That Woman

There I was, rushing out the door in heels and a nice dress, my sleepy son in tow, leaving half-empty cereal bowls on the counter and a wet diaper on the hallway floor, when I experienced a wave of realization.

I have become “that woman.”

No. Ignore the thought. I am pulled together. I am professional. I look impeccable. (Well, my nails aren’t done and my hair is still damp and I can’t find my lip gloss, but those are mere details.)

I scoop Cheerios and raisins out of the car seat, rescue a sippy cup that is rolling down the driveway towards certain death, and buckle in my son, who is yelling “Car!” and “Yeah!” at the top of his lungs. Then I get a whiff of poop smell.

“Did you poop?” I ask. He looks at me with wide eyes and says, “Caca. Potty.”

Great. Thanks for telling me now. We head back inside, I plunk him onto the potty (too late, clearly), whip him into a clean diaper, and run back out the door. With glee, my son yells, “Clack! Clack!” for the sound my heels make across the tile floor, but it sort of sounds like “Crack! Crack!” We’re officially late, but not by much. I can still make it.

We’re two blocks down the road when I realize he has no shoes on.

I am definitely that woman.

So we turn around, back into the house, grab a shoe – run upstairs for the other one – and get back into the car. On my way I glance mournfully at the lukewarm coffee lingering on the kitchen table. This “working mom” stuff is overrated.

I put my hand to the ignition and …Where are my keys?! I swallow the bad words leaping out of my mouth, as my son now repeats everything that I say. (It’s funny how something as innocuous as “Oh darn” sounds terrible coming out of a one-year-old’s mouth.)

I clack back into the house – painfully remembering why I hate wearing heels – grab the keys, start the car, and off we go.

Diapers.

This time the curses almost slip out. I am ready to give up, but no. I have responsibilities. I have deadlines. I have places to be! We go back once more. (My neighbours must have a running joke about how many times I run back into my house for something.)

Finally we are off. He makes it to daycare, I make it to school, and we reunite a few hours later. Then I walk through the door and gasp. We've been robbed.

No, wait.

My house looks like a crazy person whirled through it, pulling books off shelves, throwing pots across the floor, tossing noodles onto the wall and stripping off random articles of clothing while yelling, “Crack! Crack!”

Well, I guess that’s not too far off.

Morning Economics and Afternoon Playdates

I started school this week. Again. I am indeed the perpetual student, as every few years I seem to be starting a new degree. This time, however, I am starting a new degree with a toddler in tow. And not just any degree either. A Ph.D. A doctorate. A certified path towards insanity.

Of course, many of you think I’m crazy already. Admittedly, those embarking upon the masochistic road to a Ph.D. are usually somewhat nuts. But as a woman nearing thirty with a one-year-old in tow, I am not your typical doctoral student.

My “uniqueness,” shall we say, was made especially apparent when I walked into my economics class on Friday. You see, I’ve been required to take a few additional undergraduate credits, because apparently I did not take enough classes when I was actually in undergrad. So I enrolled in an interesting looking third year economics class.

I am definitely the oldest student there. By far.

When we were discussing labour and childcare costs, I made the mistake of mentioning that I had a husband and baby myself. I heard astonished whispers from the young men beside me:
“Did she say she has a baby? Or that she wants a baby?”
“No, she said she has a baby.”
“Whoa.”

Whoa, indeed. Secretly I hoped that the astonishment was due to the fact that I looked so young and fit and hip that I couldn’t possibly have a baby. But I knew that wasn’t it. They were wondering why on earth I, an Older Woman with a Baby, was in class with them and their young, fit, and hip twenty-one-year-old friends.

The next day I went to a neighbouring university to pick up a book, and out of necessity I brought my son along. The gapes of astonishment and confused stares made me think that the students had never seen a baby before. But they had just never seen a baby on campus before, especially in the library. (Oh lighten up, it was only for a minute, and he didn’t make a peep.)

Yesterday, I went to class, did some research, applied for funding, had a meeting with our school’s director, hit the gym, and then picked up my son and went to Tubes and Jujubes, where I raced around like a goof yelling things like: “Throw the balls! Press the button! Let’s go down the slide! Now jump jump jump! Wheeeee!”

Economics in the morning and playdates in the afternoon. This is my new life.

So far, I like it.

The Best Place on Earth

My son and I just returned from two glorious weeks in what is arguably the best place on earth: British Columbia. If you haven’t been there, go. Now.

Of course, there is always too little time. Too many people to see, too many favourite places to visit, and too many mountains to climb. (Oh, and too much wine to drink. How I didn’t gain 10 pounds off wine and chocolate alone is beyond me.)

Every day that we were away, my son asked for his dad (“Dada? Dada?”). But now that we are home, he is asking for my dad (“Papa? Papa?”) and his little cousin (“Ami? Ami?”).

It’s adorable but heartbreaking. How do you explain to a one-year-old that he won’t get to see “Ami” for a very long time? Of course, he will forget after a while. That's just as heartbreaking.

It’s tough to live away from family, and even more so when babies come along. There is no free babysitting from grandparents, aunts, and uncles. There are no impromptu family dinners or camping trips or playdates with cousins. Instead, we have the phone, video Skype and digital photo albums. Poor substitutes, all.

I do like where we live, but every time I go back “home” I ache with the knowledge that I don’t live there anymore.

So every day I make plans to move back. Every day I scheme and dream. The move is years away, but it will happen. Some day.

Of course, now that I am back at this home, the one where I actually live, I appreciate the friends I have here. The longer we stay, the harder it will be to move. No matter when I am, there are always people somewhere else that I miss. I guess I just need to convince them all to come with me.

So come on, everyone, let’s all head west. You won’t regret it. I promise.

Mr. 30E and the Airplane Adventure

Here is a new addition to my least favourite things: A five hour flight with a hyperactive one-year-old on my lap.

The morning started badly. We had to get up insanely early with no time to eat and barely enough time for coffee. The incompetent airline -- that shall remain nameless -- did not have enough staff on desk, making the baggage check line ridiculously long. Despite arriving in plenty of time, we barely made our flight. Consequently, I did not have time for breakfast and barely managed to buy a coffee before racing to the gate, one-year-old in tow.

I missed pre-boarding and got onto the plane after most passengers had already taken their seats. Our seat was at the very back, which meant I had to walk all the way down the aisle as other passengers looked at me in dread. The walk of shame.

Yes, I was that mother, struggling to contain an excited, wriggling toddler with one arm while balancing hot coffee, a muffin, and a big bag with the other.

To make matters worse, when I finally reached our seat, there was someone in it. When, barely able to contain my writhing son and looking obviously desperate for help, I politely told the man that he was in my seat, he did not move. Instead, he smirked at me. Yes, he smirked. This did not win him a place in my heart.

“E.” He said.

“No, my seat is 30D.” I said. Then, assuming he was confused, I explained: “D is the aisle. F is the window.”

