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/
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 17, 2010
When Bad Boys Grow into Mad Men
[Note: I don’t think I am giving anything away about the Mad Men series with this post, but if you want to watch the series with fresh eyes, maybe it’s best that you read this only after you watch the first episode.]
I have a crush on someone and Jon knows about it. And he’s pretty cool about it. We share our bed with him on most nights. And I think that, deep down, Jon is kind of fond of him, too—in a brotherly way, of course.
I have a thing for Don Draper.
Jon and I recently signed up with Netflix. We dove into the Mad Men series about a swank ad agency in the 1960s, devouring Seasons 1 through 3 in about a month and a half. We hopped in bed to watch the Season 3 finale last night on my laptop. I brought a cup of hot tea. Jon brought a (fitting) glass of scotch. I sighed longingly as the closing credits filled the screen. I had the slightest hankering for a cigarette (and I don’t smoke). Oh, Don Draper.
Not since Jordan Catalano have I had such a girlish crush on a television character. It got me thinking about the similarities between the teenage wavy-haired bad boy from My So-Called Life and my pomade-coiffed Mad Man. Besides their good hair and good looks, both have notorious reputations. Both are men of few words. Both smoke. Both value their cars. Both are unfaithful. Both struggle with the concept of love. Both are troubled.
Admittedly, the “Cons” list is much longer than the “Pros” column. So, what is it about bad boys that make girls of all ages weak in the knees? Is it due to our fascination with wanting to save lost souls? Is it our little escape into an emotionally dangerous world we would normally avoid? Is it just a good TV script?
I am relieved that my taste in bad boys has improved over the last 16 years. For instance, Don Draper is a successful businessman, while Jordan Catalano’s chances of graduating high school are pretty slim. Don Draper takes his wife to expensive restaurants, while Jordan Catalano takes Angela to the boiler room to make out. Don Draper strives to make a name for himself in the advertising world, while Jordan Catalano hopes to find success with his generic garage band. Don Draper wears tailored suits and classy fedoras, while Jordan Catalano wears smelly sheepskin coats and seashell necklaces. Granted, Don Draper drinks scotch before noon, while Jordan Catalano smokes weed at recess… so there’s no clear winner in that category.
There is something sexy about 1960s office life that we can never recreate today. Back then, a desk drawer was reserved for hard liquor and four drinking glasses. In our office, we keep resealable packs of booze-free flavoured tea. Back then, there were offices with closed doors. Today, we constantly look over our shoulders while we type away in our cubby-like cubicles. OK, don’t get me started about the sexual harassment accusations that would be logged today if we interacted with our co-workers like they did in the 1960s. However, I can’t help but envy the sassy, jewel-toned outfits that female employees sashayed in.
Let’s go back to that bad-boy “Pros” list for a moment. Are Don Draper and my guy similar in any way? Both are handsome, especially in a suit. Both are men of few words. Both are making their mark in their respective fields. Both love their whiskey. Both have special relationships with their cars. Sure, both have their imperfections, but who doesn’t? Mine, however, knows the value of a woman’s love. And that’s what gives Jon Dukeshire a winning advantage over Don Draper any day.
Oh, that and the fact that Don Draper is trapped in a television show. Cheers.
Nov 16, 2010
Conversations with a One-Year-Old
I admit that my son’s level of communication is at a beginner level right now. However, the fact that Marshall is expressing himself and being understood is a huge breakthrough in our home.One of our most memorable conversations happened during suppertime a few weeks ago and it went a little like this:
While observing Marshall push a mouthful of food out his mouth with his tongue—very classy…
Mama: It looks like you’ve had enough supper. Are we all done, Marshall?
Marshall raises his hands in the air à la “all done!” to indicate he’s full.
Mama: That’s too bad, because I have a yogurt here with your name on it (revealing the yogurt).
Marshall lets out an anxious squeak, while pointing at his yogurt.
Mama: But I thought we were all done!
Marshall continues to point until Mama pries open the yogurt lid.
Our entire thirty-second conversation brought a tear to my eye. Gosh, there were days when time dragged on, when my inconsolable infant refused to eat, refused to sleep and only wanted to be held. Nowadays, he’s a whirlwind of vocal exercises who crawls through the house, attacks the toilet paper roll, tugs on the dog and plays with every toy on his play mat in a matter of minutes.
