact, the only way he could get comfortable was when his head was on my FACE! So two nights of no sleep. Why the fuck am I up blogging? The post cannot be good when I'm so fucking tired and brain dead.

Oh, but the pictures will make up for it.

My mother's greenthumb clearly skipped a generation.

Yes, it's his back, but I love his homeboy Levis and cord belt combo.

Cousin Bex is a stunner/book nerd. She will be the coolest girl in high school, because she won't even look up from her book long enough to notice who's noticing her.


I think Bex is Nate's first true crush. And yes, he ate that fucking grape off the ground after he discarded it there earlier. Whatever. Zzzzzzzzz

I Will Not Write About Work

I Will Not Write About Work
I Will Not Write About Work...

I went out with The Moms last week for sushi and debauchery. Mommy M told a fucking funny story about how she was so bored at home one day she wrote THREE PAGES of lines. "All work and no play makes M a dull girl all day." THREE PAGES. Then she snuck the pages in her husband's briefcase, or what have you, so he would find them the next day. That is the level of dedication this woman has to send a point home. I respect her so much. She does not do anything half-assed.

Mommy K, on the other hand, admitted that she would eat mayo right out of the jar. I have never met another soul, who would have the balls to openly profess their love of mayo. It took my breath away. If I didn't mention it before, I fucking LOVE The Moms.

Anyway, I think I need to write some lines in order to drill some rules into my head. I do not want to fall into the same "I care so much about work" trap that I did at my other job. Especially if they aren't paying me benefits.

So I will just get this one thing off my chest and leave it at that. I will be taking the scenic route, however.

Growing up, we always had books around. My dad is an avid reader and book collector. He has always had a giant library in the basement of every house we ever lived in. We were often encouraged (read:harassed) by my father to read instead of playing with Barbies (it's amazing we still read after that bullshit). On Saturdays, my parents would drop my sis and I off at the public library, while they got their grocery shopping done. (There once was a time when it was safe and acceptable to do so.) Possibly in an attempt to win my father's affections, I devoured books as a kid. Any book I could get my hands on. I would hide books in my desk drawer when my mother came up to make sure I was doing my homework. I would even try to sneak reading extra-curricular books during class. I was a book-a-holic.

Though I no longer read like I used to, I am still in love with books. The look on my dad's face when I told him I would be working for The Big Book Company will stay with me forever.

I am surrounded by books all day at work. It is downright distracting. I know it will lose its charm, but right now I am a kid in THE candy store. It's hard to concentrate in meetings when there are books on all four walls around you. Books of every size, shape, colour, genre. I know I will never be able to read as many as I want to bring home, but it is so tempting to walk away with armfulls, because they are FREE. I can't even handle it sometimes.

There, I got it off my chest. That's all you will be hearing of my workplace. Working in general though is still up for grabs.

Signs That Spring Has Arrived in My Ghetto-Ass Neighbourhood

• Overheard a woman on the streetcar chatting loudly on her cell phone about which food bank was closest. OK, I admit that's not spring related, but it was the first thing that happened when I ventured out and it merits mentioning. I mean, priorities anyone?


• White trash girls in bare legs and short jean shorts under almost-as-long sweaters.


• Scary obese moms smoking next to their kids on the sidewalk, instead of in the glass box at the Coffee Time.


• Skids taking the Christmas lights off the No Frills carts parked on their front lawns.

Oh, East side. You are the new frontier. I love the fact that you're not cool and I now get to be the best-dressed gal on my block. I kinda love your white trash factor, because your people are way more entertaining than the hipsters on the West side ever were. My trendy salon mullet pales in comparison to your authentic 80s mulletry. Your lack of pretension is comforting, like a cheap hot chocolate with "no whip". Oh the sari shops and curry buffets provide a colourful disguise for who you really are when the ugly lights are on, but I'm starting to roll over the next morning and see your "good personality". I doubt I can ever leave you now. (Well, maybe just a scooch over to moderately-gentrified Leslieville?)

Update

The giant wasp has been killed. Let's face it -- it's still March, the thing was pretty much dead anyway. It's been living on my window for a few days now, but I suspect that it was slumbering since fall, and the recent warm weather somehow pumped an ounce of life back into the thing. But how did it survive my amazing window cleaning job last month? (yes, Queen Nomad, I did actually clean my windows... well, some of them anyway)

I was not brave enough to do it myself. The Dog had to come to the rescue after work. I'm kinda pissed at myself about that. If it were threatening my son's life, would I have had the balls to squish it then? Hmmm....

Tagging and other gay-in-the-80's-sense blog stuff that I love to hate

Blogging comes with a lot of stuff I like, and some stuff I find kinda dumb. The one thing I can't stand about blogging? The acronyms. Like, what the fuck's a "meme"? The non-conformist 3rd-grader in me cringes from the peer pressure. Do I really have to say I like Michael Jackson more than Boy George so I can sit with the other kids? (Yes, I really did prefer Culture Club back then. "Thriller" scared me more than Boy George's tranny make-up.)

Here's a few other mom blogger acronyms that give me hives:

SAHM - Stay at Home Mom
WAHM - Work at Home Mom
DH -- oooh, I hate this one the most. Is it supposed to stand for Darling Husband? Gross.
(I'm sure there's more, but that's all I can stomach for now. Leave any others you can think of in my comments)

But I like to be tagged. In fact, when I read 2badladies' "meme" post, I was secretly thinking, "Ooooh! Pick me! Pick me!" And lo and behold, she did! So here's more about me -- as if you already didn't know more than you asked for.

Accent(s): Two words: Scar-Bro! I grew up in the borough of Scarborough, a place similar to Brixton in London, or what I imagine Queens or Da Bronx to be like in New York, South Side if you're from Chicago. Before Toronto became a "megacity", Scarborough was a municipality unto itself. It's where immigrants from 'round the globe came to settle and build a better life for their families. Growing up here was like living on the tower of Babel or in the UN.

A Scar-Bro accent is a combination of any of the following:


• Mediterranean cultures (emphasis at the end of the question, like on the Sopranos), "Dood, you wanna get some chicken wiiings?"


• The West Indies, i.e. kissing of the teeth and a dose of "Nuff Reeespec".


• Ebonics to reinforce that we're from da hood, "She's been on my ass like a Mofo!"


• Some Asian influences for good measure, i.e. "Yo" becomes "Yo-yo-ma."


• A touch of UK/Commonwealth slang, "That's bloody stupid."