“E.” He repeated with the same smirk. “He is in 30E.”

I was so confused. He who? Then he gestured to a blonde guy seated in the row across from us. I looked back and forth between the two, hopelessly losing this mind game. I was starving, dying for caffeine, and had lost any ability for witty banter somewhere before security.

My son chose this perfect moment to dive from my arms. While catching him, I nearly dumped my entire coffee onto a sweet old lady. The man still didn’t move, and in fact smirked even more. Clearly he had no idea how close he was to death.

“I don’t care what seat he’s in!” I exclaimed desperately. “I just want my seat.”

Something in my tone must have penetrated his evidently thick skull, because he finally moved. Mr. 30E then got up to claim his middle seat beside mine, promptly pulled his toque over his eyes and put his headphones in.

The flight hadn’t even started and already I felt like a pariah. I even heard a woman remark that when she was young, parents never took small children on flights. Well, excuse me.

We must have done at least fifty treks up and down the aisle. Then we went to the bathroom to play with the faucet, which apparently is the Best Thing Ever. Then we headed back up the aisle. Then to the bathroom to play with the toilet paper. We would sit for about twenty minutes until the Captain took a nose dive off my lap, and then back up the aisle we went. And down. And up.

We attempted lunch, which mostly ended up on the floor. We attempted milk, which mostly ended up on me. Finally, we attempted Cheerios, which mostly ended up on Mr. 30E. My profuse apologizes went unacknowledged.

I have never wanted sedatives so badly in my life. For all of us.

Dirty, dirty!

I like to think of myself as a responsible, well-informed mother. I do my best to keep toxins out of my son. We have stainless steel sippy cups and try to avoid things made in China. We don’t use health products containing parabens or phthalates or other nasty things. We buy organic when we can and avoid processed foods.

Yet I cannot convince my son to keep garbage out of his mouth.

I don’t mean junk food. I mean garbage. Literally.

You see, I work hard to give my son healthy, fresh, homemade food. He, in turn, throws these lovingly prepared meals on the floor, only to eat them later when they are dried onto the tile and covered in dust.

I read small print on ingredient labels until I go cross-eyed, ensuring that my son’s soaps and shampoos and lotions are chemical-free. He tries to eat cigarette butts off the beach. Then he goes for the rocks, and at least one mouthful of sand for good measure.

I give him filtered water and organic milk to drink. He thinks it’s hilarious to drink soapy bathwater and take big gulps out of the dirty, brown river.

I use non-toxic cleaners and laundry detergents and don’t allow shoes in the house. He eats my shoes.

We purchased an organic, cotton mattress, free of fire-retardant chemicals and carcinogenic foam. He tries to chew the garden hose and washes his hands in the toilet.

And it's not that he doesn't understand the concept of filth. In fact, "dirty" is his favourite word. He yells "Dirty, dirty!" every time the toilet seat is up. He poops on the potty, claps, and shouts "Dirty!" as if it's the best thing ever. He points at the garbage and very seriously tells me: "Mama, dirty, dirty." (Either that or he's telling me that I'm dirty. I'm hoping for the first option.)

I guess I can be comforted in knowing that his immune system is getting a very good workout from all of these germs. But cigarette butts? Rocks? And sand?

Well, at least it’s BPA-free.

Lord Have Mercy

We took our first camping trip with the munchkin this weekend, and I have just three words: Lord have mercy.

Don’t get me wrong – we had a blast. The little guy was a trooper for the long drive, and he was beside himself with glee to have so much outdoor space to run around in. But if you go camping with a toddler who has just barely learned to walk, yet thinks he can run, and puts everything (and I mean everything) in his mouth, you had better not be a clean freak or a germophobe.

Luckily, I am neither of those things (as my mom knows all too well), so we got along just fine. Of course, the weather could have been better, but we’re from the Wet Coast. We’re experts in tarp hanging, rain gear, hot soup and extra socks.

With an overnight downpour, what was once dirt became mud, and the Captain was no less eager to run around the campground. His jumpy little legs would not tolerate playpen confinement, but if we tried to keep him inside the tent, he would have bounced off the walls until the whole thing came down. So we cut him loose.

He ran, and tripped, and rolled, and ran again. Within minutes he was covered in mud, sap and pine needles. Four pairs of pants for two days of camping are not nearly enough for my Captain Muddybum.

On the second day of our trip, we braved unpredictable weather and embarked upon a hike. In a very uncharacteristic move, I had not researched the trail except to know that it was popular and the views were spectacular. Apparently I have been away from any real mountains for far too long – I assumed that the hike couldn’t be more than about two hours each way.

Three hours later, we emerged from a section of trees and could finally see the peak to which we aspired. It was so far away that I wondered if it was the same mountain.

“Is that where we’re going?” I asked with some dismay.

“Well, I’m certainly not,” grumbled my husband. To his credit, he had been carrying the munchkin the entire way, despite my offers to share the load. Our little one is not so little anymore.

A few minutes later, we met a couple in their fifties making their descent. They looked quite fresh and not too sweaty (unlike us), so we were encouraged. The kind man told us that we only had about a mile to go. Figuring that even at a crawling pace up a steep trail, one mile couldn’t take us longer than twenty or thirty minutes, we soldiered on. Maybe the peak we saw wasn’t the right peak after all.

An hour later, we still had not reached the top. Some overly cheerful trail runners assured us that we were almost there, to which my husband replied, “Yeah, they told us that an hour ago.”

The Captain, however, was a superstar. He slept part of the way, rapped part of the way (yes, he baby raps – “bikka, bikka, wah-wah, bidda bidda, ba-bah” – it’s very funky), and gleefully kicked his daddy’s back for most of the hike. We stopped every few kilometres to let him explore the trail, learning that approximate hike times are very different when a baby is involved.

We finally reached the summit only to discover that there was a highway allowing carloads of tourists to drive up the mountain. It is always a little disheartening to reach the top of a gruelling trail only to find 80-year-olds with canes and teenagers in flip-flops at the top.

But another part of me was relieved at the sight of a road. I was trying to figure out if there was another way down besides hiking. Was there a shuttle? Could we hitchhike? Could my husband hitchhike, go get the car, and pick us up?

But no. I am a BC girl. The mountain would not defeat me. We took some time to enjoy the views, ate some overpriced chocolate and refilled our water bottles. Down we went.

Our little one napped and rapped and kicked and babbled all the way down. It didn’t rain, and we were fortified by a steady supply of caffeine and sugar, thanks to the café at the summit.

We were exhausted and starving by the time we reached our camp, but all three of us were nearly giddy from our mountain adventure. It had been far too long since we conquered a trail like that.

Anyone have a job for me on the West Coast? I want to move back.

A Paradox of Motherhood

This is a paradox of motherhood: We would give anything for some alone time, yet we are often lonely. Well, at least I am.