And with that whirlwind come big changes. Marshall can walk beside me while holding me with one hand. He can ease himself back to sleep in the middle of the night. He has stopped eyeballing me as a food source now that he has discovered 3.25% milk. All these things make me misty-eyed, too.
Really, I get emotional over the tiniest things nowadays! In fact, I was so concerned about this that I took a pregnancy test not too long ago. If my tear ducts were that out of whack, I must be knocked up. But no, the test was negative.
It turns out that having a baby can knead a tough cookie into a doughy sap.
Case-in-point, my heart skips a little beat when Marshall blows me kisses or crawls up to me for one of his smooshy “I love you” bear hugs, two of my most favourite interactions with my boy. There is nothing more genuine and unconditional than a baby’s hug. I suspect that baby hugs could bring about world peace.
Can anybody send me a time machine? And some Kleenex?
Oct 18, 2010
My Son Is One! (A love letter)
Well, technically, he's just shy of 53 weeks. Forgive me, it's been a busy week.
Fifty-three weeks ago, Jon and I went to the hospital after a night of what I thought was peeing my pants. "Great," I remember thinking while eating Thanksgiving turkey perched on a towel in my brother's old jogging pants. "This is the last humiliation that is my pregnancy."
Turns out, I had a slow leak. While my water was ready to break, Marshall sure wasn't. So, I was admitted and induced. And I waited. And waited. And waited. Don't ask me what was going on that night: the delivery rooms were full. All around me, I heard new mother after new mother grunt and groan and scream until her baby's cries pierced through. You know that feeling of frustration, desperation--almost loneliness--you get when you wait at a bus stop and countless buses packed with people zoom past you? Maybe I'll get the next one.
"Anything yet?" Jon would ask.
"Nope," I'd reply with a sigh.
A handful of bags of Pitocin and 21 hours later, our beautiful boy made his first appearance.
***
It was while rocking the baby in my increasingly creaky chair the other night that I got to thinking, "How many hours have I spent rocking Marshall in this chair in one year? How many lullabies? How many shared cries?"
It has been a very trying year, as most mothers would admit. It has also been one of the fastest years I've ever lived through. It is for that reason that I would voluntarily turn back time and live through it all over again, fussy nursing, toxic pooping, sleepless nights and all. So quickly do I forget what truly qualifies as a difficult night. Those first nights of living on adrenaline, where days and nights were one tiresome blur, where I'd catch Jay Leno, Conan O'Brien, Jimmy Fallon AND Carson Daly bleary-eyed; those were the toughest. So quickly do I forget how tiny, how unsqirmy he was. He is still my little baby boy, but comparing him to images of his freshly newborn cousin, he is bordering on "toddler." Already.
I told Jon the other night that I almost bought him a little gift on Marshall's birthday. That day is almost like a second anniversary for us, when a happily married couple turned into two sleep-deprived parents literally overnight. As most mothers would admit, the first year is equally trying on a marriage as it is on raising a baby. The two go hand-in-hand, after all. I am relieved to announce that we've survived our initiation. We have the gray hairs and wrinkles to prove it. Yes, we had a few rough patches along the way, but it definitely strengthened us in the long run.
I am afraid to brag too much for fear that I break the habit, but it seems as though Marshall is FINALLY sleeping through the night, to boot. That means that I, too, get a full night's sleep. Besides savouring a heavy glass of wine, I had been craving a solid seven hours of sleep for so long. So, so long. In a way, I think these full nights may be Marshall's little gift to us. "You've made it through the year, Mama and Daddy. You deserve a little sleep. And here, have a glass of wine while you're at it."
Happy birthday, Dear Marshall. Thank you for a year of tender moments, goofy times, many many milestones, and poop. God, there was so much poop. We love you more than you will ever know and we can't wait to get to know our little boy more and more.
Mama loves you, and that will never change.
xox
(Then and now: John Marshall Wayne Dukeshire)
Fifty-three weeks ago, Jon and I went to the hospital after a night of what I thought was peeing my pants. "Great," I remember thinking while eating Thanksgiving turkey perched on a towel in my brother's old jogging pants. "This is the last humiliation that is my pregnancy."
