Procrastinating with a new contest

Apparently I don't have time to update my Addictine column on Playdate, nor my column on Did You Buy That New, or respond properly to a journalist to whom I volunteered some dark secrets for a Nerve.com article, but I can't stop twittering (it's the best vice for a nervous procrastinator like me) and now I'm ignoring both work and children to take a breather here.

This week has been insane. The launch date for our gorgeous new Sweetmama site got pushed up a week, or so I learned at 2:30 on Thursday. My content for the site is now due Tuesday. I got up from my desk, hyperventilated into a bag and then moved forward. So this weekend, Labour Day gets a new meaning.

I knew this would happen. This is kinda how I work best anyway -- under major freakout conditions. It's the only way I can harness my ADD and focus: With the fear of failure at my door. Then I bust my ass and usually end up losing my voice right before we go live. I don't know why this is, but it was the same when I worked in film & TV; I would lose my voice right before we went to camera. Bizarre.

Now that it's all coming together and my editorial calendar looks like a pretty mess of colour-coded slots that are finally filled in, I feel a bit better. But I can't rest on my laurels just yet.

So I am waiting to hear if Mike Holmes will answer any of your questions. (Remember that? That was forever ago wasn't it?) But the winners of my question contest are: Blogueuse, Refinnej, and mfk. Email me and I will send you your prizes!

Now for a new contest. Do you have questions of any of the following?

• a preschool expert
• a children's shoe expert
• a nutritionist
• a maternity wear designer
• a pregnancy and fertility expert
• an etiquette expert

Leave your questions in the comments. If I choose your question, I'll post the winners here and send you a prize. It's that easy! Also, if you're an expert in a field, let me know and I'll contact you directly. The reason for all this will be revealed soon.

Have a great weekend! Tomorrow, I'll be procrastinating by answering a meme that my new friends the 3 Giraffes signed me up for. Now excuse me while I go breathe in a bag again.

An Armo Party Primer

I had hoped to dazzle you with a fabulous photo of my one-year-old in her incredible loralin designs tee with crocheted cupcake decal (including a b-day candle, natch) stuffing her pudgy hands into fistfuls of cake but...

1) every picture I took was with someone else's camera and no one has sent me a copy of the pics (*sniff*)

2) my girl took one bite of her awesome cake -- that my sister crafted with love, care, a Kitchenaid mixer and the Tartine cookbook -- and then yarfed half an hour after.

So no pic. For now. Luci (Lucy? I can't decide. Why don't we just call her by her damn name?) had two parties: One for the Armo set (for a nation nearly obliterated by genocide, we're a ridiculously homogeneous and closed group) and one for my in-laws. The Armo party was held in my mom's backyard and featured standard Armenian BBQ fare: A dozen appetizers, many of which are fried, contain feta or involve a yogurt and garlic dressing -- none of which stand up very well in the heat.
The party for my in-law's was on her actual birthday and involved me racing home from work to cobble together something decent using leftovers from my mom's party, some sausages from the fancy butcher and lots of booze. (My IL's like to get their drink on.) There is always too much food at an Armo function. The fear is that there won't be enough food, God forbid, which would disgrace the family in good company. (Really, Armos are so annoying that they usually ONLY socialize with family, so who cares?)

I don't know that the running out of food thing has ever happened. Ever. Maybe one time, and then every Armo gossiped about it so much that it became a thing of legend, striking fear into their wooden spoons forever. That or possibly that whole "Jesus feeds the 500" story in the bible... Regardless, Armo cooking math goes like this: Whatever you think will feed the crowd, triple it, just in case. Then keep lots of yogurt containers on hand so that you can divvy up the remnants to those poor working daughters of yours. And don't forget to write what's what or whose is whose with a Sharpie marker.

(Last point is particularly important if you are using cheap, reusable containers such as Ziploc. Armos must initial these because they think it obliges you to return the cheap, reusable container to it's owner. I disregard this and merely think it goes back into the pool.)

Also, when an Armo asks you how much of a serving you'd like, there is different math. You say you'd like one helping if you want two heaping servings, two if you want three, no thanks if you'd like one serving. Got it? Be prepared to be forced to have a serving because your aunt "made it special" and then be prepared to be told you're getting fat by the same people who ignore your attempts at portion control.

The old people will always sit inside, because it's always disgusting outside. They need air conditioning in the summer, and effective central heating in the winter. They are terrified of random drafts and are never sans cardigan. I have one uncle (not by blood thankfully) who wears wool sweaters and blazers in July and microwaves his beer so he doesn't get a chill. He also happens to be an asshole.

My Morak, (from the Armenian word Morakuyr meaning mother's sister) a tiny woman with purpley white hair and department store sweaters, who happens to be legitimately crazy, will annoy everyone at the party. She will try to one-up her brother's family at all points. Everything her family does is spectacular. This includes my sister and I, as she never had daughters. Oh, is your grandchild starting to walk? Well Nadine's daughter is going to be a runway model. Next week. That's how good SHE walks.

We all shit stars and get glowing reviews -- but only when she's trying to one-up the crowd. Individually she will berate us all for our choices in clothes, homes, husbands. But I love her. She was the closest thing I had to a grandma growing up.

My sister hides in a corner, avoiding annoying conversations about why she's single, any comments about her weight (though she just shed the equivalent of my three-year-old and looks HOT!) and being treated like a slave by 70+ year-old men who complain about too much salt or the inclusion of a new non-Armo dish to the standard menu.

Jan also hides after a while, feeling like he has little in common with most of the men (who all look 7 months pregnant) except my dentist cousin Dr. Tooth. I like to sit with Dr. Tooth's wife, Texan Martha Stewart, who is like my big sis -- if there was such a thing as natural redhead Armos who wrap a mean gift and make a good guacamole.

