Congratulations, and thanks to everyone who entered!
Monday, May 13, 2013
Baby Wisp Giveaway Winner!
It's Monday, which means its time to announce the official winner of our Baby Wisp giveaway! And the winner, chosen randomly by rafflecopter.com is .... Jocelle S.!! Jocelle, an email has been sent your way.
Congratulations, and thanks to everyone who entered!
Congratulations, and thanks to everyone who entered!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
7 Useless Words My 18 Month Old Knows Instead of "Yes" or "No"
When most kids learn to talk, the bulk of their early vocabulary is made up of highly-communicative words such as “no”, “yes”, “more”, “that”, “up”, “down” etc. Essentially, standard-issue language that makes understanding their needs simpler for all involved.
Sounds pretty basic right?
Wrong. If your name is Avery.
May I present:
So …. yeah. Communication is going swimmingly over here.
--------------------------
On another note, from my home to yours, I hope Mother’s Day was everything you imagined it would be. Barring that, I hope you at least got to pee in privacy.
Sounds pretty basic right?
Wrong. If your name is Avery.
May I present:
7 Useless Words My 18 Month Old Knows Instead of “Yes”, “No”, Or Anything Else That Would Help Us Understand What The Eff She’s Screaming About.
motorhome
|
wiggle
|
opening verse to “Barbra Ann” by The Beach Boys
|
vulva {don’t ask}
|
bum
|
keys
|
Ellen {as in, Ellen Degeneres}
|
So …. yeah. Communication is going swimmingly over here.
--------------------------
On another note, from my home to yours, I hope Mother’s Day was everything you imagined it would be. Barring that, I hope you at least got to pee in privacy.
 |
| "Motorhome!" |
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Mamas of Girls: A Baby Wisp Giveaway!
I don’t usually do giveaways on my blog, but for products I absolutely love I’ll make an exception. And I love, love, love Baby Wisp (and think you will, too).
Bald-though-she-may-be, Ave’s had Baby Wisp hair accessories since she was 8 months old. I was first introduced to this Canadian company through an on-line mommy group I belong to; one poster swore their hairclips worked on even the baldest of babes, so of course I had to see for myself.
Baby Wisp uses satisfaction-guaranteed latch clips for many of their hair accessories, stating that they will not fall off. Still in disbelief that they would work on my at-the-time totally hairless child, I ordered one single clip (a tester, if you will). My choice? A Mini Latch Clip Crocheted Blossom cutie:
The consensus?
It. Held.
Firmly.
 |
| Cellphone pic of Avery wearing her Baby Wisp the first time, right out of the package |
I really need to learn to play it cooler.
Anyways, we took the accessory for a test-drive at a birthday party the other day and, as with all their other products, it held amazingly.
Apparently Avery didn’t crack a smile the whole party, but the clip looked great. :P
This giveaway is unique in that the more entries there are, the more goodies will be up for grabs:
1st Awarded Prize
Mini Latch Clip Sequins Butterfly (any colour) + 50% off coupon code, good toward any regular-priced item
2nd Awarded Prize
Mini Latch Clip Glitter Velvet Tuxedo Bow (any colour) + 50% off coupon code, good toward any regular-priced item
3rd Awarded Prize
Small Snap Clip Velvet Glitter Boutique Bow (any colour) + 50% off coupon code, good toward any regular-priced item
More than 20 unique entries releases the first prize, 50 or more releases prize 1 & 2, and 100 or more releases all three so pass this info along to friends!
Entering is easy:
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Contest closes next Sunday, May 12th. Winner(s) will be selected randomly, and will be announced next Monday, May 13th (wouldn’t that be a nice, albeit late, Mother’s Day surprise!).
Good luck!
{Disclosure: I was provided with the Large Latch Clip Sequins Butterfly to test and review, but opinions are my own}
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
5 Things Moms REALLY Want For Mother's Day
In honour of today being May 1st and the official start of “The Entire Month in Celebration of The Beauteous and Ever-Loving Mother” (at least, that’s what I keep telling Jamie. But he just shakes his head and walks away. “Jamie, where are you going?” I ask as he runs to the other room. “Jamie, I’m talking to you! Get back here! It’s my month, you hear me? Mine!”), I’m re-posting one of my favourites from last year …. 5 Things Moms REALLY want for Mother's Day.
Because we’ve all had just about enough of this “cut-out handprint-shaped-into-a-flower-I-wuv-you-mommy” crap.
*originally posted May 10, 2012*
The other day Jamie asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day, and in my mind I went through all the standard ideas: Flowers. Chocolates. A personal masseur named Javier. Not having to tell my husband what I want for gifts. You know … the usual.
But they just didn’t seem right, or indicative of what I really desire (except Javier. He’s right on so many levels).
And then I realized something --- the reason I’m struggling with this decision is because what I really want, what would truly fill my soul are things that are impossible to buy. And no, I’m not talking about “world peace”. I’m talking about real, pressing, important matters that any mother would kill to have.
1. Our Asses Back.
I’m not sure what chemical reaction occurs during pregnancy that causes Ass Shape Transformation, but something’s flowing through our systems and it ain’t pretty. Once a woman’s had a baby, her ass is never the same.
“Mom Butt” comes in two very distinct shapes: The bubble, and the square. The bubble takes the form of a rapidly-inflating balloon that grows larger with each subsequent pregnancy. Adding more than just a little jiggle to your wiggle, it causes pants to stretch tightly at the seams, and ass-cheeks to perform startling impersonations of condors’ wings spreading and taking flight.
The square goes in the opposite direction – literally. Where once there was a pert little behind, now sits a sagging and misshapen derriere with the apparent M.O. of stretching to your knees before your next birthday. Flat, square, long and lumpy …. mmmm, mmmm! Just de way dem boys like ‘em!
2. Perky Breasts.
We’re not fussy at this point; we could care less what size they are, so long as they’re pointing to the horizon and not our toes. With all the appeal of tennis balls hanging in tube socks, what once was our most provocative feature has now become a symbol for all that’s limp and deflated in the world. Move over, National Geographic cover models! The sight of our ta-ta’s swinging side-to-side should have you running for cover! And when we lay on our backs … hoo boy! There’s nothing like the feel of your nipples nestling into your arm pits. Thank you, gravity!
3. A “Mom-Ergency Siren”.
Bear with me on this one. Wouldn’t it be amazing to have a siren you could put on your car whenever your kids started screaming/crying/fighting? This siren would signal to others that you had a “Mom-Ergency ™” (and yes, I’m trademarking that mofo), and that they need to clear the hell out of the way because one crazy beotch is comin’ through. Given how much Avery loves car rides, you know I’ve given this one a lot of thought.
The Mom-Ergency Siren could be used in other sticky predicaments, too. Does your recently-potty-trained toddler desperately need to use a public washroom with a huge lineup? Don’t stress about cleaning up poo-balls on the floor … use the Mom-Ergency Siren, and get those dawdling toilet-users the eff out before the accident happens! (And no. Don’t ask where I got the idea for that “example”).
4. A Universal Mute Button.
For toys, tvs and children, the Universal Mute Button is a must for today’s hearing-overloaded mom. Whether you’re in the kitchen and just-need-to-get-dinner-finished-for-the-love-of-god-shut-up, or its past bedtime and your kid’s using every stall tactic in the book, the UMB helps you obtain that inner peace and calm only formerly reached with some sweet-assed Mary Jane and a fifth of vodka. Ahhhhhhhhhh …. silence.
5. Our Dignity.
Last but certainly not least, our dignity. Every mother loses hers at some point, usually early-on in the parenting journey. Whether its buying Depends (size XL) in the final weeks of pregnancy or crapping on the table during labour, dignity is easy to lose and hard to replace. Once gone, there’s little a mother wouldn’t do if the need called: cupping their hands under a child’s mouth to catch vomit; using their finger to pick snot out of a baby’s nose; cleaning poo-balls off the floor of a public coffeeshop (don’t ask, I said!). So give us back our dignity. Please.