Turns out, I had a slow leak. While my water was ready to break, Marshall sure wasn't. So, I was admitted and induced. And I waited. And waited. And waited. Don't ask me what was going on that night: the delivery rooms were full. All around me, I heard new mother after new mother grunt and groan and scream until her baby's cries pierced through. You know that feeling of frustration, desperation--almost loneliness--you get when you wait at a bus stop and countless buses packed with people zoom past you? Maybe I'll get the next one.
"Anything yet?" Jon would ask.
"Nope," I'd reply with a sigh.
A handful of bags of Pitocin and 21 hours later, our beautiful boy made his first appearance.
***
It was while rocking the baby in my increasingly creaky chair the other night that I got to thinking, "How many hours have I spent rocking Marshall in this chair in one year? How many lullabies? How many shared cries?"
It has been a very trying year, as most mothers would admit. It has also been one of the fastest years I've ever lived through. It is for that reason that I would voluntarily turn back time and live through it all over again, fussy nursing, toxic pooping, sleepless nights and all. So quickly do I forget what truly qualifies as a difficult night. Those first nights of living on adrenaline, where days and nights were one tiresome blur, where I'd catch Jay Leno, Conan O'Brien, Jimmy Fallon AND Carson Daly bleary-eyed; those were the toughest. So quickly do I forget how tiny, how unsqirmy he was. He is still my little baby boy, but comparing him to images of his freshly newborn cousin, he is bordering on "toddler." Already.
I told Jon the other night that I almost bought him a little gift on Marshall's birthday. That day is almost like a second anniversary for us, when a happily married couple turned into two sleep-deprived parents literally overnight. As most mothers would admit, the first year is equally trying on a marriage as it is on raising a baby. The two go hand-in-hand, after all. I am relieved to announce that we've survived our initiation. We have the gray hairs and wrinkles to prove it. Yes, we had a few rough patches along the way, but it definitely strengthened us in the long run.
I am afraid to brag too much for fear that I break the habit, but it seems as though Marshall is FINALLY sleeping through the night, to boot. That means that I, too, get a full night's sleep. Besides savouring a heavy glass of wine, I had been craving a solid seven hours of sleep for so long. So, so long. In a way, I think these full nights may be Marshall's little gift to us. "You've made it through the year, Mama and Daddy. You deserve a little sleep. And here, have a glass of wine while you're at it."
Happy birthday, Dear Marshall. Thank you for a year of tender moments, goofy times, many many milestones, and poop. God, there was so much poop. We love you more than you will ever know and we can't wait to get to know our little boy more and more.
Mama loves you, and that will never change.
xox
(Then and now: John Marshall Wayne Dukeshire)
Oct 14, 2010
A Day Care for Marshall
When Marshall was born, we were given a book called Une garderie pour Mateo. The cute picture book described the challenges that Mateo and his mother faced to find him a day care.
Well, that little work of fiction became our big reality over the summer when we scrambled to find appropriate day care for Marshall. My days on maternity leave were numbered. My return to the work force was looming. Baby needed a happy, safe environment to stay in while I worked. It broke my heart to leave Marshall in the care of someone else--a stranger, of all people. Up until then he had only been babysat three times by trusted family members. He and I were normally stuck like glue.
My father took the news of Marshall's unavoidable entry into day care especially hard. "Did you see that news report about that babysitter in Florida who threw a ball at full force right in the baby's face?" he asked.
"We thought the babysitter was dragging a doll by the arm until we realized that doll was really a child," my mother chimed in.
This wasn't going to be easy. For anybody.
I had heard that finding a decent day-care spot was as easy as finding a last-minute gift at a gas station on Christmas Day. Put differently, it was not easy at all. When I learned that a home day care was opening three kilometres away from my house at $25 a day, I jumped on that opportunity fearing that I wouldn't find anything else. Marshall and I visited and noted that the woman seemed very enthusiastic and sweet, the toys were new and the yard was equipped with swings and slides. Upon our second visit to seal the deal, Jon came along and we met the educator's husband.
"I don't like the look of that husband," Jon grumbled. "Never trust a chiropractor. They crack bones for a living."
So, I kept an eye out for other options. In August, a friend referred me to a woman she had met in the park who ran a home day care within walking distance of our house. Marshall and I went to check it out.
The basement play area was packed with colourful toys. For the moment, the educator cared for a two-year-old girl who got a kick out of styling Marshall's fine hair with a play brush and hairdryer. "She's Asian, you know," she told me. Staring at the sweet little girl with the jet-black hair, I thought that was obvious.