Nate immerses himself in all things cousin. He is obsessed with the idea of having cousins. He will talk about them for days afterwards. He makes up elaborate stories about what he and his cousins did while they were in space. (If ever there was a candidate for a child who needed a sibling, Nate is it. Thank goodness we had Loogoo.)

Armo parties last a minimum of 6 hours. No one knows when to leave. If you plan a lunch at 1, people will arrive in Armenian time (90 minutes to two hours after designated time) and then stay past dinner time. (There's enough food for two meals and then some.) No one plans a lunch, so when you actually do, everyone will call your mother 30 times to see how this could possibly be true and even then people will still get it wrong and show up for dinner at five.

Presents must be opened in front of everyone (it's mandated when you get your Armo DNA). This requires a special set of dexterity skills in order to avoid the beady, glaring eyes of the elders as you open cards containing money. It's kinda like Deal or No Deal: Everyone wants to make sure that their briefcase has the highest dollar amount. They also want to snark about the people who only put a twenty in.

If you would like someone to know something important, you just speak loudly to no one in particular -- though preferably within earshot of the best gossips. News travels quickly this way and you can get your point across without dealing with any form of embarrassing conflict. Though people may be brutally honest with you, do not expect to get a greenlight on that inappropriate behaviour until you are at least 60.

In all seriousness, it was good to see my family and celebrate the birth of my baby girl. My girl had smiles and love for everyone who wanted it. I may kid about the intricacies of Armenian social functions, but I really love getting together. (4 times a year max.) This will be the last generation of us in Canada to adhere to those rules, that will put such effort into traditional dishes. I fear that by the time my kids are grown my generation with be so disgusted by the mandate of our traditions that we may turn our backs on it all together.

One of a Kind

Child, you are ONE today! One! Admittedly I am writing this the night before, because the truth of the sad matter is that I am working on your actual birthday. My heart is completely broken at this fact. You are sleeping soundly at your Yaya's, where I cherished putting you to sleep. I sobbed a long while at your crib while I thought about what I was doing at that moment 365 days ago.

I sobbed as I thought about your birth at 6:33 am on August 25, 2007 and how I wouldn't be with you at 6:33 am on August 25, 2008. I'm sobbing even as I type this. Because when I think back to that first day with you a year ago, how I so cherished those first moments with you, how we waited for 3 PM visiting hour so that you could meet your brother, how you and I spent that first night alone in the hospital with no idea of what was to come, well it's tear-inducing.

What joy you've brought me in this year. Oh I have grumbled about how hard it is. But all of it is erased with a single beam of your incredible smile. You are a happy, independent and strong-willed child, but it's your incredible ability to bring people inside your joy that I most treasure.

I wish I could be a different kind of mother for you and your brother. I wish I didn't need to work. But I want you and Nate to know that I enjoy my job immensely. The city is an expensive place to live, and we could certainly use the extra income, but the real reason I work is because it fulfills me. I think that's important to say, for you as a future woman to know. When Mommy is home everyday she's not the best Mommy she can be. She's just not. I don't know why this is. I wish I could be more like Yaya was for Tante and I -- selfless, forever putting the kids first -- but I can't.

I think I have a pretty good situation -- an almost part-time, full-time job with the flexibility to be there for you when I need to, with an extra day off than most working moms. On my days off I am immersed in all things Nate and Loogoo, relishing your burgeoning relationship and occasional rivalry. But I feel guilty every day, feel like I'm causing you future harm by not being there for you 24-7, sending you away, albeit to a home full of people who are in love with you. I don't know that I'll ever get over this guilt, but it's a necessary job hazard I guess.

You might want to do the opposite of me when the time comes. That's kind of how it goes. You'll want to be anything, anyone but me. I know it's coming, I'm bracing myself because I know that it's natural and part of the journey to your becoming a woman. I look forward to (and also dread somewhat) you challenging me and trying to take paths I didn't. But I can't even think about you being that big right now because it just triggers the flow of tears.

But baby girl, you are ONE. ONE! You graduated Newborn and Infancy and now you're leaving the last stages of babydom behind as you thrust left after right in an attempt to reach Toddlerhood. You writhe as I hold you, try to smother you with kisses. You want to be off running after your brother. But our special time is when you're nursing, which amazingly you still are. Sometimes I don't get to see you for a couple of days while you're at Yaya's, a situation I'm desperately trying to change, but you still come back to me. Thank God my milk supply isn't affected and that you're not confused by these changes. I was so eager to wean your brother at this stage, but you don't need me in the same way he did, he still does, so I savour our quiet moments together and would be happy to nurse you until your next birthday.

I love you Lucine. I can't tell you enough. I really do. It surprises me, because I never thought anyone could compare to the love I have for your bro. But I celebrate your feisty nature, your determined spirit, your easy-going contentedness. My only hope for you is that the world does not quash all that is good about you. And that you can find some way to understand why I made the choices I did and still find it in your heart to love me.

Happy Birthday my sweet princess.

My TV Appearance

If you haven't had enough of me, you can watch my TV appearance here. They told me it would air last Monday. It aired two Fridays ago. I only know because my 80-year-old Morak (aunt) called my mother to make sure she wasn't delusional. (She is, but she was right about seeing me on CP24.)

The shoot was a bit of a disaster. It took more than twice the allotted time and they didn't let me pimp Sweetmama.ca. There was to be only one online expert and The Client (must protect my professional privacy from the Eye of Google) got to be it. I didn't want there to be bad blood between Sweetmama and The Client, so I let it go and went along with the role of mom shopping for back to school as opposed to "online shopping expert" -- even though I don't have kids going "back to school" per se.

When they told me they were going to shoot me driving the car that I was trying to get rid of later that day, I was mortified. My 11-year-old Chevy Cavalier is beige and has a mess of dents on it. I am so embarrassed of my car that a couple weeks ago when the battery died (because the alarm that says 'turn off your lights' no longer goes off) I sat in the car for an hour waiting for CAA rather than asking for help, because I felt the Mercedes and Escalades in the lot where I park for work were too good to bail out my piece of shit car.