• Any peppering of foreign language words or phrases you may know. (You don't necessarily have to be of that culture to use their lingo.) "Don't be a stoogatz" ("Don't be an idiot" in Italian)

This accent can be tamed for meetings at the office and conversations with the cops, but is heightened when hanging out with anyone from Scar-Bro.

Booze of Choice: (Cheap night out) Vodka/Soda with lime --because Tonic, though also clear, has as much calories as pop. (Swish night out) Champagne cocktails. (Patio drinking) Bloody Caesars, sangria or authentic Margaritas.

Chore I Hate: Most of 'em. I should be cleaning now... I don't mind washing stuff, but I hate putting stuff away. Dishwasher clean? Let somebody else empty it. Laundry washed and folded? I'll just rummage for socks in the basket.

Dog or Cat: Cat. A Burman/domestic mix named Scout after young heroine in To Kill a Mockingbird. Will get a dog someday when Nate is older and starts asking. Like when he's a pre-teen and can take the dog on his paper route or something. I think a boy and his dog is sort of romantic.

Essential Electronics: Um... Computer? Anything that makes noise and distracts my son, so I can be on the computer. The handblender, because I am addicted to milkshakes and soup. And the straightening iron to avoid looking like a mafia wife.

Favorite perfume(s)/cologne(s): I used to be obsessed with scents, but lately I'm scent-sitive. I have a small sample of Lolita Lempicka that I wear on special occasions. I LOVE Alfred Sung for Men on the Dog, but his Old Spice deoderant is strangely sexy as well.

Gold or silver: Silver. Gold makes me look like a mafia wife.

Hometown: Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Insomnia: Used to. Now I'm too tired to stay up and think about shit I can't control.

Job Title(s): Current: Online Content Specialist, MILF to the Dog and Mum-mum to Nate
Previous (in reverse chronological order): Content Producer, Freelance Writer, Production Secretary, Director’s Assistant, Production Assistant, Intern, Waitress, Hostess, Cashier, Babysitter

Kids: Duh…

Living Arrangements: Cosy, 2 bedroom “condo-alternative” built in the 1920s, (meaning we have horse hair for insulation).

Most Admired Trait: This is so subjective. Do you mean the trait I most admire in myself, or the trait that others most admire in me? I think in both cases, though you might disagree, it’s a toss-up between being extremely loving and un-fucking-believably funny. These are definitely the two parts of me that I love the most: my heart and my funny bone.

Number of Sexual Partners: OK, my numbers are low if we’re counting the number of guys that I actually had intercourse with…3. But I gave a lot of random handjobs in my day.

Overnight Hospital Stays: Two. Once for a tonsillectomy in Grade 7, when a random (did I just say “random” twice?”) Doctor felt me up while pretending to listen to my heartbeat. And the second time, for NINE days when I gave birth.

Phobia(s): Going outside, bugs of all kinds, wet kitchen/bathroom sponges (if I have gloves on I can deal)

Quote(s): Pretty much anything vocalized by the great Coco Chanel represents my thinking. Also Queen Nomad's "If it feels too good to be true, it probably is."

Religion: Brought up Armenian Orthodox, sent to Catholic school, studied many world religions. Currently consider myself spiritual. I do call the G-man up every now and again though and I do believe that faith is necessary. Scarbie’s Quote: “Whatever gets you through, man.”

Siblings: One sister. You can read about our tumultuous relationship here.

Time(s) I Wake Up: 6:30 am to get ready for work. 7 am on regular days. 10 am when Nate is at Ya-ya’s.

Unusual Talent/Skill: Even before nursing, I have always had the ability to hang heavy objects off my extremely perky nips. Oh, and I do a mean Cher impersonation.

Vegetable(s) I Refuse To Eat: At one time this list was long. Celery and green pepper (red pepper was OK) would never touch my lips. But now, I can pretty much eat, and like, it all in the right context.

Worst Habit(s): Talk too much, bite nails, destroy cuticles, start sentences with So, But, Anyway.

X-rays: Lots.

Once as a child at Sick Kids, because I had a childhood eating disorder. I was a difficult eater to say the least. And my primary caregiver was a force-feeder. I would use my beverage of choice to swallow food whole without chewing, just to get her off my back. My digestive system was screwed as a result, so my mom took me to the doc, which led to the x-rays at the hospital. (Lord, this is a post unto itself) Anyway, it’s a traumatic memory. I saw some guy with a milk moustache from the X-ray milkshake they make you drink to see inside you. The moustache freaked me out and I refused to drink it. They had to strap me down and put tubes into my nose to get the x-ray. I was about 7 or 8.

Many x-rays for my wonky knee, first injured as a child, then diagnosed with patella femural syndrome in high school. Then the nightmare of needing stitches below my trick knee, while honeymooning in Cuba. I came home to start married life and ended up with a horrible infection that caused my knee to swell to the size of a football. I was hospitalized and on intravenous antibiotics for nearly a month.


Yummiest Food I Make: I am famous for my fajitas and my 7-layer Mexican dip.

Zodiac Sign: Cancer

I can't believe I'm about to say this...Tag, you're it! Transient Tales, Marla, Bunmaster and Kristen. (Blondie & Ragdoll, I know most of this about you, but feel free to do it too) Hell anybody reading -- if you feel like you have the time to fill this out, do it and let me know where to find it.

Sunday morning

Ah... Sunday morning... Let me highlight for you the joy of this Sunday morning:

1. Nate is at my folks' place.
2. My husband is at work.
3. I got to sleep until 10, when the phone rang. (Missed Corrie marathon, but alas, something had to give.)
4. For breakfast I had leftover pizza.
5. And a Coke!
6. Yesterday's paper is spread out before me.
7. With no little one trying to tear apart the sections I wish to read.
8. I also have the TV on with the channel set to something showing sex, violence and gore... just 'cause I can.
9. I am also obsessively catching up on blog reading.
10. Today I will get my house clean. I will get to fold my laundry without my child pulling the newly folded items out of the basket. I will get to Sweep n' Vac and there will be no Cheerios crumbs to destroy my hard-earned dust-free floors.

I may even get to take a shower today without interruptions or distractions. Could it be? Oh I miss my men, but I can certainly live without them for a few hours.

The only thing that could possibly ruin this morning? A wasp or hornet. Whatever it is, it's fucking HUGE and in my bedroom and we must have slept all night with it over our heads. *SHUDDER* I don't DO bugs. I could never do any of those shows where you have to eat bugs, or lie with bugs, or wear bugs on the runway. Never. Not for a trillion dollars.

I opened my eyes first thing, saw it and ran out quickly, closing the door as fast as I could to contain the situation. I know I have to kill it and get it over with, but how? Then the cat came inside. Aha! I picked her up, put her in the bedroom and shut the door. She'll kill it. Please?