I was sold based on the arts-and-crafts activities that the educator liked to do with her kids. They decorated plates for Mother's Day. They made centerpieces for Christmas. And to kick off the summer season, she invited the mothers over for cosmos and a pool party.
When I phoned her to confirm a place in her day care, I was surprised when she haughtily replied, "Well, it seems as though I have some thinking to do. The little Asian girl's mother (why did she always insist on throwing in the girl's heritage?) has asked me to be her full-time nanny. But come to the park. I'll introduce you to another educator who lives nearby."
Feeling a little desperate to snag a day-care spot for Marshall, I agreed to meet her in the park. By then, my level of respect for the creative educator was plummeting. The frequent comments she made about the little girl ("She's so smart for her age. It's because she's Asian"), among other things, were turning me off. When she saw Marshall in the park, she exclaimed, "Blue eyes, blond hair... what a remarkable race you've created with that baby!" Wait, what was that?
I breathed a sigh of relief when she pointed me to the door of the other day care facility in the neighbourhood. I swooped Marshall out of his swing and into his stroller and we rolled our way to the house. Along the way, I worried over how I was going to approach the day-care worker. As if on cue, a dog ran out from the house and she popped her head out to call him back in. We introduced ourselves and the rest is history.
Marshall's educator is a no-nonsense woman, about five years younger than my mother. She has more than twenty years' experience in the business. Her toy-filled play area is bright and clean and tidy. The children are sweet. They immediately shared their toys with Marshall. Now, I don't think she goes out of her way to make the day-care experience an amazing one. But she keeps my baby safe. She cuddles him when he cries. She feeds him when he's hungry. And he naps for her like a champ, that little booger. (Marshall is notorious for skipping out on naps at our house.)
Knowing that he is safe in his educator's care three days a week while I'm at work reassures me. I'll take that over ambitious art projects any day. Leave the holiday centerpieces to me.
Well, that little work of fiction became our big reality over the summer when we scrambled to find appropriate day care for Marshall. My days on maternity leave were numbered. My return to the work force was looming. Baby needed a happy, safe environment to stay in while I worked. It broke my heart to leave Marshall in the care of someone else--a stranger, of all people. Up until then he had only been babysat three times by trusted family members. He and I were normally stuck like glue.
My father took the news of Marshall's unavoidable entry into day care especially hard. "Did you see that news report about that babysitter in Florida who threw a ball at full force right in the baby's face?" he asked.
"We thought the babysitter was dragging a doll by the arm until we realized that doll was really a child," my mother chimed in.
This wasn't going to be easy. For anybody.
I had heard that finding a decent day-care spot was as easy as finding a last-minute gift at a gas station on Christmas Day. Put differently, it was not easy at all. When I learned that a home day care was opening three kilometres away from my house at $25 a day, I jumped on that opportunity fearing that I wouldn't find anything else. Marshall and I visited and noted that the woman seemed very enthusiastic and sweet, the toys were new and the yard was equipped with swings and slides. Upon our second visit to seal the deal, Jon came along and we met the educator's husband.
"I don't like the look of that husband," Jon grumbled. "Never trust a chiropractor. They crack bones for a living."
So, I kept an eye out for other options. In August, a friend referred me to a woman she had met in the park who ran a home day care within walking distance of our house. Marshall and I went to check it out.
The basement play area was packed with colourful toys. For the moment, the educator cared for a two-year-old girl who got a kick out of styling Marshall's fine hair with a play brush and hairdryer. "She's Asian, you know," she told me. Staring at the sweet little girl with the jet-black hair, I thought that was obvious.
I was sold based on the arts-and-crafts activities that the educator liked to do with her kids. They decorated plates for Mother's Day. They made centerpieces for Christmas. And to kick off the summer season, she invited the mothers over for cosmos and a pool party.
When I phoned her to confirm a place in her day care, I was surprised when she haughtily replied, "Well, it seems as though I have some thinking to do. The little Asian girl's mother (why did she always insist on throwing in the girl's heritage?) has asked me to be her full-time nanny. But come to the park. I'll introduce you to another educator who lives nearby."
Feeling a little desperate to snag a day-care spot for Marshall, I agreed to meet her in the park. By then, my level of respect for the creative educator was plummeting. The frequent comments she made about the little girl ("She's so smart for her age. It's because she's Asian"), among other things, were turning me off. When she saw Marshall in the park, she exclaimed, "Blue eyes, blond hair... what a remarkable race you've created with that baby!" Wait, what was that?