You see, I am rarely alone because my munchkin is with me constantly. As a result, I crave the kind of “alone time” that would entitle me to use the bathroom without someone pulling at my pants, or read a book with more than four words on each page, or go to a coffee shop and actually drink coffee.

While my son and I have a lot of fun (morning dance parties come to mind), he’s not yet adept at enthralling conversation. So despite my constant company, I often feel lonely.

I need adults. More specifically, I need other moms. Playdates, you see, are not just for the kiddies. Playdates are just as important, if not more so, for the moms. We need each other. We need advice, support, laughter, clothing swaps, and spare diapers in a pinch.

But if your circle of friends is mostly childless, as mine was before baby, then you need to reach out to new friends. New mommy friends.

This can be tricky. Just because someone has a kid the same age as yours does not mean that you will become instant best friends. Au contraire. Parenting brings up a freight train’s worth of potential conflict issues. If you are a cloth-diapering, baby-wearing, extended breastfeeding, organic homemade food kind of momma, you may not jive with a disposable-diapering, plastic-everything, formula-feeding, processed food sort of mom.

But you may also be pleasantly surprised.

Having a baby creates common ground where there once was none. Mothers understand sleep deprivation, tantrums, poop explosions, and the boredom that comes from being cooped up in your house every day. Moms understand loneliness. While my mommy friends and I might not have everything in common, playdates with these women have become oases in some very, very long weeks.

Obviously parenting styles differ widely, and while I will avoid you if you’re a yeller (or worse, if you smoke around your kids), chances are we can get along even if we don’t agree on cry-it-out or co-sleeping.

The key is getting out there. But a first playdate is nearly like a first date, complete with all the requisite anxiety and planning. Will she like me? Will she like my kid? Will we have anything in common? Am I too dressy? Too slobby? Do I have broccoli in my teeth? Wow, look at her nails…

Inevitably, your child will be “out of sorts” that day. He will cling and whine, when he is normally very outgoing and happy. You will spend the playdate apologizing (“he’s not usually like this”), convinced that your new mommy friend will never call you again.

But she will, because she has a baby too. And nobody’s baby is perfect every day. You might not agree on politics, and you may eat everything from a box while she cooks from scratch, but you are both mothers. And chances are, you are both lonely.

There is something very unnatural about mothers raising their children alone in their houses. We need community, we need friends, and we need help.

Well, at least I do. Coffee, anyone?

The Things We Do...

I should know by now that even something as routine as a chiropractor's appointment can take a surprising turn with a one-year-old in tow.

The morning started in chaos, so I should have known. We were late due to the fact that an accident had closed both lanes of the highway, it was pouring rain, and every major artery in the city was closed for construction. My shortcut turned into a long, long, long way around. My son was hungry and tired, so he started to yell at me about being stuck in the car (“Ba-dah! Ba-DAH!” I’m not yet sure what this means, but he sure yells it with conviction.)

When we finally arrived, my chiropractor had taken the next patient, so we waited our turn. I watched the clock tick closer and closer to naptime.

My son was pretty happy at first. He climbed up and down the stairs. And up. And down. And up again. Exciting stuff. Then he discovered that each little glass table in the waiting area was full of pamphlets and other great things that could be pulled off, ripped, and tossed everywhere. Then he discovered the garbage bin. Yes, Captain Destructo was in fine form that morning.

By the time it was our turn, we were both exhausted from running around the office. My chiropractor has a toy box, so my son is usually quite entertained during my visit. This day, however was different. The moment I lay down on the table, he started to cry. Then he escalated to wailing. He had never done this in her office before, and he would not stop.

We brought in the receptionist for reinforcement. He usually loves her, but he just cried harder. So my chiropractor tried to go ahead anyway, while the receptionist restrained my writhing, wailing child, and I sang “Wheels on the Bus” with my face squished into the table.

No dice. It was way past nap time and he had hit the wall. But the chiropractor had an idea. Rather than cut the visit short, she laid my son on his belly on top of my back. Picture it, if you can.

He was instantly silent. And there we were: mommy on the chiropractor’s table, baby on top of mommy, chiropractor working on my hips, and the receptionist making sure that baby didn’t fall off.

I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It was so ridiculous. My son had his cheek pressed up against my cheek, his eyes were half-closed, and he was drooling down my face. I think he almost fell asleep. But I started to laugh, so he started to laugh. And once the baby giggles started, we all got the giggles.

The chiropractor managed to finish her adjustments, and as I struggled off the table and slid my son from my back into my arms, I saw that he was now all smiles. The trauma of ten minutes ago was forgotten, and he was full of beans as usual. Like this was the funniest thing that had ever happened.

Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. It certainly was the funniest thing that had ever happened to me in a chiropractor’s office.

The First Year

Where do I start? The first year of my first child’s life… I can’t even begin to convey how life changing this year has been. But here are just a few things that I have learned:

1. You truly can function on less sleep than you think. You might cry, you might drink a lot of coffee, you might hallucinate, but you will survive. And it does get better. I think.

2. Other moms are essential to survival. We are not meant to raise our kids alone, going insane with boredom if we read the same book one more time or make one more ridiculous animal noise. Interaction with other moms is a must, unless you want to become a blubbering, incoherent mess before your child is six months old.

3. The female body is incredible, but don’t rush it. Things will go back to where they were… sort of. Very few of us snap back into our pre-pregnancy clothes within a few weeks or even a few months (if you did I don’t want to hear about it). I didn’t truly feel “back” until nearly a year postpartum. It’s ok. That year goes by quickly and is filled with more important things, like first steps and first words.

4. Motherhood is hard. Suck it up. There is no quitting. There are no sick days. That’s just the way it is.

5. Guilt comes with motherhood. They are inseparable. Wine helps.

6. Baby giggles in the morning can erase an entire night of screaming.

7. Relax. Stop stressing about Ferber or not, soother or not, flashcards or not, co-sleeping or not, daycare or not, extended nursing or not. Do what works for you and your baby, and forget about who might judge you. Wine helps.

8. Poop happens. Whether you do cloth diapers or disposable, you will deal with poop. When poop happens in the potty, it is a glorious thing.

9. Neighbours are awesome. Get to know your neighbours. They might just save your life (or at least your sanity).

10. Don’t get too attached to nice things. Chances are, the baby will find it and destroy it. Or puke on it. Or poop on it. Learn to let it go. Wine helps.

11. Do your hair. Use nice lotion. Wear cute shoes. You’ll respect yourself more in the morning.

12. Going to the bathroom alone is a very special thing. Seriously.

13. You will do at least one thing that you swore you would never do.

14. Good dads are incredible. If you have a good partner, count yourself blessed, over and over again.

15. The first birthday party may not turn out the way you want. Your baby might be sick and cranky, people might not show up, the cake might be too sweet. But you and your baby survived, so celebrate anyway. Wine helps.