"I can't believe they are shooting my car," I groaned to the client. "Oh, don't worry. That's keeping it real," she replied. I wanted to punch her a bit. "Look," she tried to comfort me, "My car is the same colour as yours," pointing to her SUBARU WAGON. I played along. "Oh yeah... um, it is. What are those racks on top of your car? Are they for bikes?"

"Those are for kayaks actually," she said in her snooty executive voice. Fuck you. Your awesome car with its kayak racks does not compare to my doom buggy. Your icy blue jacket and your equally steely professional smile are the complete opposite of me lady. Which is probably why you drive a Subaru wagon and can afford kayaks. Seriously, this is why I am not an executive, nor will ever be. I am too casual, too emotional, too fuck you I don't want to play by your rules. If I could just emulate that steely, put through a strainer smile, I'd be making 6 figures by now.

The saving grace was that the camera guy was hot. And I think he dug me a bit too. Even though I had mic-ed myself at the first location, he was sure to mic me at the second locale, which meant he touched my butt and my boob. How sad is it that this was the highlight of my day?

I also went with the blue sweater dress/red lipstick combo that a few people who know me IRL recommended. It was a good choice I think and photographed well on camera. So there you have it: I looked good and some cutie touched me and that's what I took away from the whole experience. Good lord I need help.

[FYI... that is not my kitchen, nor my house, but the host of the segments'. I have nothing that nice, 'cept the children.]

*******
We're in first birthday party mode here. Can you believe my girl is about to turn ONE? Neither can I, the year has flown by. When I think back to how little I knew a year ago, I have to laugh. My amazing beam of light, my girl has changed us forever and I have to say that although bumpy, the ride has been worth it. More to come tomorrow.

The Good between the Bad and the Ugly

I do love when I write something I'm not too sure of, only to find this amazing circle of awesomeness that I think is only possible in the world of blogs. As in, you guys commenting to say my post makes you feel like you're not alone, well that makes me feel like I'm not alone. Isn't it great how that works out? *virtual group hug*

But to get THIS LINK in my comments? Well people, my friend Marla Good and her family of good Goods, Steve and Josie, live up to their family name to the point I might write the Pope and nominate them for future beatification. (Though that'd just piss off their alternative values, so I'll stick to whiskey and cake.)

You see, in the midst of all yesterday's chaos, I needed a professional photo taken a) for our website and b) for a workshop I'm giving in September. (More to come on that!) So I called on the one friend with a good camera and a good eye who would be good enough to make a bit of time for me and do a good job. (You see?!)

I could tell you all about my experience modelling for Marla, but she does so much better a job of it. I couldn't possibly do it justice. She also makes me look 1000 times better than I actually do IRL, though perhaps she's captured the true me in a way I don't appreciate often enough.

Who said motherhood was fair?

I don't even know if there's even any point to me venting here. This will be long and complainy, so up to you if you even want to read this. I am warning you. But I am so numb from being angry right now. I don't know how to stop being angry, don't know whether I'll be able to stop crying from rage, from the unfairness that is being a mom.

I should have known it was going to be that kind of day when I woke up this morning. Lucine woke up at 6:30 am and J turned to me and said, "She didn't get up all night, did she?" (Couldn't you just kill your partner when they are able to sleep through night wakings?) She is teething like mad and the resulting mood is well... bitchy to say the least. If you don't reach her crib before she gets to standing at 2 am, you're fucked.

We busily got ready for our day. J was to take Nate on the bike and I was meant to head to the bank with Loogoo before dropping her off at my sister-in-law's for a few hours. Just enough time to get errands and also work done. I had to go to the bank to drop off our bill of purchase for our new car! Yay, right?

Except that when I went to leave with Loogoo (just in time for her to have a wee snooze in the car) the car keys were not hanging on the hook. They were in J's pocket, cycling away to his work. You see, when we offered the car for a trade-in, the dealership took one set of keys for some reason. Fuck.

So I missed the 9 am meeting with the bank guy. I waited for the keys to arrive via taxi and set about getting myself ready, sending a few work emails, preparing Loogoo's lunch for the day, her bottle, her changes of clothes etc. In this time Lucine destroyed our house.

She is at that age where everything is meant to be explored, which means old toothbrushes get pulled out of trash cans and chewed on so that Mom can put on her makeup. She took all of our shoes out of the shoe bench. She opened every safe drawer in the kitchen and made installation art with plastic bags and tupperware. I think if robbers came by an hour later, they would just turn around and leave because they'd think someone had already ransacked the place.

By the time the keys arrived it was nearing 10:30, so I stepped over the disaster zone, hastily dropped Loogie at my SIL's and headed for the bank.

I handed the bank guy the paper he needed, still feeling confident that I could make it to the dealership and back home in time to get my work done. "So when is J coming in to sign the paperwork," banker dude asked. Uh, he's not? My husband has been working 6 days a week, and being the new guy he feels he has to say yes to every shift he's offered. He also works dumb hours like 10-6, which means he leaves too early to be of use in the day and gets home too late to help while I make dinners. It sucks big hairy ape balls and my patience is wearing thin.

The bank closes at 6 and the car was meant to be picked up today. With J working until 6:15 the only solution was the nice bank dude offering to meet J at work to get his signature. That meant I would have to come back between 4 and 6 to get the check to take to the dealership.

Except let's think about that. What happens between 4 and 6 for most parents is complete chaos. My errand got moved from the child-free part of the day to the worst time possible. (Save perhaps bedtime.) Just even thinking about going to the bank and to pick up the car in the middle of picking up kids and making dinner made me cry. The idea of putting two car seats in the new car while I had to hang onto my kids by myself made me want to vomit. How do I end up with all these tasks?

To make matters worse, when I went to pick up Loogoo, she had only napped for 30 minutes all day. This meant that when I headed to the bank at 4, she was totally going to fall asleep in the car. Which she totally did.

