lady mama

Ugly Photographs.

2012-02-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember I've had this naughty habit of deleting every unflattering photograph of myself. It drives J mad. He thinks I should keep all photos - good, bad or ugly. My thinking is that when I'm eighty and I'm looking through pictures of myself from my younger years, I want to think wow, I was an attractive young woman. Not, wow, I looked like the back end of an elephant. Too bad I didn't consider reconstructive surgery.

Back in the pre-children days there weren't so many unphotogenic angles. Now I'm pouncing on the delete key when I see even a hint of a double-chin (it was a trick of the light!) or a wobbly tummy (it was the way I was standing!) or chubby arms (okay okay it was the cakes!).

The worst photo I ever saw of myself was taken at my baby shower, one week after I'd give birth to my first son. To say that my eyes practically popped out of my head like cartoon eyes on springs at the sight of that photo is an understatement. I could hardly believe it was me. The baby weight, instead of falling off like it was supposed to (in my dreams), was still there like a great big fat suit of armour. And then all I remember is nailing that delete key in kind of a happy delirium so that not a trace of that whale-person remained.

So that's what I do. I delete.

And it's not like I delete ugly pictures of other people. No way do I do that! That would be so wrong!

Okay maybe once.

But what do you do when someone else owns an ugly photo of you? What do you do when you're a fanatic ugly-picture-deleter and the ugly picture is not yours to delete? And what if that ugly picture is circulated among friends and family and there's not a thing in hell you can do about it?

It's bound to happen: think of all the places you go and get-togethers you attend where pictures are being snapped without you knowing. You can't dive into a perfect pose every single time. And unless you're Scarlett Johansson or Sofia Vergara there are bound to be some angles that aren't entirely favourable.

So what do you do?

Well... for one thing, you do not stomp around the house, waving your arms in protest, pouting and hissing profanities. You definitely do not consider stealing the guilty camera and erasing all evidence of it. And no way on earth do you tell everyone within earshot that you definitely do not look like that. That, in fact, that was probably not even you! It was a fake you! An impersonator wandering around the room! That must be it.

No, you don't do any of those things.

What you do is, you remember how to breathe deeply. And then you remind yourself that even though there are ugly photos of you floating around the universe, the world will keep on turning.

Probably.

Photo, istockphotos.com

How Taking A Blog Break Has Helped Me.

2012-01-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

I've been blogging at Lady Mama for about four years with the exception of the break I took last year, when I decided to go do something different for a few months. The different thing was good for a while even though in the end it wasn't exactly right for me. But the best thing about doing something different - about taking a break from this blog - was the new perspective it gave me about blogging: a perspective I think I might not have otherwise have found. When I came back to Lady Mama it was like all the old things I'd worried about didn't matter anymore.

For instance:

I like to write opinionated posts, but occasionally I'd press the publish button and for a few moments afterward feel sick, worried I might offend or upset someone. Taking a break helped me understand that (so long as you're not going out there with the intention of hurting or offending) there's nothing wrong with expressing an opinion, that in fact it's a good thing where blogging is concerned.

I used to fret about how many comments I was getting. If I had less than ten comments on a post I'd wonder if there was something wrong with what I'd written. I needed validation. Now I know that number of comments have no connection with the quality or value of a post. I've seen all kinds of scenarios on other blogs: There are really excellent posts with just one or two comments and mediocre ones with dozens. There are hugely popular bloggers who continuously get just a few comments and less popular bloggers who get tons. And vice versa.

All writing is still important if it's important to the person who wrote it.

But I think the biggest thing I learned during my break from Lady Mama last year is the impact other blogs have had on my life. As well as connecting with some wonderful people I've found huge comfort in other people's writing. I've read posts that made me exhale with relief knowing someone else had been through something I'd been through thus removing the loneliness of parenting; I've read posts that opened my eyes to things I didn't previously understand; I've read posts that have changed the way I think about the way people parent; I've read posts that have resonated with me so strongly that I've wanted to reach out to the blogger and yell "YES! YES! YES!" (in more of a you-totally-get-me! way than a When Harry Met Sally way!).

It's the authenticity of the writing in blogs that brings comradeship to people everywhere - in my case with other parents. I would go so far as to say that people's stories and experiences have, in some ways actually helped me to be a better parent.

I learn so much from other people.

I've said it before but I love reading blogs more than I love reading magazines - and I love magazines. And sometimes now when I do read them, I find myself cringing at the artificiality of it all.

The one other thing I learned from taking a break is that, although I prefer to every post to have a goal and a structured beginning, middle and end, it doesn't always happen, and that's okay. Parenting blogs are not software blogs: we're writing from the heart about the things that happen to us and the things we think, and sometimes it's messy and convoluted. Like life.

And I just have to hope my readers made it through to the end of the post....

Hello...?

Sometimes Mighty, Sometimes Meek.

2012-01-26T22:20:00.000-07:00

Woke up, got out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up, I noticed I was late

Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke
And somebody spoke and I went into a dream

A Day In The Life, The Beatles.

Is every week as a parent going to be as turbulent as a bull fight on a speeding train, I'm wondering, or is this just a temporary thing? I have to ask the question because sometimes it's all just so much in one day that I find myself lying in bed almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of the day that's just gone by, imagining how there might be thousands more days like it to come.

With three- and four-year-old boys - I know I know I know - it's bound to be mental - it's not meant to be any other way. It's just that right now it feels ultra-mental. And maybe this is on top of a particularly mad week in which every day has felt like a marathon without a medal at the end.

Where is my medal, dammit?

Of all the demented madness that has happened this week, I will share just one thing, because the irony of it is too good: In an attempt to regroup and get back some of my energy and sanity, I took myself off for a therapeutic massage a few nights ago. As a therapist myself, I love getting a massage and feel it's necessary to my health. Seems like a nice story so far? It's about to go far south. The therapist I saw decided it was his purpose in life to remove every kink in my back and spent the entire session kneading the crap out of it, as though I were a slab of meat that needed to be pummelled.

The next day, instead of waking from a blissful sleep (as I usually do after a massage) I woke up in pain from a restless night, feeling as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to my back. Instead of floating through the day, refreshed from my lovely massage, I staggered around like a ninety-year-old woman, downing pain killers like they were jelly beans, and groaning.

"Mommy, what are you eating?"

"Magic medicine beans."

But enough moaning. For now. There will be more later, of course.

The thing with being a parent is that at the end of a bad day, or several bad days, you go to bed, you get a good long sleep, and you wake up with a new energy, and all the things that have happened in the week - the things that whirl and pop around your mind when you're trying to fall asleep - fade away, and you get on with the new day, because the new day is full of promise and things that might be really great. And you know there will be more bad days and more good days, and you just carry on.

And you never, ever go back to that dumb massage therapist again.

Reminiscing: The Newborn Days.

2012-01-23T13:46:00.000-07:00

I've been pouring over pictures of my new nephew and thinking back to when J and I became parents. It seems long, long ago now - that night after our first son was born, when I lay awake all night staring at him, afraid he might stop breathing. The first fumbled attempt at changing a diaper. Putting on his little mittens to stop him from clawing at his face. Dressing him so delicately. All those somewhat frightening, somewhat blissful moments that go by in a flash and at the same time last forever. I remember driving home from the hospital, our little son in the back of the car, thinking, okay this is it, it's just us now. We can do this. We can do this... right?

As he lay in his crib at home, sleeping, I'd poke him every so often to check he was alright (crazy lunatic, I know) and his little arms would fly up for a second and his face would crumple as though to say goddammit woman leave me alone, before he returned to his deep sleep. I remember holding him - this tiny baby - in my arms and wondering how he could be so small when in pregnancy I had been so humongous that it had looked as though there could have been three or four of him growing inside me. (And then I remembered, it was all the pies. Dammit.)

I remember marveling at the miraculousness of it all. Of a baby.

Other things I remember about the newborn days:

- The extraordinary and precious warmth of holding my baby against my skin.

- The angst of breastfeeding.

- The loveliness of sleeping beside him.

- The fear of doing something wrong.

- The happiness and community that our new baby brought to everyone around us.

- The utter exhaustion.

- The swelling pride.

- The frustration of not being able to ask "what is wrong?" and get an answer.

- The phenomenon of the first smile and the first giggle.

All in all, a hurricane of emotions. Thinking back, as treasured as those days were, I'm ever so slightly glad they're behind me.

How about you readers? How do you look back on the newborn days? Do you miss them?

Overseas Auntie.

2012-01-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

On Thursday I was given some of the happiest news of the week / month / year / decade: I became an aunt! Auntie Sarah. Wonderful, brilliant news, except that I live approximately five thousand miles away from the tiny bundle of love that is my nephew, and how, exactly is one supposed to get one's fill of baby snuggles when one is so far away? For now I'll make do with pictures of the sweet little boy and wait impatiently for our visit to England later this year.

"Can we go and see our cousin today?" My sons asked, hopping up and down, when I told them the news that the baby had arrived.

"No, I'm sorry, we cant. They live very far away from us. But we will see them this summer, when we go to England."

"Oh..."

Times like this are inextricably joyous and difficult because I want desperately to go and be part of the joy that's happening there, and I can't.

Damn those thousands of miles!

But on a positive note, I'm so incredibly proud of my brother - a daddy for the first time, and his wife who is - I'm telling you - one of the most beautiful people inside and out that I've ever met. Again - damn those miles! But here we are, my brother and I, having our families thousands of miles from each other, but still finding ways to remain close, to support one another and to stay in touch as often as we can. And despite this I occasionally find myself cursing the distance between us and wishing I could wave a magic stick to make it shrink.

How about you, readers - how do you cope with living far away from family?

If I Knew How To Get A Great Picture With My Kids I'd Write A Tutorial.

2012-01-18T14:52:00.000-07:00

Everyone is in a good mood. I grab the camera and round up my sons. We sit together on the sofa and I hold the camera out in front of us, hoping my arm isn't visible in the shot. I have this brilliant idea of a prefect, slightly quirky shot that will end up in a frame on my wall. It's going to be good, I can feel it.

Not a bad first effort. But not everyone is looking at the camera. Or smiling. Try again.

Now everyone is pulling a strange face or looking elsewhere. Again.

Everyone is losing interest. But okay everyone, we can do this! Look at the camera and smile!

Is that smiling? Is it? One more time. How about we all say "bananas" instead.

Saying bananas is a bad idea that results in everyone looking totally distracted and the shot being wonky. Let's scooch up together and try once more. This is the last time. Promise.

I'm beginning to do that fake smile I do when someone is taking too many pictures. One last time... everyone just "be normal"!

Okay. I give up. It's a wrap.

The Reward Chart Has Magical Powers.

2012-01-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

For months I've tried to persuade my sons to get themselves dressed in the morning. For months I've encouraged them to clean up their toys after playtime (with me on hands and knees singing that bloody awful "clean up clean up everybody clean up" song like a broken record). For months and probably years we've worked on good habits, nice manners and helpful tendencies. Sometimes all of our hard efforts pay off beautifully. And sometimes, friends, let's be honest: working on these things is like pulling teeth. My teeth, to be precise.

A while ago I decided to try a reward chart. I found a pretty one online and decided that the pretty reward chart was the answer to my prayers and would also look nice on my fridge. The chart failed. Though it looked attractive, it was too complicated and before long the boys lost interest. I gave up and tossed the pretty chart in the recycling bin, and we resumed our efforts the old-fashioned way (ie. ~~nagging~~ gentle encouragement).

Pretty chore courtesy of Dandee Designs.

Then one day at a playdate with my son's friend I noticed a piece of paper with tick marks crossed through on their fridge. The mom explained to me that her kids had to collect a certain number of ticks in order to get a reward (a movie, some TV or a treat).

Right away I knew it was brilliant and wished I had thought of it first. I should have known. Simple is always best. Well, duh.

Back at home I put together my own reward chart just like theirs. I explained to the boys that when they had collected 10 smiley faces, they could have a new Hot Wheels car.

Shazam!

Suddenly there was a new enthusiasm to perfect all the things we'd been struggling with for so long. The morning after the chart went up they disappeared into their bedrooms after breakfast and re-emerged dressed from head to toe. Head to toe. Suddenly they were offering to clean up the toys from their bedroom floors and even the playroom downstairs. Things were happening. It was almost too good to be true.

By the time the weekend rolled around they had both reached their ten smiley face stickers and were given their reward as promised.

The other incredible thing about this reward chart? The mere suggestion that a sticker might be removed (OH GOD NO NOT THE STICKERS!!) as a result of bad behaviour and - snap - all is well again. Magic.

Now, I'm not one to assume that this reward chart is the answer to all my parenting problems (ahem) but for now I'm enjoying it. I'm enjoying watching my sons' new zest for doing things independently. I'm enjoying the extra time this allows me. I'm enjoying it.

I just wonder how long this magic will last....

Three!

2012-01-12T14:04:00.001-07:00

At three, he's seldom still. He loves to move. He runs, skips, hops up and down and walks in a zig zag simply because it's fun. He dances, spins and twirls, arches backward over a chair and squeezes through a tight space to see whether he'll fit.

At three, his eyes are huge and brown and they sparkle often, with glee or delight, sometimes with mischief, sometimes with pride.

Sometimes I have to hold his head still long enough to look into those eyes before he's off again.

At three, his face is almost always smeared with food. His arms and hands are almost always smudged with paint, pen or chalk. His feet are almost always bare because socks prevent him from running fast.

At three, his smile is wide and cheeky. His cheeky cheeks and lips give away secrets and dissolve moments of anger or frustration.

At three, he is still, just, but almost not anymore, my baby.

Happy Birthday to my sweet little boy!

Tamarind Tarts to Tater Tots.

2012-01-09T21:28:00.000-07:00

I remember once, back when I lived in England, watching an American food show on TV in which the host was enthusiastically preparing a dinner that "all the family would eat!". I watched in disgust as she mashed up potatoes with broccoli (in order to trick her kids into eating vegetables), and smothered everything in a layer of grated cheddar before dumping the potato-broccoli-mish-mash next to a hunk of pork and declaring it a triumph on a plate.

There was no way in hell I was ever going to make a meal that required mushing things together or hiding vegetables from people. When I became a parent my kids would eat what they were served - be it chicken tikka masala or spinach frittata.

Hahahaha.

Right.

And then, ten years later, this evening, I put on my apron and went about cooking a family-friendly meal, as if that callous young woman who had cackled so cattily at the TV food show woman had never even existed. As I chopped my veggies into small bite-sized slices and prepared a cheese sauce in which to smother the vegetables, it hit me: it was happening to me. Correction: it is happening to me.

You see, we started off with pretty good eating habits. I went about feeding my sons the strangest of foods as soon as they were ready to eat: hummus and blueberries for breakfast; kidney beans as a snack; curries; Marmite on toast.

Okay not the last one.

The idea was to introduce them to a few more unconventional foods so that we'd avoid all those problems other parents seem to be having.

But over time, the adventurous palettes turned to more traditional ones and our dinner times have become - basically - tedious. I repeat the meals that our children will eat over and over and over each week because... well, they'll eat it. And because full tummies mean happy faces, easier bed times and less arguments and really who doesn't want an easier life?

So this evening I laid my culinary feat on the table and waited for the thunder of feet rushing excitedly to the table. The dish? Wait for it. Because it's good. This is the name of it: Cheesy Tater Tot Chicken Casserole. The perfect child-friendly meal. Half disgusting, half delicious, exactly the sort of the thing that should have them throwing themselves at the dinner table.

Instead?

"Yuck." Said my son, M, staring down at the dish.

"Excuse me?" I said, offended.

And then I proceeded to whole-heartedly defend my tater-tot casserole as though it were a crown of lamb, using all the enticing adjectives I could think of, reasons why they should eat it, and finally threats (ie. no dessert).

Despite my efforts, no one really liked my cheesy casserole. Can you believe that? Oh, except for me and my husband who devoured almost the entire thing.

But don't tell anyone!

Image from funkylunch.com

Magic Ice Cream.

2012-01-03T12:56:00.000-07:00

Every year, during this season of goodwill and unrelenting illness, I have a little word with myself. I tell myself that yes, we're all sick, again for the third (or fourth or fifth) time so far this winter, but what's really happening is that we're paying upfront for future years of strong immune systems and infrequent sickness. I'm right. I am right? Right? I must be. I like to tell myself this otherwise I might punch the wall. I'm trying to stay positive. Really trying.

Just last month I found myself driving to emergency at 11:30 on a snowy Saturday night with my younger son, who it turned out had croup. Then yesterday once again I loaded the car with crying people and drove to the emergency - this time the one at the Children's Hospital - for my older son who's leg was causing him great pain for no obvious reason.

(Can I just say that the Alberta Children's Hospital is a really fantastic place and I am so extremely thankful it's in my city.)

Four-and-a-half hours in hospital, a ride in a wheel chair, an x-ray, a wrestling match with a nurse and a tube of medicine and several brain-grinding hours of Treehouse later and the doctor presented my son's diagnosis: toxic synoviris - a virus that settles in the hip joint, causing pain to the entire leg and making it almost impossible to walk. Thankfully, it's not too serious and usually clears up in a week or two.

Fingers triple crossed. Because as viruses go, this one sucks in a major way.

"Just make sure he takes some anti-inflammatories." The doctor advised before we left the hospital. I nodded obediently, picturing the scene: me trying to persuade my son to drink his medicine; him refusing; me trying harder; him telling me he will NEVER AS LONG AS HE LIVES NO MATTER WHAT drink that stuff; me trying harder still; him flat-out refusing; me lying on the floor, tired and defeated.

Feeding medicine to my son is (I imagine) sort of like what would happen if you tried to feed toothpaste to a tiger.

So, back at home I came up with another plan.

Magic ice cream!

Or, in other words, ice cream with crushed anti-inflammatory tablets stirred in. With love, of course.

The (magic) ice cream went down nicely and I relaxed in the knowledge that my sneaky efforts would result in my son getting a little relief. And as I watched him eating his medicine without the slightest suspicion, I considered what a mad and unpredictable ride parenting is. Just when I think I have a handle on all things child-related, something new and unforeseen pops up to keep me on my toes.

And now, with a cold starting up in my own body, I might need some magic ice cream too.

Happy New Year!

2012-01-01T15:34:00.000-07:00

I hope 2012 is a great year.

I hope your dreams come true.

I hope you laugh a lot.

I hope you tick off all the things on your list.

I hope you feel free.

I hope you eat cake and drink wine. (But not too much. Leave some for me.)

I hope your days are merry and bright.

LM.

New Year's Resolutions Are For The Strong.

2011-12-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

Some say that making New Year's Resolutions is a bad idea. They wave the concept away as if one is making unrealistic promises to oneself, setting unattainable goals that look good only on paper and will never actually be achieved.

I say screw that: I love making New Year's Resolutions. And I maintain that making them is a good thing for anyone. Each year I become completely absorbed in the idea that the forthcoming year is a time for fresh starts and new beginnings, a chance to scratch away some of those less-than-admirable moments of the past year, and start up again with a new optimism and a new approach to as little or as much as you please.

I say that anything that prompts you to attempt to be a better, happier, healthier person is a good thing. If that means doing it on your birthday - great. Or on a random day of the year - excellent. For me, it's the start of a new year.

Writing my list of resolutions inspires me. Some are realistic and some are not, but there's always the idea that those resolutions exist, that those aspirations are written there on paper, whether or not they ever really happen.

My list of New Year's Resolutions ranges from completely bonkers (write a book; go for a run every day; learn how to sew; stop snacking) to moderately doable (get all my photographs in order; back up my computer files; be better at remembering birthdays) to utterly realistic and why-the-hell-am-I-not-already-doing-these-things (be smarter with my money; keep life simple; do something creative that I enjoy, be more thankful).

When I write a list of things I'm going to be better at next year I'm filled with motivation, as though there is a this sparkly new opportunity to improve. There's always room to be better: better mum, better wife, better daughter and friend, better neighbour. No matter that I don't accomplish everything on my list, the point is this: the list is there; the list is designed to push myself to be a better person; the list helps me believe I can change certain things; the list gives me great hope that the year ahead is going to be good.

And there's a chance that, in a few months, I'll find my list at the bottom of a pile of paperwork I never did get around to filing, but for now, it's a good thing.

How about you? Are you making any resolutions this year?

The Best Shopping Companions.

2011-12-22T16:14:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that when it comes to clothes shopping I love to do it alone. I enjoy alone time like you wouldn't believe and I'm just lousy at shopping with other people. But, being with my kids all week, there are times when it's necessary to take them with me. For these occasions, I have an emergency shopping kit.

A few days ago I took my sons with me to look for a new sweater. With no hope of getting out on my own, I decided they were just going to have to come with me. In the store I ushered the boys into a fitting room under the worried eye of the sales assistant, armed with bundles of clothes (because I really can only get in and out of the fitting room once with two boys).

In the fitting room, I presented the boys with the emergency kit: loli pops and Thomas the Tank Engine magazines. The emergency kit is designed to give me approximately 7 minutes and 37 seconds of trying-on time.

After that I'm screwed.

The only problem with shopping alone or with kids is that there's no one to offer opinion. For this reason, I do enjoy shopping with my mother or husband, who both offer honest (sometimes too honest) assessments. And when there's no one to ask, sometimes I'll ask the shop assistant for their opinion.

On this occasion, grabbing at straws, I asked my sons to tell me what they thought of the sweater I was trying on: a red button-up cardigan. And then another: a long purple cardigan with belt.

"Which one do you think is best?" I asked my candy-faced sons.

"I like the red one" Said M.

"I like pooo-ple one," Said O.

I switched back and forth between the two, trying to decide.

"I think you should get them both mommy."

I love my son.

"You know what, I think you're right." I said. We left the fitting room with both sweaters.

I was so pleased with our successful expedition, I decided I might just bring my little shopping companions out with me again some time.

The Weekend Before Christmas.

2011-12-19T13:06:00.000-07:00

I love the run-up to Christmas: the excitement, the goodwill, the present-wrapping, the tree, the cookies, the movies, the wine and cheese, the parties and the dressing up. So much fun. And now I need to lie down.

Friday night: Party hairdo created by my hairdresser.*

Mad Men Christmas party complete with pearls, vodka gimlets and whiskey sours.

Saturday: Once Upon A Christmas at Heritage Park.

Sunday: Neighbourhood kids' party.

And a morning of work squeezed in for good measure.

Hope yours was good too.

*p.s I've discovered getting your hair styled by your hairdresser is the most brilliant thing ever. It costs a fraction of a haircut and looks a million times better than when you do it yourself.

Extravagant Delicious Coffee Habit.

2011-12-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

If I could somehow see the total amount of money I've ever spent on coffee, I'd probably slap myself.

Over the years I have probably spent an unthinkable amount of cash on the caffeinated concoction: filtered, latte, flavoured, chai, full-fat, no-fat, tall, short, big, small, with sprinkles, whipped cream and plain.

When I lived in London, I would buy a coffee almost every morning on my way to work. When we moved to Canada I didn't walk past a coffee shop anymore and my coffee spending went down. Then we had kids and I was buying coffee often again since drive-through coffee places were so convenient for driving around with a sleeping baby in the back. Then it was time to re-evaluate my spending habits and the coffee budget was axed. Mostly. I was horrified when I worked out how much I was spending on coffee each year.

