The Battles We Pick

Hey Followers!

(And by that I mean my Mom and maybe two friends from high school.)

I’m back!

Remember how I used to do this on the semi-reg? I guess that ended a couple years ago, huh? But fear not. Time has not dulled my wisdom, and I’m coming atcha with a hot new blog entry. This girl doesn’t have that much free time these days because I’m living the working mom dream. I’ll be honest with you; when I DO have free time? I choose to spend it falling asleep on the couch to reruns of The Office. So that being said, I hope you enjoy this for what it is: random, out-of-nowhere, and with zero guarantee of becoming a regular occurrence.

We’ve had a bit of a rough week here. Mark has been sick, and now I’m under-the-weather. Annika had a couple “incidents” at school/daycare because the child is very strong-willed (to put it nicely). Let’s just say that she doesn’t like it when she can’t be in charge, but that is probably worth a blog post of its own. “Parenting a “spirited” child. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

This week had me thinking about the battles we pick – when it comes to kids – and how much easier it was to be a “perfect parent” before we became parents. While I care passionately and deeply about many facets of parenting (and moulding the next generation,) this time I have chosen to write about the opposite: the ways in which I don’t give a sh*t.

Five years into this, I have realized – for better or for worse – there are certain things I just don’t care about. Fear not, it is none of the major stuff. Our goal is (and always will be) to raise kind, responsible and respectful people; but there are a lot of little things along the way that I’ve decided can eff RIGHT off. Maybe they’re things that you DO care about. Maybe you have very strong opinions about these things, but guess what? I don’t care about that either. Just keep your hot little take to your own blog, and I’ll do the same.

So without further ado, let me break this down.

The first thing I no longer care about is separate sleeping arrangements.

Both our kids get bedtimes cuddles. In fact, both our kids would lose their SH*T without bedtime cuddles because we’ve set an “unhealthy precedent”.

We have a system. I cuddle one child, and Andrew cuddles the other, until they both fall asleep. Sometimes we fall asleep, too. When we don’t, we ever-so-sneakily tiptoe out of their rooms after we know those snores are the real deal and we carry on with our lives. Are our kids able to put themselves to sleep? Absolutely not. Well maybe, but there would be a three hour tantrum, guaranteed. We’ve wilfully instilled this bad habit, and at this point, I’m fine with it. When we lay beside our kids, they usually fall asleep pretty quickly. That’s when we either move on, or drift off to sleep ourselves, and get a sold twelve hours.

I’m kidding, There’s no “solid twelve hours”. They kick us in the face until we leave.

Mark in particular has separation issues and usually comes to find us partway through the night. That’s when we let him scooch on in. Disapprove if you must, but guess what, Brenda, these kids wont be 17-years-old and still wanting to cuddle with their parents. We know it wont last forever, and we’re cool with it while it does. If a cuddles mean they fall asleep in 2.7 minutes and then we get to go downstairs and watch murder documentaries, we call it a success.

“But if you let your kids in your bed, or sleep in theirs, how will you give your partner that intimate time that a marriage requires?” This a dumb question, but I’ve heard variations of it; more than once, in fact. To that I say there’s no rule that you have to “be intimate” in bed. There’s always the option of hitting the pause button partway through those murder documentaries. Plus, being further away from the bedrooms means less of a chance that the kids would wake up, anyway.

The second thing I’m going to touch on is screen time; more specifically early morning, weekend screen time.

It’s no secret that kids wake up at ungodly hours. They really like to do it when you’ve had a couple glasses of wine the night before, and stayed up PAST TEN PM. It’s usually on weekends when we pull these TRULY WILD evenings, but I swear they have a sixth sense. The mornings following these evenings they like to get up EXTRA early, and with a little EXTRA pep in their step.

Our kids are up at the crack of 6:30 and full of demands/ideas/energy. So what do we do? Why we put sh*tty Youtube videos on our phones, of course! (They don’t have iPads, we’re on a budget.) We hand them our phones, and let them watch their videos until they grow bored, or get in a fight with one another. Usually we’re all crammed into our queen (not even a king) bed at this point, but so long as they’re watching Blippi, or some millionaire four-year-old unbox toys, they’re somewhat distracted; enough so that we can drift in and out of sleep until eight-ish. Worth it.

The third thing I’m fine with is fart jokes.

People will say that it’s a “boy mom thing”, but let me tell you this: it’s also a girl mom, and a husband thing. This family loves a good fart joke. Along those lines, they also love a good poop joke and a good butt joke. The jokes aren’t always witty, or even understandable, but I laugh along with my joke-tellers because it makes them happy.

Our five-year-old is in her second year of school, and she knows full well that “bathroom talk” is not acceptable in school (or most places outside of home). We have yet to hear that she’s tried to dabble in toilet humour anywhere else, so I have a hard time seeing it at problematic. Because of that, we allow the kids to tell each other their non-nonsensical jokes about “tooting butts” and “stinky poops”, and they laugh for hours. I smile, marvel in my beautiful children and their special sibling bond, and I enjoy the ride. If it makes their little hearts happy to laugh about “smelly bum bums”, I’d rather them do that under my roof and get it out of their systems before they have to go off and deal with a cruel, cruel, toot-shaming world.

Fourth on my list is the refusal to wear socks/hats/gloves/sweaters.

Let me preface this one by saying that my kids’ grandparents are a blessing, and we are very fortunate to have them in our lives. They are always eager to help us, and excited to see/care for the children. I learned pretty quickly, though, that if you neglect to put socks on a squirmy infant you WILL be called out. The ever-present fear that the kids might be chilly is REAL.

I have had SO MANY battles about hats, mitten and socks with my CHILDREN (might I add), that I am rarely in the mood to also debate it with other adults. If you see my child without mittens on a day where mittens would probably offer comfort and warmth, let me reassure you that I have mentioned the mittens.

I have asked them to put on the mittens.

I have told them to pick up the mittens after they threw them on the floor in a fit of rage.

I have pocketed the mittens as we left the house.

I have re-suggested wearing the mittens a minute into our excursion.

I have been met with screams of anger.

I have waited five more minutes, and then asked them if their little fingies are cold.

I have been met with third rounds of rage.

So if it’s a chilly day, and there are no visible mittens, that is 100% THEIR OWN DAMN CHOICE. If they are determined to be chilly (and stubborn) then power to them. Enjoy those poor decisions, kids.

My fifth topic is a hot button issue: swear words.

Yeah. It happens. Swear words have been said in front of our kids; we’re not perfect. I usually apologize, tell them they are not to use that word, and tell them it was wrong of Mommy to use it. (It wasn’t, but whatever). I’m a firm believer in owning up to your own wrong-doings in front of children. They deserve to see that not only are you NOT perfect, but that you’re willing to apologize and admit fault. We’re supposed to model the behaviour we want our children to have, and I don’t want kids who aren’t able to say “I’m sorry, I was wrong”.

Anyway, I digress because what I WAS arguing was that swearing really isn’t that big a deal. Disagree if you want, but that’s how I feel. I still believe in personal ownership when it comes to problematic behaviour, but I don’t necessarily count swearing as “that bad” of a parental behaviour, unless it’s used to belittle someone. (I should be clear on that, too. I’m talking about saying “sh*t” when you drop something on your toe. I’m not talking about name-calling and abuse.)

If my kids drop the occasional swear word as they grow up, I’ll probably give them a look, and remind them to be aware of their surroundings. If they were to use it in the context of bullying, that would be a different story, and that would be met by my wrath. Ultimately it’s a “bigger picture” thing. I want kids who understand the value of kindness, compassion, being helpful, and listening. I don’t really give a sh*t if they occasionally say sh*t. It’s a non-issue.

Sixth on the list is cereal for dinner. Or popcorn. Or crackers. (And obviously I don’t mean nightly.)

When our firstborn was a year or two old, I remember raising my concerns with our doctor. She was morphing into a picky eater. We tried to do all the “right things” when we introduced food, so where did we go wrong? We started with the less sweet foods, we dabbled in the ancient grains, we never forced feeding, and it all seemed to go swimmingly…at first.

With the girl we did purees, and with the boy we tried baby-led weaning, but regardless of the method, we pretty successfully got them hooked on things like avocados, sweet potatoes, beans, quinoa, even big chunks of steamed broccoli. They ate nutrient-rich, well-rounded meals while we scarfed Oreos secretly in the bathroom. At some point though, things changed. Our kids started going to birthday parties, and baby sitters, and out with grandparents. Unless you keep them in a bubble, they inevitably get a taste of cake and there’s no going back from that.