And there you have it ... five tips for Mother's Day, from my home to yours. I can't wait to see which one Jamie surprises me with this year. I'm in suspense, y'all!
What do you really want? Come on, be honest!
Because we’ve all had just about enough of this “cut-out handprint-shaped-into-a-flower-I-wuv-you-mommy” crap.
 |
| Snapshot of my typical 5pm. Aaaannnnd commence vodka drinking ... now! |
The other day Jamie asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day, and in my mind I went through all the standard ideas: Flowers. Chocolates. A personal masseur named Javier. Not having to tell my husband what I want for gifts. You know … the usual.
But they just didn’t seem right, or indicative of what I really desire (except Javier. He’s right on so many levels).
And then I realized something --- the reason I’m struggling with this decision is because what I really want, what would truly fill my soul are things that are impossible to buy. And no, I’m not talking about “world peace”. I’m talking about real, pressing, important matters that any mother would kill to have.
1. Our Asses Back.
I’m not sure what chemical reaction occurs during pregnancy that causes Ass Shape Transformation, but something’s flowing through our systems and it ain’t pretty. Once a woman’s had a baby, her ass is never the same.
“Mom Butt” comes in two very distinct shapes: The bubble, and the square. The bubble takes the form of a rapidly-inflating balloon that grows larger with each subsequent pregnancy. Adding more than just a little jiggle to your wiggle, it causes pants to stretch tightly at the seams, and ass-cheeks to perform startling impersonations of condors’ wings spreading and taking flight.
The square goes in the opposite direction – literally. Where once there was a pert little behind, now sits a sagging and misshapen derriere with the apparent M.O. of stretching to your knees before your next birthday. Flat, square, long and lumpy …. mmmm, mmmm! Just de way dem boys like ‘em!
2. Perky Breasts.
We’re not fussy at this point; we could care less what size they are, so long as they’re pointing to the horizon and not our toes. With all the appeal of tennis balls hanging in tube socks, what once was our most provocative feature has now become a symbol for all that’s limp and deflated in the world. Move over, National Geographic cover models! The sight of our ta-ta’s swinging side-to-side should have you running for cover! And when we lay on our backs … hoo boy! There’s nothing like the feel of your nipples nestling into your arm pits. Thank you, gravity!
3. A “Mom-Ergency Siren”.
Bear with me on this one. Wouldn’t it be amazing to have a siren you could put on your car whenever your kids started screaming/crying/fighting? This siren would signal to others that you had a “Mom-Ergency ™” (and yes, I’m trademarking that mofo), and that they need to clear the hell out of the way because one crazy beotch is comin’ through. Given how much Avery loves car rides, you know I’ve given this one a lot of thought.
The Mom-Ergency Siren could be used in other sticky predicaments, too. Does your recently-potty-trained toddler desperately need to use a public washroom with a huge lineup? Don’t stress about cleaning up poo-balls on the floor … use the Mom-Ergency Siren, and get those dawdling toilet-users the eff out before the accident happens! (And no. Don’t ask where I got the idea for that “example”).
4. A Universal Mute Button.
For toys, tvs and children, the Universal Mute Button is a must for today’s hearing-overloaded mom. Whether you’re in the kitchen and just-need-to-get-dinner-finished-for-the-love-of-god-shut-up, or its past bedtime and your kid’s using every stall tactic in the book, the UMB helps you obtain that inner peace and calm only formerly reached with some sweet-assed Mary Jane and a fifth of vodka. Ahhhhhhhhhh …. silence.
5. Our Dignity.
Last but certainly not least, our dignity. Every mother loses hers at some point, usually early-on in the parenting journey. Whether its buying Depends (size XL) in the final weeks of pregnancy or crapping on the table during labour, dignity is easy to lose and hard to replace. Once gone, there’s little a mother wouldn’t do if the need called: cupping their hands under a child’s mouth to catch vomit; using their finger to pick snot out of a baby’s nose; cleaning poo-balls off the floor of a public coffeeshop (don’t ask, I said!). So give us back our dignity. Please.
And there you have it ... five tips for Mother's Day, from my home to yours. I can't wait to see which one Jamie surprises me with this year. I'm in suspense, y'all!
What do you really want? Come on, be honest!
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Tales of the Bald and the Beautiful
Today I want to talk to you about hair.
Hair … or rather, lack of. And no, this post is not an ode-to-my-husband-and-his-rapidly-diminishing-follicles. Its about my daughter.
My bald, that’s-a-boy-right? nearly 18-month old daughter.
When Avery was born, she had the same smattering of fluff that most newborns have … a little cul-de-sac that went from the sides to the back, with a few faint strands on top.
It was even dark, for pete’s sake.
“Yay!” I thought innocently. “I shall have my tiny brunette mini-me, and things shall be lovely, and we shall run across rainbows together!”.
And then.
And then her head continued to grow, and her hair … did not.
By the time she was 6 months old, I had long grown weary of the embarrassed stammer of strangers as they tried to decipher just what, exactly, I had birthed. “My, that’s a healthy little … er … fellow?” they’d say, as my dressed-head-to-toe-in-pink-and-wearing-a-shirt-that-read-“I’m a girl, asshole”-baby laughed heartily and then tried to bite their arm.
At one point I even had an individual ask me if I “was sure” Ave was a female.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, not certain I’d understood the question.
"I mean, it has no hair. Don’t girls usually have hair by now?” the man replied.
Yeah. Woe be to the mother of a bald-headed baby girl.
On occasion older women would come up to me and, after asking specifically about Avery’s gender, would launch into tales of their own bald daughters, most of whom were hairless until they were four. “But don’t worry,” they’d say. “Now she has the most gorgeous head of hair, and all my stressing was for naught.”
And the thing is, inherently I know Avery isn’t going to be bald for the rest of her life. On my List of Things Andra is Currently Freakin’ About, my daughter’s hair length doesn’t even crack the Top 20 (spot #19 is currently filled by “Will The Biebs make it past this emotional hurdle of breaking up with Selena Gomez, or is he doomed to continue his downward spiral forever more?”, in case you wanted to know).
But.
Here’s my deep, dark, very anti-feminist-movement secret:
I just want to be able to do fun, stylish things with my daughter’s hair fortheloveofgodshes1.5yearsoldalreadygoddamnit.
There. *deep exhalation of breath* I feel better now.
And to be fair, I think I only have 6 months to a year left to wait, judging by Ave’s current hair growth. It's finally coming in, though it’s chosen a very odd back-to-front follicle dispersal method, leaving her with a highly discernable line of hair vs. baldness at the top of her head. Sort of a DMZ Line, if you will.
At this point I’m thankful she appears to be a blonde, ‘cause if she was brunette … she’d be looking like an aged hippy. And for that, I guess we can all be thankful.
Hair … or rather, lack of. And no, this post is not an ode-to-my-husband-and-his-rapidly-diminishing-follicles. Its about my daughter.
My bald, that’s-a-boy-right? nearly 18-month old daughter.
When Avery was born, she had the same smattering of fluff that most newborns have … a little cul-de-sac that went from the sides to the back, with a few faint strands on top.
 |
| All newborns sleep on wood plates, don't they? |
“Yay!” I thought innocently. “I shall have my tiny brunette mini-me, and things shall be lovely, and we shall run across rainbows together!”.
And then.
