A Sign of Things To Come?

F inally, I’m back. Finally, for me… you may have wished I was still away. However, I digress. ChristmasKwanzaaNukah is over, we got through the hailstorm of gift opening and lights and dazzle and stomach flu and now seem to be back in some semblance of normal. Life is going at 100 kms an hour and I barely remember the last few hours, much less a week ago.

Version 1.0 got totally spoiled. I mean, like rotten. She had so many presents this year that she actually asked to stop opening them. She was weary by the time we were done. “Come on, honey, just one more present…” “Noooooooo!”. In hindsight, we should have split them up over a few days, but I admit to being a bit more excited than her at the prospect of her being spoiled.

One person that was *not* spoiled… Version 2.0. In fact, we completely forgot about him/her. Not one gift, no stocking, no honourable mention in Christmas cookie decorating even. Fair enough, the little tyke isn’t going to remember yuletide in utero, nor will it care whether or not it was acknowledged with a small token of a hopeful future under the tree. But, for me, it’s a stark realisation of how different things will be the second time.

When I was pregnant (very) with Version 1.0, Christmas time was only weeks from her emergence, and she was the first child for us, the first niece or nephew for my sister, the first cousin for her kids, etc. A representative fraction of gifts were for her, and we talked about her non-stop (in non-gender-specific terms).

This time, I barely remembered being pregnant. How could I, while contending with stomach flu blowouts (both ends), baking gifts, wrapping presents, shopping, not drinking (grumble), preparing savoury feasts and generally entertaining Version 1.0?

All. very. lame. excuses. But, are they? Is all the hype with our first just because we have nothing else to be distracted by? Everyone smiles knowingly and says “Yup. That’s how it goes. The poor second child never gets the attention of the first.”

I was a second child. I do not ever recall feeling inadequately attended to (except when it suited my melodramatic fancy to insist I was terribly hard done by in order to get something I wanted). I hope to never have Version 2.0 feeling inadequately loved, but here’s the thing... I don’t think we could ever keep the pace with the attention we have lavished on Version 1.0. We just cannot. It will be impossible. There will never be as many photos, as much documentation, as many considerations. We’d have to basically quit the rest of our lives and spend every waking second compensating.

I’m already feeling guilty. Poor bugger. But he/she will never know the difference, right? Provided that we are fair and equal in our attention once he/she arrives? That’s what counts, right? Not the number of presents under the tree, absence of baby showers, plethora of hand-me-downs…

Right? Do I need to start searching for a therapist now?

Ringing In The Festive Season (or, Our House is Full of Sugar, Presents and Christmas Movies 24/7)

This year, Christmas is a bit different. Since Version 1.0 can understand what’s happening a bit better, and seems to be fully aware of all the little traditions that are developing, we have found ourselves getting a bit more into the holiday season a bit earlier (which means Hubby is mildly less Grinch-like and drinks more). Our tree went up the first weekend of December, and all our presents were bought and wrapped and under the tree over a week ago. Version 1.0’s been marvelling at the spectacles of lights and decorations, merriment and laughter that envelopes every store we visit, and drips from her Christmas books that she reads every night.

We have so far managed to avoid Christmas music for the most part, but we allowed the Christmas movies to come out after December 1st. We didn’t bank on her being so enthralled with them and now The Polar Express is on at least three times a day, and it is peppered with viewings of other holiday favourites such as Rudolph, Frosty and The “Ginch”. Yes, she asks for it by name. The Ginch.

The other holiday pleasure that seems to have swept through our house has been a sharp increase in the presence of holiday treats… sugar. Sugar, sugar, sugar. Version 1.0 demanded her first hot chocolate thanks to The Polar Express. We’ve received gifts of baking, have made gifts of baking, and today decorated a rather lopsided gingerbread house. (Here’s the hilarious irony: I felt so guilty about exposing my kid to so much sugar, I bought sugar-free candies to decorate with…. but couldn’t find the sugar-free icing sugar for the icing). As could be predicted, she ate handfuls of candies (not kidding, she actually spit out ten jelly beans at one point when she realised her mouth was too full) and licked most of the icing off the tray. She placed a few marshmallows (also, not sugar-free) and plunked down a few gumdrops for the most part, it was straight from the dish to her mouth.