Trusting Your Gut

I pulled my son out of his home daycare this week. It was a tough decision, because now I have no guaranteed childcare for the fall and need to start searching all over again. But it had to be done.

He was miserable, I was miserable, and every time I brought him there I just had this sinking feeling. He cried as soon we walked through the door, clinging to me for dear life. He sobbed when I picked him up.

I felt like my heart was ripping open every time I left him there. (Dramatic, I know, but I’m a dramatic person. Sorry.)

He was only there for a few hours, twice a week, and we couldn’t even handle that. What was going to happen when I needed to leave him there for two or three full days?

So we left. I had to pay for two weeks in lieu of notice, but that’s all right. I think we’re all happier now, and the whole episode reminded me that I really need to trust my first instinct. I knew right away that it wasn’t the right place for my son. There was nothing wrong with it, the care provider was very nice, and the other kids seemed happy. I just sensed that it wasn’t the right fit. But I brought him anyway, because it was inexpensive and flexible and convenient.

So where do we go from here? Well, for now we will enjoy the summer together. I sense many backyard pool play dates and trips to the beach coming on.

Maybe we’ll find a family that wants to share a nanny, or maybe we’ll find a small home daycare that fits. Quite likely, I’ll end up paying much more than I would for conventional daycare (it’s cheap here in Quebec!), but I’m all right with that. When you’re a parent, some sacrifices just need to be made.

Turns out that it doesn’t matter how cheap or convenient childcare might be. If it’s not right for your kid, you have to trust your gut.

Cupcakes and Hot Dogs

I have been spending most of this week preparing for my son’s first birthday party. He doesn’t know that it’s almost his birthday, and he won’t notice what kind of food I serve or how elaborate the cake might be.

Despite all this, I am hopelessly lost on the road to overdoing it.

I should have kept it easy. I should have done very simple food and a very simple cake. Or even cupcakes, maybe even store-bought ones. But no, my menu includes appetizers, salads, pasta, grains, and fish, all on a tropical, jungle theme. (Yes, there is a theme. I know. I’m out of control.)

And don’t forget the cake. Oh, the cake. I found this cute picture of a jungle-themed cake online, and I thought it didn’t look too hard. Oops. Turns out there are a lot of things about cake that I didn’t know, such as how to stack two cakes on top of each other (apparently you need posts and cake boards), and that there are 20 different kinds of icing, each with a different purpose.

My cake involves a lot of fondant, a pliable icing that you can shape and stretch like play-doh. You can buy fondant, but being the intrepid domestic diva that I am, I made it myself. Twice. (The first batch was a massive failure.)

You have to knead fondant like bread, but for three times as long, and then you have to let it sit overnight, and then you have to colour it, and then you have to shape it into animals that are trickier than they look. (Have you ever created a lion’s mane out of play-doh? It’s hard.)

Oh, and did I mention the fondant palm trees with breadsticks as trunks? Yes, it’s that kind of cake.

But we’re in too deep to back out now. The leaves are done, the animals are made, and a big hunk of butter is sitting in my fridge like an uninvited foreigner. I have to use it for something.

The party is still two days away and I’m already exhausted. I don’t know how many hours I’ve spent on this ridiculous cake. The house still needs to be cleaned, the rest of the food needs to be cooked, and at some point I should put on something nice and do my hair. (I will not be a slummy mummy on my son’s birthday.) I wonder, would it be bad form to open the wine before my guests arrive?

Next year, I’m doing cupcakes and hot dogs.

Yummy Mummy vs. Slummy Mummy

A few years ago, I read an article about a woman who felt that trying to be a “yummy mummy” was too difficult for her. She had resigned herself to the fact that she was, instead, a “slummy mummy.”

At the time, my 25-year-old fit, energetic and somewhat-put-together self could not really relate. My 29-year-old postpartum, exhausted, frizzy, and frumpy self, however, can.

You see, the yummy mummies are cute and sexy and stylish. They wear pointy-toed heels and neatly pressed (and matching!) clothing. I wear sneakers and I loathe ironing. I have also been known to pull something out of the laundry hamper and wear it again. Yes, I admit it.

Yummy mummies have perfectly blown out hair, nicely polished nails, and pretty lipstick. My hairstyle is what I call “the wet ponytail,” I haven’t worn nail polish in years, and…lipstick? Right. I’m lucky if I can find my chapstick.

Don’t get me wrong. I try not to be a total slob. I don’t wear sweatpants to the grocery store, I shower regularly, and I do slap on some mascara and blush before leaving the house (forget the “five-minute-face” – mine takes 30 seconds). I also make some effort to wear clothes that aren’t stained with mashed carrots.

But I envy the yummy mummy. I wish my hair wasn’t frizzy all the time and that I didn’t wear the same jeans every single day. (Seriously, every day.) I would like to look stylish, but I can’t afford much, and let’s just say I’m not naturally gifted in the style department.

Now that I have a baby, my laziness towards style is even worse. The effort of putting together an outfit (and no, jeans and a t-shirt is not an “outfit”), doing my nails, finding my lipstick, and blow-drying my hair is just too much, especially if my only outings that day are grocery shopping and the park. (That's the other problem -- I have nowhere to be. But that's another entry entirely.) Also, just one drop of moisture sends every polished strand of hair back into a frizz seizure, so what’s the point? I'm beginning to suspect that perfectly-coiffed yummy mummies must not sweat.

Yet, I really don’t want to be slummy. I am tired of looking tired, rumpled, and half-done. This past year has been all about my son, and I need to take a little time, just a little, to get myself back together.

I can’t afford designer labels and foil highlights and manicures, but that’s ok. All I want is nicely styled hair and some clean clothes that actually match. I would like to glance in the shop window and not cringe. Is that asking too much?

Because let’s be honest, the wet-ponytail-plus-lululemon-headband look can only take you so far, and the “new baby” excuse has expired. He’s almost one.

Time's up, Schmidt. Now get it together.

Stab Me in the Heart, Why Don't You?

Tuesday was my son’s first full day at daycare.

It was not the ideal situation. He had only been there once before, and I had to leave for Toronto at 5:00am, not to return until 11:00pm. This is the longest I have ever been away from my son since he was born. My husband had to work, so my poor little munchkin was stuck in a place he didn’t really know, with people he had only met once, from 8:30am until 5:30pm.

It did not go well.

Correction: My day went spectacularly well. My son’s day did not.

I went to Toronto for a presentation, which was very successful. It felt great to be using my mind for a change, rather than losing it. I spent many, many hours cooped up on the train, but to have so much uninterrupted time was simply luxurious. I had also left the cell phone with my husband, so I had no way of knowing what was going on back home. It was probably just as well.

As I blissfully sat on the train, daydreaming, writing, and listening to music (a completely foreign experience to me), my son was crying his eyes out at daycare.

Seriously, stab me in the heart.