And then her head continued to grow, and her hair … did not.
 |
| Headbands, pink, and frills = necessity |
 |
| I've got the hair of a 97 year old man, huzzah! |
By the time she was 6 months old, I had long grown weary of the embarrassed stammer of strangers as they tried to decipher just what, exactly, I had birthed. “My, that’s a healthy little … er … fellow?” they’d say, as my dressed-head-to-toe-in-pink-and-wearing-a-shirt-that-read-“I’m a girl, asshole”-baby laughed heartily and then tried to bite their arm.
At one point I even had an individual ask me if I “was sure” Ave was a female.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, not certain I’d understood the question.
"I mean, it has no hair. Don’t girls usually have hair by now?” the man replied.
Yeah. Woe be to the mother of a bald-headed baby girl.
On occasion older women would come up to me and, after asking specifically about Avery’s gender, would launch into tales of their own bald daughters, most of whom were hairless until they were four. “But don’t worry,” they’d say. “Now she has the most gorgeous head of hair, and all my stressing was for naught.”
And the thing is, inherently I know Avery isn’t going to be bald for the rest of her life. On my List of Things Andra is Currently Freakin’ About, my daughter’s hair length doesn’t even crack the Top 20 (spot #19 is currently filled by “Will The Biebs make it past this emotional hurdle of breaking up with Selena Gomez, or is he doomed to continue his downward spiral forever more?”, in case you wanted to know).
But.
Here’s my deep, dark, very anti-feminist-movement secret:
I just want to be able to do fun, stylish things with my daughter’s hair fortheloveofgodshes1.5yearsoldalreadygoddamnit.
There. *deep exhalation of breath* I feel better now.
And to be fair, I think I only have 6 months to a year left to wait, judging by Ave’s current hair growth. It's finally coming in, though it’s chosen a very odd back-to-front follicle dispersal method, leaving her with a highly discernable line of hair vs. baldness at the top of her head. Sort of a DMZ Line, if you will.
At this point I’m thankful she appears to be a blonde, ‘cause if she was brunette … she’d be looking like an aged hippy. And for that, I guess we can all be thankful.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
A Birth Story: Pooping, Noises and Noses, Oh My!
One of my closest girlfriends had her very first baby (a gorgeous little girl with a thick shock of black hair) a few days ago and as often happens in these circumstances, its made me reflective of my own initiation into motherhood 3.5 years ago. The thing is, its never really an “initiation”, is it?
I think “hazing” is a more-apt term.
Or possibly “trial by fire”. Or even “sucking every ounce of lifeblood out of you, by any means and/or orifice possible”.
Trust me. Its yummy stuff, y’all!
When Jamie and I drove to the hospital that warm August evening back in 2009 we had no idea what “walking out with a baby” truly meant. At the time we were solely focused on the labour process, suddenly realizing with shock that “Omigod, this baby is coming out one way or another in a matter of hours. And its probably going to be out the hoo-haw”.
I recall being admitted at 7 cm dilated, insanely proud of myself because the nurses kept commenting on how well I, a first-time mother, was handling the pain. I was all “YEAH! {chest bumping Jamie} Hell yeah! EAT IT, everyone in triage. SUCK. IT. I am AWESOME at this labour stuff, ya hear me? AWESOME”.
What can I say? I’m ever-so-slightly competitive.
That was around 1am. By 6am, after labouring all night sans epidural, I just about came across the room at Jamie after the nurse asked me how my night went and he replied “Ugh, not great. No offense, but these chairs aren’t exactly made for sleeping in”.
“Jamie,” I whispered, barely audible from my place on the bed. And then my voice rose to a shrill scream. “Are you FUCKING kidding me? She was asking ME how my night went. ME, the person IN LABOUR over here! I’ll tell you how my night went. It. Suuuucked! And you wanna know what made it worse? Listening to your god-damn SNORING while I was working through FUCKING CONTRACTIONS all by MYSELF!”.
An hour later I asked for the epidural. A quick assessment told the doctor that I was fully-dilated and, in fact, ready to push. The team encouraged me to go without it, promising me that the contractions would feel better once I was pushing. “Really?” I asked the nurse. “Really. I promise.” she replied. And awaaaay we went.
Three. Hours. Later.
Three hours later, the baby was finally “almost there”. And I learned a few things about myself:
(1) I learned that I really fucking hated it when Jamie would count “1, 2, 3 …” and then take a 1 second break to swallow before continuing on “…4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10”. “Jamie” I finally hissed through contractions “Jamie, for fuck’s sake either count the whole way through or don’t fucking count at all. You just made me push a whole second longer. Get some water or stop fucking counting!”.
(2) I learned that I did not, in fact, want to “see the baby crowning” with a mirror. “But Andra, that’s what you said you’ve always wanted! Are you sure? {turning to the doctor} I’m sure she really d …” “I do not want to see the fucking baby crowning! Are you fucking kidding me? Like I want to see that shit while it’s ripping me apart?! Fuuuck!”. And then the doctor told me it was “time to use the squat bar again” and I just about punched him.
and lastly
(3) I learned that, swearing aside, labour makes me keenly aware of just how important other people’s opinions of me are. In fact, I had three separate things I was focusing on throughout the duration of the pushing stage: poop, noises, and my nose.
Weeks before, while worriedly discussing the prospect of defecating on the table to my girlfriends they told me “Oh god, don’t even worry about that. That’s the least of your worries during labour! When the time comes, and it always does, you won’t even care. Trust us”. So imagine my surprise when it was one of the main things on my mind the entire labour. I kept apologizing to the nurses: “I’m so sorry if I’m pooping right now. I’m so sorry! I can’t even tell! I’m so, so sorry. Just tell me if I’m doing it and I’ll stop. Please? I just can’t tell!”. And I really couldn’t. And to this day I have no idea if I did or not. Jamie swears “not”, but he’s also well-aware that I would never talk to him again if he told me “yes” so he’s wisely remained silent.
I was also overly-aware of the noises I was making that last hour of pushing. The deep moaning and animalistic sounds emitting from my body were unlike any I’d ever heard before. “Oh Jesus,” I thought. “Oh, lord! Oh Jesus!I’m freaking out some poor woman in the next room. I sound like a crazy person! I sound like a caveman! What the fuck?!”.
And in those final moments, just prior to Mason making his grand entrance, the inside of my nose started to itch. Badly. Looking back I’m sure it was some sort of weird stress-reaction brought on by exhaustion but at the time it was driving me crazy. And crazily enough, spred-eagled and hanging over a squat bar while a doctor and two nurses probed my insides I was still embarrassed to put my finger into my nose to scratch it. I kept saying “I’m so sorry. I swear, my nose is just really itchy. I’m sorry, I don’t usually put my finger in my nose” to which the doctor replied, laughing “I can honestly say that after 20 years of delivering babies, I’ve never had a woman, no epidural and with the baby crowning, complaining about an itchy nose. Just go ahead and scratch it … what’s the big deal?”.
And then I told him (and I swear this is true) that I didn’t want him to think I was a coke addict.
He was like “Uh … what?”. And, still pushing, I replied “You know …. like how coke addicts always have itchy noses. I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of coke addict.”.
Because that’s reasonable, right?
Sometime around 9am, Mason finally arrived.
This was the moment I’d been waiting for. This was the moment when I at last became a mother. This was the moment I would cherish forever, as I’d been told by countless parents before me.
And I looked at my new baby. And I went “Uh …. hmmmm.”.
Because here’s the thing: Three hours of being stuck in the birth canal not only sucks for mom, but makes baby come out looking like a prizefighter who just lost in the ring.
Badly.
But you know what? Even though I didn’t really know this little person who’d been unceremoniously dumped from my body (not literally, I hope), I still knew I would fight to the death for him. And I think that’s what being a parent, biological or not, is all about. If you’re willing to lay your life down for this tiny creature, you’re in the club. And welcome to it.
