Telling It With Photos

This poor speck of Web space has been neglected for far too long. It would be much too difficult to dish out all that has gone on in written form, so I'll let these pictures do most of the talking.

1) We have said our last goodbyes to Jon's (in)famous heart-shaped tub. It was never installed, never soaked in. But it has found a better place, somewhere in a junkyard in east-end Montreal. I felt a little like Jack's mom when Jon came back to reveal what he got for his trade. No, we didn't get a handful of beans. But we did get this practical little number:



Marshall loves his dad's new toy. For a little boy who used to be scared to death of the vacuum cleaner, he has really taken a shining to anything with a motor (AND he has since made friends with our Dyson handy vac, which I intend to take full advantage of as the years progress, if I have my way...) Jon's bike is one of Marshall's few joys these days, which leads me to my next point:

2) Terrible Two's, are you kidding?! My boy has started his diva antics at the tender age of 18 months! One minute, he's happy as can be. One wrong move from Mommy, and he flops himself belly-first on the floor, arms wriggling, tears streaming, head banging against the kitchen linoleum. It's like living with a pint-sized soap opera A-lister! Getting ready for day care has become an Olympic sport. We can charge people money to watch us entertain our son at suppertime to coax him into eating his food. It's one heck of a show. The other night, for example, he flat-out refused to eat the slice of cake we got him as a treat. But he didn't want us to take it off the table. We tried everything: the airplane technique, letting him feed himself, even giving him a larger slice ("Maybe he wants a bigger piece," Jon suggested). Thirty minutes later, when I finally cleared the table, he politely nodded to the cake, smiled and said, "Yeah?" and proceeded to eat the entire slice on his own in two minutes flat.



These two news items lead up to our biggest news of all:

3) We're having another baby! We got a new bike, our toddler is a little hell-raiser, and We_Are_Having_Another_Baby. This wasn't entirely a surprise. We want Marshall to be a big brother to another little Dukeshire. I guess, as with many things in life, the sobering thought strikes me every now and then like a bolt of lightning to my brain: Have we bitten off more than we can chew? But I remind myself that people have babies every day. People have multiple babies every day! I tell myself that we can manage. Lucky for us, we know what we are getting ourselves into. Before we get too used to entire nights of uninterrupted sleep, we thought we'd get cracking on another kid. Estimated time of arrival: October 27. Both Marshall and Jon are also October babies, which will make choosing Mother's Day jewellery in the future all the easier. Thank God I like opal.



We got a sneak peek at new baby, who we are referring to as "Beanie" (Marshall was "Weenie"), 10 weeks into our pregnancy. Jon and I went in for our first appointment, and Beanie was playing hide-and-seek with the nurse's doppler when it was time to hear the heartbeat. Luckily, our doctor's office is located in the hospital, so we made a quick detour to radiology to make sure everything was in working order. This is what we saw. Baby is A-OK. Doesn't it look comfy in there? My mom rolled her eyes a little when I said it looked like the baby was wearing a halo. "It's the amniotic sac!" she replied. Jon says the baby has my nose. He also says the baby is wearing an afro, so I take anything he says with a grain of salt.

If we do the math, it appears that Beanie was conceived around the same time that my grandmother passed away. I don't know what lies ahead of us after our final days, but I take comfort in believing that a spirit can carry on.



Recently, I framed this photo and put it in Marshall's room, which will soon be Beanie's room. It's of my Granny Joan and Marshall at six or seven weeks of age. It's my favourite snapshot of the two of them. When Marshall and I read a story, or when I rock him for a couple of minutes before bedtime, I can't help but glance up at that photo. I also take comfort in believing that an angel can watch over her loved ones. And my Gran, who had the most exquisite collection of angels, is most definitely the most exquisite angel, too.

Lockout

This morning was a bit of a whirlwind. I had to tackle some work today, so I was getting Marshall ready for daycare. Off with the dirty diaper and PJs! On with the shirt and pants! In with breakfast! Let's brush our teeth! Prepare Marshall's diaper bag! Wrestle him into his snowsuit! Scramble into my coat and runners! Lock the doors! Snap Marshall in his car seat! Start the car! Get out the garage door! Push the button and watch the door close behind us!

Here we go!

I saw the Hydro-Québec truck on the street on the way to the daycare, but didn't think much of it. It was only after I stripped off Marshall's snowsuit and kissed him goodbye, when the power zapped off, did I remember last week's automated message from the power company: "Please note that your power will be shut off from 8:30 to 10:30 a.m. for scheduled maintenance."

Ohhhh nooooo. Am I locked out?