I parked at the bank and decided to let her sleep. I tried calling the bank guy repeatedly from the car, to have him come and meet me outside with the check, but I kept getting his machine. So I rolled down Lucy's windows and stepped into the banks to see if I could have someone send Bank Dude outside. I could fully see her at all times and it wasn't hot in the car at all. (Was actually rather chilly by 4pm today.)

Except that now that she's no longer in the baby seat, her head slumps forward when she sleeps, making her look... well... kinda dead to the untrained eye. So when the Vespa (the childless person's vehicle of choice in this city, alongside the Smart Car, the Mini, the Honda Fit and anything else that screams "We don't need to fit your stinking stroller in here!") parked beside me started to pull out and stopped, I knew what he was thinking.

I watched him stare at Loogoo for a minute, wondering what he should do. When he went to pull out his cell phone, I opened the door to the bank and screamed, "I'm right here! I can see her. Thanks!" People, I know it's illegal now to leave your child in a car. But for crying out loud, when the child hasn't napped all day and she falls asleep, what do you do?

When Bank Dude finally got to me and told me that the legal department hadn't cleared the car of any liens yet, I broke down. I was done with the day of mishaps. I drove my sleeping baby to the beach and sobbed in the parking lot for half an hour. Then I called my girlfriends and bitched about how sucky it is to be a mom. That made me feel better briefly.

I collected myself and then went to pick up Nate. When I parked I felt bad about Loogoo's slumped head so I attempted to straighten it, which only made her wake up screaming. Then, because I had taken the car seats out to get to the trunk (the only way we can get to the trunk now is through the back seat and I had to clean out the whole car before we hand it over) I had to let her scream while I reattached Nate's car seat.

Then I had to deal with "Mom I'm hungry. Mom I'm thirsty," from Nate in between Loogoo's whining about being in the car seat. When you're three and a half, you somehow can't wait for your mom to drive that 5 minutes to home. You need that snack NOW!

Once home, I quickly put together dinner for the kids. Nate ate his while watching a DVD and Loogoo took her bowl and dumped all the contents onto the floor. Thankfully scraping homemade mash off the antique Turkish carpet wasn't as horrific a task as I thought. I realized I'd eaten nothing but scraps of baby food and coffee all day. I started to sob again.

I also realized that I'd have to make up the time lost working on one of my days off. I sobbed harder. The rage built up. I thought of the laundry pile and the nails that need cutting and the kids' doctor's appointment next week and how I make all the appointments and take the time off work to take them and why the hell is that anyway?

It's not fair and it's my job. Forever. I can't get past the fact that I feed them, clothe them, bathe them, kiss their boo boos, read them stories and tuck them in each night, yet as soon as J walks in the door, I don't exist. Loogoo actually called out Dada several times tonight and Nate said, "I missed you Dad." They leap into his arms and he does his Chris Farley laugh and they are saved from the wretched Mommy who makes them eat their veggies and wear clean clothes, scaring them half to death with her incessant crying. I just want to walk out when this happens. Get on a plane and go somewhere. But I have no money thanks to this damn car purchase.

I watched Mad Men the other night and what I find most shocking about that show is how much I relate to the wife. I mean she's living in the 50s and dealing with her kids all day. I'm here in the new millennium working and taking care of my kids. Our lives are different right? But here I am, my husband working 6 days a week, and I'm trying to make him understand how awful it was when Loog smushed her dinner into the rug. And it's like I'm talking to a wall. And I feel that woman. I understand their need to be medicated and numb and constantly smoking.

Motherhood is not fair. It is not equal, even in households like mine where the husband does the dishes and wakes up at 6:30 with the baby. Am I just supposed to "suck it up" and accept my fate and all the duties that come with it? And if yes, then how? How do you do it? How do you accept that no matter how smart you are, no matter how much money you earn, you will always be the bad cop, the task master, the not-as-beloved, simply by the fact of being female?

Suburban Princess goes Camping: a photolog

As father and son set up tent, Nate shouted out Wonderpets songs at the top of his lungs. "What's gonna work? Teamwork!" Which made everyone within earshot, including the neighbouring campsite, giggle.

The reason I could not help put up the tent? Leisure suit Lucy. Thank you Vicky for making me give up any ideas about cleanliness and sterilization before I left. She ate dirt, sticks and leaves. I pulled several rocks out of her mouth. And you know what? She's totally fine. (Insert Evil Eye repellent here. Because now that I said that, she'll come down with lord knows what.)

Hi, I'm Nate and I LOVE camping. All we eat is hot dogs and chips and marshmallows. And I get to sleep snuggled up between my mom and dad. And then Loogoo wakes up and comes into the air mattress too. And then everyone is on the bed, except Mom. Her bum bum hangs off the edge of the bed and she wakes up 45 times a night to shove us over. She also wakes up numerous times to pray that bears and lightening don't strike our tent, and also to check if I'm cold or if Loogoo's face is buried in the mattress. But camping? It's so cool.

My New Balance cross trainers only come out for dirty occasions. Ugh. This is what I get for putting off paying $100 for Hunter Wellingtons for the past 4 years. They would have been so hawt on this trip. Instead I ended up at Steadman's buying no name $14 rubber boots that don't really fit. But at least my feet were dry.

Hi again. I saw a woodpecker and it had red hair. Now when I get a pet, I want a fish, a dog, a snake, aaaaand a woodpecker. Oh and and and there was a bat at my ya-ya's house, and I was so scawed, but then my superhero dad came and got him and frew him outside.

Superdad? Um so hawt. And we didn't fight. Not once! Miraculous. I think the fact that I bought us a twentysixer of Glenfiddich helped.

Pucci headscarf is doing nothing here. Neither are uggo boots, nor maternity hoodie that is too comfortable to give up. I am dirty, mismatched and out of my element. But happy. Being unplugged from my gadgets and plugged into my family was utter bliss.

bat outta hell

I'm not going to lie. I was hoping for more blog fodder from our camping trip. I thought, surely, given my luck (or lack thereof), some comical element is sure to befall us. But that moment never really came. Oh wait, it kind of did. It just happened before we left.