OK, bracing myself with a big magazine and going to survey the sitch. Adding note on the fridge that we need to buy bug spray. If you don't hear from me, you know what went down. I've loved you all.

Just call me Tess

Whenever I start a new job after periods of unemployment, I get a theme song in my head. This is the third time I've dropped out of the workforce and started over again. The third time. It seems I have developed a little ritual.

The first time was when I was in college. I worked at The Olive Garden for nearly 4 years when they decided to close the chain in Canada. It happened to coincide with my final year of college and I decided to collect Employment Insurance while devoting my time to my studies. (I only had classes three days-a-week, so technically I could have been looking for work the other four days instead of spending my time in editing suites with cute director-wannabes.) Then I graduated and got a job answering phones for a short-lived CTV drama. For some reason, on my suck-ass suburban commute into the city (still lived with the folks back then), I would have the theme song for Greatest American Hero on continuous play in my mind. I was 24 and working on a show! With actors! And a Wardrobe Department. Yeah, I was only answering the phones and collating (sp?) coloured revisions of scripts ("We're on Goldenrod now") for dyslexic actors. But believe it or not, I was walking on fucking air.

The second time was after we got married. I was freelancing, pulling 14 hour days in the film and TV industry and wanted a switch to writing. I spent 10 months holed up in our apartment trying to write and find myself. Those were pretty bad days. Some days I didn't even get out of my jammies and we had no baby to use as an excuse. I discovered Napster. I discovered naps. Thankfully I got hired on a contract for the Big TV Company. I got to go to an office. With people. No more talking to the cat all day -- hooray! The first time I came out of the subway steps onto swish Bloor St, I wanted to take my pageboy cap off and throw it in the air. So the voices in my head were replaced by the Mary Tyler Moore theme. ...You might just make it after all...


Rightfully so, the new job at the Big Book Company comes complete with its own theme song. Song of choice randomly selected by my brain? "Let the River Run" by Carly Simon (sorry, Carly still needs the cash from this song, so no link to make your day), made famous by the movie Working Girl with a pre-Antonio, pre-one-collagen-injection-too-many Melanie Griffith. This job requires a commute out of the downtown core, so as I cross the Humber Bridge into Mississauga, it reminds me of our heroine, Tess, leaving Manhattan on the Staten Island Ferry.

I am, after all, a Working Girl again. I have joined the other cogs and I make the wheel turn. I thought I would feel guilty about leaving Nate. But the only guilt I am experiencing is from having fun going to work. I shouldn't be having fun leaving my son. It should be hard. But it was time. Time to dust off dozens of cute shoes waiting patiently to be picked from the closet. (And maybe time to add a few new ones to the collection? Pleeeeze?) Time to hear the clickety clack of sexy heels on the sidewalk. The swish of my milky tea in the portable mug that the Dog got me (as a "congrats on the job" gift). CBC Radio in the car. The beep of the swipe card giving me access into the building. The idle American Idol chatter.

My boys have been super helpful. The Dog has been watching Nate for the past three days and helping to transition him to daycare. Nate has been sleeping in until 7:30 am, allowing for much-needed time with my straightening iron. I have to say, it's pretty nice coming home to find Nate sitting in the high chair, smiling till his face rips with excitement to see me. It's nice making the most of morning snuggles, dinner/bath/bedtime. And it's kinda nice in a petty way, having the Dog be the one with food on his clothes, looking like a desperate raggamuffin, relieved that his relief walked in the door.

The job is saving our lack-lustre relationship too. I am contributing again. Not just financially, but to the dialogue. It's not all sweat pants and what Nate ate, or didn't eat, for lunch. And it's all rather sexy. So not only do I have "a head for business... and a bod for sin." At the age of almost 32, I also have a hickey. And if that don't say "working girl" honey I don't what does.

Confessions of a Teenage Dirtbag

I often think I should take my diary entries from high school and format them into an epic novel for dorks (past, present and future) everywhere.

One of my fave blogueuses, The Reluctant Houswife recently had a post on embarassing high school journal entries. Not being one to shy away from embarassment, here's my contribution. Feel free to add yours to your blog or in my comments and I'll update this link.

March 12, 1991

...Oh, by the way, here is my new deee-pressing [I was really into Deee-lite at the time] list of problems for 1991:

1. LONELY
2. HEARTBROKEN
3. THE ONE I LOVE'S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE
4. I CAN'T GET OVER HIM
5. MY FRIENDS ARE PISSED OFF AT ME
6. MY SISTER IS PISSED OFF AT ME
7. GOSSIP
8. NO DRIVER'S LICENSE [Well OK, this was sad. I wasn't allowed to get my license until I was 18. Crazy Armenian parents and their rules. Shyah!]

[Wait for it... this next one's a gem]
9. STILL 5 POUNDS AWAY FROM CHER'S BODY

People, the movie Clueless wasn't even out yet, so I am not dreaming of Alicia Silverstone's bod with my head on it. No, I am clearly speaking of THIS WOMAN >>>>>
WHAT would make a 17 year-old want Cher's body? Was it the scary tattoos? Was it that video wear she is wearing full-body pantyhose, two strips of bacon and a motorcycle jacket while serenading the troops? This should have been a sign to my snooping mother that I needed to be on meds. But wait! Could it get better?

10. STILL 10 INCHES AWAY FROM HAVING CHER'S HAIR

I will just be kind to myself and assume this was before she sported the Cleopatra wig in every fucking colour imaginable. I had thick curly hair and there weren't many thick curly hair icons back then. But I think this revelation in role model clearly explains why I was nearly 19 before I got laid.

I told you mine...

Greenwich Ovarian Time

Arnold Schwarzenegger gets the best lines ever. The Girls and I relish in Arnoldness and try to watch all his flicks together. The key for enjoying an Arnold flick is to view it as a comedy. My personal fave line comes from his 1999 action thriller End of Days. When told that Satan must impregnate a certain young girl by midnight on the millenial New Year's Eve, Arnold responds, "Is that Eastern Time?"

Though I am afraid of getting pregnant too soon and reliving my mother's life (Tante and I are 16 months apart), I am not ready to go back on The Pill. Not now, maybe not ever. My wacky body has been giving me this totally insane urge to reproduce again. SOON. Every time I see or hold a new baby, my ovaries throb, tickety-tock, tickety-tock. It seems me and my biological clock are on different time zones.