Now every morning I make myself a coffee at home. I love coffee. I love the smell of it, the sound of it brewing and dripping into the pot in the kitchen, the sound of milk steaming, the way the cream swirls and blends in the mug, the first sip when it's still steaming hot; the slight but welcome change in my alertness.

So I save money by making it at home, but once or twice a week when I'm out and there happens to be an espresso machine beckoning me, I buy coffee.

But it's becoming harder and harder to justify. Two medium-sized lattes a week costs in the region of $8. That's $32 a month and - wait for it -$384 a year. $384. And that's just two coffees a week.

You know what $384 could buy? Christmas presents. A new wool coat. A couple of massages. A night away with my husband. Several restaurant dinners. Half of one seat to England to visit my family. A bunch of new music. A bunch of new books. A lot of lovely stationery. A painting or print for my wall. New equipment for my business. Bed sheets. A lot of hats. A jewel-encrusted collar for my dog.

Want to know more calculations?

Three lattes a week is $48 per month, $576 per year.
Four lattes a week - $64 per month, $768 per year.
Five lattes a week - $80 per month, $960. That's almost $1000 in one year. Yikes.

I won't dare try to work out how much I spent on coffee seven years ago - I'd probably kick myself in the shin if I found out.

So, knowing this - knowing my money could be spent on something more meaningful than a fleeting moment of pleasure - why do I still spend money on coffee shop coffee?

Because there's something about buying a cup of coffee in a coffee shop. It's not just a cup of coffee. (I should be a marketing person for a coffee company.) It's a whole coffee-buying experience. (I may have had too much coffee this morning.) An indulgence. It's something that's just for me, that lets me breathe and relax for five minutes. It's the atmosphere created by the coffee shop with their music and lighting and comfy chairs. It's the sound of the espresso machine whistling and chugging and the collective buzz of waiting in line for coffee. It's the pretty red cup with snowflakes filled with warm liquid soon to be in my hands.

It's the taste of a hot drink that someone else has prepared. And it is so comforting.

My theory that coffee someone else has prepared tastes better is the same as my sandwich theory. Have you ever noticed how a sandwich prepared by someone else tastes better than one you have prepared? It's true! Or maybe it's just me.

But in the end, with everything stripped away, it is still just a cup of coffee, handed to me in a paper cup in exchange for a little bit too much money.

And in the end, yes, I am still going to part with my money for it. Perhaps just a little less often next year.

File under "new year's resolutions that look good on paper".

Boo.

2011-12-14T20:14:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, it wasn't the last time I'd be writing here.

Hi.

Hello.

Is it naughty that I'm coming back after bidding farewell six months ago? Is it allowed? Well if it is or even if it isn't, here I am again. I went away and did my thing elsewhere for a while and in the end - though I think new endeavours are never lost or pointless - it felt right to return here.

And so here I am. Lady Mama again, though perhaps a slightly different version of her this time, with different rules.

But still with a sense of humour about all things and still attempting to find my way in the world of parenting like a person lost in a forest in the dark in another country with a blindfold. You know, the usual.

And still drinking the wine.

Enough about me. How have you been?

Fond Farewell

2011-07-11T20:45:00.000-06:00

Ah, it feels odd to put words here for the last time.

Writing Lady Mama has been fabulous. It's been a true joy being part of this online community and meeting so many wonderful people. And I'll still be popping in to visit each of you every now and then.

But now it's time for me to move on. I've no idea where blogging will take me, but for now, I'll be over here.

All the best, friends.

The Beauty of Unavailability.

2011-06-21T21:12:00.000-06:00

Last week I ate up every second of being unavailable as we drove West into the next Canadian province, for a family vacation in Kelowna.

One day I'll enjoy being available - I'll long for emails and for the phone to ring and for people to want things from me. But right now, there's nothing quite so lovely as the peacefulness of not turning on my laptop for a few days, as letting my cell phone battery die and not charging it for an entire week, with the knowledge I'll get to it all later.

In all honesty, I did check into my emails every now and then (an Internet junkie can't do cold turkey), but it calmed me, that I didn't have to respond to anything then and there. It would all wait.

I enjoyed the long, winding drive through the mountains and took the time to think and reflect. And by that I mean, I took advantage of random intervals between shrieks of protest and groans of discomfort and requests for more DVDs, colouring books and snacks. I simply take what I can get.

There's a certain something about British Columbia. It's very peaceful, and very imposing. Everywhere are deep valleys and towering mountains, all of it covered in the most luscious green forests.The open space is limitless and the woodlands vast and mysterious.

Yes, I fell in love, as I always do when in BC. And did I mention that Kelowna is famous for its wineries? Yes, true love indeed.

Being away from my life and unavailable to everything back at home made me think about how "available" I am day to day. Or, how available I feel I should be, if that makes sense. It seems as though I'm always switched on, always in touch, always "on" in one way or another. I feel the need to respond promptly to emails, to answer the phone or the door, even if my mood doesn't suit the timing.

In the end I suppose there's nothing wrong with being switched on, so long as I learn to switch off occasionally, too.

Favourite Kids Books So Far 2011

2011-06-07T09:13:00.000-06:00

It's crazy to think we only discovered the library a few months ago. Since then, a whole new world of kids' literature has opened up for us. Once or twice a week we go and replenish our collection with new reading material - with all kinds of books we we might not otherwise see.

One of the best things about the library is that you get to discover your favourites for free, before spending wads of cash on a million books you might not love.

Since we became avid library-goers, a few striking favourites have emerged.

How to raise a dinosaur, written by Natasha Wing, illustrated by Pablo Bernasconi.

For our dinosaur-obsessed boys, this is one of the best dinosaur books we've come across - and we've seen a lot. The illustrations are exquisite, the concept is funny, and the book is full of interactive flaps.

Knuffle Bunny: A Cautionary Tale, by Mo Willems

We've read this book countless times. There's something charming and relatable about the story for young kids and adults - clearly the writer, Mo Willems, had this in mind when he wrote the stories. So loved was this book, that we went on to read Knuffle Bunny Free: An Unexpected Diversion and Knuffle Bunny Too: A Case of Mistaken Identity.

Don't Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus, by Mo Willems

Another Mo Willems book. My sons hooted and cackled as we read this book over and over. It's read from the perspective of the pigeon, who relentlessly tries to coax you into letting him have his way. Hillarious.

The Secret Birthday Message, by Eric Carle

I picked this up one day for no other reason than Eric Carle is one of our favourite authors (this grouchy one excepted). It's the kind of book that really lets the imagination run wild. As the secret message unfolds, the reader is taken through a visual adventure.

Scaredy Squirrel Makes a Friend, by Mélanie Watt

A tale about a cautious Squirrel who weighs up all the risks before venturing out to make a new friend. There's a nice combination of pictures and diagrams that make the book visually interesting to read with a child. And, in the end, the lesson is a good one: nothing ventured nothing gained. Scaredy Squirrel makes his friend even though its not who he had expected.

A Book of Sleep, by Il Sung Na

I'm not sure whether I love this book because of the sleep-inducing story (sleep inducing in a good way), or the lovely illustrations that I've considered sourcing, printing and framing. Whatever the reason, this is one beautiful book, and a great bed-time read for kids.

Big Earth Little Me, by Thom Whiley

A nice way to introduce simple ideas about protecting the environment, this book is even printed with soy ink. It's aimed at younger kids, but both of my sons liked this one.

How about you - what are your kids' favourite books right now?

His Little Big Boy Room

2011-06-06T13:01:00.000-06:00

We have no more cribs in our house, it's official. Yesterday we took apart our youngest son's crib and turned it into a toddler bed. It's one of those Ikea cribs that convert. The bed looked so tiny when it was all put together, but it worked in the spacially-challenged (!) bedroom, and felt immediately right when we moved it into its place.

And, most importantly, he approved.

He was more than okay with it, in fact, leaping off and on the bed for the next few hours and proudly telling everyone within ear shot about his "big boy room".

As we took apart the crib and put the redundant pieces away, I thought about how this room started out, four years ago, as a nursery, decked out with all its baby accessories. Now it's been bedroom to two boys and the signs of baby are quickly fading.

Some baby things remain though. It's going to take me a while to part with them all.

The Complex Dilemma of Asking for Help.

2011-06-01T21:43:00.000-06:00

I've always had a hard time asking for help. In my first job out of university, I preferred to sit at my desk, stewing over a problem rather than ask a colleague for help and risk exposing a weakness. When I moved to Canada I refused to let my family back in England know that I was having a difficult time during those first few months. And then, when I had children, guess what? I still refused to ask for help. If someone offered, I'd usually take it. But I wouldn't go out of my way to ask anyone, preferring to manage it all by myself.

Superwoman!

I think it has something to do with projecting an air of independence and strength to the world. And where does that even come from? At what point in my life did I become a person for whom it was important to be completely self-reliant and never admit I needed support?

Because really, it's not important to prove to the world I can cope alone, in fact it's kind of a lousy thing, and a lousy thing to teach my kids, too.

Have you ever heard that saying "it takes a village to raise a child"? I always wondered where the hell this village is - because it isn't in my neck of the woods. Practically all the parents I know are as self-sustaining as me. We're all doing it, more or less, by ourselves. Many people live far from their families, relying on the support of friends and outsourced help. It sometimes seems as though the way of the Western world is to be strong (whatever that means) and self-sufficient.

Or is it just me?

In some Asian countries, it's not uncommon for two or three generations to live together in the same house. The role of family plays a much bigger role, and families are much more involved in each other's lives.

There they are, with their villages raising children, and here we are, doing it alone.

Which is better?

Saying all that, I am fortunate. Very fortunate, actually. Despite living thousands of miles away from my parents and brother in England, I do have help here. My husband's Mom and her husband live in the same city as us and they are wonderful.

And it's because of this relationship that I felt okay, for (I think) the first time last week, calling my mother-in-law on a rainy Thursday morning after a bad night's sleep, for no other reason than feeling completely unable to face the chores of the day, to ask whether she could come over - and help me. In typical me-style, I felt awful asking. As if, by asking I was admitting I was an imperfect human, thereby revealing my vulnerable side. Gasp! She came over, no questions asked, no judgment. Having raised two boys alone, she understood.

On that rainy morning, as I drove around the city carrying out my errands childless, I was so glad I'd asked for help that it made me wonder why we don't ask each other more.

Like I said before, many of us live a long way away from our families, so we rely on friends, neighbours, acquaintances. And in a way, our friends become our alternate family. But it's not as easy to ask friends for help as it is family. We hate to impose. We don't want to be a nuisance. But we should ask, shouldn't we? Because when we ask for help, we admit that we're human. And we let other people know it's okay to ask for help, too.

How about you? How often do you ask for help?

Two things I like right now.

2011-05-31T20:43:00.000-06:00

When it comes to buying cosmetics, the truth is, I'm a bit of a cheapskate. Once, long ago, wallet permitting, I did splash out on expensive brands and thought nothing of slapping on a face cream that I wouldn't now dream of spend the same money on. Now(adays) I happily purchase pharmacy counter brands and, on the most part, I genuinely don't see a huge difference.

So when, a few weeks ago, I was shopping at the Real Canadian Superstore and walked by their new line of Joe Fresh makeup, I was compelled to stop and look. Not one to pass up a cheap powder or gloss, I began perusing the line, and was so impressed (mostly by the prices but also the nice packaging), that I grabbed a few things.

Funny how that always seems to happen to me in Superstore... things other than the groceries I went in for mysteriously make their way into my cart...

I've been really impressed by the products I bought: a gold nail polish, perfect for flashing toes in summer sandals, and a cream blush in apricot that gives the face a peachy glow (providing you don't slap on too much, in which case you might end up a bit like Aunt Sally, if you know what I mean).

Best of all (I told you I was a cheapskate) was the price: $8 for the blush and $4 for the polish.

!!!

That is all I have to say on the matter.

p.s. I may have to start shopping elsewhere, since the temptation to purchase things I don't need at Superstore is too great.

p.p.s This post was not sponsored or paid for in any way, the contents are simply my own opinion.

Breathing for Parents

2011-05-30T22:13:00.000-06:00

You know how, sometimes, you discover something and it makes your life exponentially better - so much so that you feel like telling everyone you know? Like PVR. Or wet wipes. Or Skype. Or robots that make breakfast. (I will totally get one of those as soon as someone invents one.)

My "thing" is breathing. Or to be more specific, deep breathing. When I was studying to become a therapist I learned a technique called diaphragmatic breathing. It involves expanding your diaphragm (the muscle located underneath the lungs) as fully as possible, drawing air deep into the lungs, and then exhaling to push all the air out again.

After listening to my instructor harp on endlessly about the benefits of diaphragmatic breathing (relieves tension, improves circulation, brings more oxygen and nutrients to the organs), I started practicing it myself about a year ago and have really noticed the difference it has made to me. Now, whenever I'm feeling stressed out, nervous, or like I'm about to snap, I use the technique to bring myself back down to some level of calm.

There are three good things about learning to breathe deeply.

1. it's free
2. you can do it anywhere
3. the result is instant and effective

Trust me.

And try it for yourself.

What you do is this: lie on your back, place one hand on your chest and one hand on your upper stomach. Take a deep breath in and as you do so, raise your stomach out as far as you can. Then exhale - a long, deep breath, pushing every last bit of air out of your lungs. The hand on your stomach should move while the hand on your chest should stay still.

Try it once a day for five minutes (or ten, if you can manage it).

And then come back and tell me how awesome you feel.

Kid's bedroom wall art.

2011-05-27T12:10:00.001-06:00

About a year ago, after we had painted our older son's room bright orange (one wall is orange, the rest is white with an orange stripe across the middle), we looked around for appropriate wall art to hang in the room. We'd gone back and forth on illustrations of alphabets, rocket ships, dinosaurs, monsters and trucks - all the usual child-friendly designs. Finally, unable to decide, we left it for a while.

Then this week we remembered this picture - a silk screen by UK illustrator Olly Moss, that we'd purchased a while back. It's a Flight of the Conchords poster (have you seen the show? It's awesome.) featuring a red London bus. It had previously hung downstairs in the playroom, but had since been replaced and was temporarily homeless.

It hadn't occurred to us to try hanging a non-child-specific print in our son's room, but when we did, it just worked. And most importantly, he liked it!

Seeing this print work in M's room makes me think I'll be more open minded about where I look for kids' wall art in the future.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Random generosity.

2011-05-25T21:10:00.000-06:00

The nicest, most unexpected thing happened to me today while I was shopping for diapers at Walmart.

Walmart is not typically a place where nice things happen to me, and so when a complete stranger approached me, lightly touching my arm in the middle of the toothpaste and shampoo, I froze for a second. "You look great!" said the woman.

I was so taken aback by this random act of kindness that words failed me for a few seconds as I tried to string together a response. "Um. Thank you?"

"It says in my book," said the woman purposefully, "that when you see someone who looks good, you should tell them."

"Thank you."

That simple, thirty-second gesture completely made my day. As the woman walked away, I promised myself I would pass the same sentiment onto someone else over the next week and make someone else's day.

Wardrobe Resuscitation.

2011-05-24T21:26:00.000-06:00

Every year like clockwork, I get into a flap about the state of affairs in my wardrobe. It usually happens at the start of a season, like summer, when I'm trying to decipher what still fits me and what I need to buy. Then, in a panic, I'll run out and purchase several must-have items only to discover they already exist in my wardrobe.

Bad.

This year, I decided instead to examine my entire existing wardrobe. I had a hunch there were good things lurking in there, probably in undisturbed corners gathering dust and cobwebs. I had distant but definite memories of bright hues and foreign textures - things that hadn't seen the light of my bedroom in years. So I went on a treasure hunt of sorts. I was like a pirate on a mission for gold (only without the eye patch and the parrot).

I chose a time when I could be alone for one whole hour (a rare thing indeed).

I started by removing everything from my closet. Everything.

I laid everything out on my bed (and the floor). It was quite a mess.

Then, completely overwhelmed, I ran out for a coffee to procrastinate for ten minutes.

I then began organizing things into categories:

- current: things I wear every week
- dress: things I only wear for special occasions
- old but good: things I haven't worn in the past six months
- dead: things I just shouldn't
- accessories
- shoes

The things I knew I'd never wear again, I put straight in a bag assigned for charity. Easy.

The "old but good" things I hadn't worn in the past six months, I tried on. There were some pre-baby clothes that fit me again. There were some clothes that didn't fit any more, and some that just looked plain wrong - I assigned those to the charity bag.

With the old clothes that fit again, I set about pairing them with my current clothes to make new outfits.

I found this oyster silk top purchased in a British shop about ten years ago. It was right at the back of my wardrobe, behind some old coats and blazers, and surprisingly was in fine condition. I hadn't given it a thought in years. I decided it would look great with a pair of jeans.

Then I found this old beloved striped chiffon top with waist tie. I could pair it with a pair of white linen pants for another summer outfit.

I'd worn this aqua-coloured dress to a wedding once, about six years ago, and it had since been committed to the back of my wardrobe, perhaps for fear it was too pretty / pastel-y / floaty. Or something. This summer I'll find a way to wear it. Even if it's just in my own back garden.

I had totally forgotten about this skirt - purchased at a store in Maui years ago. It is very pink and very boho and hasn't been worn anywhere for at least five years. Poor thing. I could team it with a black spaghetti-strap top and a pair of strappy sandals.

I found this silk halter top, hanging in there (by a thread) and I think it has at least one more summer's worth of wear in it. I could pair it with a pair of black capris and flip flops.

It was amazing to go through my wardrobe and rediscover things I'd completely forgotten about. As I put everything back in its place, I felt confident, knowing what I could still wear and what could be given away.

Another idea would be to have a friend go through your wardrobe and suggest outfits you might not have thought of. Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can do wonders.

How about you? How do you revive your wardrobe?

Evolving.

2011-05-23T20:53:00.001-06:00

Hello readers!

Wow, so, three weeks. I'd like to tell you that in three weeks I've accomplished a lot but really, I haven't. I've focused on my job; I've enjoyed being a mum to two high-energy, eat-like-elephants, amazing boys; I've hung out with friends; I've congratulated a friend on the birth of her third baby; I've enjoyed reading my friend Carmen's new blog; I've finally gotten a little sun (and, oops, a little sunburn too); I've planted some veggies in my garden; I've done lots and I've done little.

It's been lovely taking a break from blogging, but of course I've missed it. And like any project, taking a break helps put things into perspective: you begin to see clearly which things are important and which things aren't.

When I started writing this blog three years ago I was pregnant with my second son, O, getting ready to exist as a mother of two very small children and not sure what to expect. In a funny way this blog saved me, because being able to put on paper (or, rather, online) the good stories, and the bad (especially the bad!), and the questions and the fears, gave me a much-needed outlet and, more importantly, a way to connect with other mothers going through similar scenarios.

As life goes through its inevitable phases I too am entering another. Three years ago I was caught up entirely in the business of mothering two small children, and while I'm still very much caught up in it, I'm also now caught up in other things, too.

So I'm going to turn this blog ninety degrees and take it in a slightly different direction - one that's a truer reflection of me. As well as the parenting stories, I'm going to talk about some of the things I used to love. Some of things I'm beginning to love again.

Like, design.

Before I was a mother I loved design. I studied it (interior design, furniture design and graphics) at university in London and then went onto work in that field for years. We were constantly preoccupied by design (I met J at that same university). We pretty much lived and breathed it - always on the lookout for new ideas and inspiration wherever we went. I loved fashion. I loved finding nice things for our home. And I loved that I could locate good design it anywhere and everywhere, if I just looked. When I became a mum it was easy to let it slip away a little, taking a backseat for other, more pressing matters. And then, a few years later, I realized I needed to rediscover my passion for design. Because pretty things make me happy. The end.

And, like, wellness.

Because since I started working as a therapist last year, wellness has become intrinsically woven into my life. I find myself surrounded by the facts of good health and the results of bad health. I find myself naturally drawn to find out more about how to live a healthy life and how to be happy(er). I've been learning how to breathe (trust me on this). And I apologize in advance, but I feel the need to share it with you.

So there'll be a little of this and a little of that.

And, I don't know, we'll see.

But enough about me. How are you? What's new?

Necessary Interruptions.

2011-05-04T21:27:00.000-06:00

As I sat back on my heels on the hard wood floor, I felt a familiar twinge in my hip and a slight click in my knee (getting old(er) really is a bore). I didn't care because I was watching the rain with my sons. They stood at the window, observing splotches of water and small round hail stones fall from the clouds, their noses pressed up against the glass, enquiring.

"Mummy, is Spring still not coming?"

"No, this is Spring. The rain is good. It cleans everything and leaves everything feeling fresh."

I love the rain. It reminds me of England, of long gray afternoons spent inside listening to rain tap on the roof and thunder rumbling outside. It's a cozy feeling of warmth and home. As my sons dove into my lap for protection from the snaps of thunder outside, I laughed softly and told them not to worry, that the sky was just "doing its thing".

It was one moment in a number of moments I've enjoyed with my kids this week. I've been spending more time with them, more time cooking food, more time lying on my bed reading my text books and magazines, more time doing nothing where possible. More time not being on the Internet, away from the social media sites that require participation and the many many blogs that await comments and the emails that need answering and all the things that pull me in yet another direction I can't quite stretch to at the moment.

It happened - this sudden desire to get away from the online world - because of last weekend. I spent in on a course, learning new techniques for my massage therapy practice. I reveled in the weekend, soaking up the education and the words of experienced therapists and the palpable atmosphere created by a room of women each connected by the same desire to learn and be better therapists. I was in heaven. And, as often when I come home after a weekend away, I returned entirely uplifted and nourished.

I suddenly looked at my lap top and couldn't bring myself to open it. So I didn't. And it felt good. And then I discovered something: during the minutes and hours that I wasn't online, my day was filling up with things as though they had always been there waiting for me to discover them. Small things, big things, simple things, insignificant things. I spent a day not being online and at the end of it, noticed something remarkable: I didn't miss it. Not even a weeny teeny inch.

Okay maybe a bit...

And for not missing it, I feel guilty. I find myself caught in a new conundrum: I want to be here and then again I don't. It's tough because I've made some great friendships online. I love reading all of your stories and I cherish your comments on this blog. I love writing and I'm exhausted by it. I enjoy the freedom of blogging and at the same time I find it incredibly demanding.

I'm not sure what this means for the now. I think often about how to make this work, so that it's less tiring and less of a distraction to the rest of my life. I consider how I could bend and twist myself in other ways to squeeze it in any available space, but unfortunately I'm all out of elasticity.

If only there were more hours in the day....

xox

Sephora Mother's Day Review & Giveaway (Canada only)

2011-04-26T07:50:00.001-06:00

My search for better skin care products started when, a few years after moving to Canada, I noticed my sensitive/combination skin wasn't responding well to the dry Canadian climate. Calgary is notoriously dry year-round, and especially during the winter months. The basic face creams I'd been using were no longer cutting it - my skin was dry, flaky and irritated, and so I started hunting around for quality moisturisers that would help keep my skin hydrated through the winter months.