With all this indulgence – sugar everywhere, presents galore and non-stop Christmas theatre – I’m frightened that we’re going to have a New Year crash when we all of a sudden we go back to normal and everything is exceedingly boring again. I suppose it’s helpful that her birthday is early February, so we can wean her off the spoiled child high. However, I suspect it’s going to be a long January.

Any advice on how to bring my kid down from the month of heaven? How do I distract her from the chaos that surrounds her while we take down the tree and put The Ginch away for another year (Hubby often wonders why that keeps happening to him)?

Getting By With A Little Help From My <virtual> Friends

Today I am following a topic shared by a community of mommy bloggers – and a few others who felt compelled to weigh in, for better or for worse.

The back story is that a mommy blogger out there in the world (and I don’t need to perpetuate the drama by including her details) lost her toddler son yesterday when he fell in the swimming pool. Within an hour or two she had tweeted her situation and begged for prayers while he was in emergency care. The situation’s end result was that he didn’t make it, a circumstance too sickly tragic for me to even imagine, and one that would probably put me in a tailspin where I was barely conscious of what I did next. But I can’t even pretend to imagine what I would do. To suggest otherwise would be not only disrespectful but foolish.

Here’s the rub. While 99.999% of her followers were full of support and prayers, whatever they could do to give her strength, there was a contingent who chastised her for letting her child die, for putting him in harm’s way and even questioned her motives, suggesting she was staging the whole incident to collect donations from strangers. A good portion of this last group suggested that noone, NOONE who was facing a dying child would have the wherewithall to post a tweet about it, and nor should they if they were any bit a caring individual who loved her children.

While the bleeding heart in me wants to collectively punch those last bit in their virtual faces for criticizing a person in her situation, regardless of how they feel about her processes, I do have to admit I wondered when she thought about tweeting. And that is only when I think logistically about it – I would be a friggin mess. I make no judgment of her for having posted, I just go through the scenario in my head and can’t rationalise when I would have done it. But she asked for prayers from her community of friends and family online, many of whom I am sure she never met, and I can attest to the fact that strong friendship can be developed with someone you have never met in “real life” and I don’t distinguish between the validity of that type of closeness vs. one formed with people in the flesh. If you are one who believes that prayer can help, it wouldn’t surprise me that you would reach out to as many friends, close or otherwise, that you could to strengthen your chances of some effects. I personally don’t believe in prayer, and therefore may have less inclination to seek my community for immediate help in a time of trauma.

The ensuing debate over whether or not her actions were appropriate is an interesting one. My personal thoughts on the matter are that it’s noone’s place to judge whether someone reacted appropriately or not to any given situation, because this judgement can only come from a place of personal bias that has developed from diverse experiences. However, the more interesting discussion (in my mind) is less about this woman in particular and more about how social communities have matured and developed to a point where they are “real” sources of friendship, support and dialogue, where someone sending their heartfelt love and support virtually can be as encouraging as a hug from another right next to you. Maybe a year ago, looking to a virtual community in times of tragedy would be considered voyeuristic, or inappropriate, or somehow self-indulgent.

I have often wondered what I would do in a time of severe trauma, where would I look for help? My answer: my close friends and family nearby, and my social community online. For information, for guidance, for experience, for perspective. Undoubtedly you can find someone else who has experienced what you had, who has gotten through it and survived, who has wisdom, advice or some helpful words. When I was first pregnant and miscarried (hardly a comparable trauma, but still…), I found incredible perspective after I read other stories (hundreds of them) online from women who were looking for support, offering support, wondering if they were alone in their feelings. I realised how common it was, how others had dealt with it, how others had picked up and had success with future pregnancies, etc. I read stats and probabilities, medical facts and personal stories. It all helped. I connected with other women and just let it all out. That helped tremendously. It would take me forever to piece together a community like that in the people I know in real life. I would never find that kind of relevance and support without a focused group online.