I breathed a sigh of relief when she pointed me to the door of the other day care facility in the neighbourhood. I swooped Marshall out of his swing and into his stroller and we rolled our way to the house. Along the way, I worried over how I was going to approach the day-care worker. As if on cue, a dog ran out from the house and she popped her head out to call him back in. We introduced ourselves and the rest is history.
Marshall's educator is a no-nonsense woman, about five years younger than my mother. She has more than twenty years' experience in the business. Her toy-filled play area is bright and clean and tidy. The children are sweet. They immediately shared their toys with Marshall. Now, I don't think she goes out of her way to make the day-care experience an amazing one. But she keeps my baby safe. She cuddles him when he cries. She feeds him when he's hungry. And he naps for her like a champ, that little booger. (Marshall is notorious for skipping out on naps at our house.)
Knowing that he is safe in his educator's care three days a week while I'm at work reassures me. I'll take that over ambitious art projects any day. Leave the holiday centerpieces to me.
Oct 6, 2010
I'm Out of the House!
So, the boy will be one on Tuesday. A whole twelve months. That means that my mat leave has run out and Mama’s bank account is looking pretty pitiful.
I’m back in the office after a long hiatus. I left about three years ago to give self-employment a try. I rode that wave as long as I could, but years—YEARS—away from an environment with other adults can take its toll. I was becoming a recluse. Outdoor tasks like doing the groceries had become monstrous challenges. I don’t remember the last time I pumped gas in my car.
I got in touch with my former employer. Luckily, I had left on good terms. Miraculously, he offered me part-time work. It was the perfect solution for a near-reclusive mother of a one-year-old. I can make my financial contribution to the household. I can talk with other grown-ups. Best of all, I can still raise my son the majority of the week.
I am well into my second week at my new (old) job. I write children’s books for a publishing house in the city. I have an entire hour to eat my lunch. Since Marshall’s birth, I had gotten used to scarfing down my meals and rinsing my dishes in ten minutes flat. Needless to say, I have some time to kill on my lunch breaks.
I hope to use this newfound FREE TIME (yippee!) to get back into blogging mode. You can look forward to reading my take on the following topics:
* Marshall’s increasing mobility (He crawls! He stands on his own! He’s… playing in the toilet?! Oh, God, no!)
* Day care woes (What snotty, poopy virus does Marshall have this weekend?)
* Office life (How did I end up with the crappy cubicle?! The boss has a direct view of my oversized computer screen… Sigh.)
* Jon’s afternoons with the baby (The photo below speaks for itself. The boys found my balloon stash. Hahaha.)
OK, back to work :)
I’m back in the office after a long hiatus. I left about three years ago to give self-employment a try. I rode that wave as long as I could, but years—YEARS—away from an environment with other adults can take its toll. I was becoming a recluse. Outdoor tasks like doing the groceries had become monstrous challenges. I don’t remember the last time I pumped gas in my car.
I got in touch with my former employer. Luckily, I had left on good terms. Miraculously, he offered me part-time work. It was the perfect solution for a near-reclusive mother of a one-year-old. I can make my financial contribution to the household. I can talk with other grown-ups. Best of all, I can still raise my son the majority of the week.
I am well into my second week at my new (old) job. I write children’s books for a publishing house in the city. I have an entire hour to eat my lunch. Since Marshall’s birth, I had gotten used to scarfing down my meals and rinsing my dishes in ten minutes flat. Needless to say, I have some time to kill on my lunch breaks.
I hope to use this newfound FREE TIME (yippee!) to get back into blogging mode. You can look forward to reading my take on the following topics:
* Marshall’s increasing mobility (He crawls! He stands on his own! He’s… playing in the toilet?! Oh, God, no!)
* Day care woes (What snotty, poopy virus does Marshall have this weekend?)
* Office life (How did I end up with the crappy cubicle?! The boss has a direct view of my oversized computer screen… Sigh.)
* Jon’s afternoons with the baby (The photo below speaks for itself. The boys found my balloon stash. Hahaha.)
OK, back to work :)
Jul 8, 2010
If You Can't Stand the Heat... A Step-By-Step Guide
The greater part of the province of Québec has been hit with a whopper of a heatwave, with temperatures climbing into the 40s if you factor in the humidity. How did we survive it?