When Sephora offered to let me try Peter Thomas Roth's Viz-1000 I jumped at the chance. Peter Thomas Roth's Viz-1000 is a super-concentrated face serum that attracts 1000 times its weight in water from the moisture in the air. It promises to leave skin feeling "healthy, supple, and youthfully radiant."

It's fragrance-free, which I like, and is infused with all kinds of reputedly miraculous ingredients such as silk proteins, sea algae, honey and yerba santa. It all sounded very impressive on the ingredients list, but I was eager to see the actual results for myself.

The first night I applied the serum to my face before bed and then used my regular moisturiser over the top (Weleda Soothing Almond Facial Cream). As I applied the serum, I felt it sinking right into my skin and at first wondered whether it was going to be a little dry. But the next morning after my shower, I applied it again underneath my moisturiser, and immediately noticed a difference.

My face felt smooth - the kind of smooth you get after using a face scrub and mask. Later in the day, I inspected my face again. Some of the flakiness on my forehead seemed to have gone. The second day I noticed once again that my skin was smoother than usual, and again, a little more of the flakiness on my forehead had disappeared.

By the third day, the flakiness was almost completely gone, and I was noticing a new, pleasant glow to my skin.

Overall, this is a very nice little product. I've used serums in the past and haven't seen great results. This one? I will probably keep using it. It's a pricey habit to keep up, retailing at $75 CAD. Definitely more than I'd usually pay for such a product.

GIVEAWAY

With Mother's Day right around the corner (May 8th in case you didn't know), the nice people at Sephora are kindly offering one of my readers (sorry, Canadians only) the chance to win one of these products.

Happy Mother's Day!

ENTER

To enter, all you need to do is leave me a comment, telling me what you do to look after your skin. For extra entries you can tweet this giveaway, follow me on Google Friend Connect (or tell me you do), or subscribe to my feed. A separate entry for each.

Giveaway closes on Saturday April 30th at 9:00 pm (MST). A winner will be picked using random.org.

Only open to Canadians.

Good luck!

********** Giveaway Closed *********

The winner is mean green mom, commenter #21. Congratulations!

Great Eggspectations.

2011-04-24T20:25:00.001-06:00

M: "Mummy? When is it going to be Easter?"

Me: "In one week, sweetie."

M: "Mummy? Is it Easter now?"

Me: "Not yet. Three more sleeps."

M: "Mummy? Can you please make the clocks go forward so we can have Easter NOW?"

Me: "Nope. But we're going to put on our boots and go for a nice walk to the park and by the time we come back it'll almost be Easter."

M: "Mummy! Daddy! Wake up! The Easter bunny came while we were asleep!"

M: "Mummy?"

Me: "Yes sweetie?"

M: "When is it going to be Easter again?"

p.s. That picture above is the Easter Bunny. For reals.

My hips don't lie.

2011-04-20T09:22:00.000-06:00

On several accounts, my hips don't lie. For one thing, they are the hips of a woman with kids. For two, they tell on me, after every holiday eating and drinking binge, every time I stop exercising for a few ~~years~~ months. And for three, they remind me, I'm getting old(er).

What the bleep am I talking about, you ask?

Oh, you're not asking? Okay, really I don't blame you. Go watch this instead. It's far more entertaining.

Something is up with my left hip. I noticed it months ago and blamed it on the cold weather. Because can't almost everything can be blamed on winter? I would groan as I rose out of a chair and J would ask "what's the matter with you?" and I'd reply "ooooh it's my hip!" and clutch my thigh like an eighty four year old woman post-hip-surgery. And then, in typical style, I ignored it for as long as possible, until my doctor talked about joint pain during a physical exam and I was forced to acknowledge it.

Given that I work in healthcare and spend half my job talking to patients about joint and muscle pain, it's plain baffling, how resistant I am to acknowledging my own ailments. I even know the rehabilitation exercises that could be helping me with this. Have I done even a single one of them? Not even a little.

I suppose I'm of the opinion that when it comes to the body, with a little care and rest, most things will resolve themselves (if only that worked with teeth).

Or maybe, I'm just too busy / reluctant / stubborn, to address my own complaints.

I seem to think I'm made of steel.

Unfortunately, I'm not. Yesterday I was lying on the floor on my side, fishing a Hot Wheels car out from under the sofa with a kitchen spatula, and felt a searing pain rush down my thigh. I sprang up and yelled. My son looked at me and asked what was wrong.

"Oh nothing, sweetie." I replied. And then "Mummy is just getting old and will probably need a hip replacement."

My son looked back at me sincerely, and at that moment I crossed my fingers that he wouldn't repeat what I'd told him - "My Mummy is getting a new hip!" - the next time I was picking him up from school, or at the grocery store.

I blame Shakira and all that dancing around the kitchen while I was supposed to be cooking.

Mummy Hates Snakes (or, how to avoid transferring your irrational fears to your kids).

2011-04-18T13:57:00.001-06:00

When I was young I developed an unhealthy fear of snakes. I can't pinpoint the exact moment or the specific reasons why, but my apprehension grew over the years until eventually I couldn't stand to look at a picture of them and even had nightmares about them.

Being a parent has tempered my outward fears, but I still hate them, and here's why.

- They're sneaky. They slither around silently in tall grass so that no one hears them coming.

- They have no legs. What kind of land creature has no legs? What kind of stealthy, sly gargoyle, slides around on its belly all day?

- They shed (... I can hardly say it without gagging) their skin. Which is totally inconsiderate. Someone else has to pick that shit up.

- They have thin tongues that shoot out when they're thinking about devouring you.

- They have beady little eyes to spy you from metres away.

- They're greedy buggers. They eat things that are far too big for them and then lie there displaying their feast in their bulging belly.

- Their organs are all lined up in a row. I don't know why that's wrong but it bloody is.

- They can be up to 25 metres in length. That's about twenty four point eight metres too long.

- They could take over the world and kill all the humans. You know it's true.

- They kill with poison or constriction. CONSTRICTION. (image of snake wrapping itself around my neck in progress)

So basically I hate them.

I once saw a snake in the park just up the road from us. It was a perfectly pleasant summer day and I was pushing my son in his stroller, large with my second son. It was twenty feet away but I saw it. I screamed as though I'd seen a murder victim and ran the other way, clutching my babies - the one in my belly and the one in the stroller, fearing for our lives. And even though it was a ten-inch non-venomous grass snake, you just never know.

I worry, though, about transferring my fear to my sons. What if they pick up on it, and turn it their own nightmare? What if they're missing out on the opportunity to not be afraid of snakes. Maybe there's something (can't believe I'm going to say this) not-putrid about snakes, that they could discover.

Around my sons (apart from that one time in the park) I try to conceal my fear of snakes. If my son points out a picture of a snake in a book, or on TV, I try to act cool. I smile (ish) and comment on it without being negative.

Then this past weekend we were at a pet store, because that is the kind of thing we do when it's snowing in Spring and we're trying to find things to fill the time.

Passing the various species, we arrived at the fish, then the birds.

Suddenly - and it was the subdued tone of his voice that made me jump - J warned me:

"Sarah don't look to your left."

Resisting the urge to scream, I bolted the other way, almost tripping over my own feet.

"What. What. What the hell is that? Is that a SNAKE? Is there a SNAKE in there? Where is it?"

"Mummy, what's wrong?" My son asked.

"Er... nothing."

Parenting has done that to me: I'll stay composed even when I'm gripped by a fear that makes me imagine something is crawling up my pant leg.

"Mummy, are you afraid of snakes?" My son asked.

"Er... no. Not really." I lied.

"Snakes are... you know... fine." I continued, waving a finger in the direction of the dark, gloomy tanks over by the other side of the wall, where I suspected the beasts were lurking, probably watching me, waiting to break through their glass enclosures and dig their poisonous fangs into my neck before constricting me to death.

Turns out, there were no snakes there. Just lizards and tree frogs.

But it leads me to the question: should we hold our fears back from our kids, or should we be honest about them?

One day, my kids are going to find out that Mummy actually despises snakes and would rather clean a toilet with her own toothbrush that meet one in person. I guess my hope is, by the time they find out, they'll have developed their own opinion and not have inherited my phobia.

What do you think?

Excuse me while I go throw up now. I just wrote a whole post about snakes.

Do women really love being pregnant?

2011-04-13T08:56:00.000-06:00

I was reading an article written by a woman who claimed she loved every moment of all three of her pregnancies. According to her, there was nothing about any one pregnancy she didn't enjoy. Instinctively my brain flipped to skeptic mode. Any time I hear a woman pairing the word "perfect" with the word "pregnancy", I'll admit, I'm dubious. It's true - some people do genuinely have good, smooth, complication-free pregnancies. Some have nausea filled, swollen-ankled, acne-ridden,shitty pregnancies. Some are bed bound. Some seem to breeze through it. Surely none are perfect though.

Me? I was a bit of both. The first few months of both of my pregnancies were beset with nausea (the first) or vomiting (the second) to the point of needing medication. At the same time, I remember also being dizzy with the excitement of first-trimester anticipation when not everyone knows yet and the birth is so far off that things seem not quite real still.

For me there were goods and bads: My skin broke out, but my hair was ultra-glossy and my nails grew strong and fast. I was uncomfortable as hell by the end of the second trimester, but I enjoyed the feeling of carrying my baby and feeling my son's tiny kicks in my belly. I got varicose veins in my right leg, but I loved the womanly curve of my pregnant body.

If I were to describe the way I felt about being pregnant, my response would be something like: "I really enjoyed the part where I met my baby!". And to me, there's nothing wrong with admitting there were parts of my pregnancy I did not enjoy. It doesn't make me a bad mum or an unsuitable candidate for pregnancy.

In the past I've felt something bordering on guilt when faced with mothers who gushed about their sublime pregnancies and their AMAZING births. I wondered why I didn't feel all kinds of gushy about the experience too.

I guess I'm just not the gushy type.

Don't even get me started on those who claim to have had an "orgasm birth".

Just don't even scratch that surface.

I couldn't help feeling that, for some women, it was a one-upmanship to claim to have loved every second of their pregnancy - as though by default they had been selected as a superior being, designed to carry and deliver babies without a hitch.

Of course, these people don't exist.

I suspected that no matter what a woman said about her experience, she probably experienced some amount of trouble during her pregnancy. And so I had a hard time believing those who made statements like "I LOVED being pregnant.". I found myself trying to figure out whether they were joking or simply delusioned.

Some were plain serious.

And then, because I sometimes get these things completely wrong, I remembered something that shook my theory: my mother once told me she had loved being pregnant (with me). And my Mum - often one to join in with my (probably inherited) skepticism - had nothing bad at all to say about it. I can't remember her exact words but basically, the gist was, she loved it.

Loved it.

And though I suspect she went through her share of pregnancy complaints over the course of those nine months (or ten, in my case, because I was late and entered the world at a whopping 9 lbs), she just didn't complain about them.

(Or maybe she did, and years later looked back through rose-tinted spectacles at the whole thing.)

And then, I thought, perhaps I've misinterpreted these women who enthuse about their pregnancies. Perhaps they're not aiming for one-upmanship. Maybe they're just extremely positive about the experiences they have. Perhaps they gloss over the bad stuff because really that bad stuff was fleeting and in the end it's better to focus on the good stuff anyway.

And then I felt even worse that I wasn't that kind of person.

And then I used the word "and" to start a sentence for a fifth time, which was four times too many.

My final point is this: I'm not certain whether women who claim to have "loved being pregnant" are insane, lying, delusioned, smug or simply, telling the truth. Perhaps I shouldn't care. Perhaps I should nod my head and grant cheery congratulations with open arms instead of twisting my head to the side in my instinctively skeptical way and giving them the suspicious squint eye. Maybe I should give them a break.

What do you think?

Room With A Mountain View

2011-04-11T15:29:00.000-06:00

Lots of couples went away together last weekend, but I'd be willing to bet few were as excited or as appreciative as us: two run-ragged parents on our first getaway together in four years.

Image from TravelPod.com

And because it was our first time away together alone since becoming parents, we splurged and stayed at the Banff Springs Hotel, a castle in the mountains.

We took advantage of every opportunity to do the kinds of things parents of small kids don't often get to do. We wandered around town, pausing at any place we fancied. We ate out at nice restaurants, enjoying delicious meals that someone else would later clear away and drinking too many cocktails just because we could. We idled away time in an outdoor pool fed by the local hot springs and wondered if we'd found paradise.

In between outings we spent some time just walking up and down the hallways of the hotel, admiring architectural details, winding stone staircases, vaulted ceilings and grand dining rooms.

Can I please live here please?

In the morning, we ate breakfast against a view of the mountains (the most incredible breakfast buffet I've ever seen) (I ate enough to last the week).

For a few days we basked in the glory of being just a couple again. It was refreshing, inspiring. And then we returned, more grateful than ever, to sweet kisses and hugs back at home.

Now we just need to figure out how to do this more often... (than every four years)

This post is just my description of our weekend getaway. It was not paid for or sponsored by anyone.

What do your Tweets say about you?

2011-04-06T13:21:00.000-06:00

A handful of the people I follow on Twitter are real-life friends. A larger group are friends I've made through blogging (but haven't actually met). Probably the largest portion I follow on Twitter are acquaintances - people I know very little about. I follow them and they follow me perhaps because of some vague connection or common interest. The only thing I really know about these people are what they say on Twitter.

And when all you know of a person are their tweets, you begin to build a mental picture in your mind, based on the kinds of things they post and their tone of voice. And because of this, I've come to notice several personality types.

Moany Mervin.
Mervin is a moaner. He uses Twitter as an outlet for all his worldly grievances. He lists off all the reasons the universe has dealt him a crappy hand. Everything sucks for Mervin: love, life, money, you name it. After a while you begin to associate Merlin's profile picture with his moaning and general gloom. Later, you start to avoid his tweets, for fear he might drag you down into his den of self-pity, too.

Gushy Gloria.
No one likes Moany Merlin, but on the other side of the coin, Gushy Gloria can be equally infuriating. Gushy Gloria brags about her perfect life in direct or indirect ways. She boasts endlessly about her well-behaved children and touts her amazing super-woman-esque accomplishments. According to her, Martha Stewart comes to her for advice. Gushy Gloria is not just positive by nature, she's pathological.

Market-Hard Mandy.
Most bloggers tweet to let their followers know when they've just published a new blog post, if they're doing a giveaway, or if they're helping promote a brand as part of a Twitter party for instance. A certain amount of marketing for one's personal or business brand is expected - so long as those promotional tweets are balanced with some more persona tweets and interactions fellow Tweeps. But Marketing Mandy only has one thing on her mind: sell HARD. She pushes her marketing message relentlessly, shamelessly. In the end, it becomes boring. You know she's only out the to profit herself, and you begin to consider erasing her pushy tweets from your feed.

Cliquey Clarissa.
Everyone has Twitter buddies - people we tweet with more than others. But Cliquey Clara only ever seems to talk to one or two people. The message she's sending is: it's a private party and you're not invited. Eventually her followers will get the message that they're not welcome into the conversation, and will leave her well alone.

Vera Variety
Vera is the most common type of Tweep. She writes a variety of tweets: some interesting, some not so much, some funny, some bitchy, some embarrassing, some happy, some sour, some drunk. She talks to everyone and isn't afraid to share that she's having a bad day or just burned the dinner and is feeding her kids peanut butter from the jar. She gets involved and engages in conversation.

That's my take on it - I'm sure there are many other types out there, that I haven't touched on.

But don't listen to me, because I just looked at some of my recent tweets, and it seems I'm another type: Completely Random Rachel.

To Do: Make More To-Do-lists.

2011-04-04T10:45:00.000-06:00

There's something therapeutic about making a list. I write out all the small, nagging things on my mind and instantly I'm transported to a place of harmony, where everything in my life is organized and in-control. I write it all down in one neat, legible column of black ink and I have a foreseeable way of clearing it all off my plate, forever. Freedom is coming.

The problem is, I create too many bloody lists.

I write one list on the magnetic notepad on the fridge, I make another on a virtual post-it note on my computer desktop, I scribble another in a page of my weekly planner, another on a white board I bought specifically for VERY IMPORTANT lists, and one on a random scrap of paper that will probably be lost under the sofa within a few hours.

Oh, and one more list: the mental list that I construct in my head at around midnight when I'm supposed to be asleep and which, of course, is entirely pointless and by the morning has dissolved into forgettable crumbs mixed with fragments of dreams that won't ever be retrieved or pieced together again.

Why do I insist on doing that?

All these lists - the scraps of paper, the act of writing them out by hand - they make me feel organized. And for someone like me - huge procrastinator and organizationally-challenged - lists are important. They make me feel better.

But - and it's a gigantic but (no butt jokes please) (because I have a small butt) (hahaha) (you see, I'm distracted again), somehow, the things listed on my lists, don't seem to get done...

For instance, for the past two weeks, there's been one common task written on all of my different lists: to renew a membership with a professional association (which I need, in order to practice my job). I have all the information I need and I know what to do and yet, somehow, I haven't gotten around to it. The most likely outcome is that I'll leave it until two days before the final deadline, and then stomp around the house complaining that some unknown entity keeps mysteriously stealing my stuff.

~~What the hell, house fairies?~~

So, to conclude, I am superb at making to-do lists, and completely crap at carrying out the things on the list. Which? Is a problem.

And so, I made a list of things I need to do, to be better at making lists. Because that is not at all insane.

Stick to ONE master list.
Destroy all other lists.
Stop using paper on which list is written as coaster / cloth for wiping up spills / paper airplane.
Set time limit in which to complete items on list.
Give myself a reward for completing items on to-do list on time. (I think this one is definitely going to help)

How about you readers? How do you get around to everything on your to-do list?

April Screaming.

2011-04-02T21:22:00.000-06:00

You know what I was thinking this afternoon? I was thinking about how much I love April. The smell of Spring; the departure of Ugg boots and the arrival of citrus-coloured flip flops; the way the landscape suddenly emerges green and hints of colour begin popping up throughout gardens everywhere; the sound of birds singing their sweet song outside my window early in the morning, reminding me that summer is on its way.

And I was thinking, you really should come over one day soon for a barbecue. Bring the family. I'll throw some steaks on the grill and we'll crack open a few beers.

It really is a wonderful time of year.

Here, have a seat. If you lean back a bit you might be able to smell the peonies.

Don't let those two feet of snow bother you.

The kids will have a blast. See, over there - there's a tricycle. You can sort of see it poking out from beneath about twenty centimeters of snow.

This?

Oh, that's the path outside our house, we dug it out earlier this morning. It only took an hour.

Wait. What's that sound?

It's coming from the back alley, behind the garage. It's a car, revving. It's stuck in the snow. The woman in the car is thrusting the gear stick back and forth as though she's going to be able to maneuver her way out of there. But there's no way. Because the tires - they just spin around and around in useless motion.

Now she's getting out of her car. She's going to put some gravel behind the wheels - that would be the sensible thing to do. Oh, no, wait, she's kicking the car now. Still .... kicking it. And, now, yup, yelling at the car. Something about ... "goddamn April still dammit swearword snowing swearword enough swearword".

Perhaps we should do the barbecue another weekend.

How does August look?

If Advertising was Honest.

2011-03-30T10:57:00.000-06:00

As I was chugging back spoonfuls of Buckley's cough syrup last week, I remembered the company's tagline, "It Tastes Awful. And It Works.". It made me chuckle - it was so true. And I thought, wouldn't it be great if more companies used raw honesty in their advertising. And being one to always take a concept too far, I went ahead and made a whole slew of my own "honest" slogans. Oh yes I did.

*********

Walmart: Awful store, but damn cheap.

Lululemon: Hideously over-priced polyester, but it really DOES make your bum look smaller.

Starbucks: With all the money you spent on venti no-foam double-whip extra-hot lattes, you probably
could have retired early.

Apple: Sexier than Microsoft.

Facebook: Catch up with old friends and then you wish you hadn't.

Twitter: Pretend you know loads of people.

Visa: Have what you can't afford. RIGHT NOW.

Toys"R"Us: Come in smiling, leave screaming.

UPS: It might get there on time, then again it might not.

Ikea: Swedish furniture so cheap you'll think you robbed us.

Yellow Pages: Still dumping heavy books on your doorstep even though no one uses them anymore.

Costco: For those occasions when you need five hundred kitchen rolls and a packet of gummy bears.

*********

(And that, friends, is why I'm not an advertising copywriter.)

Feel free to join in! Your turn.

* McDonalds: ...
* Google: ...
* You Tube: ...

"Mums can be stylish too!" ... and other nuggets of wisdom.

2011-03-27T20:41:00.000-06:00

*Warning: this post is bitchy. I blame all the coca cola I drank while I was sick.*

"Mums can be stylish too!", the twenty-something girl doing my hair exclaimed in a serious but optimistic way, as she stretched and twisted my hair around the paddle of her brush and applied fifteen unnecessary products. I stifled a laugh and then, realizing she was not joking, wondered what she - with her leggings and boots and hairstyle that probably took fifty minutes to put together this morning - must have thought of me - with my sweater and jeans and comfortable shoes and tired expression.

My usual hairdresser was on holiday and though usually I'd wait for her to return (because she is the bestest and most awesomest stylist in the world), I decided my hair situation was simply too dire to put off the appointment, and agreed instead to see the next available person.

I'll call her Cindy.

The appointment started with a fifteen minute ~~verbal fight~~ discussion about precisely what kind of bangs I wanted (apparently there are many, many types of bangs), and then moved swiftly onto the question of whether I would, in fact, be able to find the time to care for said bangs, what with me having two whole children and all.

Cindy was not convinced I would be able to handle it. She tapped her fingers and looked at me from the corner of her eyes with her head turned pensively, to assess whether she deemed me a suitable candidate for bangs.

Finally, a few minutes later, she relented, gushing that, actually I would LOVE bangs, and that they would be super easy to look after.

Awesome.

After that, the conversation flowed relentlessly, and I'm pretty sure we covered everything in Western culture from the price of commodities to the drug problem of today's youth. (All highly serious topics will in future be written in italics to denote the seriousness of the subject.)

If you'd been a fly on the wall at my appointment, these are some of the statements you might have been privy to.

***

"It's really hard being a mom."

"Me, I want four kids, personally."

"I don't have any, yet."

"You go to work, and then you come home and they're screamin' and attacking you!"

"I don't know why people have kids."

***

"But I worry about kids growing up these days, what with all the cocaine!"

"Everyone's doing it."

"And it's expensive too."

"Its... like... hmm, how much is it? Oh I don't remember now."

"If you take enough of it, it can really damage your brain!"

***

"Men! They don't have a clue do they!"

"They never change!"

"They're all the same!"

"Tsk."

***

"My back is killing me, I really need a massage."

"Really - you're a massage therapist?"

"You don't even KNOW how good massage therapy is for you!"

"Oh wait, you do."

"I don't know if anyone has told you this, but the average lifespan of a massage therapist is five years."

"It's really hard work."

***

I listened to all the morsels of wisdom, and responded accordingly, nodding and shaking my head at the right moments, because in the end I just wanted my damn hair to be cut and made shiny.