Those of you who know me personally know that Mason’s birth story does not actually end here. However, I’ve yet to decide whether I want to share the full account of “Part 2” on this platform, as I usually reserve this space for humour. In a nutshell, minutes later I had a massive post-partum hemorrhage, lost over 1/3 of my blood, wound up in the O/R, and required four blood transfusions within 24 hours. Other-worldly shit, believe me.
So for today, I will end here. And as I snuggle into my bed tonight, I will rest easy with the knowledge that for me, my days of delivery are done. Those of you pregnant and trying … good luck. The torch has been passed.
Just don’t poop. Whatever you do, do not poop.
I think “hazing” is a more-apt term.
Or possibly “trial by fire”. Or even “sucking every ounce of lifeblood out of you, by any means and/or orifice possible”.
Trust me. Its yummy stuff, y’all!
When Jamie and I drove to the hospital that warm August evening back in 2009 we had no idea what “walking out with a baby” truly meant. At the time we were solely focused on the labour process, suddenly realizing with shock that “Omigod, this baby is coming out one way or another in a matter of hours. And its probably going to be out the hoo-haw”.
I recall being admitted at 7 cm dilated, insanely proud of myself because the nurses kept commenting on how well I, a first-time mother, was handling the pain. I was all “YEAH! {chest bumping Jamie} Hell yeah! EAT IT, everyone in triage. SUCK. IT. I am AWESOME at this labour stuff, ya hear me? AWESOME”.
 |
| Jamie chose the scariest-fucking shirt he possibly could to welcome our first child into the world |
That was around 1am. By 6am, after labouring all night sans epidural, I just about came across the room at Jamie after the nurse asked me how my night went and he replied “Ugh, not great. No offense, but these chairs aren’t exactly made for sleeping in”.
 |
| In full labour? Check. Make-up bag with lipstick inside? Check. |
An hour later I asked for the epidural. A quick assessment told the doctor that I was fully-dilated and, in fact, ready to push. The team encouraged me to go without it, promising me that the contractions would feel better once I was pushing. “Really?” I asked the nurse. “Really. I promise.” she replied. And awaaaay we went.
Three. Hours. Later.
Three hours later, the baby was finally “almost there”. And I learned a few things about myself:
(1) I learned that I really fucking hated it when Jamie would count “1, 2, 3 …” and then take a 1 second break to swallow before continuing on “…4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10”. “Jamie” I finally hissed through contractions “Jamie, for fuck’s sake either count the whole way through or don’t fucking count at all. You just made me push a whole second longer. Get some water or stop fucking counting!”.
(2) I learned that I did not, in fact, want to “see the baby crowning” with a mirror. “But Andra, that’s what you said you’ve always wanted! Are you sure? {turning to the doctor} I’m sure she really d …” “I do not want to see the fucking baby crowning! Are you fucking kidding me? Like I want to see that shit while it’s ripping me apart?! Fuuuck!”. And then the doctor told me it was “time to use the squat bar again” and I just about punched him.
and lastly
(3) I learned that, swearing aside, labour makes me keenly aware of just how important other people’s opinions of me are. In fact, I had three separate things I was focusing on throughout the duration of the pushing stage: poop, noises, and my nose.
Weeks before, while worriedly discussing the prospect of defecating on the table to my girlfriends they told me “Oh god, don’t even worry about that. That’s the least of your worries during labour! When the time comes, and it always does, you won’t even care. Trust us”. So imagine my surprise when it was one of the main things on my mind the entire labour. I kept apologizing to the nurses: “I’m so sorry if I’m pooping right now. I’m so sorry! I can’t even tell! I’m so, so sorry. Just tell me if I’m doing it and I’ll stop. Please? I just can’t tell!”. And I really couldn’t. And to this day I have no idea if I did or not. Jamie swears “not”, but he’s also well-aware that I would never talk to him again if he told me “yes” so he’s wisely remained silent.
I was also overly-aware of the noises I was making that last hour of pushing. The deep moaning and animalistic sounds emitting from my body were unlike any I’d ever heard before. “Oh Jesus,” I thought. “Oh, lord! Oh Jesus!I’m freaking out some poor woman in the next room. I sound like a crazy person! I sound like a caveman! What the fuck?!”.
And in those final moments, just prior to Mason making his grand entrance, the inside of my nose started to itch. Badly. Looking back I’m sure it was some sort of weird stress-reaction brought on by exhaustion but at the time it was driving me crazy. And crazily enough, spred-eagled and hanging over a squat bar while a doctor and two nurses probed my insides I was still embarrassed to put my finger into my nose to scratch it. I kept saying “I’m so sorry. I swear, my nose is just really itchy. I’m sorry, I don’t usually put my finger in my nose” to which the doctor replied, laughing “I can honestly say that after 20 years of delivering babies, I’ve never had a woman, no epidural and with the baby crowning, complaining about an itchy nose. Just go ahead and scratch it … what’s the big deal?”.
And then I told him (and I swear this is true) that I didn’t want him to think I was a coke addict.
He was like “Uh … what?”. And, still pushing, I replied “You know …. like how coke addicts always have itchy noses. I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of coke addict.”.
Because that’s reasonable, right?
Sometime around 9am, Mason finally arrived.
 |
| Even at 0.5 minutes old, Mace already had more hair than his dad. |
And I looked at my new baby. And I went “Uh …. hmmmm.”.
Because here’s the thing: Three hours of being stuck in the birth canal not only sucks for mom, but makes baby come out looking like a prizefighter who just lost in the ring.
Badly.
 |
| This was his good side. |
But you know what? Even though I didn’t really know this little person who’d been unceremoniously dumped from my body (not literally, I hope), I still knew I would fight to the death for him. And I think that’s what being a parent, biological or not, is all about. If you’re willing to lay your life down for this tiny creature, you’re in the club. And welcome to it.
Those of you who know me personally know that Mason’s birth story does not actually end here. However, I’ve yet to decide whether I want to share the full account of “Part 2” on this platform, as I usually reserve this space for humour. In a nutshell, minutes later I had a massive post-partum hemorrhage, lost over 1/3 of my blood, wound up in the O/R, and required four blood transfusions within 24 hours. Other-worldly shit, believe me.
So for today, I will end here. And as I snuggle into my bed tonight, I will rest easy with the knowledge that for me, my days of delivery are done. Those of you pregnant and trying … good luck. The torch has been passed.
Just don’t poop. Whatever you do, do not poop.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Shopping Tales and Swimsuits
I’m still alive! Woot, woot! Alive, and continuing to try and find enough time to sit down and stomp out a few blog posts for my loyal, persistant (possibly stubborn? You should really get that checked) readers. And what has brought me from seclusion this time?
My mother.
As I sit here listening to Maestro Fresh-Wes smoothly telling me to “Let Your Backbone Slide” (I wish I were joking), I think about my mother.
My wonderful, caring, helpful and ever-giving mother. Who also happens to love a bargain. In particular, clothing bargains for her grandchildren.
"Well Andra,” you say. “That doesn’t sound so bad. I love a bargain. Have you become so snooty that you’d turn up your nose at a deal?”
No, dear readers, no. I, too, love me some good pricing. I look through flyers, eagerly download coupon apps and lust after particular items at stores that I just *know* will drop in price later, thus contenting myself with watching and waiting until then.
However, I can tell you that very few people hold a candle to my mom when it comes to tracking down deals. Or at a minimum, very few people hold a candle to my mom in the telling and re-telling of how great a bargain was had.
“Andra,” she’ll gasp through the phone (because the-telling-of-deals can never wait for a face-to-face-meeting. It must occur immediately after said purchase, usually within 2.75 minutes of leaving the store). “Andra, wait until you hear about the bargain I got at {insert store name}”. She will then launch into a 24 minute epic retelling of The Day Of The Great Sale (typical sub-plot: The Store Marked The Price Tag Wrong But I Fought It At The Till) that makes “War & Peace” look like a 4th grade short story.