The strangest part is that lately, my brain seems to be indulging my clock and actually entertaining this thought. Am I crazy? (Well, clearly if you read this blog often, the answer is yes.) I am quite fortunate to have a very easy, well-behaved, almost 15 month-old little boy. I used to think he was such a good baby because of the sedatives he was on to control his seizures. But now that he's been off the meds for several months, I can see that maybe we've actually done a good job as parents so far. And maybe Nate being so good makes the certifiable me think that I can handle an increase in the motherlode.

The other problem with my chronological challenge? Other than the obvious dementia? The Dog has not signed on for baby number two. He doesn't feel ready to totally fuck up our lives further by added another poopy bum to the existing mess. He feels we've already lost so much of who we are, that we're just coming out of the fog and the sleeplessness, that we're just getting our brains back. Why would anyone in their right mind want to go back to the hell of the newborn again?

That's a good question. Some people don't care for the tiny baby stage. I am not one of those people. I LOVE the tinyness, the dependence on Mommy, etc. Or maybe I have temporary memory loss. I need to have my head checked, or at least should re-read last year's entries in this blog. Am I only thinking about this because I start work tomorrow? Can I hit snooze on my biological clock? And if I hit snooze one time too many, will I wake up late and realize I've missed the reproductive bus completely?

This is what I DO know. I know I don't want Nate to be an only child. The way we all love him at the moment, well, I know he'll have a strong sense of self, but I want him to learn that there is more to this universe than just him. And frankly, I want to know that childbearing and motherhood has an end. I like to think, well OK, I'll be 32 in July and 33 next July and if I add 18-20 years of full-time parenting to that... I could have my life back somewhere between the ages of 50-55. Assuming, of course I don't have a Matthew McConaughey/Failure to Launch for a son, who overstays his welcome. The thought of the physical burden of pregnancy also becomes more daunting to me the older I get, though that could just be from being physically exhausted from Baby Number One.

It doesn't help that everyone under the sun has started to ask various versions of, "When are you going to have the next one?" It never fails. When you're single it's "When are you getting married?" Then you get married and "they" are like, "When are you having kids?" And then you have a kid, and that is not enough for "them". "They" NEED to know when you are having another one. I think "they" should all fuck off unless "they" are going to come to my house and take shifts.

But as I watch my little boy go from walking to running, as I feel him getting too heavy to carry, as he starts to choose the bottle over my breast, as I see the baby become a boy before my eyes, I realize that he will not need me forever. Lately he's been favouring his father, which is totally cool, but I can't help but see a future where they are best buds and my job is making the sandwiches.

So where are we? Oh yeah, I know I'm completely nuts, but you should know better than to think that common sense would stop me. I've started the campaign: Operation Baby 2007. It's still in its early stages. We haven't opened up an office on the Danforth yet, nor have we postered the neighbourhood with signs. Instead, I keep dropping loserville hints so that the Dog is mentally prepared to have unprotected sex by the summer. Yes, the summer. I have a full out conception plan this time. I don't want another winter baby. As if it helps my case, I say dumbass stuff like, "So... (I fully omit the part that I've been surfing BabyCenter.com's ovulation calculator)... I was thinking, if we start trying on our vacation in August... we could have a baby by like next May. I just want to put that out there." Or, "Don't you think Nate would be so cute as a big brother?" So far it doesn't seem to be working.

If he's not on board in a few months time, I'm going to have to get him drunk and stoned like he did to me the night we conceived Nate. But until then, I'm going to watch American Idol and imagine what it would look like if I made babies with Ace.

Good Party Joke

Last night, while I was out celebrating the 30th b-day of a dear friend, I finally had a solution for the inevitable "Where's the baby?" I mean, if you really want to know about the baby, why don't you call during the week? I hardly think 1 am on a Saturday night is the time and place to suddenly give a rats ass about my kid.

So when asked this ultra-annoying question, I would look people right in the eye and respond dryly, "Oh, he's in the car."

Try it next time you're out. It'll teach people to stop asking you about the one person you don't want to think about when you're trying to pretend you're your old self.

Low

OMG! PMSING AND THERE IS NO CHOCOLATE IN THE HOUSE RIGHT NOW. I WANT TO KILL THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE BUT HE IS NOT ANSWERING MY CALLS! SO DESPERATE, AM EATING NATE'S BABY CEREAL BECAUSE IT TASTES LIKE PUDDING. SORTA. NEED HELP.

Who says they don't like chocolate and then eats my secret stash? Who? I have a good mind who. The same dumb ass who promised to buy milk today and then forgot and went to work. People, my boobs are not making much milk these days. I should not have to find out that there is no whole milk in the fridge 5 minutes before putting Nate down for the night. When I'm already in my PJs! Then he has the nerve to act like it's not a big deal. Dood, I am about to bleed. EVERYTHING is a big deal to me right now!

In my insane rage I have texted He Who Won't Answer Phone to make sure he got the message. Don't even think about trying to sleep next to me tonight fool! (Oh snap, I think I actually texted him to "...sleep on the couch like the dog that you are." No, no, maybe I just thought that in my head and didn't type it.)

SEND. CHOCOLATE. NOW.

Scrambled Eggs

The Pill. You know the one. It's so good it's known as "The Pill." We've got a pill over here that cures cancer. That's not "The Pill."

(paraphrased from my memory of Gary Gulman's hilarious standup on Last Comic Standing)

My incredibly brilliant, blonde Beacher bud (how's that for alliteration?) Blondie has recently gone off The Pill. Her distress over the whole thing has made me ponder some things I have been going through in my own body. Especially since the baby. Especially since no one seems to be talking about it.

I was on The Pill off and on for a decade when I decided to give it up. I'd like to say it was for some form of responsible citizenship. Like, I gave it up because pissing out estrogen is causing fish to change sex mid-stream or affect their fertility rates. (A science-loving friend has a theory that this estrogen in the water thing might also be the cause for every attractive and available man over 30 being gay.) Or that I was trying to get my body back to normal before becoming pregnant.

The truth comes down to two totally selfish factors:

1) I went to see a Naturopath (to get skinny--I mean healthy) who told me The Pill was increasing the yeast in my body. Yeast is bad and she thought it was the cause for some breathing and digestive problems I was having. Estrogen was also bad for some reason. Unlike most people, I had horrible cramps even on The Pill, and she thought estrogen was a factor.