And, actually, Cindy did do a very nice job.

So I gave her a good tip, told her to get that massage, and vowed to never visit a different hairdresser again.

The end (of my bitchiness. Normal, nice-person blogging will resume in two days).

She bangs.

2011-03-24T11:15:00.000-06:00

My hairdresser asked me about twenty times if I was SURE I wanted bangs. I repeated that yes, I was. After a week slopping around the house in pajamas, feeling less than human and with my hair tied back to disguise the fact that it hadn't been washed in four days, I was ready for drastic.

When I arrived home, my sons gawked at me as I came in the door, as though I'd grown another head.

Then my older son said, "Mummy, I like your new hair! Is it going to stay?"

Other effective (but not recommended) ways of losing weight.

2011-03-22T18:17:00.000-06:00

Oh hi there, how are you?

First, thanks for your comments and suggestions about the room sharing idea. This is why I love blogging: I have some impulsive idea about ripping out walls and right as I'm about to take my mallet and begin demolishing, you guys say sensible, helpful things and the walls remain intact and unharmed. (For now anyway) As per your advice, we've decided a more practical option would be to put the boys in one room for a trial run, converting the other bedroom into a playroom temporarily. I'll let you know how we get on with that!

Second, I've been sick as a dog ("AGAIN!", she yells).

It started with a piddly little cold at the beginning of last week. I tried my best to ignore the cold, but it got worse and worse until finally on Friday afternoon I wound up on the floor of my bathroom cry-dialing my husband at work and blubbering loudly about how I couldn't make it through another hour and begging him to come home (or, as I eloquently put it at the time,"I CWAN MA HURTS AS BEE REELLY SICK GERRA MEDCIN IN BLURBRA".)

Thankfully he was able to come home. And assess the damage. Body: aching. Temperature: 102. Head: pounding. Ears: throbbing. Sense of smell and taste: gone. Throat: sore. Cough: like a smoker's. Children: jumping on my head and trying to smother me with blankets.

The next day I dragged myself to the doctor, who diagnosed a sinus infection and wrote me a prescription for antibiotics, and though I don't normally accept antibiotics with open arms, I grabbed that delicious sheet of paper that promised freedom from sickness from his hands and ran like the wind to get it filled.

Because, as it turns out, sinus infections? Nasty little buggers that suck the life out of you.

Lucky for me, I was able to lie in bed dying (nearly) for a few days, and ringing my bell (imaginary), while my sweet husband brought me plates of food and hot cups of tea (true). And all the lying around in bed brought about a feeling of immense gratitude: that I have someone who looks after me; that I have access to doctors and medicine when my body can't sort itself out; for Netflix; and for the sickness-induced weight loss that took place while I was convalescing. Kind of like magic.

How was your weekend?

Sharing a Bedroom: Yes or No?

2011-03-17T11:58:00.000-06:00

A few days ago I was struck by an idea. I couldn't tell whether it was completely brilliant or completely stupid, so I put it to J to see what he thought: It occurred to me that we could knock down the wall in between our two sons' bedrooms, and make one big bedroom for them. It would mean they'd share a room, and they'd have a larger space that we could also transform into a play area. Good idea? Bad idea? I don't know. We're still thinking on it.

Growing up, I never shared a bedroom. On the one hand I enjoyed the luxury of my own space where I could disappear to read my books and play with my dolls and toys alone. On the other, I wondered frequently what it would be like to share a room with a sibling. With my brother being ten years older than me, I never had the squabbling, do-everything-together relationship I saw my friends experience with their siblings.

The bedrooms in our current house are quite small. Especially the boys' bedrooms. You can comfortably fit a few pieces of furniture into them - a single bed and a chest of drawers and a bookcase - and not much more. Thankfully the closets are built into the walls to save space. It's partly why we added two more bedrooms downstairs when we renovated our basement two years ago - so that when they're older, the boys can move downstairs into a larger space that's somewhat separated from the rest of the house.

I like the idea of the boys sharing a bedroom while they're still young, knowing they probably won't want to when they're older. I have this imagine of a beautiful large bedroom decorated in shades of blue, brown and green, with bunk beds on one side (think of the fun they'd have), a mural on one wall, an art area with a table and chairs where they could sit and draw and create things, a play area with all their toys, a seating area with bean bags where they could sit and read.

I imagine them giggling together at night with flashlights under their duvets, reading books together in the afternoon, playing quietly in their room while I get some ~~blogging~~ housework done (wishful thinking perhaps?).

It would be so super awesome fun timez!

But... there are certain concerns holding me back: What if they get into a room together and stay up all night thrashing each other will pillows and skipping around their big room because sleep is no longer fun? What if they hate sharing a room and then we've knocked down a wall in our house and we're all stuck with it? What if one keeps the other awake?

As brothers close in age, they get on really, really well. About fifty percent of the time. And as most siblings, they have an I-love-you-give-me-a-hug / I-want-to-rip-your-head-off kind of relationship. So it could go either way.

What's your experience with siblings sharing a room? Is it a good idea or a bad idea?

Why I'll never be a hairdresser.

2011-03-14T19:39:00.000-06:00

Last night I found out that my husband has had sideburns for fifteen years. In that time he's never shaved them off. Which means that since we've been together - since I've known him - he's had sideburns.

He told me that, right after I accidentally shaved them off.

I'm not sure how I came to be the family hairdresser, since I am neither qualified at cutting hair, nor am I good at it. But in the end, it didn't last long, because one time when I cut my son's hair I became a little over-zealous with the bang-trimming and what resulted was a cut not unlike Friar Tuck's.

After the Friar Tuck incident I agreed to NEVER AGAIN cut either boys' hair. But I continued cutting J's, since his was more straight-forward. I've been cutting his hair for a few years now. This detail will become important in a minute.

I'm one of those people who never notices haircuts, hair styles, hair preferences, or any thing hair-related really. You could be my friend, my neighbour, my husband (ahem), or my mother, and I might not notice. You could dye your hair green and glue it together to form the shape of a sea horse and I'd probably be all "Hi, wow, something is different - did you get a new pair of shoes?".

Which explains why, after I'd finished cutting my husband's hair last night, I began to trim his sideburns, thinking that that was what we normally did.

But apparently that was not what we normally did.

I was finishing up, checking over the cut to make sure I hadn't missed anything (also checking him out because he's particularly handsome after a fresh cut). And then went about what I believed was my usual routine of trimming the sideburns.

I trimmed the top part, then asked.

"So then you'll do the rest of the sideburns?"

Because that's what he usually did...

"No. What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't leave them like this, because there's a whole..."

"Um. What?"

And it was then that I realized.

Oh. Shit.

I had trimmed a hole in the sideburns, a gap between the top and bottom parts. From here, there really was no other option, than to shave it all off.

So that's what he did.

I lay in bed that night, thinking about how I could make it up to him. I thought about sneaking out while he was asleep, grabbing a Sharpie, and drawing his sideburns back on. But that probably wouldn't work, because then I'd be tempted to draw on glasses and a mustache too and that would completely ruin the whole effect.

And then I considered shaving off my eyebrows to show some camaraderie.

But I like my eyebrows.

And so, instead, I decided the best gift I could give would be to never, ever, cut anyone's hair, ever again.

His Smart Remark.

2011-03-13T20:45:00.000-06:00

In a moment of frustration, my son discovers a new rebuttal - a thing designed to tell me he's mad and simultaneously poke me where it hurts.

In the middle of an argument in which he's being told no, he may not watch any more TV, he looks at me, then to the side, his blue eyes narrow, thinking, before he expels the words.

"Go to work, Mummy."

Emphasis on the weeeeeerk.

My eyes are fixed on the carrots I'm chopping into rounds, not letting on that his remark might have vexed me. Instead I find a distraction, move onto something else.

The next time he says it, he adds a little more blow to his punch.

"Go to work Mummy. And I'll stay at home with Daddy."

Emphasis on the Daaadddddyyyy.

My first reaction is a pang of hurt, like a tiny pixie stabbed me in an emotionally exposed place.

But I recover from the pang of hurt. Perhaps a bit too quickly. Because my second thought is - work! Awesome idea! AWESOME! Not in a mean way, but in an, actually you might be onto something there! kind of way.

"Okay. Maybe I will."

He looks at me, trying to read my reaction. Seconds later, he forgets all about it and runs off to find his brother.

I'm not sure what's worse - the fact that he's using that particular sentiment to provoke me, or the fact that I think it's not a terrible idea. I'm torn between wanting to be here all the time, and wanting to increase my work hours. Even though for a few seconds every time I leave the house I feel that awful twinge of guilt. Even though most of the time I'm exhausted before I even get to work late in the afternoon.

My son runs in. "I love you Mummy!"

Out of nowhere.

I melt.

Home exercise for parents, kids and dogs!

2011-03-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

In the first week of my ~~diet~~ healthy eating plan, I lost one pound. And though one pound is not a substantial amount of lard subtracted from my jiggly happy behind, one pound is till one pound. And, considering the amount of accidental chocolate eating and wine drinking that occurred that first week, I'm not too sad about it.

Also? Look - this picture shows what one pound of fat looks like. My jiggly bits are this much less jiggly. So YAY.

ONE POUND OF FAT

Image from everydayhealth.com

The second week wasn't so successful (there was an accidental apple crisp, another bottle of wine, some twizzlers, a few slices of bread, some cheese, olives and a few lumps of sugar in my tea). But whatever. I still feel good about that first pound.

And then I remembered that my healthy eating plan was supposed to include an element of exercise. I had somehow (!) managed to completely eliminate this from my brain. So, because I'm still using the cold weather and slush as an excuse to not go for a run, I had the genius idea of getting an exercise DVD, which would allow me sweat away the calories in the privacy of my own home.

The last time I did an exercise DVD, I was about eighteen years old, and probably had a whole, empty room in which to perform the crazy flapping-up-and-down-for-an-hour thing in private without other people cramping me, standing on my toes, simultaneously screaming and yelling about Dora and Diego and socks. So, it was probably a little easier back then. You think?

After moving a few items of furniture out the way to clear some space for the flapping around, I told my sons (and dog) okay guys, mummy is going to do some exercises now, so you just sit and do some drawing on your table over there.

The DVD started up, with four young, orange, skinny, bouncing fitness freaks, and one ultra-toned and rather shiny leader. "Let's have some fun!" She beamed at me with her startlingly white teeth. "Okay!" I beamed back sarcastically, starting my fast walk. As I marched on the spot, I noticed, the boys hadn't moved from their positions - one inch from me. The dog was also perched unnervingly close to my feet.

Five minutes into the DVD, my older son was trying, along with me, to keep up with the hyper fitness woman and her ambitious dance moves, flapping his arms and laughing hysterically. My younger son stood behind me, yelling "mummy! mummy!" with utmost concern in his voice. I suspect he thought his mother was having a vertical seizure. The dog helpfully wove in and out of my legs as I attempted to "grapevine" across the floor.

Fifteen minutes into the DVD my sons had discovered a new game: bash mummy on the tummy with balloons as she's leaping around the room, because that will be hilarious and provide much more entertainment than this boring DVD with people prancing around in yoga pants.

And so, the first day of my exercise DVD geniusness lasted approximately twenty minutes before I called it quits.

The next time I attempted it, I lasted forty minutes. Which means that, soon, I will probably look JUST LIKE the woman from the exercise DVD!

Don't you think?

The end.

p.s. Hahahahaha
p.p.s No, you are not invited to join in with my laughing. Only I am allowed to laugh at me.
p.p.p.s. Okay then, just a bit.

p.p.p.p.s Do you think she sneaks slithers of cheese when no one's looking too?

When yor husband mistakes you for a ghost, you know it's time for a vacation. Or at least the self-tanning lotion.

2011-03-08T17:46:00.000-07:00

One cold, dark night, I pretended to be a ghost in order to scare the living bejesus out of my husband.

Or at least that's what he'd tell you, if you were to ask.

His version of events go like this:

He came upstairs at 10:00 pm and found me asleep there. Not wanting to disturb me, he went back downstairs to continue fixing his computer thingamajigs. As part of my twisted plan to frighten the living daylights out of him, I crept down the stairs, mimicking the footsteps of our dog. And because of the dog-like creeping, he wasn't aware I'd come downstairs, instead thought it was the dog.

He continued working on his wires, completely unaware of my presence, still believing I was fast asleep. After a few minutes, he heard a voice muttering something in an eerie, unearthly way, to which he turned. He looked, first at our dog, wondering for a second whether the dog had, in fact, spoken. Then around the rest of the room.

And then he saw it me, sitting there on the sofa, staring at him in my ghost-like way.

Which? Nuh-uh. I don't think so.

My version of events goes like this:

Yes I was in bed, but unable to sleep, and so decided to go back downstairs for a while. I walked downstairs in a very normal way (no creeping or dog-imitating). Seeing my husband crouched under the computer desk, clearly absorbed in his wire-fixing business, I entertained myself, folding blankets and shuffling cushions on the sofa. After a while, I asked, "What are you doing honey?", to which I'm almost certain he muttered something back, then carried on fixing.

I hovered around for a bit, waiting for him to finish. Then finally asked him, louder.

"What shall we watch?"

I watched as my husband turned to see where the eerie voice was coming from, a look of horror on his face as he scanned the room, before finally settling on me - the ghost.

Later, after he'd finished blaming me for trying to induce a coronary episode, we were able to laugh about it. (Especially the part about the talking dog)

Learning Patience.

2011-03-06T19:44:00.001-07:00

I put down my hairdryer and walk to the bedroom where my kids are screaming at one another.

"MOMMEEEE!!! GET O OFF THE SCALE SO I CAN GET ON THERE!!"

The boys are fighting over my scale. My older son points his index finger at his brother's head accusingly. His younger brother is standing firm on the scale, clad only in a diaper, stiff in protest, refusing to move off. He's tired of being pushed around.

"GET HIM OFFFFFFF!!! O! GET OOOFFF!!!"

It's Sunday morning and I'm too calm to be bothered by this display of brotherly affection.

"M, just wait. Let O have his turn on the scale, wait until he's done and then take your turn."

"BUT... BUT... BUT... HOW LONG IS HE GOING TO BEEEE? "OOO!!!!!"

"I don't know. Just wait and be patient."

My sons stares at me with all the incredulity a three (nearly four) year old can muster.

I realize, it's an incredible thing to ask of a child his age - to be patient. I've only just begun to understand it myself. In fact, it wasn't until I became a parent that I really asked myself what it meant and gradually began to see how helpful it could be.

So we've been talking about it a lot lately - this thing called patience.

"What does the word "patience" mean, M?" I'll ask my son when I sense an outburst coming, encouraging him to repeat its meaning back to me.

"Um...." He thinks, looking around, up at the sky, searching his brain for a hint. "It means.... to wait?"

"Yes exactly! To wait, nicely, quietly."

I've learned the hard way that patience is a fine and delicate art that takes time - maybe a life time - to master. But, if we can crack it, we might have the answer to a million dilemmas. We might soothe a situation that's spiraling away from us, or find calm where else there might be rage.

I'm impatient by nature, but I'm working on it.

Because if I wasn't so impatient I could spend more time enjoying the moments with my family and less time thinking about what's next - wondering what's for dinner, how many emails I have to respond to in the next day, how I'm going to find a new babysitter, make it to the post office before it shuts, get to the grocery store, etc.

If I had more patience maybe I'd see beauty in ordinary things instead of skipping past them all the time, always in a hurry.

And maybe I'd appreciate more sensitively that this precious time is so much more than a day to get through or a dinner that will need to be cleared away ready for the next one. And that if things are not exactly as I want them to be right at this very moment, it's okay, because it's this moment that matters and it'll never come again.

If patience is a lesson, then I'm going to be a student for a long time yet.

As for my son?

He looks from me, back to his brother. I wait, thinking how marvelous it will be that my sons will be the most patient sons in the world. Maybe they'll teach it to others.

And then.

"GERROFF THE SCALE O IT'S MY TURN!!!" and with that he shoves his brother off the scale, who lands on the floor, horrified, and in turns begins the process of screaming and wailing for his turn.

I guess it's going to take them a while too.

The Grouchy Motherbug.

2011-03-03T17:53:00.000-07:00

Reading has been one of our primary sources of entertainment through this long harsh winter in which, many, many days have been spent indoors. We visit the library once a week to replenish our stock, returning home with a random selection of little-known titles and of course some well-known ones too.

Rare is the occasion I refuse to read a kids' book. Unless, that is, the book is driving me bat-shit crazy to the point where I can no longer stand it and might be about to cut out my tongue in sheer frustration.

That was the case with Eric Carle's The Grouchy Ladybug a few days ago.

Now, let me start with some clarification: I like Eric Carle's books on the whole. Brown Bear Brown Bear What Do You See and The Very Hungry Caterpillar have been literary staples in our house for both boys. So loved, have they been, that their covers and pages are battered and chewed and scribbled on. Signs of true love, these.

But after reading The Grouchy Ladybug for the fourth time in a row one cold snowy afternoon, I found myself doing the unthinkable: I hid the book. Not just like, put it away, but went to the extra effort of stowing it away on the top shelf (that even I can only barely reach) of my bedroom wardrobe, underneath a pile of clothes. I even made sure the edges weren't showing. Hercule Poirot wouldn't have found it.

Why, you ask, did I do this ~~you raving nutter~~?

Because, for the love of cheese, the repetition part of the story went on and on and on and on and on, until my tongue was fuzzy, my mouth was dry and I could actually feel my brain beginning to melt from repeating the same words over and over.

I understand why children's authors use the repetitive technique: kids love it, and there are probably multiple studies that prove repetition assists learning, etc. Many of our favourite authors use the technique too (we read Dr. Seuss a lot).

But in this particular book, the repetition grated on me like fingernails on a chalkboard. As the grouchy ~~idiot~~ ladybug challenged more and more creatures of increasing size to a fight, I found myself craving the end of the book like I crave a glass of wine at the end of a long day.

Maybe I was having a grouchy day, or hadn't yet had my coffee. Or maybe it was because we'd read the thing THREE WHOLE TIMES ALREADY, that I was becoming ever-so-slightly bothered by it.

Whatever the reason, The Grouch Ladybug was relegated to the back of the closet that day.

How about you? Have you ever put away a book your kids loved because you didn't love it?

How to make believe Spring is coming.

2011-03-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

What do you do when, on March 1st, you wake up and see this out your window?

And then, to add to your misery, you check the weather forecast and it says this.

And as you gaze out at the snowy panorama, you think back, to a long time ago when you could see the green grass, beckoning your bare feet, and your children ran up and down in bathing suits, wielding popsicles and dancing in sprinklers. And you could feel the warmth of the sun on your skin as you bent over to smell a flower in bloom. And everything was yellow and happy.

But then, for a second, you wondered whether, perhaps you just imagined it. It was so long ago, after all.

What do you do?

Do you throw yourself on the floor in a screaming fit of rage against the cruelty of the everlasting winter?

Maybe.

Or perhaps you go to Twitter and spew your raving anger there, for the tenth time that week.

Or maybe, because it's minus twenty zillion degrees and you're stuck indoors with your kids, you bake five dozen chocolate chip cookies and eat a stack of them.

Or, when your spouse arrives home, before he's even taken off his coat you whip out a map of the world and point to other, more favourable, non-freezing places where you could live.

Yes, yes, all of those.

But then, the realization sinks in, that yes, you live in the coldest tundra on earth (almost), and yes, you want to scream every time you see another snowy day, but your kids are in school here, you have a place of work, friends, neighbours and community. And like it or not, for now, you're going to have to make the best of it.

So, you pull on your woolly toque, your snow boots and six sweaters, and drive out to the mall, to find shiny, happy objects that remind you of sunnier times and which will lull you into a false sense of spring. Because damn it - if I can't have spring, I'm going to pretend it's spring anyway.

And you find, to your heart's content, a pair of gold boat shoes - which? Perfect!

So you see, it may still be winter outside, on March 1st, but I have shiny gold boat shoes. And though I may not get to wear them for another three months, they make me happy.

Tell me readers, how do you stay positive during the winter?

Completely unrelated things that happened at the grocery store. Alternatively titled "The Most Expensive Cucumber in the World."

2011-02-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

I had planned to write a very serious post about parenting issues (don't worry it's coming! I know you're worried. Don't worry. Really.) and instead got distracted by things that happened at the grocery store on two separate occasions this weekend.

Thing 1:

I was standing in line at a certain organic grocery store in the city. The woman ahead of me had placed her items on the conveyor belt, and the teller had stopped to tell her something.

"Just so you know, those cucumbers cost $7.99 each." She said.

I laughed out loud. I may have snorted a bit too, I'm not sure.

"Why are they so expensive?" The customer asked, aghast.

"Um... I dunno..." The teller replied, helpfully. "They're from Mexico, and they have this special coating..."

Uh. What?

"Bargain!" I blurted. "They've traveled thousands of miles and they have a special coating!!"

The customer nodded at me with a sort of smile, probably hoping I would shut up now. She quietly asked the teller to please remove one of her cucumbers.

I was still laughing when I left the store.

I should probably learn to keep my opinions to myself.

Thing 2:

A day later at another, not-very-organic store, I was grocery shopping again. On my way to get an insanely inexpensive cucumber, I wandered into the clothes section. Sidetracked, I wandered off to look at a sweater, then accidentally returned to the wrong cart and proceeded to walk half way across the store with it.

It wasn't until I went to throw a block of cheese in the cart a few minutes later, that I noticed nothing in the cart belonged to me.

Cue inward screaming.

My purse was on the other cart, and my groceries, and my hat and gloves.

I ran up and down aisles like a mother in one of those movies who's lost her child. Back in the clothes section, I spotted my cart. Beside it was a rather bewildered looking man who saw me approaching. I pointed him in the direction of his cart (hopefully), and quietly went on with my shopping.

How was your weekend?

Diet in Disguise.

2011-02-24T16:21:00.000-07:00

I don't like diets. Mainly because they don't work. The way I see it, this is what happens: You starve yourself for a few weeks, lose a bit of weight, then congratulate yourself by eating a cream cake and a drinking bottle of wine and gain it all back again.

But, given the current curviness of my curvy bits, something needs to be done. My body just doesn't shed the pounds as easily as it used to when I was twenty five. And, according to a couple of those height/weight body mass calculation web sites, I could do with losing a few pounds. About fifteen, actually. I'd be happy with ten.

Feeling suddenly inspired to take action, I developed a ~~diet~~ healthy eating plan for myself.

The general idea is to keep it simple, be sensible, and not deprive myself of everything.

- Breakfast: Cereal, fruit or eggs.
- Lunch: Salad or soup.
- Mid-afternoon snack: Fruit, veggies or nuts.
- Dinner: Whatever everyone else is eating.
- After dinner: No dessert, snacks or wine except on the weekend.

Seems reasonable, right?

Wrong.

On day one, I did pretty well up until after preschool pick-up, which coincided with my four o'clock sugar-low, and I then convinced myself that I needed a mini butter tart. And I can be very convincing.

FAIL.

That evening I accidentally (I swear!) ate three chocolate truffles and had a glass of wine.