This saga will ebb and flow, with highs and lows, edge-of-your-seat moments (The other lady wanted it too! But mom courageously fought her off, the two of them later becoming friends as they bond over a mutal love of lowlowlow prices and grandkids), and the occasional tear. The conclusion is always the same: A financial breakdown of the exact original price and all previous sales prices, followed by the final, momentous, what-did-she-actually-get-it-for cost.
As she’s often shopping for my children (particularily Ave … that woman is thrilled to bits she’s got a girl to buy for once more) its fortunate that mom usually manages to snag cute outfits.
See? Trendy, age-appropriate, and will surely look wonderful on Her Royal Highness come summer.
The thing is.
The thing is, sometimes the lure of a bargain clouds the normally-sane judgement of my mother.
"Uh … mom?” I ask as I pull out an outfit a modest Hutterite would covet from the pile of garments. “Uh … what was the thought process behind this one?”. She’ll squint at it, trying to remember the pricing breakdown and drama involved in it’s aquisition. “Oh, that one! Don’t you think it’s cute? Can you believe there was an entire rack of those left? And all marked down to $0.99 from $29.99, too! Sometimes I don’t know what the store is thinking. That’s almost a 100% savings!”.
I’ll tell you what the store was thinking.
“We’ve got to burn our purchaser alive for buying this crap” followed by “… and then we’ve got to do everything short of pay our goddamned customers to take these out of the store so we don’t have to spend more money disposing of them later. Fu-uck. Where’s my drink?”.
Mom’s rare missteps for Avery fall into one of two categories: (a) the So Modest The Taliban Would Tell You To Loosen Up attire, or (b) the Class ‘A’ Whore togs. There is no in-between.
I was thinking of this earlier today as I went through my bin of summer clothes that mom had bought for Ave last year. One-by-one I took the garments out, pulling off sales tags (many, many, many sales tags. Damnit mom. Get yourself under control) and smoothing out wrinkles. And then I stumbled across this rather-innocuous little number:
Except that it’s not innocuous. Not when you realize its the baby-version of the Ultimate Whore bathing suit, the Cut Away:
and
and even
See? I let my 1.5 year old out on the beach in that, and it’s only a short drive and a few years from Dressing Like A Whoreish Nun And Loose Morals Land.
I realize it’s my own judgement as to whether an outfit is slooty or not. But lets keep in mind that the woman who raised me, the woman who helped develop my sense of what’s appropriate and not, the very woman who decries the colour purple as “a whore’s colour” picked out this swimsuit. She won’t buy purple bras, but she’ll sure-as-hell buy a cut out swimsuit for her baby granddaughter if the price is right.
Priorities, mom. Priorities.
And with that in mind, let me get back to my intensive exercise program. Because while a cut away swimsuit is too lady-of-the-night for my daughter, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have the body to rock one myself. Or the lowered moral standards.
*note: Before I get called out as a wholly ungrateful person, please know this was written tongue-in-cheek and with a large dose of admiration for my mom and her bargain-hunting-ways. Sure, there might be the occasional slip-up/cut out swimsuit, but that woman’s saved me countless dollars and more importantly, time that can be better spent with my family. Given how busy I am most days now, thats worth more than gold. So, neener neener neener, haters.*
*side note #2: I'm still a posting fanatic on my Instagram account, and would love to get more followers! You can find me under thedomesticproject.*
My mother.
As I sit here listening to Maestro Fresh-Wes smoothly telling me to “Let Your Backbone Slide” (I wish I were joking), I think about my mother.
 |
| Mom and I at my wedding shower 6+ years ago. Because we both looked rockin' |
My wonderful, caring, helpful and ever-giving mother. Who also happens to love a bargain. In particular, clothing bargains for her grandchildren.
"Well Andra,” you say. “That doesn’t sound so bad. I love a bargain. Have you become so snooty that you’d turn up your nose at a deal?”
No, dear readers, no. I, too, love me some good pricing. I look through flyers, eagerly download coupon apps and lust after particular items at stores that I just *know* will drop in price later, thus contenting myself with watching and waiting until then.
However, I can tell you that very few people hold a candle to my mom when it comes to tracking down deals. Or at a minimum, very few people hold a candle to my mom in the telling and re-telling of how great a bargain was had.
“Andra,” she’ll gasp through the phone (because the-telling-of-deals can never wait for a face-to-face-meeting. It must occur immediately after said purchase, usually within 2.75 minutes of leaving the store). “Andra, wait until you hear about the bargain I got at {insert store name}”. She will then launch into a 24 minute epic retelling of The Day Of The Great Sale (typical sub-plot: The Store Marked The Price Tag Wrong But I Fought It At The Till) that makes “War & Peace” look like a 4th grade short story.
This saga will ebb and flow, with highs and lows, edge-of-your-seat moments (The other lady wanted it too! But mom courageously fought her off, the two of them later becoming friends as they bond over a mutal love of lowlowlow prices and grandkids), and the occasional tear. The conclusion is always the same: A financial breakdown of the exact original price and all previous sales prices, followed by the final, momentous, what-did-she-actually-get-it-for cost.
As she’s often shopping for my children (particularily Ave … that woman is thrilled to bits she’s got a girl to buy for once more) its fortunate that mom usually manages to snag cute outfits.
 |
| If I had triplets they'd be so coordinated, y'all! |
See? Trendy, age-appropriate, and will surely look wonderful on Her Royal Highness come summer.
The thing is.
The thing is, sometimes the lure of a bargain clouds the normally-sane judgement of my mother.
"Uh … mom?” I ask as I pull out an outfit a modest Hutterite would covet from the pile of garments. “Uh … what was the thought process behind this one?”. She’ll squint at it, trying to remember the pricing breakdown and drama involved in it’s aquisition. “Oh, that one! Don’t you think it’s cute? Can you believe there was an entire rack of those left? And all marked down to $0.99 from $29.99, too! Sometimes I don’t know what the store is thinking. That’s almost a 100% savings!”.
I’ll tell you what the store was thinking.
“We’ve got to burn our purchaser alive for buying this crap” followed by “… and then we’ve got to do everything short of pay our goddamned customers to take these out of the store so we don’t have to spend more money disposing of them later. Fu-uck. Where’s my drink?”.
Mom’s rare missteps for Avery fall into one of two categories: (a) the So Modest The Taliban Would Tell You To Loosen Up attire, or (b) the Class ‘A’ Whore togs. There is no in-between.
I was thinking of this earlier today as I went through my bin of summer clothes that mom had bought for Ave last year. One-by-one I took the garments out, pulling off sales tags (many, many, many sales tags. Damnit mom. Get yourself under control) and smoothing out wrinkles. And then I stumbled across this rather-innocuous little number:
Except that it’s not innocuous. Not when you realize its the baby-version of the Ultimate Whore bathing suit, the Cut Away:
and
and even
 |
| Jesus, Kate Upton. Or ... Kate Upton loves Jesus? I'm confused in my state of anger. |
I realize it’s my own judgement as to whether an outfit is slooty or not. But lets keep in mind that the woman who raised me, the woman who helped develop my sense of what’s appropriate and not, the very woman who decries the colour purple as “a whore’s colour” picked out this swimsuit. She won’t buy purple bras, but she’ll sure-as-hell buy a cut out swimsuit for her baby granddaughter if the price is right.
Priorities, mom. Priorities.
And with that in mind, let me get back to my intensive exercise program. Because while a cut away swimsuit is too lady-of-the-night for my daughter, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have the body to rock one myself. Or the lowered moral standards.