I know of a number of women who have endured personal tragedy far, far greater than my own (I am humbled) and have all used their social communities online to support themselves through the healing process, and who even turned to that community during the incident as it occurred. Is that wrong? Why? Does it show disrespect, or any less depth of feeling for the outcomes? Does it help with the grieving process, or deem it tarnished in some way?

I’d be interested in your thoughts on this subject. As a practitioner of collaborative technologies and social media in some respect, this emergence of very human qualities in a traditionally un-human medium is infinitely interesting. I look for informed and varied perspectives to help me grow mine.

Twinkle Toes

Reason #837 why I belong in the Bad Moms Club: Last night I painted my toddler’s toenails. I’ve never been one to want to adorn my child with our adulthood indulgences, whether or not we can justify them, and have no intention of piercing her ears or perming her hair.

However. What I do have a need for is some sanity and peace in my life, which is not often begotten through ignoring  my child’s demands for something she really, really really wants.

Version 1.0 has always been somewhat fixated on my painted toes. She calls them “Mommy’s pretty toes” and it’s gosh darned cute. She’s never wanted them for herself, but always commented on mine. She did decide after I cut her nails once that now she had “pretty toes”. Yesterday, however, she decided her baby doll wanted pretty toes. So, we painted Dolly’s toes. Looks very odd on a newborn, but whatevs, right?

After a few hours of obsessing on this, Version 1.0 decided she wanted “pretty toes”. I called her bluff, knowing she would shrink at the sight of the paintbrush, and she did. But then the insisting went on, and on, and on, and on for nearly two hours until I was going to pin her down and do it for her if she didn’t agree, just so I didn’t have to hear it again. Well this time she really did want it and stuck her foot out to receive my artistic esthetics. The end result – coral painted mini toes that have her absolutely over the moon.

I’ll admit it looks more than a little weird, and far too Toddlers and Tiaras (sick!) for me, but it makes her dance a little dance of excitement and pride, so I can overlook the shame I feel in giving in to this. And it’s not like it can’t come off, right? Someone please help me feel less trailer park about doing this to my 2-year-old. It was a funny little indulgence, right?

When I start buying her sparkly crowns and spray tan packages, please intervene.

What’s In That Bottle?

Disclaimer: we’re talking about boobies and the things they do. If that makes you squeamish, stop reading here.

First off, let me say that I *heart* the Bad Moms Club, and I *heart* its founder, and her other blog. She’s very clever, witty and I love her perspective, and read every one of her posts. Recently, there was a post about breastfeeding, and more specifically about an opinion piece in the Huffington Post reviewing bad toys, and specifically a dolly that allowed children to breastfeed (which, for the record, I thought was fine, if not a little strange to look at… certainly less horrific than Baby Pole Dance).

The author makes a valid point about societal perceptions of breastfeeding but includes a few statements about the evils of the formula companies. But, ohhhh, I gotta weigh in on this one. The whole breastfeeding debate makes me squeamish, simply because it's so polarized. If you'd asked me about it before I had a child, I would have steadfastly stood on the side of breastfeeding and sworn up and down that no woman should ever have to use formula, and that it's a cop out. And then I had a baby. And then I had problems breastfeeding. And then the only thing that kept my baby healthy was formula, after countless weeks and months of crying and stressing and herbs and drugs and breastfeeding training and consultation, and finally having to let it go.

Was this my choice? No. Was it my preference? No. Do I now understand just how hard and trying and stressful it can be to feel eternally guilty that I couldn’t do what nature intended, and had to resort to the much hated and villainised formula companies for help? You betcha. However, anyone who has not gone through this hell does not get how crappy us moms feel when the world out there who breastfed with no issues (or has never had a child!) gets on soapboxes and makes us feel like bad moms because we couldn’t do what our babies needed, no matter how hard we tried. I’ve made peace with it now, and my child is healthy and thriving, but it doesn’t hurt any less to be marginalized by what we have been perceived to have decided (or, even worse, have been brainwashed into doing).