I got home and found out that he had cried all day. All. Day. Apparently the only time he wasn’t crying was when he was sleeping. He threw all of his lunch onto the floor and refused to drink his milk. He would only eat cheerios and drink water. When my husband picked him up that evening, he said that the poor little guy ate the equivalent of three dinners.

Stab me in the heart. Over and over and over.

Reluctantly, and with extra helpings of guilt for breakfast, I brought him back there today. But it was only for a few hours this time, and I needed to clean my entire house, top to bottom. (Yes, my precious hours of “free time” were used for vacuuming and mopping floors, but such is my life right now.)

When I went to pick him up, he burst into tears, but the care provider assured me that today was much better. He hardly cried, and apparently he went down for his nap without so much as a peep. (I hardly believe it. Whose baby is she talking about? As I write this, he is upstairs loudly lecturing me that he DOES NOT WANT an afternoon nap.)

But no, she assures me that he went to sleep right away, ate all of his lunch, and was generally happy for the entire five hours that he was there. Miraculous. And my house is sparkling clean.

I guess you can take the knife out of my heart now. Until next week.

The Marathon

Things that I learned while running the marathon:

1) Labour (without drugs) is way harder than running 42.2 kilometres.

2) Labour (without drugs) still does not prepare you for the pain of running 42.2 kilometres.

3) Running for an hour, or even two, is fun. Running for four hours is not, no matter how many people are cheering or holding banners with ridiculous “motivational” phrases.

4) Running your first marathon while recovering from sickness and still on antibiotics will not result in a personal best. It may, however, result in several unscheduled pit stops.

5) Runners have memories like goldfish. One day after swearing they will never do something so stupid and painful again, they are planning the next one.

6) Accepting a time significantly longer than your goal time is a tough pill to swallow. (However, that pill goes down much easier with generous quantities of red wine.)

7) Pain in retrospect is funny. As in: “When I hit kilometre 40, I could barely move my legs, haha.” Or: “At kilometre 30, I almost threw up, haha.” At the time, these things were not funny. At all.

8) The original runner of the original marathon keeled over and died when he reached his destination. Yes, you read that correctly. He DIED. This should tell us something about the overall insanity of running such a distance.

9) The female body is incredible. A mere two hours after finishing my 42.2 kilometre run (which took me three hours and 59 minutes to complete) I was nursing my son. He was also using me as a salt lick (apparently my shoulder was pretty yummy).

10) I am stronger than I thought I was. I wanted to quit many times, but I didn’t.

So there you go. My marathon is over, I am almost walking like a normal person again, and I suddenly have way more free time than I used to. I didn’t achieve the time that I wanted, but that’s ok. Maybe someday I’ll run another one to redeem myself. Maybe.

But it certainly won’t be anytime soon.

I Get Knocked Down

But I get up again. Oh, do I ever.

This week, I got mastitis, and the timing was impeccable. One week before the biggest race of my life, and I get wiped out by a raging bacterial infection. Fantastic.

I have weathered many things during this first year of my son’s life, but this was one of the worst. Fever, aches, pain, chills… and the agony of not knowing whether I would be able to run the marathon on Sunday.

Now, for some of you, it might seem smarter to skip out on the race. There are other races, you say. Other marathons. Other challenges. The whole thing might not seem like that big of a deal.

But I have been training for this race for nearly a year. Since my son was born, this race has been my reason to run. It has been the reason to get on my treadmill instead of taking a nap, to finish long runs in -20 degrees, and to push myself through brutal interval workouts. I have worked around nap schedules and feeding schedules and husband schedules. I’ve been though twisted ankles, bruised calves, sore joints, stomach cramps, chiropractor bills, and countless Epsom salt baths. And now mastitis.

So when people say “maybe it’s just not in the cards this year” or “there are other races,” I want to cry. Or scream. Because for me, this is it. I don’t want to run another marathon. Other races, sure. But I’m exhausted and I don't want to do this again. After months of training and hundreds of kilometres, the race is the short part. It's a twisted, painful sort of reward for all of my hard work, and I just want it to be over.

So this is it. On Sunday, it’s me versus 42.2 kilometres of pavement. Me versus the clock. Me versus mastitis. Me versus antibiotics.

Me versus me.

It should be an interesting race. I might not finish in my goal time, but I will finish. I’ll want to throw up and I’ll want to cry. I’ll want to stop, give up, and sit down.

But I’ll get up again. Whatever else happens, you can count on that.

Nobody Said It Was Easy

I had my first official Mother’s Day last week. (Last year apparently did not count, because I was “only” pregnant and not “really” a mother yet, according to my dear husband.)

I have always tried to recognize the importance of Mother’s Day, but I’ve never quite appreciated the day’s significance until this year. Nor have I realized how inadequate my flowers or cards have been to thank the woman that gave me life.

Until now. Because until now, I didn’t understand how much it takes to be a good mom. I never realized how tired my mom must have been, working nights and weekends, and then being home during the day to feed us, teach us, and play with us. We just took it for granted that she would always be there.

I didn’t understand how often moms want to run away, sleep, cry, have a moment to themselves, take a long shower, read a book, but don’t – because their kids need them.

I didn’t understand how your entire heart could be walking outside of your body. I didn’t understand how the thought of something happening to your child makes you die a little bit inside. I didn’t understand the ferocity of the mother bear.

Until now.

Now I know that motherhood demands a sort of self-sacrifice that is impossible to understand until you do it. I still don’t fully understand, as I have never parented a toddler, or a teenager. Not yet. But I will never be the person I once was, because now a tiny, helpless human being depends on me for everything, and every choice I make has to take him into consideration. Many people say that kids cramp your style, and this article even claims that children don’t make you happy.

I beg to differ.

After all, no one said it was easy. No one ever told me that being a mom would be a breeze. No one ever said there wouldn’t be sacrifices. No one. So we can’t say we weren’t warned, and we can’t expect a cakewalk. There is sleep deprivation. There are temper tantrums. Nap battles, poop explosions, breast infections, stretch marks… yes, there are all of those things, and some of them are really tough things.

But they all pale in comparison to baby giggles, sloppy kisses, cuddles, and the excited race to the door when I come home. There is nothing like the amazing feeling of teaching this little person skills he will use forever. There is a blissful joy in watching him discover sand, water, birds, and wind. And there is the fact that my husband and I are now closer than ever, because this is the biggest joint endeavour we have ever done.

Finally, there are the nights when I can instantly soothe my panicked and terrified child with just a simple cuddle. That, my friends, is a powerful thing.

Motherhood is not for the selfish. It really isn’t. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything, because nothing worth having is easy. Children included.

As for those people who don’t believe that having kids will make them happy, well, that’s ok. Not everyone was meant to be a parent. But I’m sure glad that my mom took the risk. I’m grateful that she made the sacrifice to be the best parent she could be. And I’m grateful that I’m finally starting to understand it.