I rushed home, relieved to see a few porch lights on as I rolled down the street. Could the power still be on at my house? I pulled in the driveway, mashed my finger repeatedly on the garage door remote. No dice.

I vividly recalled locking the doors before leaving, but I thought, Maybe, just maybe, I just imagined it. I clambered up the stairs to the front door and jiggled the doorknob. Locked.

I scaled the snowed-over steps to the backyard and hoisted myself up over the back gate, remembering how inflexible my legs are. I walked carefully through the backyard, avoiding the dog-doo mines. I tried the patio door. Locked, too. The dog was going berserk inside. "It's just me!" I yelled at him. I considered teaching him how to flip up the lock on the sliding door. That would be a way to kill time, I guessed.

I tried the basement bathroom window for the hell of it, wondering how I'd be able to wedge my body through the small opening. One pane slid easily; the other three were locked. Take that, burglars! Take that, Amy!

I trudged back to the gate, hauling my body over the fence once more. I saw my neighbour reading the paper next door. I prayed she didn't see me teetering unladylike on the gate. I headed back to the front of the house.

What to do? What to do?

I didn't want to take the car anymore. It had made a funny noise earlier that morning and I wanted Jon to check it out (too dangerous for ME, but my husband can drive it!). So, I set off on foot to the only shopping mall in town. I use the term "mall" loosely. You can count the number of stores on a hand-and-a-half. On the way, I felt the crispy ends of my ponytail, remembering that my last haircut was 10 long months ago.

I made a beeline to the hair salon. It was open! Hooray! And they had room for me this morning! Double hooray! I quickly explained that I was locked out the house and apologized for my drab garb. After all, I had intended to come home and work. "Thankfully, I brushed my teeth before leaving the house!" I confessed. The receptionist laughed worriedly.

I was a little surprised to be paired up with a male hairdresser. Don't get me wrong. I lived in the city for close to a decade and have had my hair cut by guys before. I just don't recall seeing a man in our quaint little hair salon--ever!

"How long have you been working here?" I asked him curiously.

"Since November," he replied.

"I don't ever remember seeing a male hairdresser here," I said incredulously. "Do some women seem surprised?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "Some people are."

My comment must have rubbed him the wrong way, because I have never had such a quiet haircut. But, HEY! I am the mother of a toddler. I didn't mind the silence.

"I really want to remove the damaged ends," I said, "But if you want to get creative and add more layers, go ahead!" I said, flashing a big, encouraging smile.

He snorted.

Okay.

I observed the leopard-print dye job in the young hairdresser's close-cropped hair. He sniffled repeatedly as he snipped off the dead ends. The mother in me wanted to snatch a crumpled tissue from my pocket and give his nose a dab.

I finally saw him smile when I handed him a tip.

Thirty-five dollars and a fluffy new 'do later, I pulled on my coat and asked what time it was.

"Ten-oh-three," he replied.

Not bad, I thought. The lockout is almost over!

I headed back home, grateful that the sun was warming up the street. As I turned the corner, I saw the Hydro truck heading out of the neighbourhood. That put a spring in my step! I hurried home. I gave the garage door opener another try and breathed a sigh of relief. I'm in!

So, it wasn't the end of the world. I found out my house isn't easy to break into. I got some fresh air. AND I got a new haircut to boot... but I guess I should find that handy house key.

And now, well, it's time for me to put my nose back to the grindstone... after a cup of hot cocoa.

Long-term Good, Short-term Struggle

I waited until Valentine's Day was over to break my son's heart.

A few weeks ago, I put my foot down in the name of sleep. Marshall is almost seventeen months old now. That's nearing toddlerhood! Until recently, he depended on me to rock him to sleep. And often, the simple act of gently laying my sleeping boy onto his crib mattress would wake him in a fit of hysterics. He'd leap back up like a possessed clown-shaped bop bag, screams and tears and arms outstretched for Mama.

I admit, I'd often cry, too. And I'd cave. I'd pick up my miserable little boy and miserably rock him back to sleep, only to repeat the whole ordeal after trying to lay him back down in his crib.

For the love of sleep!

Up until now, I refused to let my boy "cry it out." He was just a babe. He needed his mother. And for a good part of the past year or so, I didn't mind rocking him back to sleep. But lately, Jon and I suspected that he was playing us. What gave it away was his way of crying from his crib, then waiting to hear if we were on our way, then wailing with even more vigor if we weren't shaking a leg to his liking.

Do you know what sixteen months of interrupted sleep does to a woman? Ask my husband. It isn't pretty.