Step 1: Insta
ll Air Conditioning
After suffering through one night of hot hot heat, Jon ventured under the stairs, pushed aside the elliptical machine, cooler and spare dresser and hauled out the old air conditioning unit we had back when we lived on the hot and noisy Plateau Mont-Royal. (Important note: It is never fun to install an air conditioner when the house is roasting. I love you, Jon.)
By the time bedtime rolled around, our bedroom was at a comfortable 24 degrees. However, Jon had not had the time to completely seal off the air conditioner. It wasn't long before a mammoth moth made its way into our lit bedroom. "Jon, we can't go to bed with that big gap in the window," Inagged said. Out came the super-expanding foam, and my nerves were relaxed enough for me to get some shut-eye.
While getting ready for bed on Night #2, I noticed a few small critters exploring the perimeter of the sealed-off window. I shrieked when I watched one bug make its way inside through a small opening. "Jon, we can't go to bed with that little gap in the window," Inagged said. Out came the removable window caulking and the window was sealed off a little more tightly. Blame it on the heat: my nerves were shot. I had nightmares of thousands of little earwigs making their way into our bedroom regardless.
Marshall has camped out with us in our room all week. While the bedroom is at a livable temperature, the AC unit isn't powerful enough to cool down the entire house. He sleeps no more than two hours in the playpen we set up in the room. After that, he's in between us in the big bed. Sure, babies are generally cute and cuddly, but there's nothing adorable about a sweaty, dehydrated cranky son grabbing at his mother like an inappropriate patron at a strip club at all hours of the night. Sigh. In no time, it will be winter.
Step 2: Find a Pool
Not only do we know people with swimming pools, but luckily, they like us. Our little family has taken a dip twice in our friend's parents' pool. There, we were able to lower our body temperatures to a reasonable level and partake in some excellent barbecued suppers. Jon, the non-breastfeeder, couldn't refuse a drink or two from the impressively stocked bar. What a treat!
Yesterday, my cousin invited me to her place for lunch and some pool time at her place on the South Shore. Ugh, cross three bridges and through heavy mid-week city traffic for a swim? I didn't hesitate to say yes. We had a great time eating hot lasagna in the cooled house with Kim and her two toddlers. And swimming with the gang was a hit! Marshall dipped his head in the water with the finesse of a drinking bird toy. Kim's youngest, covered in flotation devices, bobbed in the water like a pro. And her eldest boy was a champ at making big splashes when he jumped off the ladder into the pool. Watching the bigger boys kicking about in the water and messily consuming their Popsicles, I got a little glimpse of the years to come that afternoon.
Of course, there's no better way to end a day of cooling ones body temperature in the pool than to hunt for ones missing car keys, only to find them lying on the back seat of the locked car. Ninety minutes later, the tow truck arrived and jimmied the lock. Marshall and I were on the road again and in thick rush-hour traffic. I didn't mind, really. The boy was napping in his shaded car seat, the AC was at full-blast, and Radio 2 Drive was tickling my ear drums. We were probably more comfortable in my little car than in our house, really. Vroom vroom.
Before invading anyone else's pool, we'll have to buy another pack of Little Swimmers diapers. We're all out. I am pretty sure that we'd be guaranteed blacklisted if our baby took a dump in someone's pool. Who knows how many heatwaves we'll get this summer? This is no time to make enemies!
Step 3: Visit Granny
My grandmother called me earlier today to see if I would be interested in having supper with her in her apartment in the fully air conditioned retirement complex. Would I? I packed up the baby and away we went. By the time we reached Granny's place, the car was finally cooled down.
We had a great time catching up on the latest news. Then she pulled out the photo album and we compared Marshall's mug to the baby pictures of my mom, aunt and uncle. Maybe all babies just look like alike, but I was able to see a bit of my kid in each black-and-white baby face. And then we sat down to the ultimate of suppers: hot dogs, coleslaw and vanilla ice cream with butterscotch drizzled on top. And, because my Granny said we were worth it, we uncorked a bottle of Beaujolais. Perfection.
And now, I am recapping our week of tolerating the heat in our stuffy living room. My laptop is uncomfortably hot, like a fat, sweaty lap dog. The leather couch isn't all that appealing under my short shorts. The weatherman swears the heatwave will finally break sometime tomorrow. I'll believe it when I hear the thunder clap.