The kids were at my mom's so that we could get organized. Jan and I packed up the rental car with ease. We were upgraded to a Buick, which was lucky, because I don't know how all that stuff would have fit in a smaller car. Jan dropped me off at my mom's so that I could make it in time to put the kids to bed, then he drove off to hit the bank and buy chips. (A most important camping treat.)

I was about to nurse Lucy, shooing my mom and Nate out of her room. Moments before we had thought we heard my dad come home. He was out for his nightly walk when we heard noises: a door opening, something being knocked over. But my mom's house is big, so we'd just dismissed them when my dad didn't answer. (Also my dad is a weirdo who might not answer should we call out to him. He claims he's hard of hearing, but we think that's an excuse to mask anti-socialism.)

My mom had just shut Lucine's door. A split second later, the door opened and my mom, with Nate's hand still in hers, stepped backward, back into the room. She was looking up and muttered, "What the hell is that?"

Suddenly Nate was trembling. "What was dat?" His lip quivered with fear. I still had no idea what was going on. My sister ran into Lucine's room and slammed the door behind her. "That was a bat, right?" she asked my mom. Nate burst into tears. "It's so scawy! I so scawed Mommy!"

We tried to make jokes about Batman to calm him down. We tried lying to him and telling him it was just a bird. It was no use. He'd seen it. He was creeped out. We were all creeped out. But we had to hide it for his sake. He somehow bought that we weren't scared, even though not a single one of us made an attempt to leave the room.

"What are we going to do? How are we going to get it out?" they worried. But I knew. "Daddy's coming," I told Nate confidently, "He'll know what to do."

But there's no phone in Lucine's room, and no way for us to have warned Jan about the bat.

Moments later Jan burst into the room. "What's that new toy in Dede's room?" This is a totally pertinent line of questioning in my parents' home. There is always some wacky new fangled thing for the kids to play with. They have boxes of hand-me-downs from my cousins and every now and then we make a new discovery.

"It's not a toy. It's real. Nate's scared."

My husband looked at my son's face and within a millisecond he had grabbed a blanket off the bed and was headed out the door.

My husband thinks he's a kind of animal whisperer. He obsessively watches Planet Earth and other nature documentaries. I have seen him outstretch his arm and try to command pigeons to do his bidding. We once witnessed a hilarious drunken altercation between my husband (The Dog) and our friends' actual lab puppy over a blanket. (He literally whispered to the dog until it gave up the blanket willingly and then licked my husband, his kin. This took 15 minutes, during which time every spectator in the house was reduced to hysterical, oh-god-I-can't-breathe laughter. )

In his retelling of the great bat caper, he had considered the bat's blindness and sonar when deciding how best to capture it. He had waited for the bat to come flying toward him, then suddenly blocked the doorway with the comforter. Except when he'd raised his arms, he ended up punching the bat and knocking it out cold.

He quickly scooped it up in the blanket and taken it outside. When he went to release it, he saw nothing. He checked the blanket to see if ol' batty was hanging on, but no. The bat somehow disappeared. Flew like stealth into the night, or so Jan supposes.

He came back somewhat victorious. "Yay! My dad's a superhero!" Nate chanted. He's been retelling the story over and over, never omitting the part about his "superhero dad!" Jan tenderly picked Nate up and guided him through bat-free rooms, making jokes about bats watching TV, in order to quell his son's fears.

I worried that the bat was an omen, that we shouldn't leave for the trip. But the omen was clearly a good one and rested in the capable hands of one handsome, strong, generous and clever Superhero Dad.

When it rains it pours. Please make it stop

OK, I survived the camping. It was actually fun. Pics and story I'll try to get to tonight. Things have been absolutely insane since I got home.

Our car is dead. A new battery could solve the problem, but the car is a total embarrassment now. It's over 10 years old (which is old for shitty Chevy) and we just pumped a few hundred in just to make it pass the e-test. I don't want to spend another cent on it. It looks like complete crap after someone hit and run us while the huzzle was playing b-ball one night, and then of course, the fender bender I had last summer while 38 weeks preggo.

So there's the stress of that. Then we came home after surviving a night of non-stop torrential rain in the tent, waking up bone dry (save for the camping dew that is inescapable), to find that our bathtub was leaking into our living room. Gah! Does it ever end?

In good, but stressful news, I found out (on the drive home from camping, finally within BlackBerry range) that I am taping a segment for the six o'clock news tomorrow morning. I will be an expert on online shopping (good thing they're not asking me about budgeting finances) on a consumer reports piece about back-to-school shopping. Being that I was a keener throughout my grade school career, I am excited to discuss pencil cases, backpacks and lunch boxes.

Also my friend and colleague Elise T is going to do my makeup, which is making me way less nervous. If you live in the GTA and need makeup services, she's your girl. Check out her site: www.iloveitsomuchiwannamarryit.com

I have no idea what to wear, though I've received some helpful tips on Twitter and via email. I am considering the dress below, even though you're not supposed to wear prints on TV. I think the print is subtle enough not to cause too much distraction. Also the colour is awesome and the dress makes me feel good. The piece is not in studio, so I need to look comfortable and casual.

(Photo from Kristin)

The brown tights will be omitted (as will blue jacket) as Toronto is actually warmer than SF at this time of year. I bought the tights out of desperation. Also I will not have these two gorgeous and distracting cohorts as accessories, giving me a chance to appear less pale and Smurf-like. (Fuck, I really need to take up yoga again. My shoulders are eating up my neck!)

Anyway -- I am frantically trying to get all my work done and somehow balance my life as well. I will do my best to post regularly, but if you don't want to keep coming back to find the same post, you may want to subscribe via the FeedBlitz entry field at the top right and get posts in your inbox when I write them.