*note: Before I get called out as a wholly ungrateful person, please know this was written tongue-in-cheek and with a large dose of admiration for my mom and her bargain-hunting-ways. Sure, there might be the occasional slip-up/cut out swimsuit, but that woman’s saved me countless dollars and more importantly, time that can be better spent with my family. Given how busy I am most days now, thats worth more than gold. So, neener neener neener, haters.*
*side note #2: I'm still a posting fanatic on my Instagram account, and would love to get more followers! You can find me under thedomesticproject.*
Monday, February 4, 2013
Smoke & Mirrors, Baby.
It’s been nearly a month since mat leave ended and let me say: Back to work is kicking my ass.
While it comes as no surprise, I’m amazed at how exhausted I am at the end of each day. Awake at 5:30, at work by 7, home with the kids at 5. And then … oh joy! There’s still dinner to make, bedtime routines to complete, and last-minute teacher prep for the following day.
My life right now is either some person’s idea of a sick joke, or just about every.other.mom’s.day.
So I guess I’m going to suck it up, buttercup.
Oddly though, even with the limited time available to me I still find that I’m trying my damndest to maintain an outward appearance of control and “isn’t my life great?” attitude for the sake of society.
Which is ridiculous. And yet I still do it.
I was thinking about that this weekend as I uploaded a new photo to my Instagram feed (*sidenote: I got rid of my Blackberry two weeks ago and haven’t turned back. I am my Iphone 5’s whore) (*sidenote #2: Hey! Speaking of Instagram, why don’t you follow me?! Yeah! You! You can find me under @thedomesticproject) (*sidenote #3: Wait … what were we talking about again?)(*sidenote #4: Nevermind. I remember).
It was one of those idyllic images Instagram is renowned for. Little sister and big brother, walking hand-in-hand with the sun setting and the filters a-flyin’.
It was authentic, it was real, I was nearly in goddamned tears as I snapped it.
The thing is.
The thing is, what my followers didn’t see was what transpired almost immediately after. As in, Mace bailed on a slippery piece of ice and dragged his baby sister head-first down onto the cold pavement.
As gorgeous and isn’t-my-life-wonderful?-ish as that Instagram photo looked, only moments later I was crouched on the sidewalk with two screaming kids, one with a bloody head and the other with a bloody knee. And yet I chose to upload that image, anyways.
Isn’t that effing crazy?
But that’s what I do. And now that I’m back at work, I’m realizing that’s what a lot of moms do. It doesn’t matter that we can’t find the time to pee let alone complete all the mundane household errands needed day-to-day. We will make it look like it ain’t no thang, if its the last thang we do.
I thought about it in the hours that followed and later that night as the kids were bathing I decided to take a new pic, showing the aftereffects of that photo on Avery’s head.
(damnit … couldn’t find a good setting to show how bruised and scratched her poor little head was).
I posted that latest pic to Instagram, and felt immediately better.
And I’ve made a commitment to myself that for the next few months, I’m going to stop trying to “do it all”. If I’m tired, I’ll say I’m tired and forgo after work outings. If the kids have to survive on a few more take-out meals than usual, it won’t kill them. And if I want to have a pee in private, then damnit I’m going to lock the bathroom door.
Because smoke and mirrors only work for so long.
*but it was a cute photo* :)
While it comes as no surprise, I’m amazed at how exhausted I am at the end of each day. Awake at 5:30, at work by 7, home with the kids at 5. And then … oh joy! There’s still dinner to make, bedtime routines to complete, and last-minute teacher prep for the following day.
My life right now is either some person’s idea of a sick joke, or just about every.other.mom’s.day.
So I guess I’m going to suck it up, buttercup.
Oddly though, even with the limited time available to me I still find that I’m trying my damndest to maintain an outward appearance of control and “isn’t my life great?” attitude for the sake of society.
Which is ridiculous. And yet I still do it.
I was thinking about that this weekend as I uploaded a new photo to my Instagram feed (*sidenote: I got rid of my Blackberry two weeks ago and haven’t turned back. I am my Iphone 5’s whore) (*sidenote #2: Hey! Speaking of Instagram, why don’t you follow me?! Yeah! You! You can find me under @thedomesticproject) (*sidenote #3: Wait … what were we talking about again?)(*sidenote #4: Nevermind. I remember).
It was one of those idyllic images Instagram is renowned for. Little sister and big brother, walking hand-in-hand with the sun setting and the filters a-flyin’.
 |
| "Come, Avery. Let's walk into the sunset together" |
The thing is.
The thing is, what my followers didn’t see was what transpired almost immediately after. As in, Mace bailed on a slippery piece of ice and dragged his baby sister head-first down onto the cold pavement.
As gorgeous and isn’t-my-life-wonderful?-ish as that Instagram photo looked, only moments later I was crouched on the sidewalk with two screaming kids, one with a bloody head and the other with a bloody knee. And yet I chose to upload that image, anyways.
Isn’t that effing crazy?
But that’s what I do. And now that I’m back at work, I’m realizing that’s what a lot of moms do. It doesn’t matter that we can’t find the time to pee let alone complete all the mundane household errands needed day-to-day. We will make it look like it ain’t no thang, if its the last thang we do.
I thought about it in the hours that followed and later that night as the kids were bathing I decided to take a new pic, showing the aftereffects of that photo on Avery’s head.
 |
| I went with the ever-popular "jaundice" filter |
I posted that latest pic to Instagram, and felt immediately better.
And I’ve made a commitment to myself that for the next few months, I’m going to stop trying to “do it all”. If I’m tired, I’ll say I’m tired and forgo after work outings. If the kids have to survive on a few more take-out meals than usual, it won’t kill them. And if I want to have a pee in private, then damnit I’m going to lock the bathroom door.
Because smoke and mirrors only work for so long.
*but it was a cute photo* :)
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Screw You, Toy Story
Welcome to my first post of 2013 and to yet another year of callous, sarcastic mommy-life-commentary (with just a dash of DIY for funsies! Because nothing says “I craft like Martha” like a potty-mouthed mother). And in case you weren’t sure: If you’re reading this, congratulations! You’ve successfully survived the Apocalypse. Phew. We were all worried for a second. Especially me and my tampon stockpile.
Apart from continuing my teacher prep in anticipation of mat leave ending in four days (ack! Don’t even get me started! So much to do, and so little time), I’ve been closely following a new year tradition that, I’m sure, most of you’ve done as well.
You know which one I’m talking about, right? The annual throw-out-as-much-toy-crap-as-possible-to-make-room-for-all-the-new-toy-crap-accumulated-from-Santa-and-other-sadistic-personalities-in-December one?
Unfortunately, this year something’s been thwarting my attempts at dislodging our home from a mountain of old playthings.
Friggen’ Toy Story.
Yes, the movie. All three movies, actually. Know why?
Because they make you feel guilty for throwing out, selling, or even donating toys.
Seriously. WTF?
I used to send toys to the donation bag or garbage pile with careless abandon, building on years of being an anal-retentive control freak. Hasn’t been used in two months? Donate! Ave broke a piece off? Chuck it out! Fa-la-la-la-la la-laaa-laaa-laaaaaaaaa.
And then Mace got into the Toy Story series this past month, and it’s all changed. For me.
It snuck up out of the blue a few nights ago as I was bagging items in the basement for donation. Chuck, donate, chuck, donate, donate. Things were going well until one innocuous little toy fell out of the bag and onto the floor.
One of Ave’s old highchair toys. And as I bent over to retrieve it, I caught sight of it’s little face.
It’s tentatively-smiling, hoping-with-all-it’s-might-“See?-I’m-still-cute!-Please-don’t-Old-Yeller-me” little face.
Like I said.
Screw. You. Toy Story.
Screw you and my newly-named pile of “memories” that I’m now saving for grandchildren. You can all go straight to hell.
Though of course, I would no longer have the balls to send you there.