Thanks, Mom.

Captain Destructo

Our son appears to be on an unstoppable mission of destruction. Or he is doing his best impression of the Tasmanian Devil.

Either way, he seems intent on wreaking havoc in my house.

We call him “Captain Destructo.”

Although the Captain and I don’t quite speak the same language, my keen observation has deduced that these are the key elements of his mission:

1. If it contains items of any kind, empty it. This includes drawers, laundry baskets, dishwashers, purses, and backpacks. If the laundry basket in question contains folded items, wildly shake each piece of clothing to ensure that it is completely free from containment, then laugh maniacally and throw it onto the floor.

2. If it is a surface with items cluttering the top, clear it. Everything belongs on the floor, thank you very much. This applies to the kitchen table, coffee table, hallway bench, and anything else within reach.

3. If it is a pair of something (shoes, socks, gloves, etc.), divide and conquer. Ensure that the two items never see each other again. This can be achieved by grabbing a sock or shoe and crawling away as fast as possible to hide the item before mommy catches you. (And don't be deceived by his small size. Captain Destructo is fast.)

4. If it looks electronic (remote control, baby monitor, camera, etc.), bang it against the tile floor to test for durability. This test must be done quickly, before mommy intervenes, so slam the item into the floor as hard and fast as possible.

5. If it is paper, rip it, and rip it fast. Mommy will take books and magazines away very quickly, so destruction of any paper items must be done immediately.

6. If it is a plant, rip off the leaves and pull up the dirt, then eat the evidence.

7. If it is a toy, ignore it. These are decoys scattered around by parents to distract babies from the good stuff. Do not be deceived. Go for the phone, CDs, remote controls, power cords, and other obviously awesome things. Toys are for kids who don’t know any better.

8. It is essential to do all these things right after each other, as fast as you can, before mommy knows what hit her. While she is re-folding laundry, go for the CD rack. While she is replacing CDs, attack the coffee table.

9. Finally, don’t ever stop moving, and whatever you do, do not fall asleep. Mommy will clean up everything while you are napping, so resist sleep at all costs. Resist!

Today, the Captain has been very successful in completing his mission. It looks like a bomb went off in my sock drawer. CDs are all over the floor, and one of my magazines lies dismembered in the hallway. I can almost hear his victorious giggles. But mommy won the nap battle, and the house is finally quiet.

We’ll start round two in a few hours.

Baby Cries and Lullabies

Twice last week, my normally cheerful son had two panic attacks in the car. And I mean total panic, not just some regular crying. I don’t know if he saw something scary out the window, or if he just had really bad gas. Either way, he freaked out and I found myself singing “The Wheels on the Bus” over and over again until we got home. This always calms him down, and it reminded me of a long ten months ago, during his first few weeks on this earth, when he cried a lot.

You see, when my son was very tiny, he would scream every single time we drove somewhere. It was awful. I would get two minutes down the road and he would wail as if he were being tortured. I would pull over every 10-15 minutes, until I figured out that singing almost always stopped the screaming. And so I sang. And sang and sang.

The problem is, I don’t really know that many baby songs. I started with “The Wheels on the Bus” because it was the first one that popped into my head. But after a few verses, I couldn’t think of what else was on the bus… the wipers go swish swish swish, the horn goes honk honk honk, the rain goes pitter patter pitter, the change goes clink clank clink…

If I paused for even a second to think of what else to sing, he would cry again. So I improvised. Oh hey! Now we’re on a bus in Panama! The dogs go woof woof woof, the chickens go cluck cluck cluck, the pigs go oink oink oink.

And there I was at the stoplight, singing at the top of my lungs about pigs on a bus, feeling pretty ridiculous. But it worked.

This happened to me again when I was bored of my regular lullaby and tried to branch out to other songs that I only vaguely remember. I started with “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Simple enough. Except that singing one verse over and over is really boring, and we have this toy that sings “Twinkle Twinkle Firefly” to the same tune, so I thought I’d give that a try. But of course I didn’t know the words, so I just made it up:

Twinkle, twinkle firefly, up above me in the sky…. Lalalala firefly, pretty pretty firefly. Twinkle twinkle firefly, twinkle twinkle firefly.

Inspired. You’d think I was a writer or something.

So I tried singing the mockingbird song (see, I don’t even know the real song title). I could only get as far as “momma’s gonna buy you a billy goat” before I got stuck.

What comes after billy goat? And if that billy goat won’t… I was stumped. What? What does a billy goat do (or not do) that would make me buy yet another thing for this little baby? And why does this baby need mockingbirds and diamond rings and looking glasses to hush and go to sleep? Jeez, high maintenance baby.

And that was the end of that tune. I still don’t know what the billy goat does or doesn’t do. So now I’m back to lullaby and goodnight… hmm hmmm hmmm hmmm hmm hmm hmm.

But hey, it works.

Oh, Daddy!

This week I’ve realized more than ever how lucky I am to have a partner in this crazy journey called parenthood. I must tip my figurative hat to single mothers, because I really don’t know how they do it.

My husband was virtually absent for the last two weeks due to insane amounts of overtime, and now that things are back to normal, I am heaving a big sigh of relief.

You see, while my husband leaves the house at 8am and usually doesn’t return until 6:30pm, those few precious hours make a big difference. Having him around to do bath time and story time while I clean up and maybe, just maybe, zone out to trashy TV for half an hour, is essential to my sanity. (Yes, I admit it. I watch eTalk. Don’t judge me.)

On days when I’m flying solo, bedtime is a lot earlier for our munchkin. It’s only 6pm? The sun is still shining? Well, mommy’s exhausted, little one, so it’s time for bed.

Daddy also gives long, fun, playful baths, chases the naked baby around the room, and reads lots of stories. Mommy, on the other hand, is all business. She has played all day and now she’s done. Soap up, wash the hair, rinse, dry, diaper, PJ’s, story, nurse… and done! In 15 minutes flat!

I think my son and I both like it better when daddy does bedtime.

I remember in the early weeks how my husband would come home from work, exhausted and hungry, and I would burst into tears, apologize that there was no dinner, thrust our tiny infant into his arms, and escape into the shower. I would call him at work, sobbing, with the baby wailing in the background, begging him to come home early. I would crawl into bed at 3am, weary from an hour of soothing a crying baby, and he would sleepily ask: “Any idea why he keeps waking up?” And I would suppress the urge to throw something. No, I have no idea. If I did, I would solve it. Honey. Sweetie. Love of my life.

Now my days are much easier (and involve less sobbing), but I still want a break by the end of the day. If he needs to stay late at the office, or if he goes to play squash after work, I look at him forlornly, as if he has abandoned us. As if he doesn’t have long days too.