I wouldn’t say they’re the pickiest eaters, but they’re three and five; and they very much have the palates of ordinary children. They like their cheese pizza toppling-less, their sauces bland, and their waffles plentiful. We tried to do better, we really did. I’ve heard the “Beckys” out there brag about how they started their kid off “the right way”, and now four-year-old Landon prefers healthy, complex, vegan meals over chicken nuggies. I congratulate the Beckys because that is a wonderful thing, but don’t act like it’s possible for every child to turn out like yours. Sometimes you can do all the right things, but they get that first taste of McDonald’s, and a different trajectory has been set. It’s entirely possible – Becky – that while you did all the right things, you also got lucky.

So when I raised my concerns with Annika’s doctor about her eating habits, the doctor told me that – at this age – it’s less about what a child eats in a DAY, and more about what they eat in a WEEK. That changed my thinking, and made life a lot easier. My kids have their preferences, but in certain ways, they do well. Both my kids love fruits and a decent amount of veggies. They will still gobble down broccoli and sweet potatoes. They’re picker about certain textures, and they aren’t sold on meat, but that just means we can do our service to the planet by experimenting with non-meat alternatives. Yes, they will sometimes tell you that even MAYO is “too spicy”, but I blame that on their British roots. (White kids, ugh.) If it’s been a bad few days, I will sneak spinach into their smoothies and puree zucchini for our spaghetti sauce. However, there are days when Andrew’s on evenings, or we’re both run off our feet from being working parents, and we say f*ck it. Snacks for dinner.

Next on the list is The Soother.

Pacifier? Dumby? I feel like the names are very regional, but you know what I mean. We called it a soother, and our children were addicts. With our son, we gave it to him ON. DAY. TWO.

Both my kids raced out of that womb and wanted the boob. I was lucky in that regard; they took to breast feeding right away and had no issues at first. (Our breast feeding issues came a few months later, but that’s another can of worms.) When our girl was born, she latched well, and nursed well, and my milk came in quickly. Ideal scenario, right? Yes, BUT.

When you’ve never had someone feed from your breasts before, they can sometimes become raw and chapped HELLA FAST. The first few weeks of nursing were excruciatingly painful. I would grasp the rail of my hospital bed and scrunch up my face in agony as she fed. I was still in hospital recovering from labour, but there’s no respite when it comes to parenting. I resisted the soother because I was scared it would mean nipple confusion and feeding problems. Well, my resistance was futile, and luckily short-lived. The agony made me cave within that first week. I gave her a soother and she loved it. She suckled happily, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

My kids would have comfort nursed around the clock if they could have, and the soother gave them that comfort while allowing me to do crazy things like go pee and brush my teeth. With our daughter we were lucky. She quit the soother at 10-months-old, all on her own accord. That sounds fantastic, and super reasonable, right? Wrong. During those ten short months, I got A LOT of judgement and harassment regarding the soother (from one person in particular who shall remain nameless) and it DID make me question myself.

Still, when the boy came along, I put those thoughts out of my head and popped that soother in on day two. In a burst of confidence I even took a picture and put in on Instagram. For us, the soother meant that while both babe and I were in the hospital during three days of complications, we could at least nap when we needed to, nurse when we needed to, and most importantly bond without added stress.

Marky was different, though. He didn’t want to hit it then quit it. He loved her. He affectionately called her “Susan”. Her name grew organically from “soother” to “soo soo” to “Susan” (Soosan? Maybe it was spelled Soosan). He would wake at night, and instead of calling out for Mommy or Daddy, he’d holler “Susan….SUSAN!!!” until we came to locate her. We had to actively help him quit, but it did no harm to allow him that small source of comfort when and while he needed it. I truly mean that because a) they make the things orthodontic now, b) soothers have been shown to lower the risk of SIDS, and c) if your child has the desire to suck on something, soothers are easier to take away than thumbs. So I say give your baby that soother if/when it feels right, Mama. Or don’t. That’s fine too.

The next thing I’ll touch on the the KID LEASH! Dun dun dun.

We’ve all seen them! The kids on leashes! Maybe they’ve made you laugh, maybe they’ve made you rage. Regardless, I would keep your thoughts to yourself on this one. I can guarantee you that frazzled mom doesn’t want to hear your unsolicited advice. If she has a kid who she’s deemed THAT much of a flight-risk, she has a lot on her plate. Your judgement isn’t needed.

Our time “on the leash” was short lived, but I’d do it again if I needed to. Annika was 22-months-old when Mark was born. For a while there, I was either HEAVILY pregnant, in recovery, or carry around a newborn while I also had an independent, strong-willed, free-spirited ALMOST two-year-old. Moreover, we walked to doctor appointments, and that involved crossed busy streets and a round-about. Annika was – and still can be – active and borderline feral. During those days, I would nestle Marky into his stroller and tie the end of the leash to stroller handle like I was walking an actual dog. Then I’d pop that cute little backpack on her, clip up the harness, and attach her to the leash. She refused the stroller at that time, so off we’d set, child on leash. I didn’t trust her for a second. I knew she was crazy enough to take off on me, and I couldn’t risk leaving a baby unattended to dart after a toddler in traffic.

As she got older, she began to understand the world around her. We talked about the dangers of the roads, and the leash became something we no longer needed. But now, when I see a fellow leash mom, no matter what her situation, the only thing I think is “good for you, Mama, you’re keeping that kid alive.”

The final topic I will be discussing is bribery and threats.

Before you come at me, I mean this WITHIN REASON. I don’t want to raise children who have had their entire concept of responsibility shaped by bribery and threats, but before I had these kids, I was of the mindset that I would never resort to such tactics.

I sure as heck do.

Have you ever said the same thing so many times that your throat goes hoarse? And still, no one is listening to you? Have you ever wondered if you got Bruce Willis’d and you just don’t realize you’re a ghost yet? I’m gonna tell you the truth. On those days, I have been know to lose my mind just a TOUCH. If I’m gonna say the same thing 47 times, you better believe I am one step away from donating ALL your Spidermans (SpiderMEN? What’s the plural?) And if you look me dead in the eye after I just told you NOT to eat that chunk of grey snow, and you STILL take a big, sloppy bite, I will slam DUNK your Valentine’s Day chocolates into the garbage. Sometimes it’s all that works.

People will tell you to potty train your kids with a sticker chart or a fun game, but we bribed them with candy. Straight up, no-nonsense candy bribing. When their toilet routines became habit, we told them the Smarties were over. Did they cry? Probably. But clearly not for long enough that I can accurately remember. The end result is, we now have a household of people who poop without expecting a treat, so there was no lasting damage with that one. (I also FULLY bribe them into smiling for Christmas photos; I don’t even TRY other tactics first).

I will leave you with this: there is a time and a place for bribery and threats. Should they be a first resort, probably not. Should we still do our best to raise accountable, helpful and hard working humans? Of course. But please don’t act like you’re better than bribery and threats. And if you still truly feel that way, just leave the rest of us alone. We’re not doing terribly.

Anyway, this is where I will wrap things up. I hope you’ve enjoyed hearing about the ways in which I.D.G.A.F. (parenting edition). I don’t give a f*ck about other stuff in life too, but that would make for a really long blog entry. Send me a message if there’s something else you think I should write about! I might have this writing bug back…we shall see…

Laura.

Insta Moms

Ah social media. Both a blessing and a curse, am I right?

I don’t think anyone would deny that there are drawbacks and I would argue that the biggest one is the addictive nature of it. Second in line is probably the fact that once posted, something is out there forever. I’m not going to go into great detail on the evils, though, because we know them. And moreover, we have the ability to exercise caution.

I do love social media, though. I’m not gonna lie. And I acknowledge the good it provides as well as the bad.

For me, personally, I love photography. I love documenting my own life in photos and looking back over old posts. One of the main reasons I’m attached to my accounts is because my Facebook and Instagram act as journals or photo albums of sorts. Another reason is that I love seeing and hearing about friends who don’t live close. I like to see their beautiful faces and get the updates on their kids, pets, travels, houses, career accomplishments and more. On top of that, I’m a junkie for the opinion pieces and interesting articles that litter my newsfeeds. I like reading about different perspectives on current issues and keeping up-to-date. And finally, social media allows me to satiate my family’s need for pictures of my own kids and funny stories about their shenanigans.

I was perusing my Instagram the other night, when a realization hit me. It seems that as social media evolves, so do our online personas, and the life-image we project. In fact, I feel like people will purposefully box themselves into a social media category and become a “type” if you will. It seems that the more social media plays a part in a person’s life, the more they fine tune their persona. However, I realize that a lot of this has to do with catering to a niche audience because if you get enough followers, you can make money off your social media life. Just take a gander at all the “fit-stagrams”, travel bloggers, style/makeup gurus, and so on and so forth out there.

I follow a lot of “Insta Moms” on Instagram, but I don’t mean regular moms who happen to use Instagram (I follow those, too, but I generally just refer to them as my friends). When I say “Insta Moms”, I mean moms who have hundreds of thousands of followers, and their feeds are primarily filled with images of their kids and homelife. And that’s what their half million followers are there for: images of their kids and homelife.