Until then, I'll just keep listening to the drone of our little air conditioner.
Stay cool.
Step 1: Insta
ll Air ConditioningAfter suffering through one night of hot hot heat, Jon ventured under the stairs, pushed aside the elliptical machine, cooler and spare dresser and hauled out the old air conditioning unit we had back when we lived on the hot and noisy Plateau Mont-Royal. (Important note: It is never fun to install an air conditioner when the house is roasting. I love you, Jon.)
By the time bedtime rolled around, our bedroom was at a comfortable 24 degrees. However, Jon had not had the time to completely seal off the air conditioner. It wasn't long before a mammoth moth made its way into our lit bedroom. "Jon, we can't go to bed with that big gap in the window," I
While getting ready for bed on Night #2, I noticed a few small critters exploring the perimeter of the sealed-off window. I shrieked when I watched one bug make its way inside through a small opening. "Jon, we can't go to bed with that little gap in the window," I
Marshall has camped out with us in our room all week. While the bedroom is at a livable temperature, the AC unit isn't powerful enough to cool down the entire house. He sleeps no more than two hours in the playpen we set up in the room. After that, he's in between us in the big bed. Sure, babies are generally cute and cuddly, but there's nothing adorable about a sweaty, dehydrated cranky son grabbing at his mother like an inappropriate patron at a strip club at all hours of the night. Sigh. In no time, it will be winter.
Step 2: Find a Pool
Not only do we know people with swimming pools, but luckily, they like us. Our little family has taken a dip twice in our friend's parents' pool. There, we were able to lower our body temperatures to a reasonable level and partake in some excellent barbecued suppers. Jon, the non-breastfeeder, couldn't refuse a drink or two from the impressively stocked bar. What a treat!
Yesterday, my cousin invited me to her place for lunch and some pool time at her place on the South Shore. Ugh, cross three bridges and through heavy mid-week city traffic for a swim? I didn't hesitate to say yes. We had a great time eating hot lasagna in the cooled house with Kim and her two toddlers. And swimming with the gang was a hit! Marshall dipped his head in the water with the finesse of a drinking bird toy. Kim's youngest, covered in flotation devices, bobbed in the water like a pro. And her eldest boy was a champ at making big splashes when he jumped off the ladder into the pool. Watching the bigger boys kicking about in the water and messily consuming their Popsicles, I got a little glimpse of the years to come that afternoon.
Of course, there's no better way to end a day of cooling ones body temperature in the pool than to hunt for ones missing car keys, only to find them lying on the back seat of the locked car. Ninety minutes later, the tow truck arrived and jimmied the lock. Marshall and I were on the road again and in thick rush-hour traffic. I didn't mind, really. The boy was napping in his shaded car seat, the AC was at full-blast, and Radio 2 Drive was tickling my ear drums. We were probably more comfortable in my little car than in our house, really. Vroom vroom.
Before invading anyone else's pool, we'll have to buy another pack of Little Swimmers diapers. We're all out. I am pretty sure that we'd be guaranteed blacklisted if our baby took a dump in someone's pool. Who knows how many heatwaves we'll get this summer? This is no time to make enemies!
Step 3: Visit Granny
My grandmother called me earlier today to see if I would be interested in having supper with her in her apartment in the fully air conditioned retirement complex. Would I? I packed up the baby and away we went. By the time we reached Granny's place, the car was finally cooled down.
We had a great time catching up on the latest news. Then she pulled out the photo album and we compared Marshall's mug to the baby pictures of my mom, aunt and uncle. Maybe all babies just look like alike, but I was able to see a bit of my kid in each black-and-white baby face. And then we sat down to the ultimate of suppers: hot dogs, coleslaw and vanilla ice cream with butterscotch drizzled on top. And, because my Granny said we were worth it, we uncorked a bottle of Beaujolais. Perfection.
And now, I am recapping our week of tolerating the heat in our stuffy living room. My laptop is uncomfortably hot, like a fat, sweaty lap dog. The leather couch isn't all that appealing under my short shorts. The weatherman swears the heatwave will finally break sometime tomorrow. I'll believe it when I hear the thunder clap.
Until then, I'll just keep listening to the drone of our little air conditioner.
Stay cool.
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