I get it, breastfeeding is best and I would encourage any new mom to try hard to get it right. I will try again with my next child, and pray I don’t have to go through the anxiety I did the first time. I know more now and can try something more creative if it doesn’t totally work out, which I could never have known the first time when everyone was so religious about one method or the other. But please realize that there may be more to a woman walking around with a bottle and formula than her giving in to the formula marketing, or just being too lazy or vain to want to breastfeed.

So, back to Her Bad Mother’s point, get your heads out of your collective backsides if you think it’s gross or offensive to breastfeed in public. There is rarely a time I’ve seen a woman letting it all hang out with abandon. For the most part, women are discreet rather than exhibitionist. The more we cringe at the idea of public breastfeeding, the more we make it hard for those women who are a bit shy about the whole thing.

Just be careful to never judge a woman who feeds her child a bottle full of formula. It may not have been her choice, and even if it was, so be it. Whether you believe formula is bad or good, it is nutrition, and has fed multiple hundreds of thousands of millions of children with no noticeable detriments to their health. Some of us haven’t had the luxury of being able to worry about the politics of the situation, we needed our babies to be fed and stop losing weight.

Quite frankly, given my memories of the first few months of newborn life, I guess I should be happy I never resorted to whiskey in that bottle instead.

Addendum: After re-reading this post, I realise it may appear that I am rebutting Her Bad Mother’s piece, which I am not. In actuality, a couple of her comments simply sparked memories of another debate, which I know we both understand well. I am supporting her assertion that society is still scared to embrace breastfeeding. The rant about formula is driven solely from my own experience and is not related to anything she said in her post.

The First Noel

This will be Version 1.0’s first Christmas. Well, the first one that she will remember and the first where she will kind of get what’s going on. I bought her a bunch of books and movies about Christmas so she can become brainwashed familiar with all the icons and imagery, stories and traditions that accompany our happiest time of the year.

So far, she has embraced it all willingly and has become quite proficient at naming all the associated niceties, such as reindeer and Christmas trees, snowmen and stockings, and Santa. Oh yes, Santa.

I am not entirely sure what Santa represents to her yet, other than possibly a man in a funny “cupping” (costume, a word left over from Halloween). She watches Dora and Boots opening presents after Santa visits, and reads stories of him making red underwear with his elves. Oh, actually, that’s the story from Daddy’s book.. uh, I think her Santa makes trains.

Regardless, she’s seen him and points him out gleefully in the store and in her books and on TV and when the neighbourhood drunk is stumbling home in the wee hours.

However, yesterday my parents came to visit and brought her a little Santa decoration with a sack, thinking she would like to put things in it (like Daddy) and carry him around. Well, for some reason, she is absolutely petrified of him. She doesn’t exactly cry when she sees him, but she gives him this very sharp sidelong glance and will heed him a wide berth in order to not get within range of whatever evil charms he seems to be emitting to her.

I tried to get her to touch him, and even hijacked some of her toys and ‘baby oranges’ (mandarins) and put them in his sack to see what she would do. Apparently, after much consideration, she’s willing to sacrifice the toys rather than touch Santa.

What ever is it that puts the fear of all things holy in her mind when she looks at Santa, I don’t understand. She’s not a winge-y kid and usually is quick to pick up anything, but I am reminded every now and then that those neuro-receptors (my own word, just call me ‘Doctor’) are still young and may be misfiring on some of the basics, like Santa being a stuffed, inanimate object (with particularly beady eyes).

 

Sugar and Spice

Version 1.0 has an unhealthy infatuation with my spice drawer/cupboard. I have to open it on the sly because she will invariably dive right in and wreak havoc. For awhile, she even chose favourites. The front runner was always the Greek seasoning for some unknown reason. She has even been known to rearrange all the bottles according to brand (I guess she can tell they look similar). OCD much?

I digress.

Last night I needed some chili pepper or cumin or some such thing and thought she was distracted enough, so I quickly opened the cupboard, turned to apply said flavouring and turned back. Whew! Made it. I trundled about, begrudgingly happily preparing dinner when I noticed her sneezing continuously from the living room.