I really have nothing against these moms, but I am genuinely perplexed by them.

I follow these moms, I read their touching captions and I look at their EVER-so-adorable photos, so for me to pass judgement on them is pretty low, but I’m still gonna do it. Just a little bit, and in a light-hearted way. If any of them were ever to every read this, they should know that it’s really coming from a place of jealously.

I’m not sure when I ended up following so many of them, but somewhere along the line I did. If you don’t follow these people, and are not entirely sure what I mean, let me elaborate.

I don’t fall into this category. In fact, it’s a pretty hard no, and this is why: when it comes to “Insta Moms”, ALL their shit coordinates. And I mean it when I say ALL THEIR SHIT COORDINATES. Their baby’s clothes match the bassinet, which matches their toys, which go well with the living room wallpaper. And in order to perfect this, everything they own is beige, tan or dusty rose coloured. Their furniture is perfectly distressed, so that it has that nice antique-y look, and fits in with their vintage-chic motif.

They own a lot of wide-brimmed fedoras, they never actually make eye contact with the camera, and they decorate with a lot of those little banners with pointless triangles.

And this is the one things that amazes me the most: their children’s baths have floating wild flowers. FLOATING WILD FLOWERS. It boggles my mind because my children’s baths usually have floating shampoo bottle wrappers, particles of food, and whatever items Mark chucked in when I wasn’t looking. (The toilet brush, perhaps? A tooth brush or three?)

They have a lot of chunky knit blankets in colours like “grey” and “coffee”. They drape them over their off-white couches, and that part alone is effed up. They have off-white couches. They have couches that somehow HAVEN’T been disgustified. I made that word up just now, but it’s good, right? As for my couch, its colour is best described as “stains”.

All their coordinating shit is always CLEAN, and it messes with my head (pun intended). Their children are clean, too, which is even weirder. My kids are the type of kids who are somehow covered in spaghetti even when it wasn’t a meal that day. *Shrugs*. I spend my time trying to figure out why the furniture is damp…how it got damp…and what kind of liquid made it damp.

“Insta Moms” also take a lot of pictures of their family napping together, but somehow no one’s butt is in another person’s face. They all look so serene and beautiful, and there’s no drool. It’s not even fair becaude EVERY time I bed-share with Mark we wind up with a butt-in-face scenario (his butt, my face…for the record).

But in all honesty, if you are one of these moms, congratulations. Your kids are adorable, your home is adorable, your very essence is adorable. Like I said, this post mostly came from a place of awe and envy because our living room style can best be described as “we’ll finish it someday”.

Jokes aside, if following these “Insta Moms” has taught me anything, it’s that I can appreciate their aesthetic without aiming for it, and I’ve decided I’m okay with this. We live in a time when we can paint a pretty perfect picture of our lives on social media and I know full well I’m guilty of this, too.

Though we’re not a coordinated and polished family, I do love taking pictures and I have an Instagram brimming with adorable pictures of my rug-rats. Sometimes with food all over them, sometimes with less food all over them.

When I have a day where I line my brows and throw on some mascara, I will bribe my daughter into a selfie with me so that my good-face-day is documented and doesn’t go to waste. I convince myself that because she’s in the picture too, the vanity is a little bit neutralized.

And you don’t see the screaming match it took us to get boots on small feet just to get outside and snap some precious family pictures on snow-covered hiking trails. You don’t hear us curse they day we decided to throw away birth control (and then cast a side glance at the other person because we’re *pretty* sure they’re joking.)

But yeah, things must always be taken with a grain of salt. Our online lives should be enjoyed at face value because that’s pretty much all they can offer. Face value. So with all that being said, tell me about your favourite online cliches, or the types of “Insta People” you find amusing. I know there are pages you follow like a stalker if only to pass judgement on the inside. Do tell. I’m ever-so-curious, and heck maybe I’m completely unaware of some ridiculous things I do myself (so feel free to drop those hints). Anyway, it’s Saturday night, so I’m going to peace out now to make friends with this bottle of wine.

Wishing you all well.

Love ya!

Laura

ME TOO.

Yeah, you read that right. I’m writing a blog post about the Me Too movement. I’ve gone back and forth over whether or not to write something, but I started with a sentence and my thoughts took off like wildfire. My fingers could barely keep up. I guess I was meant to write this.

Where the actual heck do I begin, though? At this point, there’s no sense in explaining what it is, we all know. To be honest, there isn’t even a NEED for me to SAY the words, because of course I’ve be affected. Is there a female who HASN’T been sexually harassed (or worse) in some capacity?

But since I’m here, and this is what my post is about, I’ll say it. Yes. Of course. ME TOO.

When the movement first went viral, I didn’t copy and paste the status. I didn’t feel comfortable doing it. It felt a little too personal, for me. I felt a little too vulnerable. But I watched.

I watched my newsfeed fill to the BRIM with “me toos” and as much as each one hurt, (knowing friend after friend had been sexually victimized,) I was not surprised. Sexual harassment is commonplace for young females. It’s part of our lives. It’s part of our growing up as girls.

I was immensely proud of the women who wanted to share. They wanted to call people out. They wanted to expose rape culture in general. With every “me too” that I saw, in my head I was thinking “I’m with you. I believe you. And I care”.

I also felt a solidarity with those who stayed silent. Whether they did it because it was too painful to speak, or because they KNEW they didn’t owe anyone their stories, I cared about them, too. And I understood.

And I stayed silent about my own experiences that day. I shared a couple articles that resonated with me, but that was it. I went to bed thinking “that was something new. I THINK it was something good…but I’m sure that will be the end of the discussion.”

Except that it wasn’t.

Things are blowing up. Everyday it seems that some new celebrity/media figure/household name is facing the music. And instead of dissipating, it’s being discussed. As a result, it’s become something that I’ve thought a lot about.

For the record, I still don’t feel entirely comfortable sharing a few of my “me toos”. Some are too personal and some are still too painful, even with years having passed.

But something struck me today, and I want to talk about it. It seems that every time I open a news site, another big wig is getting fired for “inappropriate work place behaviour” and it’s literally one after another. Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, Louis C.K., Charlie Rose, Matt Lauer, Gregg Zaun. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I have mixed emotions because yes, of COURSE these men need to be called out and face the repercussions. So there’s a satisfaction in that. But there’s also a sadness and an anger that I feel every time it happens, because it’s a reminder of just how prevalent sexual abuse is, and just how deeply embedded sexism is in our society. The roots are so strong that they touch everyone and everything. They’re literally inescapable. And yes, the tides SEEM to be turning, but they can’t turn fast enough. I look at my innocent three-year-old daughter, and I know they wont turn fast enough. I know I can’t protect her forever, and I know she wont get off scot-free. And it kills me.

But back to my point. Powerful men are losing their jobs left, right and center over “sexual this” and “unwanted that”, and good riddance. Don’t let the door hit your harass-y ass on the way out. But with this has come the inevitable tidal waves of commentary from the “other” men who “JUST can’t believe it.”

It’s become a “witch hunt”, they say.

“There can’t be THAT many harassers, assaulter, RAPISTS, right? Women are jumping on the band waggon. That’s the only explanation. Women are making it up. Women want attention. It can’t be EVERY work place that experiences sexual harassment, can it?!?”

And that’s when it hit me. Something I didn’t realized until that very moment. EVERYWHERE I’ve ever worked since my very first job has included experiences of sexual harassment and unwanted touching. And I do feel ready to share some stories, if only to illustrate the prevalence.

My first “real” job came in high school when I was around 16 years old, but let’s jump back even a little further, shall we? At age 11, I had a couple paper routes that I did with a friend, and though they were mostly uneventful, (and rarely did I have to interact with people,) I would say my first taste of “workplace” harassment came in the form of a naked adult male who stood in his front window and purposefully exposed himself to me as I darted up and spiked that rolled-up newspaper at his front porch. Though I turned and ran away at lightening speed, it had happened, and little did I know it marked the beginning of a trend.

During highschool, I began working at a retirement home. After school and on the weekends and I served dinner to the elderly. Though I was only around 16, the (married) man who hired me would openly ask me about pornography. He was easily in his 50s. He would watch my naive self avoid eye contact, squirm, and give a non-answer. He’d chuckled at how uncomfortable I was.

His second-in-command was a cook there. They were like besties. This other man was probably in his 40s, and he liked to take things a step further. He’d sneak up behind me when I wasn’t aware and wrap his arms around my waist. He’d tickle my stomach and try to pick me up, despite my resistance. He’d comment on my body, and ask me if I was a swimmer. I’d see his eyes rove up and down as he made notes aloud to himself about my physique.