Aaaargh.
Am I seriously the only parent who’s crazy enough to have this problem because of the movie, or are there any more of you out there?
And on a totally (Totally. Like, not even in the same family) unrelated note, I’ve recently joined the 365Project and would be honoured to get some followers. You can find me at http://365project.org/thedomesticproject/365, or just do a user search for thedomesticproject and BAM! There I’ll be.
Haven’t heard of it?
The 365Project is a site where people attempt to document 365 days straight of their lives with one daily photograph. It’s a really neat idea, and for someone who already shares her personal life like she’s being paid (which I’m not. And why the hell is that, anyways? Oh yeah … because I love oversharing. I’m an oversharing whore. *hangs head in shame*) it’s a natural fit.
What can you expect from my 365Project page? On good days, a nice DSLR shot of whatever’s striking my fancy at the moment. Such as today:
Mmmmm. Love me some pomegranates.
Of course, chances are good that a vast majority of pics will be taken with my Crapberry, of my kids doing something cute.
Or gross.
Or, you know, both:
She gets her classiness from her mother. And you know you wanna follow.
Apart from continuing my teacher prep in anticipation of mat leave ending in four days (ack! Don’t even get me started! So much to do, and so little time), I’ve been closely following a new year tradition that, I’m sure, most of you’ve done as well.
You know which one I’m talking about, right? The annual throw-out-as-much-toy-crap-as-possible-to-make-room-for-all-the-new-toy-crap-accumulated-from-Santa-and-other-sadistic-personalities-in-December one?
Unfortunately, this year something’s been thwarting my attempts at dislodging our home from a mountain of old playthings.
Friggen’ Toy Story.
Yes, the movie. All three movies, actually. Know why?
Because they make you feel guilty for throwing out, selling, or even donating toys.
Seriously. WTF?
I used to send toys to the donation bag or garbage pile with careless abandon, building on years of being an anal-retentive control freak. Hasn’t been used in two months? Donate! Ave broke a piece off? Chuck it out! Fa-la-la-la-la la-laaa-laaa-laaaaaaaaa.
And then Mace got into the Toy Story series this past month, and it’s all changed. For me.
It snuck up out of the blue a few nights ago as I was bagging items in the basement for donation. Chuck, donate, chuck, donate, donate. Things were going well until one innocuous little toy fell out of the bag and onto the floor.
 |
| "Hi! I'm Red Horsie! I'm really good at sucking and swinging!" |
One of Ave’s old highchair toys. And as I bent over to retrieve it, I caught sight of it’s little face.
 |
| "Aren't I sweet? SAY IT! SAY I'M SWEET!" |
It’s tentatively-smiling, hoping-with-all-it’s-might-“See?-I’m-still-cute!-Please-don’t-Old-Yeller-me” little face.
 |
| "I will haunt your dreams ... and nightmares" |
Like I said.
Screw. You. Toy Story.
Screw you and my newly-named pile of “memories” that I’m now saving for grandchildren. You can all go straight to hell.
Though of course, I would no longer have the balls to send you there.
Aaaargh.
Am I seriously the only parent who’s crazy enough to have this problem because of the movie, or are there any more of you out there?
And on a totally (Totally. Like, not even in the same family) unrelated note, I’ve recently joined the 365Project and would be honoured to get some followers. You can find me at http://365project.org/thedomesticproject/365, or just do a user search for thedomesticproject and BAM! There I’ll be.
Haven’t heard of it?
The 365Project is a site where people attempt to document 365 days straight of their lives with one daily photograph. It’s a really neat idea, and for someone who already shares her personal life like she’s being paid (which I’m not. And why the hell is that, anyways? Oh yeah … because I love oversharing. I’m an oversharing whore. *hangs head in shame*) it’s a natural fit.
What can you expect from my 365Project page? On good days, a nice DSLR shot of whatever’s striking my fancy at the moment. Such as today:
Mmmmm. Love me some pomegranates.
Of course, chances are good that a vast majority of pics will be taken with my Crapberry, of my kids doing something cute.
Or gross.
Or, you know, both:
She gets her classiness from her mother. And you know you wanna follow.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
An Update, and 5 Reasons My Family Won't Survive The Apocalypse
I’ve been an absentee blogger, and I apologize. The business (busyness? WTF? Why doesn’t that look right?) this time of year combined with last-minute attempts at getting things done before mat leave ends and finding out that I’ll be teaching an entirely new grade upon my return … well, lets just say I’m running around looking like the crazed person I really am. And it ain’t pretty.
For what it’s worth, dear readers, this will probably be my life for the next while as I get back into the swing of being a working mama come January 7th. I can no longer promise regularly-scheduled posts, but will promise to try for weekly ones. If that works for you, than it works for me! I still love, love, love writing, and still enjoy putting my thoughts down on paper (well, computer screen), so if you’re willing to stick around for less-regular posts, I would be thrilled! And if you’re not, than that makes me sad. But I get it. But it still makes me sad. But I get it.
With some recent changes to Facebook policies, I’d also like to encourage y’all to consider subscribing to my RSS feed (see that little orange circle up there in the top-right that looks like radio waves?) or by email (see that little “Follow By Email” box mid-way down, just below all of your lovely photos?). It turns out, just because you’re a subscriber to my Facebook Fanpage doesn’t mean you’re getting notifications about all my posts. Weird, huh? And seeing as I won’t be able to post as regularly now, do you really want to be missing out when there's a new one? Do ya?
Aaaannnnyways …. enough about blog updates. Lets get to the real crux of today’s post. And that would be: The Impending Apocalypse (see how I capitalized and bolded it? That’s to make you realize the sheer magnitude of this event. Are you in awe? Also, aren’t I the topical one with this coming up tomorrow morning and all? High-fives all around, guys!).
In case you haven’t heard, on Friday, December 21st the world is supposed to come to an end. Those smarty-pants Mayans supposedly predicted this so it must be so, right? Guess we won’t know for sure until we raise our heads from our pillows Saturday morning (and oh, what a jubilant morning that will be!). One thing I can guess, if this impending apocalyse happens, however:
My family doesn’t have a hope in hell of surviving.
1. We’re stockpiled for periods and bowel movements, not zombies and death-battles.
You heard it here first: Come to our house looking for supplies after the apocalypse goes down and you’ll be sadly disappointed. Apart from a few stray cans of baking soda and vaseline, the only thing you’ll find will be toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper. And tampons. For some odd reason.
We actually have so much toilet paper in our furnace room right now that I’ve started to question whether I have some weird T.P. fetish. Or maybe I’m just really, really afraid of running out at an especially needy time?
I don’t know, I’m not a psychologist. But there’s a lot of toilet paper.
And the tampon thing? Can’t even explain that. Its just, like … they go on sale and I’m all “Oh hey! I use these once a month! Lets buy a truckload! I can’t control myself when it comes to my lady bits! Wheeeeeeeee!”, and then I giggle and skip down the aisle of Wal-Mart.
So yeah. Toilet paper and tampons. Unless the post-apocalyptic world somehow forces us to survive on paper and cotton, we’re screwed.
2. My husband passes out at the sight of blood
I don’t know what kind of world you envision when picturing the months following an apocalypse, but I see a violent one. And while this could be due to the fact that Jamie and I are avid fans of The Walking Dead television series, it is what it is. It stands to reason that when we’re fighting off zombie predators and trying to protect our babies I’m going to need a cohort who’s willing to hack off walkers’ limbs, smash faces and all sorts of other disgusting, blood-inducing duties (you know … the simple things. Just like we wrote in our wedding vows). Know what won’t help our survival percentages?
A dude who gets sick after needles.
The above picture was taken six years ago when we were getting our blood drawn for our wedding in Mexico. And I wish this was a one-time thing … but that’d be a lie.