ETA: The piece will run on CityPulse on CityTV and CP24, but I don't know when. Will keep you all posted.

The things I do for love

You know when you were a teen or a twenteen and you did things you didn't want to do just to show a boy you liked him? Yeah, well I still do that.

Things I have done in the past 10 years because I love Jan:
1. Gone snowshoeing in -35 degree weather
2. Got on a plane by myself for the first time to fly over the Atlantic to see him
3. Befriended the skeevy-but-nice pirate who lives in the halfway house across the street
4. Went on a road trip heavily centred around American ballparks
5. Flown to Winnipeg (Winterpeg) in March and watched movies on a screen made of snow (also -35 degrees -- he's Norwegian, so there's lots of winter torture going on in the name of l'amour.)
6. Various things with a certain orifice that I'd rather not mention or recall.

Like a trip to bootcamp for a troubled teen, these events -- and countless others -- have made me reach out of my comfort zone and ultimately enriched my whole life experience. (Except perhaps anything to do with anuses, which just bunged me up for a week causing me to close that door forever.) In hindsight. But heading into it, I am fearful. Panicked. Nervous as a cat about to take a bath. Can't I just lick my own asshole and be done with it? (I've never ever licked my own asshole, for the record.) No, I must go out of my way to show him that I love him. With grand gestures.

Case in point: I'm going camping tomorrow. With two kids under 4. Clearly I need my head examined.

I booked the trip after my homey, Lady Z, showed me how easy it is to book campsites online. I LOVE researching, planning and booking things online, so this seemed like fun. Jan was away in Edmonton when I did it (a trip I encouraged him to take even though I didn't really want him to go) and he came back to my announcement: "I booked us a camping trip!"

The Jan-Dogger is part canine, part Norwegian, part drunken Englishman, and therefore loves all to do with the outdoors. He frequently sleeps on our lawn in the summer (by choice not exile) and wakes up happier than a pig in shit. He's a big dog too (6 ft and 185 lbs) so he really needs to be run around outdoors. Fresh air is his drug of choice. Telling him we're going camping is akin to announcing I'm about to give him a bj. Better even.

I, on the other hand, am part feline. I want people to leave me alone to do my own thing indoors. Then I will come up to you when I need to curl up and get some affection. I decide. I also hate being wet (now, now, tsk) and only like to go outdoors to catch that elusive mouse (or Marc Jacobs bag), socialize with other cats and then come back to my warm and dry house to eat and sleep. I am also lazy.

Camping is work. Going anywhere with kids is work. Put the two together and---holy fucknuts what have I signed up for?

Look at this forecast! Oh it's not TERRIBLE, but any Canuck worth her bacon knows that sunshine/rain cloud combo means THERE WILL BE BUGS! Ain't no milkshake in the world gonna save you from that despair.


Anyways, it's not even glamping. There's no place to plug in my straight iron, so I will be relegated to Pucci headscarves and big sunglasses. (Oh you dig my Dorothy Parker/Louise Brooks hairdo, but it's work people! I don't just wake up like that!)

I am the family photog (Jan will take 500 pictures of inanimate objects and nature, but not me with my kids unless asked), so I'll be sure to post loads of cute kiddo pics when I return. But don't expect to see my Jackie O in Martha's Vineyard look, because frankly I doubt I'll be able to pull it off in the wild.

Back on Monday. Keep smiling! Here's a 2-minute vid of Loogoo eating to keep you going. (Awesome shirt provided by Auntie Katie. Forgive the Cloverfield cam. And try to ignore my psychotic babbling play-by-play. In fact it's best if you watch this on MUTE. The things I do for love...)

Smile.

Lately it seems I am walking around with a perma-scowl on my face. My eyebrows huddle together like two old men discussing politics. My jaw is set tight, to the point I wake up with an aching face.

Thursday night, I had an early dinner with friends. Towards the end of dinner I got a call and a text. "Buy Advil." OK, baby girl is teething, but Advil has become Jan's go-to and it bugs the fuck out of me. She doesn't need it. But he overdramatized (he was with both of them ALL day - haha!) and so I left dinner and raced to Shopper's Drug Mart.

As I was pulling into the Shopper's parking lot, a man was walking toward the entrance. He paused, smiling, to let my car pass. I was grumpy and hot and I HATE driving, so I guess I didn't smile back. As I passed him I heard, "You could smile."

My blood was boiling -- is still somewhat boiling -- at this comment. I wanted to chase after him and yell, "Sure I could smile, you patriarchal fuck. But my BABY needs Advil and maybe I didn't feel like fucking smiling at you. Maybe you shouldn't judge someone based on the fact that she's cute and she didn't smile at you when you let her pass you in the parking lot!" And on and on. Because hello there, two boys that read this site, girls fucking HATE being told to smile, or the expectation that they should always.

I tried to look for him in the store, so I could wave the Advil packaging in his face at least. Because, you know, I'm too passive to actually confront him. And part of the reason I was so angry was that he was right, I could have smiled. Should have smiled. Not because he's a man and I should do as expected, but because someone was being nice and my frown put more negativity into the world. The world doesn't need that right now. The world needs people to look at the stranger beside them and smile.

Sometimes it's hard to keep things in perspective. We're so weighted down by daily life and bills to pay and 25 year mortgages looming over our heads that we forget how lucky we are. Right now my friend Ana's boyfriend, whom she is very in love with, is lying in the ICU, battling Pancreatitis that resulted from his Leukemia medication. He just turned 30.

His name is Jordan and I really need everyone to smile for Jordan. To not be sad or worried, but to think about someone who looks like a cross between a young Richard Gere and Josh Groban (though Jordan would hate me comparing him to Josh Groban, but he's cute!), and send good thoughts. He's a fighter, still so full of life. He needs your good energy and your positive thoughts to fight this illness so he can get out and love my friend until the end of time.