FAILFAIL.

Day two, I was doing really well until the afternoon. By 3:30 pm I thought I was going to faint from lack of carbs and fats. So I had to stop for an emergency sandwich on my way to work. It *might* have had a bit of mayonnaise in it.

FAILFAILFAIL.

After work I was tired and gave into a glass of wine. (How many calories can a glass of wine have anyway?) And then when I wasn't looking J poured me another. So really, it was all his fault.

FFFFFF it.

On day three of my ~~diet~~ healthy eating plan, I have concluded that people who don't eat carbs are demented. Or dementors. Or something.

As part of this ~~madness~~ plan, I started recording every single thing I eat. That means every time I sneak a piece of cheese from the fridge, every time I take a bit of my kids' snack - it goes into the book of judgment. And, quite frankly, it's been shocking to see how much I snack during the day.

So, to conclude:

- I eat too much food
- Food is awesome and diets suck
- Especially carbs and butter
- I should build a palace out of butter, carbs and sugar and live there
- People who diet must be permanently on the verge of passing out
- Healthy eating plans are really just diets in disguise
- I still don't understand why wine is fattening.

The other parents stood and stared.

2011-02-22T22:26:00.000-07:00

This post is for all the mums and dads who have experienced the humiliation of a public meltdown at the hands of their children. For those whose usually-well-tempered kids have transformed into irate chimpanzees in the middle of the grocery store. And especially for those who've lost their shit in a place they afterward really wish they hadn't.

However much you convince yourself, you are not alone.

I know this, because this afternoon at my son's preschool, I turned. From perfectly nice mum who seems normal enough and probably has well-organized kitchen cupboards and underwear drawers, to, holy crap mother of god stay away from that crazy woman with the wild eyes that's about to rip a limb from one of her kids, person.

All in the space of about five minutes.

I had gone to pick up my older son from preschool. After class was dismissed, some of the kids decided it would be fun to leap around the gym, walloping each other with giant noodles. Not to be a noodle-party-pooper, I allowed the boys ten minutes to partake in the noodle walloping, then called their two minute warning. And their one minute warning.

Unfortunately as I've come to understand, my warnings have little impact lately. I chased my boys from one end of the gym to the other, while other kids obeyed their mothers' gentle instructions with not a bat of an eyelid. Finally I grabbed one son, and in my most serious, no-messing-around voice, told him it was time to leave.

There followed a lot of thrashing about, trying to pull snow boots onto kicking feet, coats over fighting arms, and some more chasing. I was getting tired. There were angry protests, shrieks, promises and threats. Thirty minutes after arriving to pick my son up, we still were not leaving.

I picked up my lighter son and headed for the door, telling my older son as calmly as I could, that if he wasn't going to put his coat on and come with me right now, he was going to have to stay at preschool, alone.

That's when I noted one of the mothers glance over at me.

I told my son, if he didn't come, he might have to stay at preschool all night. By himself.

More furtive glances.

I started out the door. My older son - seeing my humourless face and realizing he, in fact, did not want to be left at school all night alone, bolted through the door with me. We were out. One boy with coat, one without. I wrestled my younger son into the car, and then returned for the other. All the while I could feel the eyes.

I drove home feeling absolutely awful. I wondered how I'd become the mother who yelled and made threats and couldn't even get her kid's coat on before exiting into the cold. I felt bad about the way I'd handled the situation, and bad that other parents had witnessed it. I wondered how I could have handled things differently.

Of course, once we were home, the kids were over it within seconds - completely over it, asking if they could watch a movie, eat popsicles, ride dinosaurs, and what was for dinner.

As for me, I was still suffering an hour later with a heavy heart - that I'd lost control in public, that other mothers were judging me. And maybe they were. And maybe they weren't. Maybe they were just watching me with a mix of wonder and understanding, having been in the same situation once or twice themselves.

Either way, I felt like crap.

But then I called a friend, and was grateful for her kind words and reassurances. And I tweeted and was grateful for the people who tweeted back telling me they too had been in the same boat.

And so - a message to any parent who has felt guilty for temporarily losing control, or like they didn't handle a situation in the most admirable way: It's okay. Other parents have been there - other parents who are usually calm and mild-mannered, and who don't make a habit of yelling in public. None of us have the answers, and no one has the right to judge.

And with regard to those people who stand by and stare at you as you wrestle your kids into the car or carrying them kicking and screaming through a crowded room? Chances are, either they've been there and understand your predicament (even if they don't tell you), or they're judging you, and not worth your effort.

(Or, in not-so polite terms, they can screw off.)

The Perpetual State of Survival Mode.

2011-02-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

I have an amazing knack for finding excuses. I can't go running today because the sky has this ominous look about it / I needed that piece of 5000 calorie cake because I was having a bad day / I had to buy five new pairs of pink polka-dot socks because my sock drawer was looking sad and dull and needed cheering up.

Excuses for everything. Excuses all around. Weeeeeeeee.

Lately (and when I say lately, I mean approximately the past three years), my supreme excuse has been - I can't do XYZ because I'm still in "survival mode".

Survival Mode is the state in which you're coping rather than thriving. You're getting through the day on a thread of sanity, relying on a constant stream of quietly muttered reassurances that EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY, REPEAT. You treat yourself to another chocolate from your secret stash, and perhaps lock yourself in the bathroom with a glass of wine at four o'clock, because that's what you need to do to get through the day.

In survival mode, you don't have time for things like eating healthily, exercising or resting. Your focus is on getting through the day alive. It's been my get-out-of-jail-free card for such a long time now - my reason to end all reasons for not getting around to doing a many, many things.

The problem is, I think this excuse might go on forever. Because after this phase of survival, there'll be another, equally taxing phase. And after that, another.

And then the other night, as I was snacking on some leftover valentines chocolates, something snapped. I thought THIS HAS TO STOP.

The truth is I'm not in survival mode anymore: I sleep through the night now (mostly); I have a little free time here and there; the kids are a little older and I'm a little less stressed. And therefore I have to stop using this excuse.

It's time!

Time to start exercising and eating better!

No more excuses!

From tomorrow, obviously.

Guilty Pleasure Movies.

2011-02-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

When I was younger I had this list of favourite movies. Only they weren't my favourite movies, they were a list of movies I thought should be my favourite movies - probably because they were impressive, or because I knew everyone else liked them.

Someone would ask me, and I'd answer Shaw Shank Redemption, or the Godfather (both of which I do really like), or some other big name film.

I suppose as I get older, I begin to care less about what I should like, and more about the things I genuinely like. Even if they're so embarrassing I have to whisper them.

So when, on Valentines evening, J asked me which movie I really wanted to see, I told him the truth.

You've Got Mail.

I don't care what you say, or how rubbish you think it is. I LOVE IT.

Some things you should probably not admit out loud, least of all on the Interwebs. But I don't care. I love Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks together in this movie. I love the old fashioned love story. I love the cheesy lines. I love the size of their old-school lap tops that look more like brief cases than portable computers. I love the quaint little childrens' book store Meg Ryan's character owns that's so movie-styled it's completely unrealistic.

It may not be my all-time favourite movie (it's really the Godfather) (just kidding), but it is my go-to comfort film - the one I'd probably pick if I was sick and in bed with a cup of hot chocolate and a duvet over me, or if I was alone one evening with a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates.

And it's a welcome change from some of the modern movies we've been watching lately: Inception; The Town; The Social Network.

What about you? What are your guilty pleasure movies?

* p.s. Don't forget to enter my giveaway to win some super fabulous awesome lip glosses from Rocky Mountain Soap Company. You just have to be from Canada or the States to enter. Ends Friday.*

Rocky Mountain Soap Company Review and Giveaway.

2011-02-14T09:33:00.001-07:00

***Winner Update***

Congratulations Capital Mom!

Hope you enjoy using the products.

*****************************************

I've been a fan of Rocky Mountain Soap Company since I moved to Calgary six years ago. Their bath and body products are 100% natural and they look, smell and feel delicious. They're famous for their handmade soaps (I feel deprived if there aren't some in my house at all times), but they also make a whole range of wonderful bath and body products.

So I was thrilled when they sent me their new line of lip products to try out. The Lip Service collection includes glosses, scrubs and lip plumps. Being a huge fan of lip glosses, I was eager to try them out.

First I tried the Peppermint Lip Scrub, which gently exfoliates the lips without being harsh. It has a lovely, subtle minty scent and left my lips really smooth. I followed it up with the Peppermint Lip Gloss - a light, fresh gloss that gave a lovely shine to my lips and again smelled gorgeous.

Next the Cinnamon Lip Plump - a spicy lip plump designed to stimulate circulation with hints of cinnamon and chili, to give lips a fuller look. I love this. It left a nice tingly sensation on my lips for a few moments and smelled great.

Lastly, the glosses - I tried all of them at different points during the week. The Nude Lip Gloss gave a lovely, natural shine without being too over-the-top glossy - perfect for day time. I wore the Blush Lip Gloss when I wanted a hint of colour, it gave my lips a sweet rosy glow. And my favourite was the Berry Lip Gloss, with a deeper berry colour and a beautiful pomegranate scent. Yummy.

All in all? I'm hooked.

Want to win a set of these for yourself?

The nice people at Rocky Mountain Soap Company are generously offering one reader the chance to win this set.

All you need to do is leave me a comment here.

And you need to be from Canada or the US.

The giveaway will end on Friday 18th February at midnight (Mountain Time). A winner will be randomly selected and contacted. Please make sure I know how to get in touch with you.

Good luck!

The Amazing Mind-Boggling Parents of Several.

2011-02-11T14:07:00.000-07:00

I'm always stunned when someone tells me they have more than two kids. By the expression on my face, they may as well have told me they grew an extra arm and used it to build a rocket and fly to the moon. My jaw drops, and I take on a look of incredulity, while I scope them out and try to see whether they possess any super-human characteristics.

I think, in my head, there's a scale of jaw-dropping-sock-knocking-off-ness.

1 or 2 kids = a sympathetic nod and a sigh of understood weariness.

3 kids = might as well have scaled Mount Killmanjaro with a giant orangutan on their back.

4 kids = might as well have crossed an African desert barefoot for six months with just one bottle of water, rescued an endangered species and built a hospital with whatever was lying around.

5 kids = must have supernatural powers because really what other explanation is there.

So imagine my reaction when, yesterday, a mum I see every day at preschool pick-up let slip she had five kids.

Five.

No, wait. Think about it.

FIVE. Children.

I think my jaw dropped to my chest, as I stared with a new feeling of awe and admiration at this woman who always looks so put together and calm.

Turns out she has some help, but still, with five kids, nothing is easy.

Funny how bewildering it is to me - having that many kids in this age. A hundred years ago it wouldn't have been at all uncommon for someone to have five or more children. But people still do it today (evidently), and more importantly, survive.

As for me, most of the time I feel like I'm just about keeping my head above the water with two very busy and demanding young buys, with a far-off fantasy - probably to never be realized - of a third child. And even that seems impossible.

Perhaps some people just manage chaos better than others.

Nickles and Dimes.

2011-02-08T21:55:00.000-07:00

One thing I love about the weekend is the ability to take a shower alone. During the week, the kids follow me into the bathroom, pressing their noses up to the glass and asking me relentless questions on random topics such as what's for lunch, why the sky is blue, and when they're next going to see Santa.

So at the weekend I make the most of showering on my own, while the kids have someone else to keep them entertained. I take a lovely long time, pausing under the hot water, perhaps applying a body scrub, lathering my hair for far too long and generally enjoying the luxury of peace and quiet and aloneness.

Because as we all know, privacy more or less disintegrates when we become parents.

A few mornings ago after my shower, I was getting dressed and my son looked up at me and innocently asked,

"Mummy, are those your nickles?"

"Yes honey, those are." I replied, quickly hauling my bra and t-shirt on before any more comments arose.

A minute later.

"Mommy, where are my nickles?" Tugging his t-shirt up and looking down.

"Where are they mummy?"

"They're right there." I say, pointing.

He got up and stared into the mirror.

Then.

"Why are your nickles bigger than mine?"

I paused, not sure how to answer, and then responded with something about girls' "nickles" being bigger than boys "nickles". Really - what kind of utterly crap answer was that? He looked confused and I quickly changed the topic to what we were having for breakfast.

As I was spreading peanut butter on toast I realized, these questions are the start of a whole onslaught of body / gender questions, which I am not ready for.

Even more worrying, what happens in the future when someone asks him for a nickle?

Red Lipstick and Cadillacs.

2011-02-07T09:37:00.000-07:00

I don't own a red lipstick, I rarely wear figure-hugging clothes, and the last pair of high heeled shoes I owned wound up collecting dust on a shelf high up in a wardrobe.

Which brings me to my question: Where has glamour gone, and where can I get some?

An odd question, for a cold, gray Monday morning in February. Perhaps it's the time of year. I've made it through several months of cold and snow, and I'm tired of seeing people dressed only in shades of gray and black. I'm ready to tell winter to Bite Me.

Or, more likely, it's because I've just finished watching all four seasons of the TV show Mad Men. Three years after everyone else watched it and talked about it, we started, and became completely hooked.

I'm sorry Lost, you just moved into second place.

The show has left an indelible mark on me. There are so many things I like: the familiar shenanigans of agency life (nothing changes); the flawed characters; the drinking of scotch in the morning; the acceptably full-figured women. But the thing I find the most alluring about the show, is the fashion. Or, more specifically, the glamour.

So much glamour oozing out of every scene. And, doesn't matter who it is, or what they're doing, there's an element of it in everyone. Betty driving to the store in her cashmere coat and pearls. Joan strutting through the office in one of her form-fitting dresses. Don meeting a client (or woman). Trudy, nine months pregnant and wearing the most incredibly bouncy, ruffly peach babydoll nightgown imaginable.

Not to get swept up in my TV bubble (too late), but Mad Men really captures the style of the era. There's something untouchable about the sixties. Fashion was revolutionary back then. Styles were new, but really new - not just a rehashed version of something we've already seen. It must have been so exciting.

I feel almost inappropriate or unrealistic - asking for glamour. It's not as though my weekly routine requires anything more than a pair of jeans and some comfortable shoes. Still, there has to be room in there somewhere, for a little. Right?

I don't even suit red lipstick, and I can't walk in high heels without looking like I'm in pain from the waist down, but screw it, I want some of that overly-feminine, swishy gown, polished hair-do, false eyelash, magic. Dammit I'm gonna get me some.

Images from amctv.com.

Are you glamorous? How do you do it?

In a cold weather emergency, count to ten, then FREAK OUT.

2011-02-02T09:58:00.002-07:00

At four a.m. I lurched forward and twisted around in bed, planting my feet on the floor. And as soon as they hit the floor I knew something was wrong. It was too cold. I went to my youngest son who was yelling at an unreasonably loud level for four in the morning. Afterward, eyes still half-closed, I went to the thermostat to see what the hell-is-actually-freezing-over was going on.

The thermostat said minus fifteen - a whole four degrees lower than it was set to. Shit, the furnace is broken. I cursed the furnace, then stood motionless in my pajamas, trying to figure out what to do. Be positive, be positive, think productive thoughts. I'm going to die in a freezing house. I jabbed the buttons to force the temperature up. Nothing. Up, up, up some more. Nothing. Shit. I went downstairs to the utility room and stood gormlessly looking at the furnace, as if I had an inch of a clue what to do with it.

The furnace wasn't speaking to me.

But there, stuck to the furnace, like a shiny ray of light, was an emergency number! Yaharoo.

I tiptoed back to the bedroom. "Don't get up..." I whispered, softly. And then, a little louder, more of a blurt: "But I think the furnace is BROKEN." And then in sort of a panicked squeak-shout "I'm going to call the emergency people!"

"Hold on." J said, hauling himself out of bed before I carried through with my threat.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, as though I had everything under control, and how could he possibly know what to do?

He went off with a look about him that told me he was going to sort it out.

The temperature was still dropping. Since J seemed to know what to do, I pulled on my big fluffy robe and crawled under the covers, shivering and wondering who was going let my mum and dad know when I died of hypothermia in the middle of the night. Maybe they would send my frozen pinkie as a token of their daughter.

I heard the back door open and close, and then footsteps outside the bedroom window, and then, this scraping, scraping... incessant scraping. Either a burglar was scraping his way through our house, or J was fixing something to do with the furnace. Then the back door again.

A few minutes later, as I was conjuring in my head all the bad things that might happen, I heard the furnace start up, and so I crossed my fingers and toes and anything that could be crossed. The fan started up, and lovely, wonderful, welcome heat began pumping into the house.

HURRAY! WE ARE NOT GOING TO DIE!

I later discovered it was minus twenty eight degrees when J had ventured out into the garden at four in the morning, to fix the frozen vent. Yeah, he's pretty awesome. And handy. And awesome.

Everything was fine, and warm, and there were no calls to the emergency furnace people.

My parents warned me about moving to Canada. I'm beginning to think maybe they had a point.

I'm looking for balance. I'm getting a headache.

2011-01-31T11:23:00.000-07:00

When I started working again last year, I thought a part-time job was the solution to end all solutions. I'd still get to spend most of the week with the kids, and then I'd work two afternoons and a morning at the weekend. It was simple. I'd get a little balance back in my life, I'd do the job I'd recently trained for, and I'd earn a little money again. It was a perfect plan.

And in a way, it was. Is.

But you know what happens to perfect plans, don't you?

My plan hasn't exactly been the "breeze" I imagined. For one, childcare has cause me more stress than I wish to share. Two, I've discovered building a practice on part-time hours is crazy hard. And lastly, working part-time has occasionally left me feeling disconnected from my job. In the days that form the gap in between my last working day and my next, I can forget about it almost entirely, wrapped up in my other life - my family.

It's an adjustment, of course. But lately I've wondered if, in fact, working full-time wouldn't be less complicated.

At least with a full-time job, you have full-time childcare - a dayhome, or full-time nanny, say, which tend to be more reliable than part-time babysitters - often students who before long move on elsewhere. With full-time work, you have a fixed routine, a fixed salary, you know where you are and what's expected of you.

(I'm not suggesting that working full-time as a parent is easy, by the way - NO WAY! I don't believe either option is easy and I'm grateful to have the choice.)

The issue for me is this strange, obscure divide of roles I now have. I have two jobs: first (and foremost), being a mum, being at home with the kids. The second, being a therapist. I now have a full-time job and a part-time job. I love both. I feel like I don't have time for both. But I do both.

In the attempt to find balance in my life, it appears I've created more of an imbalance, and it's going to take me a while to figure it out.

How do you - parents who work full-time or part-time - how do you manage it all?

Reasons to pee.

2011-01-25T20:37:00.001-07:00

This afternoon I wound up in the emergency room with my three-and-a-half year old for two and something hours. It ended with us walking out, him with a purple popsicle and me appearing to have wet myself.

Why, oh why.

It was all the fault of cursed potty training. My son is still not trained, and we've had quite a time of it, trying to educate him on the miraculous ways of the toilet. And we've tried, I tell you. Oh, we've tried. There are blog posts to prove it: there was the time with the water bottle strapped to the stuffed rabbit, and the time with Elmo and the maddening "potty time" song, and still, nothing. Except a few more gray hairs on my head.

He was supposed to have been trained in time for preschool, but obviously that didn't happen. Thankfully he hasn't had any accidents there and so, with a little luck on our side, it's all been okay so far. And since then, we've tried, on and off, to make progress, with little success.

Until a few days ago, when he suddenly decided he was ready to use the potty. He unexpectedly announced "mummy, I peed in the potty!" as I was on the phone to my brother in England. I hung up, shrieked, hugged him, and brought out some treats to celebrate. We had one whole day without diapers. It was the beginning of the end.

Then this morning, assuming we were still on track, I got everything reading as usual - the potty, underwear, and reward treats.

But it wasn't to be. He sat on the potty, but he wouldn't pee. I implored him. I sat with him, read to him, passed him drinks and treats and books and toys. I put on a movie and pushed his potty in front of it.

Still, nothing.

By two in the afternoon, he still hadn't peed, and the diaper was back on. Suddenly he was curled up on his bed, telling me his tummy hurt. I started to panic. I told him, he really needed to pee, right now, that this was serious. I told him that if he didn't pee, we might have to take a trip to the hospital. But he wouldn't, or couldn't, I'm not sure. He clutched his stomach and writhed around on his bed yelling and crying. He told me it hurt to try.

I called my mother-in-law and asked her to come over to watch my younger son. By the time she arrived, M was crying hard and still unable to pee. I lifted him into the car and sped off to our local hospital.

I staggered into the emergency room with my sobbing three-year old in my arms (did I mention he is not small) and went straight up to the counter. The woman wasn't bothered by the loud sobbing or the steam rising from my ears, she simply raised a finger as if to indicate I should be patient. To which I said, loudly "Excuse me!".

"Please wait behind the line." She said.

"Um. What line?"

"That line." She said, pointing to half a line about ten feet behind me.

"You're being serious?" I said.

Because. You know. Screaming child. And, could be serious. Perhaps a burst appendix. Or a bladder infection. Or a bladder that's about to burst. But okay. I'll stand behind the line. Even though there's no one in front of me.

My chin was beginning to wobble and my eyes were welling up.

My back was aching under the weight of my forty-something pound son, and he wouldn't let me put him down.

The pointy-finger lady ushered me into a room, where my son's temperature was taken and some questions were asked, and we were put in a queue to fill in some paperwork, and then be put in another queue to see a doctor.

"We'd better call Daddy on that payphone over there." I said to M, noticing my phone battery was dead.

I picked up my blubbering boy and walked to the phone to call J.

As we returned to our seat in the waiting room, M whispered something in my ear.

"I'm sorry, honey, what was that?"

"I think I'm going to pee now, mummy." He said, eyeing the waiting room cautiously.

"GREAT!" I practically yelled."Pee away darling!"

And he did. Unfortunately his diaper wasn't sufficient to hold the three litres or so his bladder had been housing. I began to feel a warm patch on my legs.

"Uh-oh, time to go to the bathroom."

As I got up, I realized, my jeans were soaked. And not in a good place. But in a place that looked like, maybe, perhaps, I had peed myself.

"Okay, let's go." I said briskly, as only a mother could say.

As we walked to the bathroom, my son looked up and said, brightly "I feel much better now mummy!".

"That's wonderful, darling." I said, as everyone in the waiting room stared at my crotch.

A few completely pointless hours later, we left the hospital. M proudly slurped his popsicle and told me "I fixed myself!".

I drove home, feeling relieved and thankful that we were leaving the hospital with only a very minor concern.

On the way home, I told my son "please don't ever do that again, honey."

And then, there was wine.

(I suspect soon all my posts will end with wine.)

A bad parenting day is almost always followed by a better one.

2011-01-23T19:34:00.002-07:00

Friday was one of those days. It started poorly and ended poorly. I woke up with the kind of feeling one has when they've drunk too much wine the night before, had their sleep interrupted several times during the night by crying babies, and been woken by a dozen roosters at five a.m. None of which happened to me. But it was a sign of the day to come. It was the kind of day that hovers around I-will-get-through-this-alive and occasionally drifts into actually-I'm-not-sure-where's-the-tequila?