Upon further investigation, I found her standing in front of the television, watching the devil’s incarnation a cute kid’s show about bunnies, covered head to toe in ground ginger. Not a word of a lie, yo. Not only was she covered, but there were piles of it all over the TV stand and her little couch, and my new carpet. She had opened and dumped a whole bottle of the stuff for some unknown reason.

At this point in time, she had started rubbing it in her eyes and was crying hysterically as it started to burn. I stripped her out of her Christmas-scented clothing and tried to rinse out her eyes. I think I just made it worse, or maybe there was arsenic in the cloth I used to clean her up with.

I had to vacuum all the friggin stuff up and Version 1.0 is petrified of the vacuum. So, picture this. Dinner burning on the stove, child screaming bloody murder, vacuum on full blast, stupid goddamn bunnies yammering away on the TV and stains everywhere. This. frigging. close. to losing my head.

The worst part of it is that I just KNOW when it comes time for this year’s marathon Christmas baking session, I’m going to be cursing the child’s name when I realize I have forgotten to replace the jar of ginger. Hope you like your currybread house this year, kid!

Brie-eating, coffee-drinking, back-sleeping badass mom.

In my country at least, scaring new and upcoming moms is a national passtime. Oh, the list of what you can and cannot do, should and should not take, see, hear and smell is perpetually growing and will eventually contain every substance, activity and piece of clothing known to woman.

When you are first pregnant, your fear factor is great. You do everything you are “supposed” to and nothing you are not, and you feel pure and clean in your confidence that you have done everything you are supposed to do (include resisting chocolate) to ensure a healthy outcome for your unborn child.

Then you deliver said child and spend countless hours reading parenting books about sleeping, behaviour, stimulation, intelligence, horror stories, and tear-jerking stories that help you become the #1 parent EVER and you just KNOW your kid is going to be a Rhodes scholar (and a well-behaved one at that) by the time you’re done with him/her.

Now, by the time you actually get to toddler phase and you’re knocked up again, you’ve seen it all and heard it all and you’re too tired or saturated or cynical to give a crap anymore, and you realise that all the hype is very much that, just hype. Some way, some how, someone benefits from being a conspiracy theorist. Now you don’t have the time to follow all the instructions, or the inclination to watch everything you eat when the odds are so low that anything will happen. And all that aside, you’re so sick of the pestering you decide to rebel.

Oh, people will tell you what bad choices you’re making, how many nitrates you are consuming in that deli meat and how that cup of coffee is going to make your kid grow an extra shoulder. You’ll be informed that your kid will need therapy in adulthood because you said “no” or that you’ll struggle with behavioural issues for years to come if you don’t start sleep training now.

Bullocks.

I’m joining the Bad Mom’s Club. I`m going somewhere that I can get the support and camaraderie that I need and deserve, where we can celebrate our badness and eat caffeine-laden chocolate cookies after brie and blue cheese sandwiches. We`re going to let our kids stay up past their regimented bed time, put on a DVD for them and feed them cheezies for a night. We`re going to set boundaries without trying to logic, go out in the rain without the right boots, and read books about farting dogs.

It`s perfect. I feel so liberated. Screw you, Internet and do-gooders. I`ll raise my kids just fine without you.

Disclaimer: The author of this blog posting in no way condones irresponsible and reckless behaviour for pregnant women or mothers. Please refrain from doing anything that will truly harm your child, physically or emotionally. But don`t worry about the unmatching pajamas… I promise he`ll get over it.

Image courtesy of www. nataliedee.com.

The most precious thing…

I’m going to take a minute to get serious here. Just for a minute, although I am sure the subject will be sobering forever.

I’ve been lurking in the mommy blogging world for some time now, getting to know all the superstars, and getting many hours of entertainment from their savvy, brilliant and humorous writing. Eventually, you learn that a number of the main characters all know each other well, and have formed a little community of each other across the continent. These women are bright and witty but very often have tragic or life-altering back stories that definitely inform, but do not hamper their will to live.