I think if we all do this when we read this, and we think of love and smiles instead of cynical dark thoughts (as I'm very apt to do) maybe Jordan has a fighting chance. Thanks Internets.

Nateisms: Summer Edition

I bought Nate a beach bag that comes chock full of toys, including a mini-surfboard/body board -- a pastime he's been totally obsessed with since seeing Surf's Up. So of course, Friday night was spent on my sister's old bed at my mom's house, Nate on his board and me on a flatish pillow singing Weezer.

Me: "You take your car to work, I'll take my board..."

Nate: "Mum! Mum! Let's catch that wave."

Me: (Not wanting to get out of paddle position, aka me lying face down on flat pillow on bed pretending to paddle my arms.): "Gnarly dude! You got this one?"

Nate: "Totally."

Me: "ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

Nate: (thinking he's Diego or Britney Spears or something): "Mum! Mum! Wake up! There's a bad guy over there! He's trying to take our picture. Let's go get him!"

Thinking on this now, I am wondering where this fear of dirty old men photographing him has come from, but seeing as my side of the family is the one with paranoid delusionals, I'd rather not inquire further.

Nate proceeds to hop of the board mid-ocean (you can do this in three-year-old world) and beat up the guy, taking his camera and tossing it into some river that crosses the ocean where you can surf. Um, yeah. I am raising a mini-Sean Penn.

Apparently that river was going to "snatch us up" so we had to reverse our boards and go "frontwards" because, you know, you can totally change stream mid-surf. I decided to quit calling it in and actually show up to work.

Me: (pointing beyond the boundary of the bed to the carpet at the foot): "Uh-oh. Are those alligators up ahead? We'll have to surf around them. (Fuuuuck, can't think of the Spanish word for this that they would shout out on Dora/Diego...)"

Nate: "No. No. Mum. Listen. This (waving his arms to show the blue sheets on my sis' bed) is all surfing water. And yeah, OK, that over there (pointing to my gator-infested carpet area) can also be surfing water. But there are no alligators in surfing water. OK?"

We made it to our "surfer's lair" and I was handing out our surfer trophies (hand-painted dolphins and other tourist crap bought on our many Spring Break excursions to Mexico) when suddenly his new imaginary friend showed up. Demmeck. I don't fucking like Demmeck. His name sucks balls (sorry future Nate) and he shows up at inappropriate times.

Nate: "Demmeck's here! Mom! You're sitting on him."

Me: "Where did this Demmeck come from? Did you hear DeDe saying it?" (My dad starts every Turkish sentence with "Demek..." which loosely translates to, "So they're saying..." or "Apparently...")

Nate: "No. I've been saying it for weeks now."

Who is this child?

Me: (miffed at the intrusion of invisible asshole) "Well, here you go Nate. You get the trophy for best surfer of all time."

Nate: (Handing me a pink and blue fish painted with Mexican farmers on it): "Here Mummy, you were an awesome surfer too. And here Demmeck. (Hands "him" two dolphins making out.) You were really good too. Yay! We all got trophies!"

I hope the world doesn't make him cynical. Because right now, he is the awesomest kid in the world.

*******

Surfing in the kiddie pool the next day, naked, (him, not me you filthy swine!) I am negotiating something with him -- I can't for the life of me remember what.

Me: "Nate, if you do X for me, then I'll do Y for you. Deal?"

Nate: (shaking his head like he's 95): "No."

Me: "Why not? That's a pretty good deal!"

Nate: "Mum, I can't deal with your deal."

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely wo-o-orld

Two weeks ago tonight, this is what was happening to me...

The New Digs
After sneaking away from blogging camp, I needed a new place to sleep in SF. Katie and Catherine had generously offered to let me squat in their room, but I could not bear the thought of sleeping in the same room as that gorgeous baby without crying about how much I missed my own. I needed some testosterone.

My friend C was in town with J, a hot colleague of his, and a can of red paint. They wanted a female of good taste to come along and to help redecorate the town. His wife left him a few months ago for some waist-length red-haired bartender, (ew. Malachy?) and while I love her, I am apparently taking sides. C is still hurting and I thought he could stand to see my friendly face. The boys offered to get a new room so that I could stay with them. I eagerly agreed, packed my bag and headed uphill to Chinatown and away from Jonestown, er, I mean the Westin.

Me and C, taken with my cameramaphone

I got to the Astoria, which was way too grand a name for the digs, panting and heaving from the uphill walk. I immediately noticed one thing: There were only two single beds in the room. "Which one of you fikes is sleeping on the floor?" I put my hangover in my back pocket, resigned myself to the situation and decided I would need to be shitfaced again to bear the living conditions. We agreed we would meet for debauchery after my Macy's party.

Department Store Debauchery
When I got to Macy's I realized that I had forgotten my conference badge in the new hotel room. There was no way I was running back to get it. I thought, "We don't need no stinkin' badges!" I got into the parties somehow and noticed one important detail that suddenly made me feel like I didn't fit in: No one was shopping.

People, we just spent three days drinking kool-aid and singing Kumbaya. I loved meeting you all, but there was a very big sale in there and a bigger sale for being a BlogHer. And there were SHOES. ON SALE! A quick look around proved that much of it was picked over, but I managed to find some Tahari peep-toe mary janes. Too bad that I didn't have my damn BADGE. The sales clerk wouldn't give me my extra 30% off. But whatever, my shoes are hawt and significantly cheaper than the Miu Miu slingbacks I almost bought at DSW.

When I got to the top floor, I was really done. I was all like, enough, I get it, we all blog and we have clits. Can I go now? And go I did.

Of Boys and Wingmen
The boys were waiting outside. We hit an ATM and then C freaked out because his bank account was off by a zero. Like he should have had 7500$ and it said he only had $750. I thought he shouldn't worry about it until the next morning, but he's Scottish and therefore takes money rather seriously, or rather, the not having any part. So J and I huddled in a doorway of a high end art gallery, snapping photos (J is a brilliant photog) on Geary, while C phoned the bank.