By the time my babysitter arrived late afternoon, and because I had no clients at work, I found myself loitering in a bookstore, browsing the parenting section for some sort of advice. Any! Please! How do I do this?

I've been hankering after a book called "Buddhism for Mothers" by Sarah Napthali, ever since my blogger pal Mwa mentioned it a few weeks ago.

Seeing me tapping impatiently on the computer keypad, a sales assistant came up to help me locate the book. She snorted, when I told her the title. "Oh boy," she said "Couldn't we all have used that book, at every stage!". We engaged in a brief chat about the challenges of parenting young children, and agreed reassuringly that yes, parenting is hard, and yes, we do get through it.

It seemed obvious advice, but I needed it right then.

The next day was better. Maybe because it was the weekend. Or because of the wine I'd drunk the night before to soften the blow of the day. Or because some magical unicorns had flown down during the night and scattered their magical happy dust across the land while we were sleeping.

Whatever the reason, the day was destined to be better. We spent it doing nothing complicated. And because the weather was lovely (a balmy zero degrees - whoo!), we took the boys and dog out for a walk in the snow. I'm not sure whether it was the fresh air or the sunshine on my face, but I felt a huge sense of relief as we walked.

Later that day, as I prepared dinner and sipped a glass of wine, I felt a deep sense of happiness. It was the roast cooking in the slow cooker and the vegetables steaming on the stove and the promise of a good dinner with my family. It was the happy shrieks drifting up from downstairs where the boys played. It was the slightly undercooked brownies in a pan on the kitchen countertop that I was sampling while I cooked. It was weekend life. And it was a relief from the week.

There'll be more bad parenting days ahead (and blog posts to document them), but at least I'll take comfort in knowing that the bad days are almost always followed by better days.

And if not, there's always wine.

The product of being over-productive.

2011-01-21T14:23:00.000-07:00

*Please note, when I refer to "you" in this post, I really mean "me" - it's just that saying "you" implies that I did not do these things.*

- In a hurried attempt to get some laundry done, you tug all the sheets off your bed and throw them into the washing machine, not realizing that your son's trucks and diggers board book is hiding among the fabric. An hour later you discover the remains of the book, and when your son asks "mummy where is my book?" you say "look over there - there's a bird!"

And then you add it to the list of things you've accidentally washed/destroyed (hello husband's ipod).

- Your son asks if he can play in the bathroom sink, and because you're in the middle of preparing dinner and doing five other things, you say okay and switch on the faucets for him, telling yourself you must definitely switch them off again in thirty seconds. Two minutes later, you remember the taps as your two-year old toddles into the kitchen, drenched. You scream and run into the bathroom where the floor is covered in quarter of an inch of water.

More laundry.

- Amid all the bustle of the day, you accidentally buy a huge and very expensive slice of cake while at the grocery store, thinking it's a healthy apple. *

Best apple I ever did eat.

* What really happened, was, I bought the slice of cake, knowing full well it was cake, not an apple.

This one time, when I worked at a bank.

2011-01-19T14:56:00.000-07:00

It's come to my attention that I'm crap with money.

Well, I suppose I've know for years. But it has become especially noticeable now that I'm self-employed, and have to deal with all the finances... myself. Gulp. Taxes, keeping receipts, making records, etc. And honestly, you might as well tie me to a wall and start poking me with spears right now.

Before the invention of online tax returns, I once had the awful experience of having to actually go into HR Block (it even sounds like a prison) to do my taxes, in person, with another person in a suit and a frown. J had to prod me under the table as I slowly slumped into a nap during the meeting. It was that boring, seriously.

It started at school. I had the distinct feeling my math teacher disliked me when, instead of paying attention to her mathematical rantings, I sat drawing things non-math-related on my note book and chatted at the back of the classroom.

I hated math, and spent my school years avoiding it.

So it made perfect sense (?) when, after dropping out of my journalism degree at the age of eighteen, I started looking for jobs in the financial sector, in the City of London.

"What do you know about marine insurance?" An employment agency rep asked me.

I smiled and cheekily replied. "Absolutely nothing, but I can learn!"

He chuckled and put me forward for an interview with Lloyds of London.

I didn't get the glamorous job at Lloyds of London. If I had, I would probably by now have been a top millionaire marine insurer, with my own office overlooking Liverpool Street station and a driver. And a boat.

Instead, I landed a not-so-glamorous position at a bank, as a cashier (or teller, as they say here in North America).

It didn't go well. I wasn't good at calculating sums in my head and became permanently attached to a calculator. But I liked the customers, and I liked my co-workers, and I made the best of it by striking up conversations and generally attempting to make it into more of a social fun place than a job.

Then one day at five o'clock, it was time to balance my til as usual. This meant checking the money left in the til against the money I'd taken in and given out during the day. To my horror, two hundred pounds was missing. There was much shuffling and humm-ing and haw-ing as my managers tried to figure out what to do.

Nothing was done, the money was gone. No one had any idea what had happened (me included).

Amazingly I wasn't fired, but over the next few days I noticed a strange thing happening: certain customers were only coming to my til. As in, actually refusing the other cashiers in favour of me. Ahem.

I didn't last long in the bank job. After a few months, I'd changed my mind again, and decided I wanted to study design. Plus, I'd decided that working in the real world was loathsome, and wanted to go back to being a student.

As it turned out, I was much better suited to design, and stayed with it for the next ten years.

But now, here I am, however many years later, still unable to decipher the difference between baffling terms like "gross" and "net", and screwing my fists up into balls and accusing the world of conspiring against me when faced with financial forms and questions.

I need to get financially savvy! That sounds lame. But I do. Desperately.

And this is why, readers, I am going to make doubly, triply sure that I teach my sons all about money (and when I say "I", I mean "J" of course), so that they don't end up thirty-something years old and googling things like "is a bookkeeper kind of like a fairy godmother?".

Trouble.

Uncomfortable Humour.

2011-01-17T21:26:00.000-07:00

I'll just duck as I say this, but I didn't find Ricky Gervais's performance at the Golden Globes terribly offensive or upsetting. Actually I thought he was quite funny. And despite all the accusations and furor flying around the Internet, I still quite like him.

Perhaps it's because I knew he was hosting the Golden Globes, that I didn't gasp in disgust as he unveiled his antics on stage. And because, although he was dishing out the insults like a fast food waiter, I suspected he'd serve himself a healthy dose too.

I've been a long-time fan of Gervais's, ever since the first airing of The Office on British TV ten years ago. Which is why I was able to anticipate the uncomfortable, thorny spectacle with wise cracks and fun-poking to come. This is Ricky Gervais after all. If they wanted gallantry, perhaps they should instead have asked Collin Firth to host the awards.

Some of his jokes were underhand, unnecessary, I do agree. But it was never going to be a glowing performance with roses and a happy ending.

American humour is very, very different from English humour. And not that I'm stating that as an excuse for people to be unjustifiably rude to other people. What I think I'm saying, is that Gervais's humour is born from a place of, let's say, "eclectic" humour.

Take a look at British TV sitcoms over the past few decades, and you'll see the strange and wonderful and sometimes (who am I kidding - often) offensive culture of British comedy. There's everything. From the satirical (Have I Got News For You); the neurotic (Black Books); the occasionally good-humoured (Vicar of Dibley); the crude (Bottom); the shocking (Ali G); and, the downright weird (The League of Gentlemen).

After watching The Office - the American version - for a number of years (which I adore), watching the British version is practically intolerable. The rawness of it, the ugliness and the general unpleasantness of it makes me cringe, hard. And to think, it was designed to provoke those reactions from the audience, that a writer set out to do that.

That's where Gervais is from.

I'll just end by saying that, while I'm all for cheery, polished TV shows (yes, you, Glee) and everyone loving each other to the end of the earth - it's simply not human to be happy and lovely all the time. Occasionally we, as normal people, are ungracious. I suppose what I'm saying, is that I'm not completely opposed to a little snark every now and then. Because life is like that.

Attack of the Monster Appetites

2011-01-17T13:57:00.001-07:00

About a year ago, we had these two little boys, barely more than babies, who ate like little birds. They grazed on their meals, rarely eating more than half of what was laid in front of them, snacking and nibbling and generally causing me to worry about whether they were getting enough.

I sounded like a broken record. "Do you want more? More? More?"

When I prepared dinner, I'd simply add on a little extra for the kids. Our grocery bill wasn't much more than when it had just been the two of us, save for the addition of disposable diapers and rice crackers.

Then, suddenly, the small picky babies woke up from a long sleep, and were no longer babies, but giant boys with monster appetites. No longer content with a bowl of cereal and some chunks of apple or banana for breakfast, they leapt up into their chairs at breakfast and demanded a full English breakfast.

Or at least that's what it felt like.

Now they eat as much, sometimes more than me at meal times. I noticed it yesterday at breakfast as I finished my two pancakes and half a grapefruit and M polished off four pancakes and a whole grapefruit. And at dinner last week when he had a third helping of rice with his dinner of chicken and vegetables. Consider, he's three-and-a-half, I'm thirty two.

And O, his little brother, isn't far behind either.

When they were picky eaters, I longed for them to eat more. I'd spend ages preparing all kinds of foods in the hopes I'd get something into them. So of course it's a huge relief to finally see them eating like humans.

And as I throw another chicken, enough bananas for ten monkeys, and three loaves of bread into my shopping cart, I'm aware that these appetites are only going to get bigger.

And bigger.

And bigger.

Until one day, I'll just be continuously shopping and preparing food and shopping and preparing food to feed the equivalent of an army. Perhaps we'll move closer to Costco.

I just might need to take on another job to help pay for the groceries.

Taking good care of yourself when you've got small kids. (Answer not provided)

2011-01-13T20:26:00.000-07:00

As I said goodbye to my Mum on the phone yesterday she told me, as she often does, to take good care of myself. I love my Mum. After a brief pause I responded, as I always do, that I would. Sometimes in that pause I find myself wondering whether to laugh or cry at the question. It seems so ambiguous. What does it even mean - to take care of yourself? Does it mean - get a good night's sleep? Eat properly? Exercise? Drink enough water? Does it mean to rest more? Eat more chocolate? Get regular massages?

I find myself in the peculiar and unenviable position of asking aloud that seemingly simple question - what does it mean to take care of oneself? I think I used to know. It used to be something to do with sleeping in on the weekend, taking vacations every few months and doing yoga. But somewhere in between growing up and being grown up I managed to lose it.

I still haven't kicked this stupid cold/virus thing - it's been a month now. A month! Maybe that's why I can't get my head around the question. And, now that I'm a hypochondriac, I'm still inventing ailments for myself: earlier today I decided I must have cracked a rib when I was coughing so hard last night - that would explain the pain on my left side when I breathe in. You see? I'm losing my mind, people. Losing it.

And, you know how, when you're not altogether healthy, everything is so much more difficult to deal with?

Like - life?

I keep waiting for motherhood to get easier. (Stop laughing!) I had it on good authority from my next door neighbour that the first two years with two kids were the hardest. Now, as we turn the corner with a preschooler and a two year old, things are, um... not. I keep waiting for the difficult stages to pass and be replaced by easier, calmer stages. But instead of calm, more challenges phases appear as the boys enter new phases of development.

And with my potentially but probably not cracked rib and my hacking cough, my patience is about as thin as a string of floss that's been split a hundred times. Instead of being the composed, even-tempered mother I wish I was, I'm like a raging bear with a sore head.

So I'll wait to feel better and my energy to return, and then I'll figure out this taking care of myself business.

Tell me readers, I really really really (that's three reallys by the way) want to know - what do you do to take care of yourself?

Perhaps you'll be... Two.

2011-01-12T00:01:00.010-07:00

Perhaps you'll be a writer, you so love your books. Now and then I spy you in a corner with Dr. Seuss or Eric Carle, exploring the pages, mouthing sounds. Every night we curl up with our favourite stories, always ending with Goodnight Moon. You point at the words, asking me what they mean. One day soon you'll know all about words, my love.

Perhaps you'll be an actor. You've a thousand expressions, each one designed to invoke a reaction. You want to make me laugh, or let me know you're angry. You want everyone to know you've arrived. Sometimes when you're talking - half in English, half your own language - you extend your arm out theatrically, as if to emphasize the point you're making. Occasionally, when you're upset, you throw yourself on the floor dramatically, peeking up at intervals to check I'm still watching. It's hard to be serious in front of that face.

Perhaps you'll be an advertising executive. You really know how to turn on the charm with those brown eyes and that smile. You could get away with a lot. Sometimes you do.

Perhaps you'll be a stunt man. You've never been one to take things slowly, or assess the risk - with you it's always head first, think later. I'll never forget how, at just four months, you leaped out of your car seat and onto the floor. I hadn't anticipated a leaping baby. I sat in the doctor's waiting room clutching you and pleading with the universe to let nothing be broken or damaged. You're desire for adventure scares me and makes me proud.

Perhaps you'll be a scientist. You love to experiment. The cabinets beneath our bathroom vanity are peeling and wrecked from your water experiments. You're perpetually pouring liquids from one container to another, and you get a kick out of taking things apart and putting them back together.

Perhaps you'll be an entrepreneur. Already a determined little boy, you're independent and eager to do things by yourself, the way you want them done.

Perhaps you'll be an athlete, you run so fast I've found myself at times sprinting to keep up. You climb and hoist yourself up onto things and I've no idea how. Perhaps the speed and agility came from trying to keep up with your big brother. Or maybe it was trying to escape.

Perhaps you'll be a really great friend and brother. And maybe a husband and a father too, one day.

Happy birthday darling boy. May your birthday be filled with cake and adventure.

Spring cleaning in January.

2011-01-09T16:36:00.000-07:00

Ouch ouch ouch... oh God what is that.... what is that burning in my eyeball? What is it? Is my head exploding? Why do I feel like the room is spinning? Did something just erupt?

Oh, wait.

No. No. It was just my babysitter telling me she's moving to another city at the end of the month.

My response: "Oh great, good for you. We'll be sorry to lose you!" All cheery and accepting.

I could lie on the floor and wail like a baby, or I could treat this as an opportunity to find a great, new babysitter.

So I wailed.

But then I picked myself up because obviously I am a grown woman who deals with problems responsibly and maturely. Obviously.

I like January. It's a cliché but it is a time for fresh starts! It is it is! Over-zealous promises and crazy ideas that might never come into fruition but look good on paper. I have a dozen brewing quietly in my head: I want to finally write down and publish (if only for my kids) a story my father told me for years as a child; I want to run some super duper exciting giveaways on this blog; I want to finally assemble that wedding album that's been waiting for seven years; I want to go away for the weekend with J - just the two of us - for the first time since we became parents.

January can be overwhelming, especially with the addition of unexpected obstacles like finding new childcare. Add onto that, the cold, and the distance to the next foreseeable vacation, and suddenly it seems a far nicer idea to slip under a duvet with a box of chocolates and hide there for a few days.

I suppose that's why making plans and inventing projects is such a therapeutic way to start the year. It's a spring cleaning of sorts, thankfully not the dusting and vacuuming kind.

What kinds of spring cleaning do you have planned for the next few months?

Inching into 2011 like a snail on crutches.

2011-01-03T19:34:00.000-07:00

These past few weeks - though full of illness, early nights, coughing and sneezing, a hundred box of tissues and general sickness all around the house - have been nice in a strange way. There's something cathartic about a period of laziness, where idleness and indulgence are allowed and even justified. And after a year of running on coffee and adrenaline and generally using more energy than I have, it's been quietly satisfying to lie around in pajamas, watch movies and eat high-calorie snacks without leaving the house for days on end.

Not so much the few extra pounds I've gained doing so.... Ahem.

And now it's January 3rd and 2011 is in full swing, and I'm not nearly ready for the action to begin again. I feel like an animal who's been in a cave for six months, about to be leave hibernation and confront the world for the first time. I'm waiting for something to kick me into action. Tomorrow my son goes back to school, and the next day I'm working, so I suppose life will kick my behind into gear whether I'm ready for it or not.

One of the best things about bumming around at home has been the time we've spent with the boys. Unhurried, undisturbed time that has let us take in the moments and watch how they change from one day to the next.

Oliver, our youngest, is talking lots, making sentences that surprise us with their clarity: "I can't reach it." or "I want to see DVD." Every morning, he goes straight to his brother's room and taps on the door, calling "An! An!! Annie!" This, apparently, is his brother's new name.

I've been glad of our sons' close age gap these past few weeks - their company, and their ability to keep each other entertained, has been so appreciated. They race around the house, roaring into each other's faces, hiding behind curtains in joint conspiracy, whispering secrets and getting into all kinds of trouble. Occasionally fists or teeth or feet are used to communicate with each other. And it usually ends in giggles or tears, but either way, they've become friends.

And with all the lounging around and waving aside responsibilities and duties as though they didn't exist, I'd given hardly a thought to New Year's resolutions, or what mine might be. Until a few days ago, when I scrambled together a last-minute list in my head.

My list includes an array of promises such as getting back into running, eating more healthily, clearing outstanding debts, spending less time online (especially Face(waste-of-bloody-time)book) and more with family, continuing with my massage therapy studies, reading more books, being a more patient person, giving back more, and about another twenty things I can't even remember any more. Oh yes, and being more, um, focused about my goals.

Emerging from this sick spell I feel optimistic and energetic about this coming year. I'm like Julie Andrews skipping down the road to the Von Trapp house for the first time, singing "I have confidence in sunshine... I have confidence in rain..." (if you don't like / haven't seen The Sound of Music, I'm sorry but we can no longer be friends.).

Happy New Year everyone. Hope yours is a fantastic one.

Awesome People and Ibuprofen.

2010-12-29T14:38:00.000-07:00

Today is the kind of day that makes me thankful to be alive and healthy. It comes after seven agonizing days under the duvet, downing ibuprofen and various other cold meds at my bedside.

I'm not one to exaggerate but I nearly died.

Okay not really, but this whammy of a virus really wiped the life out of me. And, as if not being able to do normal activities, enjoy Christmas, and even drink wine, wasn't bad enough, being ill gave rise to a new side: lady hypochondriac extraordinaire.

At various points over the last week I've conjured numerous diseases for myself, including strep throat, meningitis, mono, throat cancer, and other undesirable ailments. I'd wave a snotty tissue from behind my lap top and hoarsely whisper my fateful prediction to J, who would then shove another mug of honey and lemon in my direction and tell me go back to bed and hurry up and get better soon.

Thankfully J has been at home the entire time. As well, his step-mother was staying with us last week and was an enormous help with the kids, the cooking and housework. Heaven knows what I'd have done if it had been a regular week and I'd been here alone. Oh, right, yes, I do remember.

I have this suspicion. I suspect the body remembers all the times you've been bad to it: all the nights you haven't slept; all the healthy things you haven't eaten; all the glasses of wine and late nights; all the not resting; all the times you didn't give your body a chance to recover. And then one day, when you're not expecting it, it creeps up and taps you on the shoulder and... "oh hai, it's me, your body, and now that you have a few weeks to rest, guess what? It's pay back time asshole."

You know, like when you go on holiday and get sick - ever done that? It's your body, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to take a much-needed rest, and then, POW.

But anyway, despite all my incorrect diagnoses, I'm on the mend, today feeling about 90% better.

Which brings me to my point, that basically, I'm thankful.

I'm thankful for all the awesome people in my life. For my husband, who has been superstar husband / father over the past week. For my step-mother-in-law, who kept everything running smoothly while I was incapacitated. (This sounds like an award speech doesn't it?) For my in-laws, who took the boys sledding and fed them hot chocolate and watched movies for the day so that J and I could have a little peace and quiet. For my parents, though thousands of miles away, who offered me words of comfort and support over the phone. For wireless technology so that I could watch (and become hooked on) Mad Men from my bed.

And, most definitely, for ibuprofen.

So. How was your Christmas?

May Your Christmas be merry and your belly filled with cookies.

2010-12-24T13:40:00.000-07:00

Merry Christmas dear readers. I hope your holidays are happy, your bellies are stuffed, and your wishes fulfilled.

I'm sending this fleeting message from my bed, where I've been propped up for the past few days, fighting off a horrid virus that's invaded my head and caused my ears and throat to feel like they're on fire.

In lieu of anything coherent (give me a break, I'm incapacitated), and because I've been a bit cookie-obsessed these past few weeks, I bring you the best cookies I've found online this year.

Gingerbread Man Cookies

I've tried several different gingerbread recipes, and this is the best one I've come across. The cookies aren't too chewy or tough, and have a nice, light, spiced flavour too them.

(From allrecipes)

Ingredients

1/2 cup margarine
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup molasses
1 egg yolk
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Directions

In a large bowl, cream together the margarine and sugar until smooth. Stir in molasses and egg yolk. Combine the flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg; blend into the molasses mixture until smooth. Cover, and chill for at least one hour.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough out to 1/4 inch thickness. Cut into desired shapes with cookie cutters. Place cookies 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheets.
Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in the preheated oven, until firm. Remove from cookie sheets to cool on wire racks. Frost or decorate when cool.

Chocolate mint squares

These are a bit more fiddly to make, but taste really good - especially the mint buttercream icing, which I couldn't stop scooping straight from the bowl.

(From Joy of Baking)

Chocolate Mint Squares: Butter (or use a non stick cooking spray) a 9 x 9 inch (23 x 23 cm) pan.

Bottom Layer: In a saucepan over low heat, melt the butter. Stir in the sugar and cocoa powder and then gradually whisk in the beaten egg. Cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens (1 - 2 minutes). Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla extract, graham cracker crumbs, coconut, and chopped nuts. Press the mixture evenly into the prepared pan. Cover and refrigerate until firm (about an hour).

Buttercream: In your electric mixer (or with a hand mixer) cream the butter. Beat in the remaining ingredients. If desired, add a little green food coloring and beat until the filling is uniform in color. If the mixture is too thick to spread, add a little more milk. Spread the filling over the bottom layer, cover, and refrigerate until firm (about 30 minutes).

Chocolate Topping: In a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of simmering water, melt the chocolate and butter. Spread over the filling and refrigerate.

To Serve: To prevent the chocolate from cracking bring the squares to room temperature and then, using a sharp knife, cut into pieces.

Yield: Makes about 25 squares

Chocolate Mint Squares:

1/2 cup (1 stick) (113 grams) unsalted butter, room temperature
1/4 cup (50 grams) granulated white sugar
1/3 cup (30 grams) unsweetened cocoa

1 large egg, beaten

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

2 cups (200 grams) graham cracker crumbs

1 cup (65 grams) coconut (either sweetened or unsweetened)

1/2 cup (50 grams) walnuts or pecans, coarsely chopped

Buttercream:

1/4 cup (56 grams) unsalted butter, room temperature

2 - 3 tablespoons milk

2 tablespoons vanilla custard powder (Bird's) or vanilla pudding powder

1/2 teaspoon pure peppermint extract

2 cups (230 grams) powdered sugar (confectioners or icing) sugar

Green Food Coloring (optional)

Chocolate Topping:

4 ounces (115 grams) semisweet chocolate, chopped
1 tablespoon (14 grams) unsalted butter

Crescents (Mexican wedding cakes)

These are really easy to make, and taste delicious. They have a crumbly texture that's unique to other cookies.