Recently, one member of the close-knit community (who I have never met and never knew of until now) had a stroke. A terrible, debilitating incident that has left her in hospital in critical care as she tries to gain consciousness and her family fights for her. Tragic enough as it is, right? Well, here’s the rest of the story. Many of the mommies know this woman because she fought hard for her daughter to beat childhood cancer (leukemia) not long ago, and had another stroke a few years back when said daughter was only an infant. This woman has worked tirelessly for the cause, supported her daughter and kept her family together and even found it in herself to be a pillar of strength for the other mommies out there who needed her experience and insight.

Now, she lays in a hospital bed incapacitated, with her husband and family and close friends praying for her recovery. The prognosis is dire, but they all believe in her will to live.

As I think about the situation, I can’t help but cling tightly to my own little one, and be eternally thankful we are all in relatively good health and have so far been pretty fortunate. I realize my little one is a tremendous treasure that I am responsible for protecting and coveting. I can’t even fathom not having the ability to do that.

I’d encourage everyone to reach out and think of a way to help someone who is in need. Project yourself in their positions for even a minute, try to feel the heartbreak or the desperation that they feel all day, every day as they try to survive. Think of what it would mean to them to receive a little bit of help, whether it’s your time, or other resources, or just your presence. It’s too easy to forget when we are so consumed with daily survival.

Everything I need to know about parenting, I learned from Max and Ruby.

Version 1.0 loves Max and Ruby. Really, like loves it. We watched maybe 8 episodes in a row today before I finally had enough (to justify myself, I’m on my death bed with a man-cold and therefore had a great excuse for being a sloppy parent). Personally, I can’t stand Ruby. Her voice is like sandpaper on my sensitive brain, and she’s the biggest bossy boots ever.

Maybe parents shouldn’t watch their kids’ shows. We know too much. However, I can’t resist pointing out a few anomalies about the show that really don’t add up. And then, as I think about these oddities, I realize I could maybe turn this around to my own personal gain. Watch.

Absentee parents aren’t a problem. Did you ever notice that neither parent seems to live in the same house as these two child bunnies? They are *never* around. But, look how well-adjusted and responsible Ruby has turned out to be. Max may be a bit young to verbally communicate the depth of his character but there are plenty of instances where we see his integrity and ability to logic shining through. Like when he wanted to give Ruby a birthday surprise and tricked her into thinking he was just a dumb toddler bunny, but really he was leading her to a surprise party he had orchestrated with Grandma Bunny? Clearly, even without any parents or guardians around, both bunnies have turned out to be stellar role models with excellent manners. Sweet! That means Hubby and I can go out and party most weeknights and don’t have to worry about coming home the next day! This is life changing.

All grandparents are closet cowboys (or girls). In the episode about Grandma Bunny’s birthday, we learn that Grandma Bunny used to be a crazy lasso-throwing, chaps-wearing rodeo queen. Once again, Max was the one with the intuition but that’s beside the point. This means that I can remain boring and career-focused and my parents and in-laws can be the inspiration for the crazy, giggly sleepover talk.

All that I need to keep a little boy happy is a loud toy. Max is obsessed with every product in the Ear-Splitter® (the actual brand name in the show) line of toys. So far, I have seen him spend hours being enthralled with the Green Alien Angry Gorilla, the Traffic Watcher Helicopter, the One-Eyed Chopping Parrot and a few others that I have now forgotten. They are all obnoxious. However, I now know that if Version 2.0 is a boy, all I need to do is stock up on some grating toys and we’re good for hours of play.

It’s cute when little girls make themselves look cheap. Ruby and her little friend Louise are often engaged in imaginative play involving scads of makeup (not sure where they get it from as Mommy doesn’t seem to exist… probably swiped it from the local drug store, but that’s another plot line) and they end up looking like little night-walkers. Grandma Bunny thinks it’s hilarious and the girls are rather unapologetic. So the first time Version 1.0 comes downstairs dressed in a tube top and daisy dukes with a veritable brothel’s supply of war paint, I don’t need to be concerned. I just need to smile knowingly and get a little tear in my eye as I reach for the camera to document it for her grandparents. According to the points above, they will totally relate.