2) I was tired of feeling flat. I sorta missed being nuts, like Nympho nuts. The Pill levels you off in such a way (at least for me), that you don't feel extreme highs and lows. I missed my Whoremones. I went off The Pill for a summer, when the Dog lived in the UK, and I thought I was going to burn a hole through my underpants. I missed being so totally hot for the Dog like that. (I happened to forget that being off The Pill also made me so totally NOT for the Dog, depending on the mood of aforementioned Whoremones)

I was off The Pill for over a year before I got up the duff. A year and a half of stupid, messy "pull and pray" before I drunk and stonedly let an orgasm cloud my judgment and change my life forever. I've been off the Whoremone control of The Pill for three years now and am nearing two years since discovering maternity. The road has been a bumpy one.

Though I'm fortunately not apt to get to yeast infections, I am extremely susceptible to panic attacks. After watching 4 episodes in a row of Six Feet Under, for example, I would suddenly think that I was going to have a brain aneurysm or a stroke. Right down to the pins and needles in my right arm and leg. (You've got to pick a side to host your neuroses on!) Once I had the baby and actually went through the traumatic ER experience of my brand new son's stroke, the panic attacks subsided a bit. We'd survived something truly terrible. What could be worse than that?

The panic-prone mind can never ask that question, if only because the panic-prone mind will answer it if given the time. Once the initial novelty of having a newborn wore off like a MAC eyeshadow, a door appeared in my tired brain for these thoughts to creep in. SIDS, disease, accidents. A million things could be worse. Sometimes I would find myself composing imaginary blog posts in my head, envisioning the horrific way I would have to tell my readers (I am embarrassed to write this down, but it might help someone) that my son had died.

Looking back, it may have been PPD. It came to a head in November, when I found myself in a Paris hotel room, convinced I had stomach cancer and would not live to see my son go to school. And that's when I began to notice a link. The freak outs were happening when I was ovulating. Somehow, my brain was connecting the passing of each monthly egg with a fatality.

I was fortunate enough to have a lot of support. My husband told me bluntly that I had to get over my obsessive fear of death. "Get busy living, or get busy dying," he would pronounce. "You're not doing Nate any good when you're like this. Eventually you will drive him away if you don't get it in check." He listened as I uttered aloud any demented thought that ran through my head during an attack. Telling him the thought almost always makes it vanish or immediately seem preposterous.

I have to admit, the freak outs calmed down a lot once I passed Nate's first birthday. I have heard that the Whoremones are all out of whack in the first year, but that goes away shortly after your child's first b-day. I still have irrational thoughts from time to time. They still happen when I am ovulating. Why are they still happening?

"Are you afraid of getting pregnant?" my faithful yogi Shantih asked when I looked to her for the answer. By George! Why yes, yes I am afraid of getting pregnant. Remember what happened to me last year? Holy Mother of Ovaries, I am so not ready for that again. Am I?

TOMORROW: IS THAT EASTERN TIME?

Stroller Snubbed

A while back I had written about my stroller being stolen off my porch. It was one of those mid-range Graco travel strollers. I hesitate to say "mid-range," because the stroller retails for around $300 (with the infant carrier/car seat attachment as pictured). A kindly soul, whom I met via this blog, quickly offered a stroller she was no longer using. I was floored by her generosity.

It turns out it's exactly the same stroller as the one we had, only the colour is lighter and it has a stubborn wheel that won't turn. Her daughter being older, the stroller has seen more use and has a few more latte stains than mine had time to acquire. Clearly neither of us seemed to heed the warning label, "To avoid burns, NEVER put hot liquids on this tray." (Soulmates!) It's a fantastic (and FREE) replacement for the one that was given to us as a gift by my MIL and SIL, and stolen by pathetic crackheads.

If you live in an urban area, you've clearly seen the influx of the designer stroller. Bugaboo, Zooper, Peg Perego, Quinny. They range from $400 to upwards of $1000 Cdn. Yes, they can turn into more positions than Madonna and weigh less than Nicole Ritchie on a meth binge. Whoopdee-fucken-doo! Perhaps I'm being a hater because I can't afford one. Well, I guess I could shell out, but there are more fun things I'd rather drop a grand on, like a plane ticket to Greece or a new porch. I can't justify paying so much for something that's basically outgrown by the age of three.

Who's looking at your stroller anyway? Its primary function is to push your kid's ass around until he can walk sufficiently by himself. After that it's used as a back up for sleepy toddlers and then sits in your basement to be taken out should baby #2 come along. In some mommy circles, however, the stroller has usurped the handbag as the must-have accessory by which other women are judged.

A week ago, Nate and I took of advantage the spring-like conditions by taking a three hour walk through The Beaches. The Beaches, just "The Beach" to locals, is an ultra-yuppy with hippy vibe area of Toronto. The Dog used to sing a twisted song with a creepy tune as we walked along its boardwalk: "Kids and dogs and moms and vans. Here we are in Pleasantville." There are three Starbucks within a short mile stretch of residential Queen St E. The Beaches boasts a dog bakery, several upscale kids' and lifestyle stores, and a couple bargain stores in between, for good measure. In the summer, between the dogs and the strollers and the suburban tourists, one can barely move along the sidewalk.

I like going there with Nate because it's a 15 minute walk from our working-class-flavoured hood into more glamorous shops and scenery. On this particular day, Nate fell asleep in the stroller and I took the opportunity to grab a chai latte and a newspaper at the 'Bucks to savour some sorta-alone-time. Two blonde, peppy moms followed behind me with their fancy wheels. I smiled at them, because that's what you do when you have a kid. You suddenly see others in your situation and you give them "the look." The look says, "Hey, I'm going through this too. I feel ya dawg."

My look of sista-mutha recognition was met with a glance at the stroller followed by a look of disgust. The beeyatch totally gave me cut-eye. I buried myself into the paper until Nate awoke. But my mind raced. Did I steal their regular seat? Did they recognize my face as someone who fucked one of their exes? Did I take the last organic blueberry bar? We made a hasty exit, adding yet another chai stain to Nate's ride.

As we walked back towards home along Queen East, I continued with my eye-contact/smile mission. Could I even get one of these Beaches Bitches to say hello? Nope. A look at the stroller and then a quick glance away -- every time. When I reached Coxwell Ave, with its mullet-sporting, Nevada ticket-ripping, cigarette smoking moms and dads, I breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of pretension. Then a bird shit on me. By the time I hauled the stroller up the porch steps, I was completely deflated.

"You're over-reacting," said my sis on the phone. "There is no way that this idea of yours is true. It's too ridiculous." Maybe she was right. I needed another opinion.

The next day at the farm, I recounted the story for Mommy M. Before I could finish, she blurted, "It's because you have a Graco and not a Bugaboo." Aha! Validation! I was not crazy. I was stroller snubbed.