(From the Food Network)

Ingredients

1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup confectioners’ sugar, plus more for coating baked cookies
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting hands
1 cup pecans, chopped into very small pieces

Directions

Preheat the oven to 275 degrees F. Line cookies sheets with parchment paper.

Using an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar at low speed until it is smooth. Beat in the vanilla. At low speed gradually add the flour. Mix in the pecans with a spatula. With floured hands, take out about 1 tablespoon of dough and shape into a crescent. Continue to dust hands with flour as you make more cookies. Place onto prepared cookie sheets. Bake for 40 minutes. When cool enough to handle but still warm, roll in additional confectioners' sugar. Cool on wire racks.

Toffee Squares

I came across this recipe on Epicurious, and was intrigued by the combination of toffee and toasted almonds. The end result was good.

Ingredients

Crust

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 large egg yolk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups all-purpose flour

Topping

7 to 8 ounces milk chocolate, broken into pieces, or 1 1/2 cups milk chocolate chips
1 cup chopped almonds, toasted

Preparation

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a 9-by-13-inch baking pan with parchment.

2. Prepare the crust. In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar on medium speed until light, about 2 minutes. Beat in the egg yolk, vanilla, and salt. On low speed, gradually beat in the flour just until mixed. The dough will be stiff. Pat the dough evenly over the bottom of the baking pan.

3. Bake in the center of the oven until pale gold on top, about 20 minutes.

4. Remove the pan from the oven and scatter the chocolate pieces evenly over the crust. Return the pan to the oven for 1 minute. Remove the pan again and, using a knife, spread the chocolate evenly over the crust. Sprinkle evenly with the almonds.

5. Let cool completely in the pan on a wire rack. Using a sharp knife, cut into small squares, then carefully remove from the pan with a small offset spatula or an icing spatula.

Sugar cookies with icing

Christmas isn't complete without good old fashioned sugar cookies, and it's always fun (or disastrous, depending on which way you look at it) to get the kids to help decorate them. I've been using this rolled sugar cookie recipe and icing recipe from allrecipes for the past few years, and they always turn out well.

(From allrecipes.com)

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups butter, softened
2 cups white sugar
4 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
5 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt

Directions

In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar until smooth. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Stir in the flour, baking powder, and salt. Cover, and chill dough for at least one hour (or overnight).
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C). Roll out dough on floured surface 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick. Cut into shapes with any cookie cutter. Place cookies 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheets.
Bake 6 to 8 minutes in preheated oven. Cool completely.

Sugar Cookie Icing

Ingredients

1 cup confectioners' sugar
2 teaspoons milk
2 teaspoons light corn syrup
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
assorted food coloring

Directions

In a small bowl, stir together confectioners' sugar and milk until smooth. Beat in corn syrup and almond extract until icing is smooth and glossy. If icing is too thick, add more corn syrup.
Divide into separate bowls, and add food colorings to each to desired intensity. Dip cookies, or paint them with a brush.

Chewy Molasses Spice Cookies

From Martha Stewart.

Ingredients

Makes 36

2 cups all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 large egg
1/4 cup molasses

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. In a shallow bowl, place 1/2 cup sugar; set aside.
With an electric mixer, beat butter and remaining cup of sugar until combined. Beat in egg and then molasses until combined. Reduce speed to low; gradually mix in dry ingredients, just until a dough forms.
Pinch off and roll dough into balls, each equal to 1 tablespoon. Roll balls in reserved sugar to coat.
Arrange balls on baking sheets, about 3 inches apart. Bake, one sheet at a time, until edges of cookies are just firm, 10 to 15 minutes (cookies can be baked two sheets at a time, but they will not crackle uniformly). Cool 1 minute on baking sheets; transfer to racks to cool completely. Store in an airtight container up to 4 days.

Christmas Nipple Cookies -- I mean, Peanut Blossom Cookies

From Joy of Baking.

Ingredients

1/2 cup (113 grams) unsalted butter, room temperature

3/4 cup (185 grams) peanut butter (smooth or crunchy)

1/3 cup (70 grams) light brown sugar

1/3 cup (65 grams) granulated white sugar

1 large egg

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

2 tablespoons milk

1 1/2 cups (195 grams) all purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

Coating:

1/3 cup (65 grams) granulated white sugar

Garnish:

48 milk chocolate Kisses, unwrapped

Directions

Line three baking sheets with parchment paper. Set aside.

In the bowl of your electric mixer (or with a hand mixer), beat the butter. Add the peanut butter and sugars and beat until light and fluffy (about 2 - 3 minutes). Add the egg and vanilla extract and beat to combine. Beat in the milk. In a separate bowl whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt. Add to the peanut butter mixture and beat until incorporated. Cover and chill the batter for about an hour, or until firm enough to roll into balls.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C) and place rack in the center of the oven.

Roll the batter into 1 inch (2.54) round balls. Place the granulated white sugar in a shallow bowl and roll each ball in the sugar. Place on the prepared baking sheet, spacing about 2 inches (5 cm) apart.

Bake the cookies for about 8 - 10 minutes, or until the cookies are lightly browned. Immediately upon removing the cookies from the oven, place a chocolate Kiss in the center of each cookie, pressing down until the cookie just starts to crack. Cool completely on a wire rack.

Makes about 4 dozen cookies.

Ho Ho Ho!

Traditional or electronic kids' books. Which are best?

2010-12-21T14:42:00.000-07:00

On Friday night I went with J to his work Christmas party. After swapping secret santa presents, embarrassing ourselves with band hero and testing out a few crantinis, he and his colleagues were presented with their Christmas gifts, ipads.

Admittedly, I was a bit aloof about the ipad. I was all, oh great, yay, looks nice, mm hmm, okay - with a slight eye roll. All the while wondering what the enormous deal was, as whoops and gasps filled the room. It seemed to me just like a larger version of the iphone.

I was wrong. Oh so wrong.

The ipad is all kinds of unimaginable awesomeness. I keep trying to steal it away to have a go myself, but it's pretty hard to steal when the thing is physically attached to the person you're trying to steal from. Ever since we've acquired the ipad, communication in our house has been disrupted. In order to get my husband's attention, I have to raise the decibel level of my voice, wave frantically, or tug at his sleeve.

We've had some of those "...so, I saw a pink elephant flying over the house earlier..." conversations too.

I can't blame him though. And the truth is, I'm jealous.

There are applications for everything: online newspapers, magazines, stores, recipes, TV guides and games. The screen is the perfect size to watch movies, read the entire front spread of an online newspaper, or look at a whole bunch of photographs at once.

Did I mention, it's awesome?

Some of the best applications I've seen so far are the children's stories. As well as being beautifully illustrated and narrated, the stories are interactive: in one you can shake a tree and see apples fall to the ground, or touch jingle bells to hear each individual jingle or touch a clown to help him cast toys around the room. If you tip the ipad one way or the other all the characters and objects fall as though gravity existed in this small, intelligent computer.

Of course, our kids are completely captivated by the interactive stories. They can participate in the adventures and have an actual impact on the way the tale unfolds.

It's a completely new concept to me - reading books like this, online, on a screen, with bits of the story moving a wobbling in an all-too realistic way. And I can't help but wonder if this will be the future of reading?

I hope not. I never got into the Kindle. I don't advocate those electronic kids' toys that teach reading and writing and spelling.I've never bought a leap frog pad thing, or downloaded an application from the Internet.

When it comes to learning to read and write, I'm firmly old school. I want my kids to learn the way I learned: with a pencil and a piece of paper and years of practice, and some good old fashioned paper books printed with real ink.

Like I said, I never got into the Kindle. I still prefer to hold a real book in my hands and turn the pages with my fingers, I like to see the print of the ink on paper. I still prefer to read my news on a broadsheet which, I know, is not the most environmentally friendly option, but that's the way I like it.

Having said all this, when I look at these ipad stories, with their interactive stories and their characters that come to life, I wonder how traditional books will be able compete. My generation is already Internet-obsessed, and I can only imagine the next generations will be more so.

Are we going to see a decline (or worse, an end) to the printed book?

How do you feel about your kids reading books on a screen as opposed to in printed format? Do you encourage it or hope they'll stick to the old fashioned way?

I used to like fashion.

2010-12-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

I used to like fashion. But these past few years, my desire to experiment with clothes has dwindled almost to the point of non-existence. My getting-dressed routine consists of throwing on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans - whichever are the most accessible at the time. If I'm feeling really creative, I'll put on a scarf or a pair of earrings. Whoop.

I was never stylish, but I used to enjoy playing with different styles and putting things together. I liked finding pretty things at markets and stores and it became almost like a hobby, collecting things.

I've no idea where most of those items even are now.

And then, this year, with things getting a little easier with the kids, I've found myself wanting to experiment again. I enjoy reading fashion blogs more than magazines - they're authenticity is far more intriguing to me than the professionally-styled photoshoots in their glossy pages.

I love Rebecca Woolf's Gone Style series. It's inspiring to see what everyday people (i.e. not celebrities) are doing with fashion, and how they make different pieces look good together that I would never even have considered.

Realistically, I wear about one tenth of what's in my wardrobe. Going through it yesterday, I discovered items stuffed right at the back and high up on the shelves, where I could hardly reach, entirely forgotten about. I pulled out a couple of items and tried them on. I felt suddenly inspired to experiment again, even if it was only with my dusty old stuff.

I put on this outfit, and took a picture, and as you can see, my son was "helping" me by chanting "oooooh mama!" and tugging on my skirt.

I felt kind of silly, experimenting, and the outfit was nothing special, but it was the first time, in a long time that I'd felt inspired. Unfortunately it didn't last long, because the tights were too, um, tight, and were cutting into me (they were from slimmer times), and the soles of the boots were too slippery for the snow outside. Eventually I returned to my jeans and t-shirt. Oh well.

But it was nice to play around for a while. Or even just to want to.

What being a parent has taught me about money.

2010-12-16T09:26:00.000-07:00

Aside from having a brand new baby to care for, one of the biggest adjustments to parenthood, has, for me, been the tightening of our financial belts.

Ours was the typical story. We graduated, then worked and lived in the city, single young earners. We were used to a healthy bank balance and never thought twice about eating at restaurants twice a week or booking expensive holidays on a whim. Conveniently, my job was located just down the road from a rather lovely shopping area, and at least once a week, I'd wander down there in search of a treat for myself.

We had no idea how fortunate we were at the time - to never have to worry about money, to never have to think about budgeting and cutting back. To be that free. And I'd never really been very good with money. Thankfully, J was. He'd previously helped me clear the hefty credit card balances I was lugging around when we'd met. He ensured we were putting money away into savings, paying our bills on time, and generally taking care of things.

We moved to Canada and basically continued with our double-income lifestyle. I remember waking up one weekend, about a year after we'd moved to Calgary, and suggesting we needed a bar table and stools for the kitchen, and within four hours, we'd scouted the city and purchased a set without even the blink of an eye. It was nothing to drop cash on purchases then.

Then, when I was about six months pregnant, I quit my job, three months earlier than planned, due to stress. I'd decided it was more important to have a healthy pregnancy that a healthy bank account. We were just going to have to make our adjustments earlier than anticipated.

We went down from two salaries to one, plus maternity benefits, which in Canada are quite generous and last one full year. But still, it was a shock. I realized we were going to have to drastically change our spending habits, our lifestyle. No more dinners out twice a week, no more weekly clothes purchases, no more splashing out on furniture.

I consulted a friend on how to economize. She advised me to start planning my dinners for the week ahead. To make grocery lists accordingly and stick to them when shopping. To buy in bulk. To cook in batches and store leftovers in the freezer. To never shop when I was hungry. To join coops and share the cost of buying products with a group.

Gradually, I got the hang of it. But not without a fair amount of anxiety. I was determined we were going to live within our means, and if that meant cutting back on almost everything, then so be it. It didn't always work, but we tried.

Occasionally I still needed to treat myself.

Then, this year we were faced with a whole array of unexpected expenses (why do they all seem to come at the same time?). I retrained, and there were school fees and books and supplies. Our car needed new breaks. Our dog needed vet visits for his newly developed cataracts. Etc., etc. You know - just life.

One of the hardest things about cutting back was the present-giving. We've had to be very conservative with the gifts we've given to family and friends. We've learned to be, let's say, creative, with our gifts. For Christmas, many family members simply receive photo calendars - now a yearly tradition.Charity giving has been temporarily slashed, too.

But, like any period in one's life that presents challenges, there's hope in the end. I've been working now since September, and though building a therapy practice is a slow process, it's beginning to happen. And it's hugely satisfying to me, to be able to contribute, to hold a pay cheque in my hand, to feel like I'm helping get us slowly back on track. (And also to start thinking about all those deliciously impractical things I'm going to buy for myself next year!)

Despite all the times I've cursed this financially-trying time, I'm thankful for it too. I've learned to understand and appreciate money in a way I never imagined. My relationship with it is changed for good. I'll never again take for granted the ability to afford groceries, pay bills and keep a roof over our heads. And perhaps the meal-planning, economist mentality will stay with me always, that's okay. Because I look forward to being better with my money from here on. And, more importantly teaching my kids how to be sensible with their money too.

Besides, I would really like to retire one day in the distant future, too.

How about you, readers, what has being a parent taught you about money?

Contradictions of Motherhood

2010-12-13T20:23:00.000-07:00

Neat Freak Vs. Chaos Keeper.
I've no idea when I became a neat freak. As a teenager my family would poke fun at me for hoarding empty tea cups in my bedroom and leaving plants to die in the corner. In my twenties I became a little more concerned with keeping my apartment clean and tidy. But, if you'd told me that I'd be vacuuming every single day, I'd have thought you were two figs short of a figgy pudding. Being a neat freak and having kids is... basically... lunacy. But I am. On a positive note, though, being a neat freak means I can eat more cookies because I'm constantly burning off calories with all the cleaning. Uh. Right...?

Food Lover Vs. Family Nutritionist.
I've mentioned a few (hundred) times, how much I love food. Cooking it, eating it, reading about it, staring at it with drool running down my chin, etc. But, when it comes to making healthy choices, I'm not so clever. It's like the rich foods cooked in half a block of butter and cream call out to me.... eat me I'm soooo tasty and you deserve me. Cooking Light magazine? Don't even dangle that thing near me. There's nothing yummy in there and you know it. When it comes to food, the only thing that goes in my favour is that we do eat a lot of fruit and vegetables (along with all the butter).

Independence Seeker vs. Primary Care Giver.
Until I started working again this year, I struggled with being home all the time. I was always seeking an out. At the weekend I'd leap at any opportunity to get out on my own. If anyone so much as murmured the word babysitting near me I'd pin them to the wall with masking tape and flee. Sometimes I'd lock myself in the bathroom for ten minutes just to hear my own solitary thoughts. Going back to school and starting a new job this year has helped me create a bit of balance again.

Internet Whore Vs. Dedicated Parent.
The Internet is a beautiful thing and at the same time an evil temptress. And like many people I've found myself drawn into its pretty, shiny, funny, fascinating, entertaining, time-wasting lure. So this year, I was ruthless. I cut back on Facebook and Twitter, and spent more time blogging and reading blogs (the important stuff).

Impatient Creature Vs. Teacher.
I'll just be honest, I have about as much patience as a Jack Russell with a treat dangling in front of it. I try, I try, and I try, to be a patient mother, but sometimes I'm not. It's why most of the time I clean up the toys myself at the end of the day, instead of patiently teaching the kids how to clean up and waiting for them to pick up each toy and put it away (writing this is making me impatient) (and also, do you know how many Lego pieces there are in our house? A lot.). And why I restlessly do things all day, without - you know - resting much. I need to do more yoga.

I think Alanis had it right when she sang...

*And what it all comes down to*
*Is that I haven't got it all figured out just yet*
*'Cause I've got one hand in my pocket*
*And the other one is giving the peace sign*

What are your contradictions?

Suburban mum spotted in trendy urban store buying sparkly reindeer brooch.

2010-12-10T13:48:00.000-07:00

I walked into Urban Outfitters, hoping to find a secret santa gift for a party I'm going to in a week's time.

"Hallo!" Yelled a young guy ("young guy") up a ladder.

"Hi." I said, pretending I didn't just jump a little.

It was 8:45 pm and the store was packed with droves of moody looking twenty-something shoppers browsing party clothes and expensive jeans. I wandered over to the toys. There were head massagers and pink Buddha statues and sock monkey wine warmers and Lego key chains and test tube shot glasses and indoor alien lights.

I picked up three different items and wandered around and around and around like a customer in a restaurant with too many choices on the menu. I couldn't decide on anything, and my winter coat was suffocating me and it was almost closing time.

Unable to choose, I put everything back and began to walk out of the store. On the way, I passed a cute little dress with a ruffled skirt, a row of graphic print t-shirts and a rack of scarfs. But I wasn't in the mood for clothes. I carried on toward the door.

There was nothing in this store for me tonight.

Although - wait! What was that? (I know how to create a suspenseful moment oh yes) On a stand in the corner of the store, was a small tray of ....... wait for it ....... CHRISTMAS BROOCHES. You know, those ones little old ladies wear on their cardigans, with little gems and sparkly lights? Yes. Those.

So drawn to them, was I, that I actually picked up a few, stroked them lovingly, and began the mental process of convincing myself I NEEDED a Christmas pin. They were kind of tacky in a fun, kitsch Christmas way - at least that's what I told myself. In the end I didn't buy one. But it was close.

* Who thinks I should go back and get it? * :-)

The truth is, what it comes down to, is this: I'm a suburban Mum who used to shop in Urban Outfitters but now prefers sparkly Christmas pins, and will soon own a whole collection that I'll store away each year in a special box specifically for holiday brooches, and I'll wear sweaters with snow flakes and reindeers (I already have my eye one - don't judge me), and cookie jars and poinsettias.

It's happening.

HALPS ME!

If you stare hard into a glitter-filled snow globe, you might find a little Christmas magic there.

2010-12-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

Every year I wait for that feeling to hit me - ahhhh, it's Christmas! You know, the one where all the real world stuff shrinks away into the background and all that's left is a warm, enchanting feeling of good things to come. And every year, the feeling comes later and later and is increasingly dwindled, until it's Christmas morning and only when I'm caught up in the excitement of tearing open presents, does it happen.

Each year I'm more wrapped up (so to speak) in commitments, obligations and responsibilities to find the time to stop and think about and enjoy it.

And it's not for want of trying. Our tree has been up in our living room for two weeks now, our lights strung up outside the house, I've written and sent most of my cards and even wrapped a few presents. And still, nothing.

It used to come easily. Almost anything would spark the feeling: listening to carolers, walking down a high street lit with Christmas lamps, watching a holiday movie, or even just wrapping presents with Baby It's Cold Outside playing in the background and a cup of cocoa by my side.

Now I have to work at the magic. And really, magic shouldn't be worked at.

Despite my attempts at surrounding myself with Christmas, I've felt not even a hint of the twinkly, round-as-a-bowl-full-of-jelly, magic stuff.

Until this afternoon.

This afternoon, I went into my son's preschool as the parent volunteer, and for the first time - which, really, is not bad considering it's only December 9th - experienced a little Christmas magic.

It might have been when I was helping my son's classmates paint Christmas bells with red and green glitter, or the way the jingling bells gave rise to a rambunctious rendition of jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way... Or it might have been the candy cane mouse tails. Or maybe it was when the kids sat in a circle and listed aloud their Christmas wishes.

(I watched closely when it came to my son. "I want a pontipine." He said. A what? His wishlist changes every day. First he wanted a car wash, then a race course, then a combine harvester. Now a pontipine. "A porcupine?" Asked the teacher, curiously. Obviously she's never had the pleasure of In The Night Garden.)

As I watched their excited little faces, eyes shining, innocent and full of marvel for this mysterious forthcoming event, I felt it. Magic. It was as though, through them, I could recall the feeling I'd been looking for.

When I was a kid, like most kids, I thought my parents shared the same excitement about Christmas as me. Now I know, though their magic had probably worn away as mine is now worn away, they were reliving some of the magic through me (and my brother), as I'm now reliving it through my kids.

How about you? How do you get into the spirit of the holidays?

Image from istockphoto.com

One fine day, seven years ago.

2010-12-07T08:48:00.000-07:00

Seven years ago today, I woke up in my parents' house and saw, out the corner of my eye, my dress - a great big shiny white vision of five kinds of fabric, hanging by the window. It was time to get married. I leapt out of bed like a six year old on Christmas morning and ran downstairs. My Mum had prepared my favourite breakfast, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on toast.

My hairdresser turned up at ten o'clock, and to her horror (and mine) I told her I didn't like my hair when she was finished. It was too fru-fru, curly, fancy, bouncy, bundled up on my head. She had to take it all apart and try to fix it. And really it was my fault because I should have done the trial-hair-run like everyone told me.

By midday my hair was sort of mended and I scurried around my parents' house wrestling with my enormous dress and getting ready.

When I arrived at the hotel, I was so nervous I could hardly breathe. That, and my dress was squeezing the air out of my lungs. But I took my Dad's arm, and breathed as we walked up the aisle to J who was waiting there for me.

After we'd said our vows, we slipped away from the party for a few moments and took a drive around the Suffolk countryside. It was cold and crisp and a frost hung in the air and on the ground. It was one of my favourite parts of the day.

It went by fast, that day. We chatted with friends and family, posed for thousands photos, ate dinner and pudding and cake and drank and danced into the evening.

And as everyone left to go home, we retreated to our suite to open presents by the fire and finish our champagne.

It was one of those days I wish I could revisit for just a second, to take in some of that magic again. So many great moments, so many laughs, so much love.

It was a fine day, and it was a sign of things to come.

Happy Anniversary sweetie.

How To Survive The Winter: A Guide For Europeans.

2010-12-05T22:06:00.002-07:00

Coping with winter is serious business, so I've discovered these past five years. When I moved to ~~the Arctic~~ Canada, I really had no idea how to deal with it. I spent my first winter attempting to stay warm, drive safely and basically, survive, while fellow Calgarians pointed and laughed at me as I fell face-flat in the white slush, the poor, unsuspecting Brit. Okay not really, but they weren't much help so they might as well have been pointing and laughing.

Unless you've been living in an igloo for the past week, you'll have seen on the news that unusual weather conditions have hit parts of Europe. My brother, who lives in Surrey, England, was snowed into his apartment. My Mum sent me photographs of her garden in Eastbourne covered in eight inches of snow. A friend in West Sussex posted pictures well over a foot of snow outside her house, her kids happily rolling around in it.

Seeing how the weather has affected England - schools have shut, public transport stopped running temporarily, businesses closed - it puts into perspective how manageable it is here, where the snow ploughs are out clearing the roads before we even wake up for work, our snow shovels are kept within reach, our winter clothes at the ready.

So, being now a little better equipped to dealing with this weather, I thought I'd share a few tips with those folks losing their minds and their nose hairs in these unexpected weather conditions across the pond.