I didn’t say anything. I watch the other young girls experience the same thing. I shrugged it off and put it out of my mind. It was part of the cards we were dealt. It was just what we had been conditioned to expect. We were children, but we were becoming adults and so sexuality was part of life, right? I was a naive 16. I’d never been on a date or kissed a boy, but I was already getting used to strange men having opinions about my body, and feeling entitled to my sexuality.

Next came the jobs I held during university, and no, things didn’t get any better. One summer I worked with a man who continually asked me to dinner. Harmless, right? At first. He was married, and I was taken, so I said no. And no. And no again. He persisted. He began offering me rides home. The nagging feeling in my gut made me turn them down, as much as they would have made my life easier. Since I knew he was married (and he knew I had a boyfriend) it felt suspect. As a defence mechanism, I talked a LOT about my boyfriend. I thought it might get him to stop with the comments, the “tickles”, the hugs, and the PRESSURE to go out. I also genuinely liked my boyfriend. We’re married now, with two kids, but that’s besides the point.

One day, my boss called me into the office. He wanted to “warn” me about Mr. Friendly. He explained the scenario as if it were a simple math problem. This guy had a history with the young girls employed during the summers. YES, he had a wife, but he liked his side pieces, too. Every summer he would target a specific girl, and it was always one who had a serious boyfriend. He wanted a young piece of ass, but he also wanted to make sure she was in love with someone else. He didn’t want her to get attached to him and mess up his marriage. Turns out my “tactic” was doing the exact opposite of its intention. It made me his perfect candidate.

I sat through the talk with my boss, and then walked out of the office feeling a new kind of icky because something had dawned on me. I was made to feel responsible for the situation. I was made to feel that it was now MY job to avoid him….to “be careful”. In fact, it was no secret that he and the boss were friends outside work, so I knew I would never have my boss take my side or stand up for me. The onus was entirely on me. It felt weird, and gross, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I felt guilty. I wondered if co-workers judged me, if they thought I had led him on.

I’m getting a little long winded here, but I’m not quite done because my first job after university offered no reprieve.

I was employed by a lovely lady, but she had a rage-filled husband who would routinely threatened, scream and snapped at the (all female) employees. After one woman left for maternity leave, he told me – and I QUOTE – if I got pregnant next, he’d have to “punch me in the uterus” and “take care of that.” Then he laughed. Because it was just a joke. “Don’t take it so seriously”, he said. He only made the joke because I was a good employee and they didn’t want to see me leave.

I left, eventually, but I left for jobs where my breasts were commented on ROUTINEY…where they were sometimes even touched. Jobs where I was asked if I had implants and what size bra I wore. You know, water cooler type stuff. Shrug if off and don’t worry about it, I reminded myself.

It never changed. It was a new form of the same crap each time.

What should I have expected? I was a 16 to 29-year-old female with ample boobies. Of course workplace harassment was to be expected.

And so my point is this: it may SEEM far-fetched. It may SEEM extreme. It maybe SEEM unbelievable that all these women are coming forward, and that no workplace is “safe”. It may shock you, the volume of the accusations, but this is the actuality of the culture we live in. Sexual harassment is SO normalized that it took a random man on the internet ranting about “witch hunts” to knocked me off my feet and make me thinking back over the years. It took a stranger to make me realize that yes, EVERY singe job I’ve ever held has included sexual harassment and unwanted behaviour. EVERY workplace I’ve stepped foot in has been accompanied by inappropriate comments and actions. Every. Single. One. And that’s just WORK. I could write another twenty blog posts on rape culture in schools, bars, at parties, in dorms, walking down the street, taking a bus, going to the mall.

I’m not going to. I feel like I’ve said enough for now. I hope I’ve made my point.

I don’t have solutions, though. I don’t have answers. I don’t KNOW what to do. I AM realizing, though, that the onus really shouldn’t have to be on me to DO anything.

I will say this. I have a little boy, and the one thing I am going to do is MY BEST to raise him to challenge this culture of toxic masculinity, female objectification, and predatory sexual behaviour. And I know his father is on the very same page. We’re going to do our best with the one little male in our charge, to take a step in the right direction.

I guess the other thing I’m doing is writing this. Maybe it will resonate with people. Maybe it will open an eye or two. Maybe it will have some kind of meaningful impact.

And lastly, a note for the men: it’s SO easy to brush off everyday sexism, but it’s also just as easy to learn to recognize it and not tolerate it. Actually, it’s really easy to be part of the solution. There isn’t any great mystery when it comes to what is and isn’t appropriate/wanted, but if you’re STILL not sure, here’s a good rule of thumb: If you work with women, just don’t be sexual. Period. Just don’t! A) It’s a work place, and B) women are more than their sexuality, so stick to conversations around travel, hobbies, school, family, food, weather, etc. Oh, and keep your hands to yourself. That’s it! Don’t say sexual things and don’t touch in sexual ways. It’s really not hard.

Anyway my peeps, thanks for your time, and making it here, to the end. I appreciate it. And I ALWAYS love to hear your thoughts and feedback, so don’t hold back. Love to you all.

Laura

ONE

Well it happened. Today is the day. The day I thought would never arrive. But it did. Inexplicably fast. At lightening speed, in fact.

Today, Mark is one.

And as much as I hate to admit it, every “Mom” cliche is true. HOW a year has already elapsed is beyond me. Some days were slow, and some days were painful. Some days felt so tedious and impossible that I wished them away. I’ll admit to all that. But somehow, this year FLEW BY.

I realize you’ve heard this all before. From your own Mom, maybe. From EVERY Mom, probably. But since I’m already being cliche, I’ll say that this year was – without a doubt – the most amazing and beautiful year, as well as the most difficult and demanding.

So if you haven’t gathered, I’m here to write a reflection post on Mark’s first year. It was our first year as a family of four, my first year outnumbered by kids, and the final chapter in our whirlwind adventure of birthing two babies in less than two years.

Mark was born sixteen minutes after midnight on Sept 9, 2016, seven weeks shy of Annika’s second birthday. His birth was different than my first and not at all what I expected, but his pregnancy was different, so I guess it was fitting.

His first moments earth-side are ETCHED in my memory. I remember the details of the delivery room. I remember the expression on people’s faces. I remember the conversations, feelings and every little insignificant element.

But don’t ask me what I had for breakfast yesterday, because THAT I can’t tell you.

Just like with Annika, I remember staring at him and wondering what he’d look like when he left that squishy baby phase. What he’d be like as his personality started to develop. What our lives would feel like a year later. But I couldn’t fathom any of it. It didn’t seem like it would ever arrive.

But here we are. And now it feels like I’ve known his face and his personality forever.

We named him after my Dad who died more than ten years ago. In fact, we named him more than ten years ago. On that very day when my Dad passed away, Andrew promised me that our hypothetical first son would be named Mark. We were young, dating, and not yet engaged (let alone married,) but we had hope and faith that it would all work out.

When I discovered I was pregnant with a boy, I envisioned him being like my Dad. After all, we have a fierce and adventurous first born girl, and I’ve always assumed second-borns tend to balance our their older siblings. In a way, they become the opposite of their counterpart. At least this was the case in my family growing up.

My Dad was really calm and easy going. He was quiet and unassuming. I had it in my mind that my little Mark would be like this as well….especially since our girl was (to put it in layman’s terms) the “wild one”.

Well. My “easy” child plan didn’t really pan out. But that’s been a lesson for me that I probably needed to learn. Mark, though different than Annika in a lot of ways, is just like her in others. He’s a climber. He’s an adventurer. He’s ALREADY stubborn and determined. He knows how to express himself and will let you know when he isn’t pleased. But on the flip side, he can be cuddly. There are times when he needs me…times when all he wants is to be held.

Andrew and I are both bullheaded first-borns. We’re stubborn and can be stuck in our ways. So I’m not sure WHY I thought we’d have kids who were anything less.

That being said, I wouldn’t change either of these kids for anything. In a way, they give me peace of mind. In a turbulent world, I know they’ll stand their ground. And if we do our best to instill the right kind of values, they’ll be strong, capable and passionate in whatever they do.

To change course a bit, this year has also shown me a lot of sides of myself.

I’ve failed. I’ve screwed up. I’ve let them down. I’ve let all of us down. It’s been humbling because there have been times when I’ve not been good at this “Mom” thing.

There were days I wished they were older and more independent. Days where I wished away their babyhoods, even against my own better judgement. BUT. I’ve also tried to forgive myself because I’m human, and I’m navigating waters that I couldn’t fully prepare for.

More importantly, there has been renewal. We’ve been rejuvenated with all the antics, laughter and silliness. Especially with the “firsts”, and the excitement of more firsts. Seeing them laugh together for the first time? Watching them “chase” each other for the first time? Those moments made the hard times worth it. They will forever and always outweigh the days where we all cried, and I felt like a complete and utter disaster.