Being an only child, Mommy M totally gets my need to have people like me. "I saw a Peg Perego at Value Village," she offered. "I'll check it out tonight and email you." Still reeling from being dissed, this idea made complete sense. Turned out, the used stroller was only $14.99, but in rough shape. Mommy M quickly outlined the points that also weighed heavily on me.

"Will it still garner the disdain of the Beaches Bitches because while it may be a Peg, it's still not a Bugaboo?"

"Will you mortally offend the generous friend who cheerfully donated a stroller in your time of need simply because of the *whispers* Graco problem?"

"Do you need the project of fixing up an old beast just to *whisper* pass?"

That settled it. I am not a competitive parent and I refuse to be bullied due to retail prejudice. I don't think my kid is better than yours or vice versa. I don't need him to be a genius. I'll be perfectly content if he's plain ol' average. I don't think designer gadgets and fancy classes can beat the intense love of any plain ol' mother. And I don't need the Beaches Bitches to be my friends. There's more to me than my stroller. If they can't see past the wheels into my son's ginormously beautiful eyes, or the friendly smile of his cool mother, fuck 'em.

Know any Russian?

On Thursday, we went to the doc for Nate's 15 month shots, albeit a tad early. He decided he couldn't wait for the doctor in the examination room and proceeded to walk into the waiting area in just a diaper and socks, screaming into my cell phone. The entire waiting room was full of Asians, who all mumbled in their languages and laughed nervously until one of them piped up, "He is not cold?" I should have seen it coming. I am of West Asian decent after all and my mother or aunts would have asked me the same thing. Or rather, they would have instructed me to put something over him right away. I just smiled and explained that he has Norwegian blood and never gets cold. Then I guiltily snuck back into our examination room and put a jacket over him. I am such a pussy. Always bowing down to peer pressure.

His scary belly button has healed. At 14 months, he's finally broken the 20 lb mark. 20lbs 12oz! Yippee! More signs that my milk just didn't have the fat he needed. He got his chicken pox vaccine. I'm not sure how I felt about it. In one way, it's great that he will never have to go through that discomfort of itchiness, etc. Watching Daddy Dog go through that as an adult (while I was pregnant!) made me realize how awful the chicky pox can be. But at the same time, I remember it as such a right of passage growing up. Proudly wearing the scar/hole above my eyebrow as a symbol of my survival, strength and general grown-uppedness (is it weird that I thought like that in the first grade?).

The doctor said Nate was doing very well and then sent us on our way. We got on the elevator -- after nearly being killed by the closing doors -- and smiled at an old woman with a cane. She looked at Nate and said, "Oh...Dragovich!" Anyone know what this means? I have no clue, but I felt it was a good omen.

Fresh Coat of Paint

While most normal people were out getting their drink on this weekend, I have been doodling in Photoshop and trying to remember some basic HTML skills I've acquired over the years. My whoremones are acting up, but my husband worked last night and went to a poker game tonight. So my sexual frustrations have manifested in the site. And after nearly two years of blogging, this facelift was well overdue. I even made myself a cool little logo. Hee. I forgot how much fun it was to colour and draw on the computer.

"But enough about me, let's talk about you... what do YOU think of me?" ~ Bette Midler as CC Bloom, Beaches

(My friend KPL told me that the gayest gay bar he's ever been to was called CC Bloom after Bette. Too good.)

Baby Boner

I don't have any brothers. I have only ever lived with two men, one of them being my father. There was a two month stint when my cousin moved in with us when he first arrived from Istanbul, but that doesn't count. Once I walked in on my grandfather peeing, but he was a sit down pee-er, so I didn't see anything. Once I saw my father's testicle peeking out of his swim trunks at the beach. Those two experience scarred me for life. It was a long time before I had the balls to get near male genitalia.

As I got older, I began to see the merits of the male form. It wasn't until I moved in with the Dog, however, that I Iearned how much men also saw the merits of their (insert slang word here). I had no idea how much men liked to touch themselves and how open they were about it. And then I found out that I had balls growing inside me.

When my son was born, I realized I would have a lot of learning to do about the area "down there." I tried to keep his private eye clean and read up on what I should and should not be doing. Many books commented that he would eventually begin to touch himself and feel pleasure. For some reason I was hoping that would not be until he was 14 and discovered the bra section of the Zellers flyer. Nope. I had also read that I should not make him feel shame when he touched himself or I could screw him up sexually. OK, I think I got it.

He started being able to reach "it" around the same time he could grab his feet. At first it was cute. He would tug and giggle, which would make us all laugh. Then he started to reach down there more often. As soon as the diaper came off, he'd grab whatever he could. This could get gross, like if he had done a soft number two. I would have to change him quickly and then run him to the bathroom to wash his hands off before he put them back in his mouth.

But what I saw yesterday freaked me right out.

A baby boner. No ordinary pee boner, the great signal that I have only seconds to cover him back up or face a lot of laundry. No, this was not like that. This was huge and hard and wouldn't bend back down to go in the diaper. I must admit, my inner thought was, "Ew."

Nate just giggled and tugged until I distracted him enough that it went down and I could diaper him. I think what freaked me out the most was what the baby boner symbolized. My son will have sex one day. There are many uncomfortable conversations in our future, no matter how cool I think I am. Oh lord help me.

Baby Steps

Nate took his first steps today. It was beautiful. He did it right before I left for a job interview that I didn't tell you guys about. I didn't want to hype it and then not get it (or get the evil eye inadvertently -- hey, it happens.) like last time. That was ass. This time, I got hired on the spot.

I knew he was going to do it today, because my mother-in-law thinks she's Billy Blanks when she's with him. "If you're going to walk, you'd better do it before I leave," I told him this morning. I just had a hunch. The Dog's mom arrived to watch my little man and before I knew it she was moving chairs out of his reach until he had walked from the bookshelf to the dining table (about 10 steps). Then she kept at him all afternoon until he was walking from room to room. I was so stunned, I forgot to get a Kodak moment. Mind you, had I been immersed in trying to record it, I'd have missed the beauty of the thing all together.

My son finally had the confidence to walk today, a sure sign of his growing independance. And just like that Mommy bird had the confidence to leave the nest. Just for three days a week. Three days a week at 60% of my former salary at the big TV company. Enough to pay for daycare. Now I will work for the big book company (how Bridget Jones) for the next 6 months or so. Yes, I will get free books and perhaps I will try to re-start the online book club -- but only if a few people actually read and review the book this time.

Big changes are coming our way. I can't really tell you what I'll be doing there, because it's top secret, but let's just say I'm excited about it. There's a bit of a commute, which could be a bummer, but for 3 days a week I can hack it. The only worrisome thing is that I still haven't got a firm answer from the potential daycare provider. I have to get on that fast. Anyone in or around Little India have childcare they can recommend?