Every elder sibling is infinitely tolerant of his/her next of kin. Max gets up to all kinds of crap, usually with the distinct objective of screwing up Ruby’s day. He even has a look that he gets when he’s preparing for it. I mean, he seriously puts her out. But she’s always ready to forgive him, never loses her cool, and ends up indulging him in whatever game he is playing with her. Phew! I was so worried about Version 1.0 being OK with her new baby brother/sister, but I see now I have nothing to be concerned about. If Ruby’s that even-keeled without any parents around, we’re totally set.

I’m so glad we spent the day with the show. My whole philosophy and all the hours I spent worrying are, I realize, a thing of the past. I’m going to stock up on bonbons and put my feet up tomorrow without a care in the world. Thank you, Bunny Scouts.

PS. As I was doing some online research on the subject after writing this entry, I ran across this posting. Turns out I’m not alone on this!

Ice-Capades

We took Version 1.0 skating today for the first time ever. Let’s just say it was traumatic for all involved. I think even the zamboni driver was feeling a bit bad near the end.

However, it was about what I expected. Version 1.0 had been talking about “skeeting” all night since we tried on the skates last night, and was super excited until we actually got there. Then the waterworks began.

The nice lady who teaches the class (we’re just doing drop-in for now) had some markers and bubbles and that thankfully kept Version 1.0 happy while she got used to the ice. We did get her standing up and taking a few steps, and Daddy pulled her along in a chair for a few seconds. I’ll take it as progress.

In the end, she didn’t want to leave, as we were disrobing in the skate-taking-off area. She also liked the shiny sheep sticker she got as a prize for enduring the activity (as per usual, she thought all the stickers were for her and we had to humbly return a fistful to the nice lady).

We’re encouraged that the rest of the kids in the class have been skating only since September and are already ready for the pros. They all started out as a blubbering mess like Version 1.0 today. I’m betting that with a few more episodes on the ice, she’ll get tired of the spaz and want to zoom around like the other kids. So we’ll just keep on keeping on.

But why does every introduction to a new activity have to feel like we’re adding to the therapy bill in adulthood? I’m reading a book right now called The Science of Parenting (see? you just have to apply a formula… easy) and apparently our kiddies haven’t yet developed their higher thinking brain parts yet (something to do with synapses and wall sockets… or was that electrical currents?) so new stuff is immediately reverted to the ‘reptilian brain’ which manages the ‘fight or flight’ responses. According to the author, I just need to be more emotionally responsive in order to get her to think logically and reason her way through traumatic situations. I guess a smack on the bum and a “Go get ‘em, Tiger!” doesn’t qualify as emotionally responsive?

“Have you gained some weight?”

Last night I watched a program on TLC called “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant”. It’s a documentary-style show on women who mysteriously gave birth in toilets or restaurants or in the office copy room with apparently just a little indigestion and a popping sound.

What. The……?

So I’m thinking of my experiences being pregnant. I’m also thinking of the experiences of nearly every other woman I know who has been pregnant. I have no doubt that these women’s stories are true, but I just don’t get it.

First, they all delivered full term babies over 7 lbs 5 oz. I direct you to the  picture on the right (32 weeks ish… still lots of protrusion to go). My child was 7 lbs 15 oz. Not much bigger. How does that NOT show?? I looked like a friggin hippo! And these were not women with alot of extra padding on them under which baby could be disguised. Many of them were my size, or maybe a couple of sizes bigger, tops. I just don’t get it.

And each of them just popped them out with a quick little push on the toilet. REALLY?? Because I quite distinctly remember 4.5 hours of blood-vessel-popping, full body effort to finally get my kid out with the help of a vacuum device.