I think the biggest lesson I take away from this year with a baby and a toddler is that I can never say never. I’ve been humbled beyond measure. I’ve been pushed to a breaking point, but returned from it grateful. I’ve realized I’m not better than anything or anyone. I’ve been the Mom who yelled three minutes after vowing to never yell again. I’ve been the Mom who read the article on the “dangers of screen time”, but plunked them in front of the TV because I was exhausted. I’ve been the wife who said things I didn’t mean because I was exasperated, and just needed to let off steam. I’m nowhere near the perfect Mom, and they’re not perfect kids, but striving to do better is where I make myself proud. The key is trying harder next time, forgiving myself and my husband when we falter, and consciously deciding to work toward a better tomorrow.

To touch on another cliche, we were definitely more lax in parenting the second time around. Oh my God we were so much more lax…and it was a nice feeling. With the second, you realize they probably won’t die from eating a button or licking a Walmart floor. There’s less hovering, fussing and worrying, because despite your ineptitude, the first one survived that first year okay.

At Annika’s first birthday party, she had no idea what to do with her smash cake because I’d been so strict about sugar. Cake was foreign to her. With Mark, it’s been a different story. He’s grabbed pieces of syrupy pancakes, slurped freezie off the floor, gotten hold of cookies, stolen french fries, and tried to put the pet guinea pig in his mouth. I’ve made less of an effort to intervene this time around, but he’s still thriving. In fact. He taught himself to use sippy cups (both spout and straw), and cleans up puzzles by putting them back in the boxes piece by piece. I had to BATTLE his sister to do those things. So. Something can be said for leaving them to their own devices….sometimes.

But back to the birthday boy himself!

Mark. He’s such a funny little monster…so delightfully weird and curious. He has this mischievous smile that melts my heart daily. He loves to sway to music and climb in bins and boxes. I think he might be part cat the way he’s obsessed with climbing into enclosed spaces. He likes to scale the stairs and the couches, and seems to have ZERO fear of heights or falls (eeeek). He likes to get his little pointer finger out and loudly proclaims “AHHHHH!” when he sees something that interests him.

He already know how to handle a hockey stick and throw balls, so he’ll likely be sporty just like his Dad and his namesake. ANNNND he eats like a teenager. We’re lucky that he isn’t particular. He will eat anything we put in front of him and then want more.

He gives the most disgusting yet beautiful slobbery kisses, and his current favourite activity is hammering pegs through holes with impressive precision.

When it comes to the two of them, I can see that they’re finally turning a corner towards being friends, and that’s my favourite thing of all. Mark becomes more interactive by the day and Annika relishes that. When he was born, she was too young to understand why he wasn’t able to play WITH her. Now we see her beginning to teach and guide him, and we see him looking up to her with awe and admiration. I die every time.

I’m so curious to see what the next year brings in terms of their development as both individuals and siblings. And just like this time last year, I can’t imagine it. I can’t fathom what it will be like. But I do know that when it arrives, it will blow my mind that it flew by the way it did.

I guess if I’m going to offer advice to new Moms, or Moms bracing for more kids, it would be this: YES you “should” abide by all the old adages like “enjoy it while you can” and “savour these moments”…but you won’t always. You won’t be able to. So just try your best and forgive yourself along the way. If your kids are happy, fed and relatively clean, YOU HAVE ACED IT.

Remember to make time for you, too. Do things for you and…dare I say it? Put yourself first sometimes. Eat cookies in the bathroom when you don’t want to share with two whiny, diaper-clad crazy people. Day drink the first time someone is willing to take BOTH of them off your hands. Essentially, DO you.

Anyway, there you have it. Those are my thoughts on surviving a year with two babies and watching my little boy turn one. I’d love to hear from you guys if you’re so inclined! Happy Friday, Friends.

Love,

Laura

My Week In Thoughts…Part…4? 5? 6? (lost count)

Hi Friends! Happy Friday!

I’ve got blog ideas whirling around my head these days. It excites me. It’s cathartic to write and to be honest and sarcastic. My major problem is getting it done, though, because: BABIES, obviously. They have all these demands and issues that continually arise. It’s like, change your own butt for once, Amirite? (Is that something the kids say? “Amirite”?)

Anyway, I’ve got a few things lined up. Some funny parenting blogs, some angry SJW-type posts, and maybe a wine-fuelled rant or two. A veritable buffet of ideas. However, for now I’m going to do another instalment of “My Week In Thoughts”. And before I start to ramble too much more, I’m going to get right down to it. So here they are!

MY WEEK IN THOUGHTS:

ONE:

I realized the other day that it’s probably been about three years since I last set an alarm clock. This is because I’ve NEVER had to be anywhere earlier than my kids get up. It’s a bit depressing to mourn the loss of lazy sleep-ins, but on the flip side, I guess you could argue that I have the chance to “seize the day” and “maximize my time” this way.

Except that most days, I do neither of those things.

TWO:

I was thinking about a few months ago when there was that rash of creepy clown sightings at night. It seemed like all these clowns were popping up and bringing nightmares to life.

It was a messed up “trend”, but it made me consider something. When us women need to walk alone at night, or anywhere we don’t feel entirely safe, imagine bringing creepy clown attire along? For instance, if you’re leaving somewhere in the dark, try dawning a freakish “IT” get up, and I’m pretty sure you’d see grown-ass men quiver in their boots and run.

That being said, the ACTUAL thing for EVERYONE to do is acknowledge rape culture, and work to eradicate it. This would be a mere bandaid solution for the time being, but it’s one I’m digging.

THREE:

A few nights ago, I caught myself fantasizing about future naps as I was falling asleep at night, and I realized that this is what my life has come to.

FOUR:

Flecks of vanilla beans in vanilla ice cream somehow make it taste infinitely better.

FIVE:

I worry that when Mark loses the last of his mid-thigh creases, it will mean he’s become a man and I’m not ready for that AT ALL. Some could argue that we still have hormones, facial hair, and voice changes ahead of us…and maybe one day he’ll even be the tallest person in the house. But from a mother’s perspective? Saying goodbye to his unnecessary creases and rolls will break my heart and mean that he’s growing too fast.

SIX:

Annika is almost three-years-old, and fiercely independent these days, so a big thing for her is putting on her own clothes and accessories. I noticed that – despite the odds being 50/50 – she probably has a 90% track record of putting her shoes on the wrong feet and her underpants on backwards. I’m not sure if that’s just her bad luck, or the fact that she plays by her own rules. Already.

SEVEN:

‘Max and Ruby’ is the worst TV show ever made, and Ruby is the most annoying character I’ve ever witnessed. So, naturally, it’s the favourite show these days.

EIGHT:

Watching Mark take down whole fajitas with just his gums makes me less worried about whether or not I’ll need dentures one day. More specifically, he makes me realize I might not have to even bother. Let me clarify, I’m not advocating for bad oral health, but this guy doesn’t have any teeth yet. Not a single one. He’s a year old next week and still toothless, but it doesn’t stop him from handling meals like a boss. So ultimately, teeth or no teeth, we might all be okay.

NINE:

A phrase that really irks me these days (and in this social/political climate) is: “well it’s just my opinion” because often, it’s a cop out. It’s an attempt at a free pass to say crappy and judgemental things about other people’s lives.

For instance, if you’re against gay marriage and that’s “just your opinion”, then that opinion should only extend as far as yourself. Other people’s marriages have no bearing and no impact on your life whatsoever. So if you still feel the need to HAVE that opinion, keep it to yourself. The only person you can deny a marriage to is yourself. Don’t like gay marriage? Don’t get gay married, and otherwise shut your mouth.

I use gay marriage as an example because (somehow) it’s still a hot button topic, but this can be applied to SO MANY other issues. Basically, an opinion is something along the lines of “I don’t like mushrooms”. When you cross a line into criticizing innocuous elements of other people’s lives, that’s where you need to pipe the heck down.

TEN:

I was thinking about Chinese food the other day, because Mmmmm. Specifically, I was thinking about how I’ve only been to The Mandarin maybe once a million years ago, and that’s not okay. Then I thought about what it would be like to go with the kids and it made me realize something. I could place my children in front of a massive, endless buffet with copious amounts of deliciousness, and then seat myself in a lonely corner with a single, sad rice cake. They would still be climbing me to get what I have. And if this thought alarms you, you’re not ready for kids. Because THAT’s kids.

ELEVEN:

If you’ve ever wondered how someone can be both addicted to, and afraid of bandaids at the same time, Annika is the person to ask.

TWELVE:

I’m seriously considering watch Game of Thrones because I never have, and I hear it’s all the rage? However, I need some honesty. Is it hard to follow? Because the names alone seems complicated.

This should also be consider: I generally watch TV exhausted, and when I BINGE on TV, I generally do the same to wine. So. What is boils down to is this: will I “get it”?