Normally, I don't like guys who wear jewellery, but I'll make an exception

J is very attractive and a supreme lover of women. Add to that the fact that I was craving male attention and well, things got a bit flirty. Not that I would ever do anything, but wow. Hooooot. Once C's money sitch was rectified, we headed to a sports bar for some preliminary drinking and then to a piano bar they had visited the night before. I offered my services as wingman.

The bar, MicX, offers the ideal night out. Two pianos face each other, three pianists rotate in a bid to win over the crowd. Everyone else in the bar is drunk and singing along. All the hits were played: Bon Jovi, Elton, Billy Joel, and Journey -- which is now forever in the collective consciousness due to that final episode of Sopranos. (And that crappy Hilary Clinton campaign.)


The only girls that looked like my boys would have a chance with were three kinda hip art school types, one of whom reminded us of Feist. When she stopped dancing and actually turned around, she was prettier than Feist. I was drunk enough to approach her and tell her that my friend J thought she looked like Feist. She had obviously never seen an iPod commercial and didn't know who that was. Her accent was immediately familiar.

"Are you Norwegian or Swedish?"

"Swedish! How did you know?"

"My husband's Norwegian. Too bad he's not here, he loves meeting other Scandinavians! (A half truth if there ever was one.) I'm here with my two friends."

How's that for a Wingman? J immediately stepped in and tried his best. He really had her too, he was so close. She was so into him. (He is that hooooot.) What I was too drunk to decipher was that this girl was not the one-night stand type.

I talked to the attractive blonde friend next. Helena. I was really hoping C would be into her, because I had a little girl crush on her, but he claimed he wasn't and she was the only one of the three Swedes who went home with someone that night. Which was too bad because the guy was a total Chad. (Apologies to any reader with husband or baby named Chad, but Chad is really the best name to describe middle-class office jerks.)

Sweet, sweet Helena, sweet as mjolkchokolad

But I was on a role. I saw a beautiful, tall model of a girl all upset in the bathroom and I actually stepped in and told her, "Whoever he is, he is so not worth your tears." After ranting about how I've been married for 8 years now and would love to prevent her from the garbage I used to go through, she smiled and thanked me. At the end of the night she told him goodbye and then thanked me again for making her night.

I didn't stop there. After shutting down the bar, we ended up on the sidewalk, where I chatted with a Latina woman, who was there celebrating her boyfriend's birthday. "He doesn't know it yet, but I am so dumping his ass next weekend," she revealed to me in her awesome accent that I'd only ever heard in movies. "I have a 12-year-old daughter at home and I just don't need his shit. I am so tired of his shit." But I could tell that this was just her schpeel, so I cornered the drunken boyfriend and told him he needed to respect his awesome woman and treat her like the queen that she was. And no, it didn't stop there either.

I tried to "out" one of three pianists for being gay. He had a silver shirt on and a bad 80s mane, but was "trying" to come onto me. Come on buddy! I told him that if he lived in Toronto he'd be gay already, because we don't care either way. (Unless your family is really religious, but that's another story.) His fellow gay pianist nodded in agreement. I stepped into the night and tried to wave my wingman wand once again.

I hooked up a guy from Eritrea and his friend from Bangladesh with three Filipina girls waiting for a ride back to the 'burbs at a corner of Union Square. (Love SF! Now that's Canadian style multi-culturalism!) And then the rest of the night is blurry. There was pizza, a cute dress in the Banana window and a bit of joking about my Victoria's Secret purchases from J, which infuriated C to no end. (I might have flashed him. Might. But although I was incredibly drunk, I had a wee bit of sense in me.)

Oh my he was haaaawt...

I passed out in a bed, we'll leave it at that. It was a bit sketch -- but not in a pervy or salacious way. Just in a "Hey, I'm married and have kids and I don't find myself in these situations anymore. And there's a good reason for that" way. Unfortunately I woke up with cotton mouth VERY early, and there was no way I was going back to sleep after surveying the scene in the room in good light, so I went to Starbucks to write.

I brought coffees back for the boys, hugged them goodbye and then waited for my dad's cousin and her husband to pick me up for my incredible hi-speed tour of SF. (The Art Institute was the absolute highlight -- no one was there and it featured a Diego Rivera fresco as well as a fantastic view of the bay.) I am so glad I got to spend a whole day with my relatives and get a glimpse into where and how they live. I am so in love with them.

*******
Anyhow, glad that chapter happened, but that my wingman, blog camp, SF days are over. I have been spending tons of time at home soaking up the kiddies and this bizarre rainy summer we're been having.

Nate's closer to four today than he is three and I'm wondering how I can get my cute, big-eyed, big-headed toddler back. This new boy is heart-melting and tall and skinny and wants to play "Surfboarders" and "Forklift Guys" and when Daddy's not around to accommodate, he reluctantly allows me to sub in.

Lucy will be a year old in three weeks. She is teething like a mofo and agressive and physical in a way I don't comprehend. She leaps from my arms to her Dad's, grinning from ear to ear and thrashing her legs about wildly. She cannot be left alone for a second or you will find her with cat food in her mouth. She is moving from the moment she wakes up to the moment she goes to sleep (and by that I mean the nanosecond). She is a tornado in our calm home and we are all so absolutely in awe of her. Love does not encapsulate the feeling. It's just one prism in the kaleidescope that is our feelings for The Loogoo Hulk.

I am grateful that at bedtime I am the only one they want. While I sometimes find that annoying, I'm learning to forget about the waiting emails and words, so that I can be present in these fleeting moments with them. Trips like the one I just had are good for coming up for air, surveying your situation and making you want to come back home to it. But they don't beat the joy of chubby soft hands around your neck. They just don't. That used to be something I told myself to make myself feel better, but now I can honestly say I truly feel that. Until the next time someone pees in my bed, that is.