Break Out

I am fully supposed to be at the Riverdale Farm right now, but Nate is sleeping. The sunshine is calling me and I am so itching to get out. Last week, he had given up the morning nap completely. I thought it was finito. But at 10 today, as I was getting us ready to go, he got all cranky, drank a warm bottle and passed out in my arms.

Now a normal mom would be like, whatever, but being a freak I am, of course, freaking out. Last night after dinner and bathtime, he broke out into hives all over his torso, front and back. We fed him some of our pasta and I forgot that I had put anchovies in the sauce. That's the only thing I think it could be. I had also cleaned the tub with bleach on Sunday, but I've done that before and nothing happened. Either way it's my fault.

I called the on-call doctor and his reaction was curt. "I was hoping for a more exciting case," he said blandly. "Lemme put it this way: if you were being billed $75 for this call, you would've wasted your money." The Dog thought this was hilarious, but it pissed me off. All the damn books tell you to call and check if you should give medication! And I know our healthcare system is strapped and I totally feel bad for wasting $75 of taxpayer money, but the kid was in hives!

Now he's been sleeping for an hour and a half and I'm wondering if it's way more serious than just a food or skin allergy. Going to check on him. Will report back later.

Update: He's fine. I am a true freak.

Get Real Moms

My blogging pal Jen at MUBAR and my good friend Crabby Kate both got a complimentary mention in Rebecca Eckler's new blog for the Globe. I know that Kate was flattered, but also puzzled as to the context of the article.

I have to admit, I have a love/hate thing for Eckler. We have some similarities. We are both recovering party girls (recovering due to maternity, not necessarily by choice). We both got pregnant by accident when we were drunk and totally in love. The stupid kind of love that makes you forget to scream, "PULL OUT!" or wear a condom for that matter. But what gets on my nerves about the whole thing comes down to money. In her book, Knocked Up, too-posh-to-push Eckler shops around for a doctor who will give her a planned C-Section. Her fiance decides they should get a Bugaboo (retails for $1000 Cdn) like Ethan Hawke and also suggests a nanny and, yes, a night nurse. "You don't want to get up at night, do you?" What the fa...? Now we have to strive to afford a person to get up at night for us too?!

Why does the media make us feel that moms are only interesting if they are still Martini-ing it up and shopping at the Holt Renfrew kids section? Are real moms that boring?

This message, fed to us by the media, just pisses me off. Not only do we have to raise children into healthy, productive adults, but now we also have to:

* Lose our baby weight in the time difference between Silver and Gold in Speed Skating.
* Have pimped out strollers and Gucci diaper bags.
* Dress our babies in expensive designer gear that they poop and puke all over and only wear for the amount of time between Bronze and Silver in Speed Skating.
* Dress ourselves in designer gear that our children poop and puke all over as soon as you've pulled the tags off.
* Spend a fortune on organics or suffer the fate of having dumb children.
* Buy every safety gadget known to mankind, so we have a false sense of security and don't have to watch our kids anymore.
*** Ooh, I forgot! Now we have to buy 300$ club chairs for our toddlers too!

No offence, but I was kinda hoping that after years of sucking in my gut and feeling like crap about myself, motherhood would provide me with some relief. A reason to let go a tiny bit and learn to be comfortable in my own skin. The last bastion for marketers and advertisers, we have now become a target. Face it, happy, well-adjusted people don't buy stuff. So if they make us feel like we don't measure up, then everyone -- especially the credit card companies -- will laugh all the way to the bank.

I am not competitive when it comes to parenting, so why does every magazine, newspaper and TV show make me feel like I have to be? Bah!

And the Oscar goes to... Zzzzzzzzzz

Was it me or were those the most boring Oscars ever? It was all so predictable, save perhaps the Best Picture win for Crash and the exuberance of the Three 6 Mafia crew.

The dresses were a snooze (Black is the new black) and no one said anything remotely controversial. Jon Stewart was just a'ight for me dawg. Though I did laugh a few times, I realized that the jokes were cheap shots and I was laughing for the wrong reasons.

For example, how many gay jokes can be made before it's considered in poor taste? I hate the hypocracy. JS seemed to have been censored from saying anything really political, but making fun of gays was totally acceptable. I mean, don't people pay good money to advertise during sitcoms that consistently reinforce stereotypes and have us laughing at what we think is "gay"? Well that's OK then. If I were gay (and according to this quiz I am 43% gay), frankly, I'd be so damn sick of it. You finally have a Hollywood movie that tastefully speaks to the gay community, in the universal language of love, and all we can do is make testo-fueled jokes about it.

Then there was the Three 6 Mafia, the rap act that won Best Song for their original composition "It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp" (which I have been singing ALL week BTW. Rent Hustle and Flow NOW). Immediately JS went for the easy laugh, cheapening the win in my opinion. "Martin Scorcese, zero Oscars. Three 6 Mafia, one." Hardy-har. I mean, what makes their art any less important than what Scorcese does? Why the fuck do the Oscars have to act so high-brow all the time? It's a damn good song representing a great film that shows that the realities of a pimp are not what the videos on BET would have you believe.

Maybe I am taking things too seriously. But in a year when the Best Picture choices were about breaking down our conventional ideas about taboo subjects and marginalized members of our society, the show that was celebrating these ideas seemed to be sweeping our progression right back into the closet.

What did you think?

More on Momstrophobia

When I was growing up, my mother always made it clear that we were everything for her. She also made a point of telling us that was exactly how she wanted it. She swore she didn't need anything else, but our love. She gave up her career at the bank and normally avoided buying things for herself so we could have her at home and afford a few things on my dad's meager earnings. Although she eventually went back to work (I was 13), my sister and I grew up and realized that she didn't have much in her life outside of her family, her home and her garden.

Recently my mom has been admitting stuff to me. She told me of a time when she left us with a 10 year-old neighbour and walked out the door. My dad found her crying and wandering the sidewalks of our Scarborough subdivision on his way home from work. "I just couldn't take it anymore," she revealed. "I had to get out of the house and clear my head."

My mother also spanked us growing up. She has also admitted that this was due in large part to frustration. "You spilled so much milk! I was so tired of cleaning it up." Don't get me wrong. This is not an "I hate my mother" post. Quite the contrary. I have nothing but respect and admiration for her. She was ultra-loving and nurturing and is still one of my best friends. I just wish to illustrate that sometimes a role model is someone from whom you learn what NOT to do.