THIRTEEN:

Now that we’re in the thick of the Diaper Days of Summer, it struck me that Mark is at that precise age where diaper changes are practically impossible without both of us getting angry and/or injured. He’s just old enough that he’s become annoyingly (and alarmingly) strong. However, he’s still too young to reason with or bribe into staying still. The other day I resorted to making up a song to distract him. It was all about bum changes and it was to the tune of Bruno Mars’ ‘I Think I Wanna Marry You’. Something about “I think I wanna change your poo”. As desperate as I was, I kinda wish I could remember the whole song because it was so dope and rhymed really well. However, it was one of those fleeting moments that came and went and I can’t recall the details.

FOURTEEN:

I don’t know if we’re the exception to the rule, but I feel like the newborn phases with both babies were easier than the second halves of the first years. Does anyone else feel this, too? With both Annika and Mark, they slept pretty well for those first few months. They were easy going, rarely cried, and could be passed to anyone. It was after month four or five that they became more challenging in terms of naps, nights, clinginess and separation anxiety. Luckily, Annika has gone back to “easy” (or should I say “predictable”) in a lot of ways. I mean, she’s a toddler, so she’s still fierce, stubborn and defiant, but she has routines. So I do have hope for Mark.

Anyway. I’m gonna wrap things up for now and save more of my randomness for another time. I always love to hear from you guys if you ever want to share feedback or experiences! Have a happy weekend! *CLINK*

Laura

Ten Things

Hi Ladies and…Gents? Probably mostly ladies.

I’ve been working on a couple blogs today. One is insightful and serious, and the other one is….well, THIS. Earlier I decided to post the serious one, but I hadn’t proof read it. Now I’ve had a couple Saturday night bevies, so I’ll leave the proof reading for another time.

For those who know me well, there are a few things that anyone (and I mean anyone) could say define me. I like wine, I like guinea pigs and I flood my Instagram with pictures of my kids. I got a Chatbooks subscription, sue me. I treat Instagram as a photo diary of our lives.

Today I was feeling particularly narcissistic, and I decided to do a “Ten Things About Me” post. I decided this for a couple reason. Firstly, I – personally – love to creep about other people’s social media lives and discover secret little gems. I like to learn new factoids, and be an all around stalker. So maybe someone out there would like to do the same to me. We’ll see.

I also thought I’d reveal some little-known things about myself in order to show people I’m more than just wine, guinea pigs and babies.

It took me a couple days, but I compiled a list of TEN THINGS about myself that people outside my close circle probably don’t know. If you’ve made it this far into the post, that’s honest-to-god so sweet of you. I feel like you care. And seriously? None of these things are ground breaking, but heck…It’s a little slice of the Laura pie.

ONE. I have a phobia of leeches.

As a kid, I was lazing about in a lake one time, and I felt something on the bottom of my foot. It felt BIG and SLIMY. I know that memories can be deceiving, but to this day I remember looking at my foot and seeing a leech so large it could have taken on a mouse. It’s probably an exaggerated memory, but it shook me to the core. I tore out of the water screaming, and in the process, I must have dislodged the beast. By the time I was seated on the sand, it was nowhere to be found. I remember my family trying to calm and reassure me. I could even sense their doubt when I described the monster… but I can still picture the reddened skin and abrasions where that f****r was attached. From that point on, I started having recurring nightmares about leeches. By recurring, I mean pretty much weekly. I have had SO MANY terrifying dreams about leeches that I stopped keeping count decades ago.

I guess in a vain attempted to allay my fears, I read everything about them. I have researched leaches to no end. However, it hasn’t helped because to this day, I can’t swim in most lakes. I let my family take my kids in (and only because I don’t want to pass my phobia onto them) but believe me…I’m not comfortable with it.

TWO. I will forever believe that the most bomb TV show was The Mole.

Does anyone remember the The Mole? It was on for a couple seasons in the early 2000s, and to this day, I classify it as the BEST show I’ve ever watched. The best. It was legitimately unpredictable and full of suspense. It was my favourite of all time, and I hate that it didn’t get 97 seasons like The Bachelor.

THREE. I rarely wear nail polish on my fingers or toes.

Pretty much never. Maybe twice in the past five years for a wedding or two. I have a thing about how it starts to look when it chips and it just drives me crazy. Even professional manicures seem to chip fast and the minute one miniscule chip appears, I hate it and it drives me nuts. It’s very neurotic of me, which probably has something to do with the fact that I’m a very neurotic person. You can try and sell me on Jamberry or whatever, but until they make something that doesn’t chip for a solid six months, I’m probably out.

FOUR. I have Chronic Vertigo.

In the summer of 2011 I got an inner ear infection, which damaged nerve endings and resulted in Chronic Vertigo. It was a bit of a journey, to say the least.

I woke up in the middle of the night unable to see, stand, or sit because the room was spinning and I couldn’t stop vomiting. I went to the hospital where they did a cat-scan. Luckily, that showed no issues with my brain, and I had to follow up with an ENT specialist. It was a long road to “recovery” and I say that with quotes because I’ve never fully recovered.

The ENT specialist ruled out a bunch of conditions and diagnosed the problem as nerve damage in the tubes that connect the ear to the brain.

For days I was too sick to sit up. For weeks I needed assistance walking even to the bathroom. Andrew had to help me stand and take my arm as I walked. For months, I struggled with walking, turning my head, and basic daily functions. I remember being about 6-8 weeks post infection, and Andrew and I attempted a walk around the block. We made it, but everything was a literal blur. When we got home from our five minute jaunt, I couldn’t make out the living room because of the whirling and spinning.

They told me the nerve damage couldn’t be correct, but my brain would adapt over time and “retrain” my eyes, in a sense. It mostly has.

I was off work for the better part of two months, and grew really depressed, but things did progress and I got it under control. However, I still have dizziness and a general sense of unease a lot of the time. I have spinning when I look up or turn my head too fast. I’m functional though, and it rarely interferes with daily tasks, but some days are dizzier than others.

My vertigo is part of the reason why I’ve been too anxious to get a full driver’s license. I get flack about being a mother and unable to drive, but I am nervous about turning my head. That being said, I think I COULD drive, I just have to get over the nerves and gain some confidence.

FIVE. My favourite movie of all time is Jurassic Park.

Watching it takes me instantly back to the 90s and my childhood. Despite the savage, murderous dinosaurs, and the lawyer getting chomped up on the toilet, it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling of nostalgia. It’s hard to fully explain my obsession, but I’ve probably watched it dozens of times. And every couple of months I get the urge to hunker down with a bottle of wine and hit that sh*t once more.

SIX. I have freakishly small feet.

They are itty bitty. My Mom’s friend once said I should be in a travelling freak show, and she isn’t wrong. They’re so weirdly small and it probably doesn’t help my vertigo, but they’re the cards I was dealt. There is a silver lining, though, and that’s the fact that shoe stores usually have my size because I’m not the “norm”.

SEVEN. I’m tattoo-less.

I don’t have any tattoos, and besides single holes in my ears, I have no other piercings. I don’t hate tattoos, and I certainly don’t have the right to tell other people what to do with their bodies, but I’ve NEVER been able to come up with something I want on me forever. I’ve seen tattoos that were interesting, unique and artistically beautiful on friends, but those were theirs and it worked for them, not me. I’ve even TRIED to will myself into wanting one because it seems like an interesting life experience. However, I haven’t been struck with any kind of ingenious idea.

EIGHT. I’m a cat person.

I don’t hate dogs. Some are even kinda cute and fun, but I’ve never been drawn to them. This might crush my friends, but I find a lot of dogs to be a bit icky, clingy and gross. I realize the same can be said about my kids, but I frickin’ love them and that changes everything (for me). Sometimes I wonder if I had a traumatic childhood experience that I’m repressing, because I never even wanted a puppy as a kid. It never never crossed my mind.

I dig cats. Cats are my jam. They’re distant and they make you work for their love, but I still dig them. And even as a cat person, I have no problem with dog people. That’s you. Be you. Embrace you. It’s your life, not mine. Have all your dogs and love the crap out of them. When I have my guinea pig farm one day, I’ll do just that.

NINE. I’m very pro-science.

Even though I have an honours degree in fine arts. I believe in vaccinating kids, I believe in climate change, I believe in evolution and I know that the earth is round. Moreover, I have a very hard time with people who don’t respect all that science has given us. It’s the epitome of privilege to spend a couple hours on Google and decide you know better than people who have dedicated their lives to scientific research. However. That is a can of worms that should be saved for another post (or ten).

TEN. My hatred for the dentist runs deep.

I don’t mean my dentist himself because he’s actually a really lovely and considerate man, but being there is my hell on earth. I wish I didn’t dread seeing him with every fiber of my being, because he’s pretty chill and easy going. BUT…dental appointments are my worst nightmare, and I’ve had stretch and sweeps.