Friends, family members and the trusty Internet suggested the popular Five-Ten-Fifteen method:

1. You make sure your baby is as comfortable as can be (bum changed, bottle fed, fever-free, warm and cozy--but not too warm).

2. You place him in his crib, give him a kiss and a hug, wishing him a good night and reminding him that you'll be right here if he needs you.

3. Then you brace yourself for the wail.

4. You wait out of sight in the hallway for five terribly long minutes.

5. You go back in the room and hug and kiss and console.

6. Then you shuffle your ass back out of the room for TEN intolerable minutes.

7. Repeat Step 5.

8. Leave the room for another FIFTEEN minutes.

Nobody ever told me what Step 9 is, or if there is a Step 9. Luckily, I have never had to worry about Step 9.

[Tangent: On an impulse, Jon had picked up a video baby monitor. I had poo-pooed it at the time, reminding him of the day he brought home a heart-shaped tub (which is still stored away, by the way). This purchase on a whim has actually panned out.]

That night, once I reached Step 6, I guiltily trudged back to our bedroom and got into bed, where Jon spooned me supportively. We watched our boy on the TV monitor and kept an eye on the alarm clock. He was standing up, grasping the crib rails and crying his little heart out, which broke our hearts. Then, around the seven-minute mark, something happened. He lay on his pillow! And he fell asleep!

Sigh, on one hand, he did cry himself to sleep, but on the other... he fell asleep, all by himself.

In the weeks following our new bedtime routine, there have been a few rocky nights. However, the incident-free nights far outnumber the sleepless ones. And something amazing happened last night (non-parents may not find this particularly awesome, but--seriously--I think I cried a little): I placed him in his crib and he cozied into his pillow without a whimper. I wished him goodnight and tiptoed out of the room. He didn't make a peep until the next morning.

(I know, it's ironic, but) Sigh, on one hand, he fell asleep, all by himself, but on the other... it's one more thing he can do without my help.

Long-term, uninterrupted sleep is a great thing. Short-term, we're all getting used to Marshall's new ability.

Marshall Explores the Bookstore

Four months ago, we took Marshall to the bookstore for the first time. He enjoyed taking in the vibrant colours of the children's section. He was patient as Mama perused the aisles to pick out the right titles from the hundreds that lined the shelves. It was a great day.

With a morning to ourselves, I decided to pack up the kid and go back to the bookstore. We were on a mission to pick out a birthday gift for Marshall's friend, Annette. I had a feeling things would be a little different this time around since my guy is now two-footed, but I was so naive about the extent of how different it would be.

"Look where we are, Marshall!" I exclaimed as I pushed open the door to Indigo Books. Gosh, how I missed visiting the bookstore! Some girls like to ogle the counters at the jewellery store, others like to run their fingers across the fabrics at a clothing boutique. I like books. Scratch that. I love books. I love the crispness of rows upon rows of neatly lined books. I love the enticing display tables of deep-discounted titles and overpriced knick-knacks. And since having Marshall, I have fallen even more in love with the children's section of the bookstore.

I plucked off Marshall's winter hat, unzipped his coat and set his booted feet down on the floor. He looked up at me, a little unsure.

"Go on," I urged. "Have a look! We're at the bookstore!"

It didn't take long for Marshall to ditch the shy act. He bolted straight for the display of Hexbugs, grabbing them by the fistful. Oh boy.

"Come with Mama," I pleaded. "Let's go look at the books."

I began to scan the picture book spines, stopping occasionally to leaf through a title that caught my eye. "Check it out, Marshall: Bear in Underwear!" He laughed when I showed him the pretty illustrations. I shrieked when he lunged for a delicate page. Best to put that one back.

As I tucked the book back on the shelf, Marshall caught sight of Are You My Mother?, a favourite bedtime read at our house. He was over the moon. "Daaa!" he yelped, yanking a copy, then another, then another. "Daaaa, daaa, daaaaaaaa!" He couldn't believe it! He was surrounded by multiple copies of his beloved book!

"That's right, Marshall," I smiled, putting the titles back. "Book!" I grabbed a copy of Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb. "Why don't we get you a new one?" A young clerk walked past, smiling nervously at us as if to say, Cute kid... don't make me clean up after him.

I realized that I would spend more time scanning Marshall than the bookcases. I gently put back the occasional title that he grabbed with his nimble little hands. And then, a little boy, maybe three years old, walked over from out of nowhere.

"Boo!" he yelled.

Marshall looked up from his latest book-treasure, unimpressed.

The boy waited a moment and tried it again. "Booooo!" he repeated.

Marshall smiled politely, shyly.

The boy proceeded to pucker his lips and blow a light breeze through Marshall's wispy hair. OK, that was odd. I think Marshall thought so, too. Luckily, the boy's grandmother herded him back to the opposite area. I mimicked Marshall's polite smile, then looked around.

Where'd he go?

Marshall found a bin full of wooden rattles. He was throwing them one by one on the floor. I gathered them up and put them back. He ran over to a row of fabric books, which he removed off the shelf in one quick swoop. Ah, come on! I hurriedly put them back (I could feel the clerk's eyes burning into my back) and looked around.

Where'd he go?

Marshall wandered over to a table surrounded by children. They stopped what they were doing to watch him. He watched them. I gently grabbed his hand and we headed back to where we had come from. I snatched a children's album along the way, as well as a sweet gift for little Annette. The party is in a few days, so I can't say what I got. Although my two-year-old self would be MEGA jealous.

By then, Marshall had found the Hexbugs again. This was going downhill fast! I hoisted him up under one arm, secured my loot in the other, and proceeded to the cash register. The end was in sight! I set Marshall down to fish my wallet from out of my purse... and he made a run for it. Again.

Where'd he go?

"Excuse me," I said apologetically, handing over my debit card and jogging over to the front door. Baby was once again secure in my arms. As I was punching in my bank code, Marshall casually knocked over a copy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo on display at the counter. I sighed and bent down to snatch it up.

"I guess he isn't a fan of the book," the cashier joked.

"Thank you," I replied, accepting my bag full of purchases. "I didn't think a trip to the bookstore would be this complicated."

I shuffled through the chilly parking lot and fastened the boy in his car seat. I popped in his new Raffi CD and groaned with exhaustion. I peered through my rear-view mirror. It looked as though I wasn't the only tired one. Marshall was gaping-mouthed passed out.

I sang along to "Banana Phone" on my own while looking back at my snoring little man. I had to admit that while it wasn't the smoothest outing, it definitely had its moments.

Regardless, next time, we're bringing Daddy, too. :)

Home Is Calling

Well, it didn’t last long. After close to three years of working from home (and delivering and raising a little boy), I returned to an office setting. Four months later, I quit!

I quit! I quit! I quit!

Both Jon and I work in the city. Marshall goes to day care down the street from our house. Our days consisted of flipping a coin to see who would rush out last-minute in the morning to drop off the baby at day care, fight hours of traffic, then work-work-work. Since I was only at the office three days a week, Jon would drop everything at 2:30 pm to beat traffic back to our neck of the woods and pick up the boy. I’d hurry in anytime between 6 and 7 pm, scarf down a meal, then get ready for Marshall’s bedtime routine.

What a life (or lack thereof)!

So, my man and I discussed things. It was time to come up with a scenario that worked better for our family. The solution: Mama’s taking another stab at freelance editing from the comfort of home. Time to snag a contract!

Things I can’t wait to do once I am working from home again:

• Taking Marshall to day care on foot. Heck, we’ll even bring the dog along!
• Being productive when there is a lull in the work day. Stir up some spaghetti sauce! Throw on a load of laundry! Catch an episode of Steven and Chris! Wait, what was that?
• Grocery shopping outside of peak hours.
• Bringing my little business back to life, like a tired plant.
• Remembering to water the plants.

I genuinely tip my hat to all working moms out there. Juggling a career and motherhood is one hell of a challenge. My hope is that I can make the experience a little more manageable by doing it all from one main headquarters.

Wish me luck.

What's Your Bag?

What do the contents of your purse say about you?

The thought just dawned on my now, as I was rifling through it in search of my tiny (and outdated) iPod Shuffle. I couldn’t help but smile when I came across some tidbits reminding me of my current State of Motherhood.

At present, my purse contains:

1 package travel baby wipes
2 Hot Wheels cars
1 little farmer figurine
1 underused tube of lipstick
countless grocery- and liquor-store receipts
1 winning scratchy lotto ticket
portable sewing kit
cell phone and earpiece + charger
1 wallet low on funds
1 pen

So, if a detective were to examine my purse, what would he conclude?

1) The wipes and toys are an obvious sign that I’m the mother of a diaper-wearing child, most likely a boy.

2) The untouched lipstick, lotto ticket and receipts are an indication that my outings normally consist of getting staples for the family home. (And really, liquor is a staple when you are the parent of a kidlet.) Any other ventures outside the home are rare and difficult to justify when there is (so much) laundry to fold.

3) However, the lipstick, pen and sewing kit are signs that I am ready for an emergency, such as painting my face to distract others from the food stains I got on my pants from feeding the boy earlier in the day. The pen comes in handy for jotting down reminders on the abovementioned receipts, which also double as a makeshift notepad. I used to scribble obscure yet catchy song titles on these bits of paper. These days, it’s recipe ingredients or arguably effective remedies for sleepless babies.

4) The winning lotto ticket is also my way of living dangerously. Not only am I possibly throwing away my $2 on a scratchy, I’m also making a gunky mess of the kitchen table while I scrape away at my ticket with an old penny. Nail-biting suspense in a concentrated three-minute sitting! (Which is, frankly, an eternity when you are the mother of a babytoddler.)

5) The phone and earpiece show that being in touch is a necessity for me. The Facebook and Sudoku apps on my phone are an indication that mindless distractions are equally necessary.

6) The empty wallet doesn’t need much clarification. See Point #1.

Compare this to the purse I used to carry five years ago. It was half the size of my current one. It even warranted the name “purse.” It was cute and small and fit snugly under my arm. Shoot, on a good day, I could even cram my lunch inside my purse! The one I own now can justifiably be called a handbag. It’s a big, pleather cavity of a bag that flaps next to my body as I dart into the grocery store. (Where else?)

My old purse always contained the following:

emergency subway tokens
1 fresh pack of gum
1 novel
1 emery board
at least two lipsticks
gym membership
1 wallet, with cash in it

Funny how a purse morphs and modifies along with the purse-owner. It seems like an organic process for such an inanimate object, like an ever-changing sidekick.

Filmmaker Coleen Hubbard took this observation one step further and made a documentary called, The Contents of Her Purse. Check out the trailer here: http://www.contentsofherpurse.com/.

Hubbard interviewed dozens of women of all ages about what they carry around with them. She came to the conclusion that as women get older, the beauty-enhancing products in their purses are replaced with maintenance- and health-related items. In fact, a ninetysomething interviewee revealed that her purse contained her hearing aid battery, handicapped parking sticker and denture cream.

While I haven’t reached that milestone, yet, I take some comfort in knowing that my purse will be with me to help me lug around these eventual necessities.

In the meantime, maybe I’ll dig out that tube of lipstick, just for the hell of it.

Toilet Talk

Fourty-five minutes before lunchtime today, the receptionist at my office got on the intercom system to announce that the water had been shut off. “The bathrooms are off-limits until further notice,” she advised.

Oh, sweet discomfort! It is only when you are told that you cannot use the bathroom that you suddenly have the terrible urge to use the bathroom.

“I just had a big mug of tea!” my co-worker confided nervously.

“Me, too!” I replied.

What do we do? Where do we go? We work in the industrial sector of town, so our choices are limited. Luckily, there is a restaurant in the office building across the street. Many ladies shuffled down the road to purchase an overpriced sandwich and to heed the call of nature while they were there.

I held it in. I credit my intense school-age training, when I was uneasy about using the school toilets. I normally held it in until I got home. I admit that I had my share of mad dashes from the bus stop to my house. But, meh, on the whole, it worked for me.

About one hour after the end of our lunch break, the receptionist got back on the intercom, declaring that the building was once again with water. I heard ladies’ cheers as I quickly lined up for the employee bathroom.

“I can go back to drinking water again!” the boss’s mother hooted giddily.

“Until now, I sure didn’t chance it,” I added, cotton-mouthed and shifting from foot to foot while waiting for a bathroom door to unlock.

Today’s inconvenience reminded me of a radio report I had heard last week. Did you know that last Friday was World Toilet Day? At face value, it does sound like a bit of a joke. However, the report did bring up some fascinating facts.

* Men’s and women’s public restrooms are usually the same size, square-footage-wise, however, you can fit double the number of restroom units inside the men’s room.

* In order for there to be “potty parity” between men and women, experts have determined that there should be double the number of restroom units for women than for men.

* Some men argue that if women want to attain the ultimate equality in a public restroom setting (one of the last remaining inequalities of the sexes, some might say), women should be prepared to give up some “toilet luxuries” and settle for such devices as the *gasp!* female urinal.

* On a more serious note, the report also brought up how female fieldworkers in developing countries choose not to hydrate themselves during work hours--even in extreme heat--because there are no toilet facilities provided to them.

* The introduction of proper sanitation has actually upped school enrollment in some developing countries. Who knew?

These last facts made me especially embarrassed of making a fuss over our temporary toilet inconvenience. We don’t know how good we have it until it is taken away from us, after all.


To learn more about World Toilet Day, have a look here: http://www.worldtoilet.org/wtd/