I don't buy this idea that mothers have to be completely selfless. Your quality of life matters too. As I've said before, if Mum is happy, everyone is happy. We have to stop making each other feel like a bit of selfishness is not OK. It's not only OK, but it is necessary.

Sure, you have to compromise. But if you don't find a way to make motherhood meet your former self part of the way, you will wake up one day with a really bad case Momstrophobia. You won't recognize yourself and you won't be responsible for your actions. The lack of oxygen to your brain will make you do things you will come to regret. Violence, abandonment, and even suicide can all be a consequence of Momstrophobia.

Since Nate moved back home Sunday, I have been letting the Dog help out more. He has been offering to take Nate to the drop-in centre for a while now, but I often make excuses for why they can't go. "It's going to interfere with his nap!" "He has to eat lunch!" It's silly really. It started out with offeres that we should go there all together, but since I can't get my shit together in time (it closes at 12:30 pm) I think that we can't go. Then I woke up. If they just go together, this makes more time for me! "Sure, take him." As they make their way out the door, I think, "Did he pack snacks or milk for Nate? Did he pack diapers?" Then I calm the fuck down. Let him make his own mistakes girl.

Am I missing out on a part of my child's life? Perhaps, but I'm also gaining valuable me time. Time to take a shower, to read blogs, to write, to research and apply for jobs. It's my time to remember who I am. I don't want to wake up 20 years from now and not recognize myself. I feel like that happened to my mother. Her children were her whole life (and still are). Now on the verge of retirement, we all worry about how she will fill her days.

I think the smartest thing I did so far was getting Nate used to staying with grandparents and aunts (related and non-related) so that I could experience a bit of freedom. The key factor in making this happen is letting go. As a control freak, I still struggle with this. I get upset with my parents when Nate doesn't eat or nap according to "the schedule" and I often come off as ungrateful. But as my sister quickly points out, "It's not like he's not going to get into college because he missed one nap. Chill out!" At the end of the day, I am so unbelievably lucky that I have these people to give me some breathing room.

When Nate returns from his play date with Daddy Dog, he needs a filling lunch and a diaper change and I'm right back to my maternal duties. Sure, you have to compromise. But if you don't find a way to make motherhood meet your former self part of the way, you will wake up one day with a really bad case Momstrophobia. You might not be responsible for your actions. The lack of oxygen to your brain will make you do things you will come to regret. Violence, abandonment, and even suicide can all be a consequence of Momstrophobia.

I have to take this moment to thank my husband, my family and my friends, who have helped me adjust to a new life as a mother, without giving up too much of the person they all love and, most importantly, the person I love -- myself.

Withdrawal

Since I came back from Paris in November, I've been trying to wean my little boob addict. And for the longest time, it didn't work. The boy is obsessed with tits. When he eats from one boob, he slides his free hand under my top and over to the free boob and lazily tweaks it. This totally weirds me out. He has an addiction and I am the enabler.

Even my family members looked at me oddly. "He's still on the boob?" they would ask, incredulous. But after spending time with us, they would see how passionate he was about my breasts and their warm, but fat-free milk. He would violently grab the bottle or cup and throw it across the room. He would tear at my zippers and buttons, trying to climb into my clothes. When I would finally give in, his eyes would roll into the back of his head, like Ewan McGregor getting his fix in Trainspotting.

In public, I began to get embarrassed. A formerly unabashed breastfeeder, I was suddenly trying to cloak my toddler for feedings. Oh it's cute to breastfeed an infant, beautiful even. But toddlers at the boob are not looked upon favourably (unless you're a card-carrying member of the La Leche League). It starts to seem Oedipal. ("Oedipus, Schmeedipus. As long as you love your mother.") I was with a friend recently, who told me her two year-old ASKS to nurse. I realized I NEVER want to have that conversation with Nate. It was time to get aggressive with the weaning.

At a playdate chez my pal Loula, she noticed how quickly I would give in when Nate would shove the bottle aside. "You're confusing him," she pointed out. "You're sending him two different messages. Be consistent." This was a valuable tip. I was teaching him that if he whined long enough, he would get his way. So I decided: no more daytime breastfeedings.

These last few weeks, with my mom watching Nate, he finally started to drink homo milk with pleasure. We had to take a step backwards and revert back to the bottle from the sippy cup, but it's a small price to pay. While I was at the dusty house, I would pump to relieve my engorgement and store the milk in the fridge. It is normal to see separation in cold breastmilk, between the creamy fat and the water, usually resolved with a quick shake of the bottle. But the Dog and I were both shocked at how my ratio of cream to water was dramatically different than it had been in the early days. I know that he needs less as a toddler, but it looked to both of us like I was producing skim milk. It would definitely explain his lowish weight and his frequent night wakings to feed (night feedings are not needed at his age).

After the week of tough love at the beginning of December (and the new mattress and all that hard work) the holidays fucked Nate's sleeping habits up. Grandparents tend to spoil and over-stimulate and to top it off, I couldn't let him cry while we were staying with other people (not my choice). If I left Nate to cry for 5 minutes, my dad would dash to his side, consoling and cajoling at 3 am. Add teething and a cold to this crazy mix and for the past 2 months I was waking up twice a night to tend to Nate. I was starting to feel a version of maternal claustrophobia -- when your child's needs usurp your own to the point that you can't breathe. Momstrophobia.

When I noticed he was accepting increasing amounts of homogenized milk, I started a new bedtime ritual. I began to give him a big warm bottle while I did the usual reading and the singing, and then I would top him off with a quick boob feeding. He would roll into the crib awake, content to be alone before falling asleep. I cannot tell you how much he has matured since this change. With a full belly, he has started to sleep through the night (though the downside to this is that he wakes up with an overfull diaper and wet pyjamas). He no longer screams bloody murder when you put him in the crib. The crib has become a place he's happy to be on his own. He's eating dramatically better during the day. He's put on some weight. He's letting Daddy Dog put him to bed. It's an amazing change and MY life has improved as a result.

Two nights ago, as I was nursing Nate at bedtime, I started to cry. I looked down at his little hand on my boob, dimples for knuckles, his chin bobbing contentedly at the breast, and it struck me -- this could be the last time. I know that this part of our relationship is almost over and that it was my choice to end it. Though 14 months felt like an eternity, I know that over both our lifetimes, it's just a drop of water in the ocean. Weaning also symbolizes that my baby is not a baby anymore. So I quietly grieve the end of this chapter of motherhood. There will be other challenges to come, other needs to be met, but none will be as lovely in its simplicity as soothing him with a boob and a cuddle.