So there you have it. That wraps up my ten things. They were entrancing, I know.

Hope everyone is having a happy weekend.

Love,

Laura

Thank You?

Hi Friends.

The kids are sleeping, we just ate some burgers, and now I’m sitting here looking at a sink full of dirty dishes, but I think I’m going to write a blog. Congratulations to the people who do all their dishes the same night they create them. I mean, that’s f*cked up, but still impressive.

The other night I was being a couch potato, and working on a white wine spritzer. It had been a hectic and stressful week, but I was out of red wine. Otherwise I wouldn’t have drank that garbage. Go red or go home.

I was thinking about the mind games that I play with my kids on a daily basis. It’s all part and parcel of parenting, though. I’m realizing this. At two-and-a-half, Annika is reallllly starting to test various methods (and our patience) in order to get what she wants. It’s become a system of staying one step ahead.

When my babies were still hypothetical and I was a parenting-wizard, I would NEVER have resorted to bribery, trickery, hypocrisy or yelling. But here I am with real human children, and yes, I will sometimes I go into survival mode, and stoop to their level. Oooops.

One thing that struck me was how little kids get praise and thanks for REDICULOUS things. And to be honest, I’m jealous. It just doesn’t seem fair that by the time you’re of an age where you can appreciate how good you had it, you’re suddenly held to a much higher standard. It’s BS.

Anyway, I thought it might be fun and funny to make a list of all the crappy things my kids get thanked for. So in no particular order, here they are:

Simply. Wearing. Pants.

My Mom and I had a baby shower for my sister on the weekend. In the middle of a crowded room, my daughter took off her training pants, and handed the soggy mess to a woman she just met. There was no second thought to it. Someone approached me to tell me what happened. By the time we got a fresh pull-up on her, I found myself whispering “thank you” in her ear for being willing to even wear new underclothes during the excitement of the day.

That left me thinking “What the actual heck”. She got a “thank you” for not being naked in a room full of strangers. And all this after handing someone her wet diaper.

Sleeping.

My GOD do we praise them when they sleep. Especially Mark because he’s a night psycho.

They get praise for sleeping in, sleeping well, sleeping during the day, sleeping long stretches, sleeping frequently, and sleeping without tears and tantrums. Any kind of sleep, and here we are applauding. I just want ONE day where someone puts me down for a nap and then gives me a great big hug and smile when I make it an extra long one.

Eating food.

And not just eating food, but willingly eating food that they happily ate previously, but now hate. I think there should be a restaurant for parents of young kids where you get to enjoy a role reversal. A waiter tells you that you only need to take two more bites of broccoli and you’ll get an ice cream sundae on the house. Then the entire staff shouts “hooray!” and claps as you finish your veggies.

Andrew and I will hold our breath when Annika is sampling a plate of healthy food, and then when we deem it a successful meal, we’ll act like she just found the cure for cancer.

Having their hair washed.

There’s always hair-washing drama in our house. And they act as if they’ve never had it done before. Here I am trying to book my first hair cut in two years, and I’m giddy about having someone other than myself shampoo and massage my head. Meanwhile, Annika will hate me for ages because I asked her to close her eyes for a rinse. It takes 30 seconds to rinse her hair. But those were 30 seconds where she could have been eating the bubbles. It’s DUMB.

So at the end of a bath, when she – get this – HAS survived a hair-wash, we end up telling her how “brave” she was. Brave. Like a fire fighter, or Harry Potter.

Just NOT hurting each other.

If we survive a mall trip without pushing and shoving, I’m thanking the heavens. Annie gets easily annoyed with Mark these days because he’s little and grabby. And I understand that. But right now there’s a lot of shoving going down in our household (which results in Mark toppling and crying) and it’s a daily battle to stymie the bad behaviour. OMG, it’s all day, everyday.

When we are out and they’re smiling, giggling and EVEN occasionally handing things to each other, I’m like “you two are angels and you can have have all the ice cream and boobie milk in the world!!” Okay, not quite. But I probably make TOO big a deal about it.

Having a generally pleasant disposition.

So. As adults, we go to work, the grocery store, the library, etc…and we’re expected to be polite and aware of our surroundings. Kids? Not so much. This toddler can scream bloody murder if I tell her we’re not buying the seven spatulas she “needed” from the dollar store. So when she sometimes shrugs it off and puts back her spatulas (or coffee filters, or Nicorettes, or condoms, or Preparation H…whatever she decided to pick up that day,) I’m thanking her profusely, like she saved my life.

Being anything other than disgusting and sticky.

My kids could make themselves sticky and gross in an empty room, I swear.

So if it’s been an hour out and their hair isn’t caked with something, and their faces and hands aren’t gross to the touch, I’m like “look at you! You’re still clean and your general smell isn’t vomit-inducing! Mommy is SO proud.”

SMH.

Not assaulting strangers.

The other week it was my turn to be THAT mom (who gets looks of hate from childless people, and looks of pity/understanding from other parents) because I had the kid who was lying in a pool of tears and flailing arms on the floor of Giant Tiger. And all because I wouldn’t let her run a shopping cart full steam ahead into a crowd of elderly people. She definitely faced a punishment for her actions, but when the subsequent trip out wasn’t as bad, I kissed her face all over and made her feel like a million bucks. Kids, man. They set the bar THAT low.

Just once, I want someone to say to me: “Laura? You did a really good job today of NOT punching people at the grocery store. People cut off your cart and dilly-dallied in the aisles and you STILL didn’t wound them. You’re a humanitarian.” But it sucks because the EXPECTATION is that we wont wound others, and the reality is jail time if we do. Why do my kids get forgiven, and praised when they simply choose civility?

And last but not least:

Using the flipping toilet.

Truth time: sometimes we bribe Annika with Smarties to keep at the potty training.

And every time we do it, I cant help but be envious that I’m not getting candy for using the bathroom (instead of using wherever I am and whatever I’m wearing AS a bathroom). It’s. Balls.

Sigh.

Like I said. It’s redic. The only comfort is they’ll forget these days when they had it THIS good and they’ll have to conform to adult society at some point. And we’ll help get them there, not to worry. But it doesn’t mean I’m not going to roll my eyes until then.

Love you peeps.

Laura

Spring In Photos

Classy Hotel. Busy City. Baby & Toddler. A Life Experience.

So a few days ago, my husband had a business trip to Toronto for a couple of nights. Because it was only an hour from our home, the kids and I tagged along. We got to stay in a hotel that we would never be able to afford, and have some fun exploring the city. I was excited to be back in Toronto because we lived there for a number of years. However, this time I knew it would be a bit different. We moved away when Annie was three months old and Mark was a mere twinkle in our eyes. We always said we’d return often, but we really haven’t.

This little vacation seemed like an awesome idea until I remembered that our children are insane. Not moreso than other children…but still insane. They all are. All children are insane. They’re just tiny, filthy dictators covered in snot. Especially these two since they’re both on the tail end of head colds.

So needless to say, it was eventful.

We checked in midday Tuesday, and Andrew had to go off to work right away. The kids had a blast exploring the big, bright room and weird (aka clean) furniture. I wanted to make the most of our mini-vacay, so I decided to try and get us ready without too much dilly dallying. I was packing up the double stroller when Annie discovered the complimentary Book of Mormon. Fantastic. It kept her occupied for a few minutes, while I got us ready to go. BUT that’s when things took a turn because there was just no leaving without her “book of momo”. After a prolonged battle, I bribed her into the stroller and out the door without her new favourite religious text. I realized later that maybe bringing it would have been okay because people avoid missionaries like the plague. We could have had a nice broad space around us on account of my kid trying to sell people a religion. Oh well. Next time.

Thus we began our adventure of traversing the busy city with a giant, clunky double stroller. To my surprise, there were quite a few strollers out and about. Mostly slick, newer strollers, but still. Some contained kids, others contained small dogs. One of the dogs even had the same hair bows that Annie owns, but never lets me put in her hair.

The first thing I wanted to do was hit up a dollar store because if I drop 20 bucks on craft supplies and playdough, sometimes I can get some peace and quite for a hot minute or five. Well. Dollarama wasn’t stroller accessible, so we carried on. Next we passed the LCBO, and since we were on vacay (though midweek) I decided that Andrew and I deserved a drinky-poo. Any excuse, really.

We went into the LCBO, and Annika promptely wanted out of the stroller. I agreed, but only if she let me put on her backpack and harness because I just LOVE getting judged by other parents. It’s a secret thrill. Just kidding. My daughter is a “runner”.

As if a harness does any good in a store full of glass bottles, though. Not five minutes in she smashed a wine bottle, then slipped and fell in it. First priority was making sure she wasn’t cut up by the glass. Second priority was mourning the loss of that beautiful wine. Third priority was letting the humiliation set in. Fourth priority was finding someone who worked there.