1. Drive safely.
Obviously it doesn't help if the roads haven't been ploughed before you leave in your car. In some instances, if it's really bad, I'd say don't bother going out at all. But if you dohave to drive:
- keep your distance from other cars. Very important because if you do start to slide, or need to break quickly, you want to avoid the car in front.
- drive slower than usual. It's harder to control the car and come to a stop if you're driving too fast.
- if you loose control of the steering, take your foot off the break, off the accelerator, and continue steering toward the direction you want to go, then ease back onto the break slowly.

- always keep at least half a tank of gas (petrol) in your car, in case you break down and need to keep the car running for warmth.
- keep a charged phone with you at all times.

2. Keep an emergency kit in your car, including:

- snack bars
- water
- gravel (to put behind your wheels if you get stuck in deep snow)
- several heavy blankets
- a large candle
- matches
- emergency phone numbers
- a flashlight
- a shovel

3. Get proper cold weather clothes.
Get thee some long johns. Oh yes I did say it. They'll keep your legs warm if you have to walk anywhere in the cold. And thermal socks. And I always find keeping your head and hands covered is very important - a good hat and gloves.A down coat. Snow boots with deep tread. And throw in a completely unnecessary fur vest for good measure.

Image from Keela.co.uk

4. Look after your skin.
I notice changes in my skin almost immediately when the weather turns cold here. My hands are very dry and begin to crack and even break out in rashes during winter. Invest in a good hand cream, or, if it's very bad, smear your hands in Vaseline before bedtime, and wear gloves overnight. The same goes for the skin all over your body - over the winter it's bound to be drier and itchier. I usually switch to a cocoa or shea butter and a heavier face moisturiser.

5. Remember the GOOD NEWS.
Whatever activity you do in cold weather burns more calories than in regular weather, because your body is having to work harder to stay warm. Yay! See? There is an up side to the cold and the snow. It means you can indulge in an extra ~~ten~~ Christmas cookies and an extra glass of wine.

Other people living in cold climates: what would be your tips for people dealing with harsh winter weather conditions for the first time?

It's my Birthday and I want Three Wishes and a Pony.

2010-12-02T00:01:00.002-07:00

It's my birthday! Today! I'm thirty two years old! And I'm going to use exclamation marks all day!

On this day, thirty two years ago, I was born in a hospital in London, and there began the story of my life.... Oh gawd no, I'm not really going to bore you with the details of my life story. Not today anyway. But here's a cute baby picture for good measure.

Instead, I'd like to send three wishes out to the universe. And, as much as I'd like to see world peace, an end to poverty and warm beds for all fellow arctic dwellers over these frosty winter months, today my wishes are purely selfish.

Wish #1: These past few weeks (touching wood) we've seen a glimmer of hope in the sleeping-through-the-night department. Please, universe, let this be the start of many, many long, uninterrupted nights of sleep over the coming year.

Wish #2: Universe, you know me and my fondness for rich food and wine. Well, it's December, and December officially marks the beginning of my month-long indulgence fest. I try to be good most of the year, honest I do, but in this month of merriness, I'd like to enjoy the highly fattening cheeses, cookies, cakes and wine, without gaining fifty pounds. And since I just bought myself a new pair of jeans and since it would be awesome if they still fit me in January, do you think you could do me this one small favour and magically erase the calories this one time?

Wish #3: A birthday cake. Not just any cake, but one like this one my Mum used to make me as a girl.

Kthnxbai. xox

Cheer up Thomas, you miserable git.

2010-11-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

My kids love Thomas the Tank Engine. Especially my younger son.

"ToTo!" He cries, whenever he sees the blue train, which is often, because Thomas-branded merchandise is everywhere. We can't go out, it seems, without passing a Thomas book, some toxic bubble bath, a pair of pajamas or a toy.

So when I offered the boys the chance to rent one movie each from the library last week, Oliver naturally went for Thomas.

I put the DVD on so that I could get dinner ready. Not paying attention, I caught the odd line from the show here and there. After a while, all I could hear was a bunch of whining, self-pitying trains, constantly complaining about something or other.

"Toby wasn't very happy because he didn't feel like an important train!"

"Gordon was grumpy because he wanted to go a different way but the other trains didn't want to go with him!"

"Percy was angry because no one was listening to him!"

And so on. It was like this, all the way through the show. Bloody hell. It was like watching a conversation between Simon Cowell, Grumpy the dwarf and Scrooge.

I don't remember Thomas and his pals being such a bunch of bad-tempered grouches, having watched the show as a kid.

But maybe it's because now I'm used to modern kids' shows like Dora the Explorer and Max and Ruby (shudder) where everything is super-positive and super-fun and super-awesome all the time and the messages are all positive and nothing is negative. Or maybe it's because North American kids' shows are more bright and cheery than English kids' shows?

Some kids' shows are so happy-clappy it's practically unbearable. If you've ever watched an episode of Ni Hao Kai-Lan, you'll know what I'm talking about. She is ALL ABOUT the positive messages, forever turning a negative situation into a positive one.

Which is equally irritating. I'm not sure what's worse: pouty, gloomy trains or hyper cheerful, slightly preachy Japanese cartoon girls.

Maybe Ni Hao Kai-Lan should get together with Thomas and scatter some of her euphoria on him.

What do you think? Have kids' shows have changed much since you were a child?

Where I'm from, people don't stand on the escalator, they run down it.

2010-11-28T21:23:00.000-07:00

I'm officially sick of Christmas shopping. And it's not even December. How is this possible?

I remember when speed-walking through stores on December 24th in a sweaty panic was practically a tradition for me. It wasn't truly Christmas unless I was sprinting from John Lewis to Selfridges on Christmas Eve, grabbing last-minute gifts and wedging myself onto a packed train with ten shopping bags beside other equally loaded-down shoppers.

It must be to do with being a parent. Being organized isn't a fantasy any more - it's a necessity. So I prepare. I make lists in advance and I start early. And in October and the first part of November I genuinely enjoy Christmas shopping. I feel ahead of the game as I wander around smugly ticking things off my list all the while thinking about how organized I am and how I'm going to cleverly avoid the last-minute crowds.

Only, I'm not going to avoid the last minute crowds at all, because despite being organized since October, the list of Christmas things to do and buy never ends. Ever.

And now, holiday shopping madness is in full swing in the shops, the malls and even the grocery stores. The hottest kids' toys, the best Christmas decorations and the coolest outfits are flying, FLYING I tell you, off the shelves. People are getting that twitchy-holiday-chaos-irritation look about them - the one it would serve you well to stay away from. Especially in parking lots.

And all this holiday madness is bringing out the Londoner in me. I cannot wait for a second. I cannot stand still. I cannot walk at a normal pace - I have to half-walk, half-run everywhere. I've rediscovered my spidey senses - scoping out space in a crowd, a gap to fit through, the nearest exit, the fastest route.

Last week at the mall (for the second time that week) (and LAST time for real) (okay maybe not really the last time but it's a nice idea) I squeezed past a man standing on the escalator and rushed down the steps, accidentally brushing my bags against his. I distinctly sensed him look at me, as if walking down the escalator was weird or something.

I almost thought I heard him mutter "slow down!". Or maybe it was my imagination. And in my imagination I responded "Where I'm from it's okay to be in a hurry.". Because in London it's okay - more than okay, to brush past people on an escalator, to scurry down the steps as though your urgency was justified. Everyone was in a rush, and it was okay.

Shopping for the holidays has turned me back into an impatient Londoner. And maybe, once the shopping season is done with, I'll slow down. Maybe I'll stop running down escalators past unwitting patrons and charging around as though I was training for speed-walking championships.

Or maybe the Londoner in me will always be in a rush.

How about you? How does Christmas shopping affect you?

They'll never find their Christmas gifts!

2010-11-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

When I was about five, I discovered that by poking a tiny little hole in the corner of a wrapped gift under the tree, I could figure out that the odd shaped package was, in fact, the True Heart Care Bear I'd been wanting. All without making it obvious I'd found out.

And because I was a nosy little bugger, it became a kind of tradition for me to hunt down my presents each year, and try to figure out what they were, either by poking a hole in the wrapping, or by inspecting the outside of the package.

One year, I actually unwrapped each one of my gifts, one by one, carefully peeling the tape off the wrapping paper to see exactly what was underneath. I know, it's awful and terrible. I am a terrible person.

You'd think all that sneaky present peaking would have ruined the fun of opening the presents. Bizarrely, it didn't.

My parents (here's where I try to redeem myself) had a knack for always getting me the perfect gifts, and so I was never disappointed. If anything, the sneaky peaking seemed to heighten the thrill of the forthcoming day.

Anyway, remembering this leads me to think that, since my kids are - you know - my kids, and since they may have inherited some of my personalities traits, I suspect that they too, when they're older, might try to hunt down their presents before the big day.

Which? No WAY dudes. Your mother will outdo you every time, mark my words.

So adamant am I, that my kids will not find their presents in the manner I did as a child, that I even considered building a secret compartment into our basement when we were renovating a few years ago, specifically for this reason. Unfortunately, due to time and budget constraints, the secret compartment never materialized (at least I don't think it did!).

And so, in lieu of a secret compartment, we've unearthed the next best thing. In the last unrenovated room in the house, in the corner of the utility room, with a pile of tools and miscellaneous objects in it, as inconspicuous as a candy cane on a Christmas tree: the old, non-working refrigerator.

And now I think I deserve the evil laugh. Yes?

Mwahahahahahahahahahaha.

That's better.

Where do you hide your kids presents?

The photographs tell a different story.

2010-11-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

"We should take the kids and Bongo out for a walk." Said J.

I tried to do my best I'm invisible impression by sinking as far into the back of the sofa as possible and pulling a blanket over me.

"Really? Is that a good idea?"

I looked out and saw roads, roofs and trees covered in what looked like thirty inches of snow and more falling from the sky.

"If we don't go out when it's -14, we'll never go out when it's -25."

He made a good point, but still, not going out was tempting. I thought about whether staying inside for the next four months - just riding it out in our pajamas with mugs of hot chocolate and movies - would really be such a bad thing.

Nevertheless, we got ready to go out, bundling the kids up in so many layers it was difficult to tell whether there were still people under there. Oliver, who could hardly move, lay on the kitchen floor as though making a snow angel, arms and legs flapping helplessly.

About twenty five minutes after we left the house, we returned, unable to venture any further into the deep snow with the kids, who were constantly falling over, face-forward in the snow, begging to be carried, and losing gloves every second. Bongo was happy - he merrily rolled in the snow, covering his fur and whiskers in white sprinkles.

Back inside, sweating and a little screwy from the whole kerfuffle, there's a slight chance I might have muttered something along the lines of "I'm NEVER bloody going out for a walk AGAIN!".

Me = Grinch.

But, later, when we were settled down for the evening, I was looking back through the pictures I'd taken of our walk. And there it was, the miracle of photographs. Instead of all the turmoil - all the getting clothes on and off, wiping runny noses, slips and falls, sweating, etc., I saw a different story: two happy little boys, exploring in the snow, making snowballs, giggling, playing, enjoying it. And I'll bet in a year's time, or ten year's time, that's all I'll remember.

To Blog is to Err.

2010-11-18T16:39:00.003-07:00

Originally this post was going to be about the mistakes I made as a new blogger and how I'd advise others to avoid making those same mistakes. For instance, I once asked a blogger I barely knew to add me to her blogroll. (In my defense, it did say "If I've left you off this list please let me know." and I wasn't on there! Duh.)

But as I was writing out my list of mistakes I realized they weren't really mistakes - rather, things that happen as a natural course of beginner blogging. Then I began looking around to see what other people had to say on the matter, and, of course, came across approximately thirty million articles titled things like "common blogging mistakes".

The more I read about these so-called blogging mistakes, the more I didn't agree with (all of) them. And maybe they're aimed more at business blogs than parenting blogs, but for me, anyway, they don't all add up.

Here are a few "common blogging mistakes" that I've noticed seem to pop up repeatedly in different places.

Don't post too little or too often.
My view is, as long as you're posting once or twice a week, and not just randomly once every few months (a guaranteed way to lose readers), there's no need to post every single day. Of course, if you want to post every day then by all means, do it. I blog two to three times a week, and that, in itself, is quite a time commitment.

You must go forth and spend wads of cash making your blog pretty or be doomed.
I like a nice looking blog, of course, and I definitely think good design and typography enhances the overall experience, but beauty isn't the principal thing for me - content is. One of my favourite bloggers is Mom 101, and though hers isn't the flashiest, prettiest blog on the block (sorry Liz), it's her thought-provoking content and writing that keeps me coming back for more.

If you're serious about blogging you should ditch Blogger and move to WordPress.

I've been back and forth about this and I'm still undecided. I research things a lot before I make these kinds of decisions, and honestly? I've yet to see the true benefit of moving my blog to WordPress. Yes, I understand WordPress provides more flexibility in terms of design, format, typography, etc. And yes, I get that WordPress is superior when it comes to SEO. But is it really better for me? For my little parenting blog? Not convinced.

What do you mean you're not self-hosted?
I do plan on buying my domain name in the near future, but, I don't think it's essential. Sure, if the purpose of your blog is to generate an income, then, yes, a self-hosted domain is probably the way to go. For a parenting blog like mine? While it does look more professional, I'm not sure that having the .blogspot extension is really harming my blog at the moment.

You're not commenting on enough other blogs.
The first year I started blogging, I was determined to get around to every single blog in my reader, whether or not I really enjoyed reading it. It was a tiresome waste of energy. Now? I read the blogs I like, end of story. And oh, it's nice to have finally realized that it's okay to do so.

You need to be more useful to your audience.
Useful schmuseful. There are tons of articles out there on how it's essential bloggers make themselves useful to their audience. I suppose, in a way, it's true. (Another of my favourite bloggers is Design Mom - she finds the most beautifully designed things and writes about them on her blog.) But most of the blogs I read - you know what they offer me? Sweet Fanny Adams. (What? You've never heard that expression?) Nilly noo. (Sorry, I just made that one up). Nothing. I read their amusing, touching, sometimes sad, sometimes hilarious stories about their lives. And that is all.

Don't jump on the bandwagon.
Why not? I like jumping on the bandwagon, and I like reading what other bloggers have to say when they jump on the bandwagon too. Opinion posts are often the most interesting and draw passionate discussions. Jump, I say, jump.

You're not selling yourself hard enough.
If I want to sell myself I'll strap a sandwich board to myself and go down to the local market, thank you. I write my blog because I enjoy writing and I like the blogging community I've found myself a part of. Should there be an opportunity to earn money down the line or sample a product I love? I'm not going to say no, (I got bills to pay too y'know) but it's not why I started this thing.

One of the biggest mistakes a blogger can make, in my humble opinion, is spending too much time worrying about all these "mistakes" and trying to figure out the right thing to do rather than just being who they are and doing what feels right to them. Hey, if you want to fill your blog with widgets and ads, I'm not going to desert you. If you want to talk about something that's already been hashed to death? Okay. Fine. If the only thing you offer me is a giggle with my morning coffee? I'm more than good with that.

What about you? What are your thoughts on these blogging"mistakes"?

S'now Joke

2010-11-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

Before I moved to Calgary I received a number of stern warnings (mostly from friends and family who were trying, not very subtly, to dissuade me from moving here) about the harsh weather conditions of Alberta. Comments like "Do you know how cold it gets there?" and "How are you going to survive?" were bandied about only part-jokingly.

And I was all "Oh hahaha don't be ridiculous! How bad can it be? People live there and they're perfectly fine.".

I pictured cozy nights in front of a roaring fireplace, gazing out at the snowstorm from inside, hot chocolate in hand, cashmere throw over my legs. I pictured wool scarves and mittens and fur trimmed vests on a ski hill and dog-sled rides in the moonlight.

So maybe the dog-sled rides were a bit too far, but whatever. It was going to be fine, just fine.

The first winter here, I was in for a shock. One morning in October I stepped outside and straight into a foot of snow (more than England typically sees in a whole year). It was like someone had gone overboard with the white foam spray on the entire world.

By January, temperatures had dipped to horrific proportions of somewhere in the minus twenty- to thirty-degree range. We'd recently adopted our dog, Bongo, and I was determined to continue with our daily dog walks, so I traipsed out into the dog park, naively wearing my jeans and trainers and semi-winter coat. And almost died of frost bite and hypothermia and other cold diseases.

Finally someone showed me the ways of the arctic people: I was introduced to Sorrel snow shoes and goose down coats and, to my horror, long johns. Yes, long johns, under everything. Sexy, slinky long johns that cling so tight they make your legs itch like a bastard.

I quickly discovered that small things like nose hairs freezing within seconds of being outside and fingers turning blue from cold were just, you know, normal every day occurrences. Not things to worry, complain, or throw tantrums about, according to Calgary folk. Around this neck of the woods, you get on with it. Never mind the cold, the snow, the frozen nose hairs and the fingers almost gangrenous from frost bite.

My parents came out to Calgary to visit, the year after I moved here, during the coldest of the winter months. And basically, they were horrified. I tried to put on a brave face and show them "Ha, see, I can do this! This? Snow? This is nothing. I will even wear my flip flops because I am a tough Canadian now!" And then I quietly locked myself in the bathroom and wept, remembering how manageable the English winters really were.

Me with my husband and father, seven months after moving to Calgary,

showing how magnificent! the snow really was (Lake Louise).

For me, one of the worst things about the snow was the driving. Even with winter tires, I was sliding around like a deer on ice, terrified of crashing into other motorists or veering into bus shelters. But, not to be put off, I enrolled myself on a winter driving course and learned the proper way to handle winter driving conditions. And things really started to look up when they let me drive out on an ice field and do a handbreak turn. Awesomeness.

After a few years I got used to the snow, kind of, and things were relatively normal again.

Until I had kids.

And then it wasn't the driving that I dreaded, nor was it the fear of freezing my face off, but the fear of going out with the kids, in the minus-ridiculousness temperatures.

Because, as anyone with young kids will attest, preparing for an outing with little ones during winter is about as simple as strapping a zebra and four goats to an elephant.

First there are the snow pants, which go over the regular pants, then the coats, then the hats, the mittens, the boots. Did I leave anything out? And after all the dressing is done, there's hardly a child left to be seen under all the layers.

But, like I said, I'm tough to this now. Right? And I shall not be deterred by a little snow. I shall go forth and brave the cold, carry on with my life as normal, I shall not transfer my hatred of winter to my sons. I shall find the bright side to this cold, slushy nightmare.

Insert smiley face here.

How about you? How do you cope with bitterly cold temperatures?

People from places like Florida need not reply. Seriously, if you still want to be friends.

There's No Place Like Home.

2010-11-15T12:29:00.000-07:00

Dorothy was definitely onto something when she clicked her heels together and uttered those words.

I've never really considered myself a homebody. Even the few years I was at home with the kids all the time, even then. Instead of enjoying it, I was always preoccupied with all the things the house demanded of me. I couldn't sit still for a minute without eyeing a ball of dust in the corner or a pile of things needing to be put away. Damn housework.

Sidenote: If I had a pair of those sparkly red shoes that granted wishes? I'd wish for a team of cleaners to come to my house every day for an hour.

Working away from the house a few times a week has given me a bit of perspective.

On Friday I left the house for work at two in the afternoon and returned, somewhat worn and depleted, at nine in the evening. The moment I stepped through the door, I felt enormous relief to be back in my own house. I suddenly appreciated it like never before. Without even taking off my coat, I went to the sofa and curled up there. I was simply happy to be home.

I was like Dorothy, only with scrubs and sneakers instead of a blue gingham dress and ruby slippers.

Looking at my house when I come home from work is like looking at someone else's house. I'm not scrutinizing the crayon marks on the wall or the scratches on the floor. Instead I'm looking at the house as a whole, seeing the colours we picked out together five years ago, the things we collected over the years, the way we've made our house a home.

Of course, that lasts about two minutes, and then I start with my finicky ways again. Still, it's good to see things from a different angle for a change.

My Top Ten Christmas Books for Kids 2010.

2010-11-11T08:14:00.000-07:00

Is it too early to talk about Christmas? Well if it is, I apologize. I'm already well into the spirit of things this year, with half my shopping done, lists made, food ideas swimming around my head, etc.

As usual, books are prominent on my Christmas shopping list - books for everyone. Here are a few of my favourite books about Christmas. I'll be doing another post on the kids' books I'll be giving as gifts for Christmas soon too.

Olive The Other Reindeer by J.otto Seibold and Vivian Walsh.
I bought this special edition of the 1997 classic a few years ago for my kids, and it's become a clear favourite at our house. It's a charming little story about a dog who thinks he's a reindeer. This edition is pop-up, and inside, the book is very pretty.

That's not my Santa... by Fiona Watt.
I just bought this one for my kids, not because I love it, but because they do. We've read it over and over and over already... I think it's something about the touchy-feely fabrics inside.

How the Grinch Stole Christmas! By Dr. Seuss.
A classic tale of grinch hates Christmas, grinch tries to destroy Christmas, grinch discovers Christmas is not so bad after all. And the hard cover book has this amazing shiny red cover, and that's enough for me.

The Nightmare Before Christmas by Tim Burton.
A creepy tale of Christmas that's not even remotely suitable for my kids yet. Brilliant.

The Twelve Dogs of Christmas by Emma Kragen.

Don't judge me, but I like this. It's like the twelve days of Christmas! But with dogs! Get it?!?!

The Snowman by Raymond Briggs.

Probably one of the only books with no words that I enjoy. A sweet tale about a boy who builds a snowman, sees it come to life and goes off with the him on a magical adventure.

A Charlie Brown Christmas by Charles M. Schultz.

This clothbound edition of the classic Charlie Brown story brings back memories. And it's just a really nice book.

Christmas Cookies by Amy Krouse Rosenthal.

Asweet (pun intended) book with pretty water colour illustrations, that uses the concept of baking cookies to teach kids the meaning of vocabulary such as "tradition" and "hope".

It's Christmas, David by David Shannon.

This is new this year, about a naughty little boy who can't wait for Christmas and tries to sneak a peak at his presents and gets into all kinds of mischief.

The Night Before Christmas by Clement C. Moore.

This book - this exact copy, is, to me, pure magic. I've been reading this (or having it read to me) for as long as I can remember on Christmas Eve. Now I'm making it a tradition for my kids. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without it.

What about you? What are your favourite Christmas books?

My dog has learned how to slam his dog door.

2010-11-09T12:07:00.000-07:00

This is Bongo. Part Australian Shepherd, part Border Collie, part something else, we're not sure.

He is, in no uncertain terms, pissed off.

He's taking a sabbatical.

To reflect upon the fact that his once-perfect life has been replaced by a place of sticky-fingered torment, flying missiles, and cacophonous yelling and screaming.

It's not always easy, being him.

See this? This is Bongo's water bowl.

It's suspiciously orange. I think someone might have dropped a popsicle in there.

It's all a bit much to take.

And then last night, I heard it. As my toddler woke up crying for the second time, Bongo took off out the dog door, slamming it on the way.

Don't ask me how he managed it, but he did.

"Did you hear that?" I asked J who was previously asleep. "Bongo just slammed the dog door. He SLAMMED it. He's definitely pissed off."

And so it is.

It's his birthday soon. Maybe I should do something nice for him...