Then, the symptoms. OK, so not everyone pukes their guts out every day for 4 months, and some are lucky enough to have few, if any symptoms, but don’t you notice … something? Anything? Of ALL the unpleasantries that can occur with this (fortunate or unfortunate) state, they happened to also notice NONE? They were all blessed with a no-show belly monster, very little weight gain, no morning sickness, nausea, fatigue, ligament stretching, bleeding, flutters in the stomach? When my kid got to be around 20 weeks, she started kicking the crap out of me on an hourly basis. None of that?? Really?

I just don’t get it. Maybe if I just try and ignore Version 2.0 I can will myself not to get any bigger and when the time comes, I will just plop it out in the gymnasium during playgroup, and we’ll be done with it.

Given that I figure I’ve got one more week in my normal pants, I somehow think I won’t be so fortunate.

Busy Bodies

Today, like every Wednesday, my daughter is off to a crafty-run around-sing-dance-games playgroup at the local community centre. It took me a few weeks to get the name right, all I could remember were “crafts'” and “tumbling” so for awhile I called it Running With Scissors.

The benefit of groups like these is that she gets out of the house for an hour or two, which is especially important when the weather sucks so badly and Mommy can’t stand anymore eternally joyful Spanish explorer characters on the DVD player.

However, the downside is that these groups tend to be germ incubation facilities and every freaking time she goes, she gets sick within a couple of days. This one, maybe a little less so, but the pure tumbly-run around-expend all energy group on Sundays is like a zombie infestation of germs.

Is it because parents let their sick kids go to playgroups, thinking they are on the mend or not quite sick enough to stay home? Or are germies transferrable long before we detect them? Is it better to protect my kid for her first 18 years and not let her out of the house, or to expose her to as much crap as possible in the hopes that she will develop wicked immunity?

I don’t know the answer to this, having never finished (or started) my doctorate of medicine or disease control or whatever you study to know that stuff. But I do know that I’d better stock up on the baby Tylenol for the winter season because the way it’s panning out, we’re going to be inside alot.

And she should probably stop licking the bathroom counters at the rec centre.

Here we go again...

Well, I got knocked up again.

And what better time to finally start a new blog?

I mean, here I was just sitting around on a typical day, nothing to do except everything I already hadn't achieved, and finally decided to take the plunge and start my mommy blog. Although I love my work, writing about brow-furrowing serious stuff made my eyes cross and, to be completely frank, my mental capacity (being greatly diminished by the conception and subsequent birth of Version 1.0) is barely enough to remember what I last posted about.

My hidden motivation is the ranks of awesomeness (see here, and here, and here) that I call the Mommy Blog World, and the visions of grandeur I harbour at participating alongside them (I know I am perhaps a little biased in this list and it is by no means exclusive, but these are among my favorite... and all Canadian).

As Version 1.0 is nearly 2, and Version 2.0 is due in May, I figure I've got some good material at the ready. Version 1.0 being the willful and oh-so-nearly-2 kind of girl she is, I may actually be looking for a little help and maybe even commisseration so I don't feel like such a whiner. Now that morning sickness is mostly over, and my gut doesn't yet feel like a bowling ball on steroids, I may have the energy to actually keep this up.

Lately, the Battle Royale is being waged against a particular animated children's series which involves lots of singing and dancing and Spanish. In small doses, it's great. When I go to bed at night with their songs in my head and I happen to know every word, it's bordering on prisoner-of-war torture. When Version 1.0 comes up with words I never knew she knew, I'm largely indebted to this well-crafted show, but I need some alternatives.

Last weekend, I staged a craft party for Version 1.0's little friends. The end result was a glorious mess of pipe cleaners, pompoms, sparkly glue and stickers but fun was had by all, in a largely unstructured way. Now, we are on to colouring books and magnetic doodly things that provide a smidgen of distraction. I am branding myself as the Worst Parent Ever for being so distracted with my work that I can't keep my kid focused on something less .... well, guilty, but we're trying. The recent monsoons in the area have prevented us from leaving the house, so no more parks for the time being.

Please save me from my child's obsession. How else can we have her entertain herself without turning her mind to mush, and allowing me to work? I've tried blunt scissors and scotch in her sippy but the end results were less than pretty.