The guy was really nice. I offered to pay for it and he said “don’t worry! It happens every day! We just expense it.” Amazing. Still. My toddler was soaked (and I mean SOAKED) with wine, so I wanted to get the hell out. I didn’t buy anything, and we made a beeline back to the hotel. I envisioned someone calling child services wondering why she was covered in booze and acting drunk. BUT…the acting drunk part has nothing to do with wine, and eveything to do with the fact that she’s two, and that’s how they behave. All the time.

We got back empty-handed and annoyed. I had to forgo even getting groceries because it was planned for after the wine-splosion. So I ordered pizza. Before long I got a call from the front desk, and they told me that they wouldn’t let the pizza guy up because that was their “policy”. Exasperated, I said “b*tch please. I have a baby and a wine-covered toddler in this room so cut the crap and let that man come up”. Okay, so I didn’t use those EXACT words, but I think they heard the desperation in my voice and escorted my pizza guy up to the room.

Annika decided she did, then didn’t, then did, then didn’t, then did want to eat pizza. And then she left most of it on the floor where 8-month-old Mark helped himself to it. Wow did he cry when I took it away. We curtailed the tears with some obnoxious kids shows and by that point my hubby had returned. And guess what? He had brought wine.

Sadly, after getting both the littles to sleep in a new and exciting place (so read: it was a long and drawn out process) I was too tired for wine, and I passed out with the baby. By around 3am I was a child sandwich, and I couldn’t deal, so I put Annie in with Andrew where she proceeded to go horizontal on him (as she does) and put her feet in/around his mouth (as she does).

The next morning rolled around and I was happy because my Mom was going to meet us for the day and help me out. I hopped in the shower and – of course – had company. Not only does Annie “need” to shower with me (aka play in the bubbles) but she has running commentary, tries to lick the suds off the floor of the tub, and lies flat on her stomach the whole time. So it becomes a dangerous game of don’t step on the slippery child.

The day actually unfolded pretty great and with minimal hiccups. There was swimming, park fun, shopping, and Greek food for dinner. The whole time Annika wore my sweater and/or Nana’s hoodie which fell to her ankles. The only jacket I brought her was – that’s right – covered in wine. The biggest issue arose when we wanted coffee and happened upon the only street in Toronto that doesn’t have a Starbucks or Timmy’s for, like, 17 miles. Or so it seemed.

Bedtime was easier the second night because of all that fresh air and exercise. Mark was even in a good enough mood to be brought down to Andrew’s work dinner, where he sucked serious face with one of Andrew’s colleagues. I was upstairs with slumbering Annie, but I heard it was quite the sight to see. Like, he was really going to town on her face. It was a regular slobber fest.

The next morning I was going to attempt the aquarium tour single-handedly, and check out by 11am. Naturally, it was a morning full of perfectly timed double meltdowns. I was glad it was our last morning because I was PRETTY sure we were going to be kicked out from noise complaints anyway.

About an hour before we were set to leave, who walks back through the door? My hubby…who had injured his back beyond anything I’ve seen before. His company had basically ordered him to go home. (He’s still barely able to walk.) Annika was disappointed because I had told her she was going to see fish, but it my head I was like “whatever, we can stream Finding Dory at home and that animation is dope. You’ll live”. And we left.

So that wrapped up our big city adventure and before we knew it we were back home. In the back of my head I knew it was going to be a rollercoaster, but I also know that’s what we signed up for. I’m trying my hardest to roll with the punches these days. I’ve never been good at that, and I still fail a lot, but I also know that if I don’t live in the moment, (as crazy and chaotic as those moments can be), I’ll regret not soaking up these days like my daughter’s stockings soak up wine. Everyone (seriously, EVERYONE) will tell you “they’re only little for a short while”…but it is true. So I’ll push forward and try and find the fun in those wild and crazy adventures.

Carpe diem, my homies. Until next time.

Laura

Sleep. Beautiful Sleep.

Happy Friday, Peeps! And it’s a long weekend Friday to boot! That’s what dreams are made of. I’m trying to squeeze in a little writing with the kiddos still up. I’m hoping it works. Mark is yelling at the vacuum cord, and Annie is putting stickers in her hair, so they’re content. They’re doing what they love. Fingers crossed.

I want to talk about SLEEP, but let me just start this off with a disclaimer: I have a grand total of no expertise on the matter (at least from an education standpoint). I’m no sleep expert or sleep trainer, nor have I studied infant development or anything like that.

BUT! I do have a totally biased and completely anecdotal opinion! So ultimately, this is just me ranting, raving and coming to my own conclusion. Feel free to disagree.

Obviously, sleep is vital to our physical, mental and emotional health. It shapes how we function, how we interact, and how we deal with our sh*t. But as a parent, it can sometimes be hella elusive. And there isn’t a person I know who doesn’t HATE alarms. Unless an alarm signals the beginning of some amazing day where I’m off on a tropical vacation to swim in pools of money and wine, I’m not interested. I’ve racked my brain, and I think that’s the one and only alarm I would jump out of bed for.

Whether your alarm is a beep, the radio, or an obnoxious kid putting her fingers in your mouth and nose holes, they all suck.

I hate lost sleep. I’ve always been a light sleeper and I’ve always woken at night, but right now is a special kind of bad. Mark isn’t such a great sleeper these days, and to be honest, I can’t remember if Annie was or wasn’t at this age. I know it’s very stereotypical of parents to complain about sleep, but for me, it is set apart from other life chapters. When I was working or going to school, I had – at least – a modicum of control over my sleep. Even if I knew I had a stupidly early class, or a 12 hour work day, I could go to bed when I needed to. I could wind myself down. I could relax and drink sleepy time tea. Most importantly, I could sleep from “this hour” to “that hour” and have no one bother me.

These days, Mark is sometimes up EVER HOUR. It isn’t uncommon for us to see every hour on that damn red clock. Both Andrew and my doctor have reminded me that he’s not hungry anymore. He eats three solid meals a day and breast feeds half a dozen times in between. He doesn’t need to nurse at night as his body no longer requires it. BUT! If I nurse him, he dozes off on the boob and I’m able to put him back to sleep (and put myself back in turn). It’s – hands down – the easiest way to get us both back to bed.

AND sometimes I let him sleep beside me. And sometimes Andrew goes and sleeps on the pull out so that he can be functional for work. Sometimes we do all the no nos.

We tried various sleep training methods with Annika. Sometimes they helped, but sometimes they didn’t. I’m realizing, however, that the things that worked for her aren’t necessarily right for Mark because he’s a different kid.

It’s definitely a process. I’ve heard of these strange, dubious cases where people say it’s a quick fix, but for US it’s a process.

I’m genuinely perplexed by people who ask “when did your first sleep through?” as if it was like a light switch. Does this actually happen to some people? If so, who are these freak show babies? Because Annie slept through…but only for a week here or there. Sometimes she’d even trick us by sleeping through for a few months! BBBUUTTT then she wouldn’t for the next five. It was a roller coaster. I have a hard time believing the parents who say “little Johnny decided at nine weeks old to sleep from 7pm until sunrise, and he never woke once at night. Ever again.”

I remember both the kids getting some amazing eight hour stretches when they were a couple months old. Those were the bee’s knees. But here we are a few months later and those glorious nights are a thing of the past.

HOWEVER, all that being said, I know there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I know that the exhausting nights wont last. Annika is two-and-a-half, and I can legitimately say that she sleeps through the night. I don’t mean every night because she has bad dreams, or stuffy noses, or wakes when there’s loud thunder…but on a normal night, and over all, she sleeps through. Plus, she was our first born so she was just basically a human experiment. We blindly manoeuvred our way through those first years, completely clueless and making it up as we went along. Despite this, we managed to keep her alive, and eventually get her to sleep through.

If I can offer any advice to parents it’s this: never feel guilty about naps. I napped SO HARD when Annika was little. I fully embraced the “sleep when they sleep” philosophy. Now she’s given up naps entirely, so I can’t exactly do that with Mark.

Also? Do what you have to do to survive. Don’t worry if you have to “break the rules”. Don’t listen to the “tsk tsk. He shouldn’t drift off on your breast” or “she shouldn’t ever be brought in with you”. DO read up and try different methods, though. Give things a shot and take things one day at a time. Progress can always be made. Finally, drink coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Don’t act like you’re too good for coffee.

Ultimately, remind yourself that “this too shall pass”. Plus, if your kids are as wild as mine can be, sometimes it’s nice to seize those dozy snuggles, even if they’re offered at 2am.

Anyway, I hope my rant was relatable, or maybe even helpful!

Happy weekend!

~Laura

PS. Don’t get me started on pregnancy sleeping. As IF it was possible to sleep when I looked like this:

Or worse, THIS: