Bad Dog

"How could this tiny, obnoxious creature leapfrog over me on the family totem pole and get more attention?"

I hear that all mothers of infants hit their occasional breaking point. I hit mine the other day when finally getting around to making the bed at 4 p.m. while toting an inconsolable baby on my hip... and then, I almost stepped in it: a glistening puddle of dog vomit on the bedroom carpet. I slumped onto the wrinkled bed and cried along with my son.

Bad dog.

Shadow is my boxer-Boston terrier mix. I've had him for close to three years. We have been through a lot together. I remember coming home one night to a living room full of foam and fluff violently torn from my armchair. On another night, he managed to wolf down 40 of my thyroid pills, which resulted in a very expensive trip to the 24-hour veterinary clinic.

Bad, bad dog.

After scraping through obedience school, my little troublemaker and I are on better terms. However, he has felt power shift within the family since Marshall's arrival. "How could this tiny, obnoxious creature leapfrog over me on the family totem pole and get more attention?" So, he's taken to moping around the house, spending most of his time pouting on his dog bed and ignoring me.

I have another confession to make about my dog. He's a shit-eater. Seriously, he eats poop.

Ughhh, bad, bad, bad dog.

I know, it's gross. And when I do catch him in the act, I give him heck. However, I am learning to come to terms with the fact that shit just happens to be my dog's vice.

Now, this terrible habit should have its perks. In theory, as the owner of a shit-eating dog, I shouldn't have to pick up after him. Right? Wrong. It so happens that my dog only eats the poop excreted from my parents' dog, Kobe. He also eats deer poop. That explains why he's the first to jump in the car when we visit my folks in the country. It's like taking a trip to the buffet restaurant! He's that guy with the elastic-waistband pants and a plate in each hand.

I don't have the energy to correct my dog's bad habits right now. While I can't control his intake of poop snacks on his outdoor romps, I can at least keep him from licking the baby's face. For the most part.

Bad dog.

Lullaby Setlist

When I'm especially delirious, I imagine I'm not only singing to Marshall, but also to the panel of American Idol judges.

My baby tricked me.

I had woken up in a small panic yesterday morning because three-and-a-half-month-old Marshall decided to sleep through the night for the first time.

"Is he breathing?" I thought. "He must be terribly hungry. Oh, he's going to be miserable." I crept up to his cot beside the bed, placed my hand near his mouth to feel the warmth of his breath and managed to stir him from his sleep. He greeted me with the most heart-melting baby smile.

I was finally getting somewhere! With seven uninterrupted hours of sleep in my system, I felt invincible.

Fast-forward to last night. He was terribly restless during his last feeding. "Baby, I don't know how to help you," I sighed as he wailed in my ear. I could feel my own stomach doing gymnastics, so I could only imagine what his little tummy was doing. I hoped it wasn't due to supper, because--frankly--it was really tasty and I was looking forward to having the leftovers for lunch. I finally managed to rock him off to sleep, place him in his cot, peel off my socks and crawl into bed at midnight.

Marshall's shrill screams woke me up at 2 a.m. Good Lord.

I rocked him. I fed him. I rubbed his tummy. I changed him. And I burped him. Man, did he burp. There's nothing like the sound of a jet of curdled baby burp slapping the parquet floor in the middle of the night. And one burp forced me to change not only his pyjamas, but also my pyjamas--top and bottoms. Thanks, kid.

And through it all, I sang to him. I enjoy singing to my boy. When I'm especially delirious, I imagine I'm not only singing to Marshall, but also to the panel of American Idol judges. Are my lullabies Hollywood worthy? Would I get a golden ticket? In fact, the baby may have drifted off to sleep long ago, but it is imperative for me to fit that final verse in to maintain the integrity of the song.

I admit that I learned most of Marshall's lullabies in Mrs. Thomas's elementary school music class. I may not know the titles of many of today's Top 40 songs, but I remember the full lyrics to A Bicycle Built for Two, which I learned on Valentine's Day in Grade 4.

Here is the lullaby setlist to last night's late late late show:

Can't Help Falling in Love (Elvis Presley)
Father and Son (Cat Stevens)
Annie's Song (John Denver)
You Are My Sunshine (à la Mitch Miller)
Wonderwall (Oasis)
Ice Cream (Sarah McLachlan)
Fireflies (Owl City)

I haven't a clue what tonight might bring. And as I write this, Marshall is sleeping peacefully in his baby swing (of course). I think I'll rest my throat with a steaming cup of hot water and honey in anticipation of tonight's performance, regardless of whether or not my audience is awake.

This Old House

BAM!--here we are, even DEEPER in suburbia, in the home I was raised in.

Three years ago, I was living on my own in a cozy apartment in a quaint Montreal neighbourhood. Two-and-a-half years ago, I met the most wonderful man. Not long after that, I was driven out of my cozy apartment by an army of bedbugs brought in by the nasty tenant in the basement. When that wonderful man didn't leave me, I knew he was pretty damn special. So, we bought a place together.

In the suburbs.

Gone were the short walks to the local grocery store, or to the local pastry shop, or to the local bar. There was nothing within walking distance, really, besides identical condo buildings. Gone was the convenience of having a metro station nearby to whisk me to a friend's place. But hooray for my own parking spot! I no longer had to dig my car out of snowbanks! I no longer had to hunt for a parking spot for thirty minutes! And hooray for proper soundproofing! I never heard the upstairs neighbours and, perhaps more importantly, they never heard me. It was a sweet little condo, just right for our first home.

And then two became three.

My wonderful man and I got hitched a year-and-a-half ago and welcomed our baby boy on Thanksgiving 2009. Suddenly, our two-bedroom condo was feeling a little cramped. I run my own business from home and my beloved was about to start his own company. And, while babies may be small, baby equipment sure isn't.

Conveniently, my newly retired folks were planning on selling my childhood home to live full-time at the cottage. They made us an offer we couldn't refuse and--BAM!--here we are, even DEEPER in suburbia, in the home I was raised in.

I've come full-circle, from dealing with downtown parking woes and precarious staircases, July 1 moving days and countless licks of paint on tired apartment walls, to coming back to the only detached house I've ever known. My dog now has a massive fenced-in yard to poop in. My son now has a forest to explore behind our house. My husband now has a garage to do his handiwork in. And I now have double the rooms to clean! In all seriousness, our family now has room to grow. I had such a terrific childhood here, I can't wait to watch my son grow up in this house, too. There's just one hitch.

I remember, at twenty years old, vowing to never go back to the suburbs. And here I am ten years later in the thick of it. I loved this neighbourhood as a kid. I simply have to learn to love it again as a grown up.