I guess what I’m saying is, Jamie won’t be crackin’ heads and takin’ names come December 22nd. Which really sucks because his beloved wife has her own “I’ll suck at the apocalypse” issue:
3. I run just slightly faster than a one-legged turtle.
Along with it being violent and bloody, I also have a feeling that the post-December-21st-world will be one where the ability to run fast will be an asset. An asset? Nay ... a necessity.
The problem is, my three-year-old can now easily lap me in games of tag, and the one-year-old isn’t far behind.
“But Andra,” you say “You’re so tall. What about those long legs you have? Surely they must be good for running?”
Preachin’ to the choir, people. Preachin’ to the choir.
I don’t know what the deal is or why my “long legs” can’t unravel themselves fast enough, but I’m slow. S.L.O.W. Slow. Disappointing countless track coaches for years in school, they’re basically two useless tree stumps I manage to drag along every now and again. So, you know. Pretty sucky for running from zombies. Those buggers are fast. And I'm ... not.
But don’t think the kids get off easy in this, oh no! May I present the final two reasons our family won’t be surviving the apocalypse:
4. Unless it’s grilled cheese, Mason ain’t eatin’ it
and
5. Avery, otherwise known as The Child Who Screams A Lot
Here’s two more little tidbits about the post-apocalyptic world to add to your rapidly-growing knowledge base: (a) food is scarce and (b) you need to be quiet because you’re sneaking around trying not to become someone else’s food (re: zombies’).
In both these areas, my kids will kill us.
We’ll be walking along (because there’s no sense running if I’m part of the group), trying to revive Jamie after he’s passed out for, like, the 50 billionth time. I’ll be all “Jesus, Jamie, get over it. Its a hangnail … it’ll stop bleeding soon” while trying to convince Mason to eat some canned corn we scavenged from the last farmhouse. He’ll be crying “Yuuuucck! I don’t waaaann it, mom! I want grilled cheeeese! Whhhhy can’t I have grilled cheeeeese?”, at which Avery, hearing the Call of Her People, will begin screaming because, well, why not? And you know what happens next?
Bam. Zombie lunch.
So if you’re wondering if I’m just a little bit scared of what’s to come December 21st, I ask you this:
Given what you’ve just read, wouldn’t you?
For what it’s worth, dear readers, this will probably be my life for the next while as I get back into the swing of being a working mama come January 7th. I can no longer promise regularly-scheduled posts, but will promise to try for weekly ones. If that works for you, than it works for me! I still love, love, love writing, and still enjoy putting my thoughts down on paper (well, computer screen), so if you’re willing to stick around for less-regular posts, I would be thrilled! And if you’re not, than that makes me sad. But I get it. But it still makes me sad. But I get it.
With some recent changes to Facebook policies, I’d also like to encourage y’all to consider subscribing to my RSS feed (see that little orange circle up there in the top-right that looks like radio waves?) or by email (see that little “Follow By Email” box mid-way down, just below all of your lovely photos?). It turns out, just because you’re a subscriber to my Facebook Fanpage doesn’t mean you’re getting notifications about all my posts. Weird, huh? And seeing as I won’t be able to post as regularly now, do you really want to be missing out when there's a new one? Do ya?
Aaaannnnyways …. enough about blog updates. Lets get to the real crux of today’s post. And that would be: The Impending Apocalypse (see how I capitalized and bolded it? That’s to make you realize the sheer magnitude of this event. Are you in awe? Also, aren’t I the topical one with this coming up tomorrow morning and all? High-fives all around, guys!).
In case you haven’t heard, on Friday, December 21st the world is supposed to come to an end. Those smarty-pants Mayans supposedly predicted this so it must be so, right? Guess we won’t know for sure until we raise our heads from our pillows Saturday morning (and oh, what a jubilant morning that will be!). One thing I can guess, if this impending apocalyse happens, however:
My family doesn’t have a hope in hell of surviving.
1. We’re stockpiled for periods and bowel movements, not zombies and death-battles.
You heard it here first: Come to our house looking for supplies after the apocalypse goes down and you’ll be sadly disappointed. Apart from a few stray cans of baking soda and vaseline, the only thing you’ll find will be toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper. And tampons. For some odd reason.
We actually have so much toilet paper in our furnace room right now that I’ve started to question whether I have some weird T.P. fetish. Or maybe I’m just really, really afraid of running out at an especially needy time?
I don’t know, I’m not a psychologist. But there’s a lot of toilet paper.
And the tampon thing? Can’t even explain that. Its just, like … they go on sale and I’m all “Oh hey! I use these once a month! Lets buy a truckload! I can’t control myself when it comes to my lady bits! Wheeeeeeeee!”, and then I giggle and skip down the aisle of Wal-Mart.
So yeah. Toilet paper and tampons. Unless the post-apocalyptic world somehow forces us to survive on paper and cotton, we’re screwed.
2. My husband passes out at the sight of blood
I don’t know what kind of world you envision when picturing the months following an apocalypse, but I see a violent one. And while this could be due to the fact that Jamie and I are avid fans of The Walking Dead television series, it is what it is. It stands to reason that when we’re fighting off zombie predators and trying to protect our babies I’m going to need a cohort who’s willing to hack off walkers’ limbs, smash faces and all sorts of other disgusting, blood-inducing duties (you know … the simple things. Just like we wrote in our wedding vows). Know what won’t help our survival percentages?
A dude who gets sick after needles.
The above picture was taken six years ago when we were getting our blood drawn for our wedding in Mexico. And I wish this was a one-time thing … but that’d be a lie. I guess what I’m saying is, Jamie won’t be crackin’ heads and takin’ names come December 22nd. Which really sucks because his beloved wife has her own “I’ll suck at the apocalypse” issue:
3. I run just slightly faster than a one-legged turtle.
Along with it being violent and bloody, I also have a feeling that the post-December-21st-world will be one where the ability to run fast will be an asset. An asset? Nay ... a necessity.
The problem is, my three-year-old can now easily lap me in games of tag, and the one-year-old isn’t far behind.
“But Andra,” you say “You’re so tall. What about those long legs you have? Surely they must be good for running?”
Preachin’ to the choir, people. Preachin’ to the choir.
I don’t know what the deal is or why my “long legs” can’t unravel themselves fast enough, but I’m slow. S.L.O.W. Slow. Disappointing countless track coaches for years in school, they’re basically two useless tree stumps I manage to drag along every now and again. So, you know. Pretty sucky for running from zombies. Those buggers are fast. And I'm ... not.
But don’t think the kids get off easy in this, oh no! May I present the final two reasons our family won’t be surviving the apocalypse:
4. Unless it’s grilled cheese, Mason ain’t eatin’ it
and
5. Avery, otherwise known as The Child Who Screams A Lot
Here’s two more little tidbits about the post-apocalyptic world to add to your rapidly-growing knowledge base: (a) food is scarce and (b) you need to be quiet because you’re sneaking around trying not to become someone else’s food (re: zombies’).
In both these areas, my kids will kill us.
We’ll be walking along (because there’s no sense running if I’m part of the group), trying to revive Jamie after he’s passed out for, like, the 50 billionth time. I’ll be all “Jesus, Jamie, get over it. Its a hangnail … it’ll stop bleeding soon” while trying to convince Mason to eat some canned corn we scavenged from the last farmhouse. He’ll be crying “Yuuuucck! I don’t waaaann it, mom! I want grilled cheeeese! Whhhhy can’t I have grilled cheeeeese?”, at which Avery, hearing the Call of Her People, will begin screaming because, well, why not? And you know what happens next?
Bam. Zombie lunch.
So if you’re wondering if I’m just a little bit scared of what’s to come December 21st, I ask you this:
Given what you’ve just read, wouldn’t you?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