To compromise and give us both some “free time,” Saturdays have now become a family game of tag. He leaves early in the morning to play squash, and as soon he gets home, I take off for a long run. I get home and he leaves to run errands, ride his bike, or work around the yard. He gets back and I take off to get groceries, get a haircut, or have tea with a friend. Thankfully, Sundays are our designated “family day,” and we all finally exhale and relax together.

My husband hugs me when I cry, cleans the coffeemaker even though he doesn’t drink coffee, lets me sleep in on Sundays, and goes out for milk at 10pm when I forget to buy groceries. And he never complains.

I think I might just be the luckiest woman on earth.

Career Work vs. Housework

This week, I decided to make career work a priority over housework. The result? Cereal for dinner, a sea of laundry flooding my bedroom, and peas drowning in applesauce on the kitchen floor.

Between caring for my son and restarting my freelance career, I have been putting in 16-hour days. And my house is the ratty and neglected victim.

Of course, my timing is especially poor because my husband had an enormous deadline at work this week. He has also been working insanely long days, and I’m finding it tough to survive without my co-pilot who faithfully does the dishes every night.

I’ve always been pretty good at juggling a million things, but being a work-at-home-mom turns out to be the ultimate multitasking challenge. I run before my husband leaves for work, then I check email and draft a quick writing pitch while my son eats breakfast. Afterwards, we play on the floor (I stretch while he crawls all over me), read books, put in some laundry, sweep the floor (he chases the broom) and get ready for naptime.

While he sleeps, I try to get in as much work as possible, compiling my portfolio, applying for jobs, researching publications… and just as I am getting into a groove, he wakes up. So we have lunch, go to the park, pick up some groceries and come home for a second nap. He refuses to have the second nap (of course), so we play outside in the backyard while I compose articles in my head.

I make dinner, we have a nice bath, read a few books, and he finally goes to sleep. Then my shift starts all over. Before returning to my computer, I do a cursory sweep of the house – dirty diapers into the wash, clothes into the hamper, books onto shelves, toys into baskets… how on earth did my house get so messy? I am baffled. There is stuff everywhere – it looks like Chapters and Babies "R" Us threw up in unison onto our house. And the strangest part is, I just cleaned the entire place two days ago.

My inner domestic diva rebels. As much as I hate a messy house, I cannot use another minute of my day cleaning. I only have a few precious hours of uninterrupted time before I will pass out from sheer exhaustion. So tonight I am accepting the mess. There are a few dirty dishes on the counter and the floor still needs washing. (I’m completely ignoring the Cheerios ground into the carpet.) Right now I need to write.

But tomorrow I’ll clean the house, top to bottom. Again.

10 Things You Should Never Say

A little while ago, a young mom told me how a stranger had tried to offer some advice while her two-year-old was throwing an epic tantrum in public. When the mother politely said that this was not a good time, the woman began to tell the frazzled mom (and now apoplectic child) that the incident reminded her of a McDonald’s commercial she once saw. This got me thinking – there are some things you should just never say to a new mom. My list is below. Feel free to add your own.

And don’t say I didn’t warn you.

1. “You look tired.”
Oh, really? Do I? You don’t say. Maybe that’s because I haven’t slept in NINE MONTHS. Now shut up and pass the coffee. Oh, I’m sorry, did that sound cranky? Maybe that’s because I haven’t slept in NINE MONTHS.

2. “Wow, it sounds like your baby is difficult.”
Difficult? Excuse me? He is not difficult. My baby is the smartest, brightest, happiest child in the world. Only I am allowed to say that he is difficult. Now shut up and pass the coffee.

3. “Why didn’t you come out last night? You missed a really great time.”
I know I missed a great time. I know I never come out any more. Don't rub it in. I’m too exhausted to even think about putting on a nice pair of shoes, much less finding a matching outfit and purse that aren’t covered in baby puke. A party is not something my sleep-deprived self can handle right now, so please don’t remind me of all the fun I might be missing. On second thought, maybe you are the one missing all the fun. How do you know that my house is not the coolest, most happenin’ place to be a Friday night? Maybe it’s a party here every single night, and you’re just not invited.

4. “Wow, you look great for just having had a baby.”
Ok, this one isn’t bad for those who have just given birth. But my son is nearly 10 months old. I didn’t “just” have a baby. So please just say that I look great, full stop, even if I don’t.

5. “Shouldn’t your son be wearing mittens?”
Yes, he should be wearing mittens. And, in fact, he was wearing mittens until 10 seconds ago, when he pulled them off for the fifth time and threw them onto the street. He was wearing mittens, even though he wails when I put them on like they are some sort of torture device. Anything else you’d like to know? No? That’s what I thought.

6. “Do you want some advice?”
This is fine in some situations – everyone needs advice from those who have been there. But exhausted and frustrated moms rarely want advice in the midst of a crisis, especially if they don’t know you. If a child is screaming in the middle of a store, her mom does not want to hear about the tantrums your child used to have. She just wants to get out of there without killing someone, so get out of her way.

7. “Don’t you just LOVE being a mom?”
Depends on the day. Most of the time, yes. Sometimes, no. Don’t ask it like there is an obvious answer, like we all LOVE being moms every single hour of every day. On a day when my child refuses to nap, bites my nipple while nursing, pukes green beans all over my best sweater, and leaves a poop trail across my bathroom floor, I do not LOVE being a mom.

8. “Should you really be drinking wine when you’re breastfeeding?”
Yes, I should. I really, really should. And don’t worry, I have carefully calculated when I have nursed him, when he will nurse next, and how much I’m drinking. My one glass of red wine will not kill anyone, but I might if you take it away from me.

9. “My friend’s 6-week-old is already sleeping eight hour stretches.”
Oh, really? That’s just great. I might have to crawl into a hole and die now, thank you very much. Please don’t remind me of other mothers who get to sleep. I don’t get to sleep, and it doesn’t help me to hear about other moms that do. I want to hear the horror stories about the 18-month-old kids who still wake up every two hours, or the 20-minute nappers, or the kids with night terrors, because that makes me feel better. Because it’s good to know that my kid is not totally freakish, that I’m not the only one patting bums and going “shhhh” in the middle of the night. It makes me feel less alone.

10. “When I had a baby, I was back to my pre-pregnancy clothes within a month.”
Be warned. If you say this to a sleep-deprived, stressed-out, hormonally-unbalanced new mom who still can’t fasten the button on her skinny jeans, it may be the last thing you ever say.

Potty Strikes

I didn’t used to find this funny. But, like many things in parenting, if you don’t laugh, you’ll just end up crying.

I’m talking about baby poop. Pee. Diapers. Potties. Believe me, I have never been one for toilet humour. I used to think of myself as too educated and sophisticated for that. (Hah!)

But if you are a parent, I guarantee that you have laughed about poop at least once, no matter how sophisticated you are. If you have an infant, you likely talk about the p-words on a daily basis. I even know a couple who did a celebratory “poo dance” when their newborn finally did his business, because it meant their baby was healthy. I could not even fathom doing such a dance before I became a mom. If you aren’t a parent yet, you’ve probably never done a poo dance either (I hope). But you will.

With my nine-month-old son, we have been practising “Elimination Communication,” or EC, as some parents call it. EC is based on the idea that infants are born with the instinct not to soil themselves and that we train them to poop in their pants. If we keep this instinct alive by encouraging them to use the potty from birth, they will never feel comfortable in soiled diapers and will learn to use a potty faster – a plus for everyone.

Now, some of you are rolling your eyes and thinking that this is crazy. Not so. We have done this with our son since birth, and from about six months of age we have rarely changed a poopy diaper. This is not because my son is magical. He just has a very obvious “poo face.” There is no mistaking it. He looks at me for help, eyes wide, lips tight and wide in this weird grin. When that happens, I rush him to the potty and he promptly does his business. No dirty diaper, no mess, and everyone is happier. Simple as pie.

The problem is, every once in a while, the munchkin goes on a potty strike and simply refuses to sit on the toilet. He arches his back and protests. Loudly. (I often wonder how such a small being can be so loud.) So I take him off, assuming that he doesn’t need to go. But he does need to go, he just doesn’t want to go in the potty. He’ll crawl away only to leave a puddle on the floor two seconds later, grinning happily like he just played a great joke on mommy. My husband left him in the bathroom for two minutes the other day, sans diaper, and came back to a trail of poop across the bathroom. Even I thought that one was gross, but since I didn’t have to clean it up, I laughed hysterically.

Yesterday, the potty strike continued. I put him on his little toilet seat and he started to cry, so I quickly took him off (the last thing I need is a child traumatized by the potty). He was then standing happily by the bathtub, pants around his ankles, when I turned on the faucet. This apparently inspired his reluctant bladder, and he let loose all over his pants, socks, and the floor, giggling the entire time. Like he did it on purpose. Like he thought it was so very funny to pee on the floor. Despite myself, I giggled too, because it was funny. Because apparently, despite my education and obvious sophistication, I now find toilet humour funny.

My son will someday be a teenage boy. I figure I might as well embrace it now.

Running Up Mountains

This week, I realized that training for a marathon while breastfeeding and sleep deprived was a highly questionable decision.

Don’t worry, I’m not quitting. Or you can worry that I’m not quitting. Either way, I’m still running. But I won’t lie to you – it’s harder than I thought it would be.

I used to think that I was hardcore. Before I was pregnant, I competed in trail running races, hiked above 4000 metres, ran up mountains, and backpacked in Colombia. I ran until I was seven months pregnant. I am one of those people that actually likes interval workouts. But now my softer, lazier post-partum self would much rather spend Saturday mornings drinking strong coffee, eating French toast, and reading the paper than lacing up for yet another long run.

You see, I’m at the point in my training where we are running a half-marathon (21km) or longer every single weekend. It has also been ridiculously cold, so my faithful running partner and I have put in several long runs in -15 or -20 degree weather (and that is without wind chill, my friends). I’ll admit, when I put that in writing it sounds a bit ridiculous.

Another side effect of running so much while still breastfeeding is that I need food. Lots and lots of food. When I get back from a two hour run, I feel like I could eat the entire fridge and everything in it. My husband witnessed this first-hand when he questioned whether I really needed to eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. I just glared and got a bigger spoon. Of course, I am eating so much food to fuel my running that I haven’t shed a single pound in two months, and weight loss was one of my reasons for running the marathon. Shoot.

What on earth was I thinking?

I can tell you one thing: I was not thinking that running during my maternity leave would be so complicated. I thought I would have tons of time, considering that I have no work schedule to contend with, no commute, no volunteer work... maternity leave is “time off,” after all, isn’t it?

Right.

Fitting in regular runs has been surprisingly difficult, especially in the early months when my son needed to nurse every 90 minutes. Despite the fact that we bought a nice car seat attachment so he would be safe and snug in our fancy, shock-equipped, SUV of jogging strollers, the little tyke would not tolerate running (or walking) in the stroller for more than ten minutes at a time. He would cry and cry, and I would run faster and faster, hoping to return to the car before he really lost it.

People on the path gave me disapproving looks (or so I imagined) as I raced by, frantic and sweaty, my poor baby wailing in the stroller. But if I stopped and pulled him out to calm him (which I did every five minutes) he would just cry harder when I put him back in. So every time I ran by someone, I would say loudly, “It’s ok, baby, we’re almost home, baby,” so that perfect strangers would not think I was ignoring my child. Eventually I would surrender, pull him out and trudge all the way home pushing an empty stroller, the victorious infant happily perched on my hip.

By the time he would tolerate the stroller long enough for me to run seven or eight kilometres at a time, winter had arrived with blankets of snow and sub-sub-zero temperatures.

I tried taking advantage of the nursery at my gym, but that too was an epic failure. My sensitive little munchkin, at this time five months old, would tolerate about 20 minutes before an exasperated childcare worker would drag me off the treadmill. Sweaty and out of breath (again) I would calm the frightened little peanut, pack up my stuff and head home, defeated. Another run incomplete.

Out of desperation, I bought a cheap, used treadmill – the perfect solution.

Or so I thought.

I would nurse my baby, gently put him down for a nap, throw on some running clothes and race to the treadmill in our basement. Inevitably, I would get about 35 minutes into my run when I would hear him start to stir and whine on the baby monitor. With two or three more kilometres to go, I would frantically increase the treadmill speed, running faster and faster, willing him to go back to sleep (or at least to let me finish my workout). But my baby was apparently determined to make sure mommy never ran again.

Of course, now that he is older, my son takes nice long naps and I can finish my workouts without a problem.

That is, until my treadmill broke yesterday. It is now stuck on incline level 12 and won’t go down.

I guess I’ll be running up mountains again, after all.

The Dreaded Search for Childcare

It seems that I have finally extracted myself from the comfy world of denial. After being sidelined by a nasty cold and banking a few more days under the covers, I finally made the enormous step of emailing my boss. And then I conducted my first interview with a childcare provider. Yes, you read that right. I took two giant leaps forward. And I have had a headache ever since.

Now I don’t want to get too dramatic here. I’m not talking about leaving my son with someone else for nine hours every day, five days a week, like many parents do. I’m talking about two days a week. That’s it. Just two. But even that makes me sad.

I am trying to find a good compromise by working part-time, but I must admit that even this does not appeal to me right now. Perhaps I have become too comfortable in my yoga pants. After all, in my current occupation as mom, I can get on the floor into downward-facing-dog pose whenever I want, and the only person giving me weird looks is my baby. I like the lack of deadlines and the fact that my days are filled with baby giggles instead of media calls. I like library story hour and the children’s museum. I love taking my son to a coffee shop at 2pm or going for long morning walks with other moms. Some days are really tough, but even the worst days are still filled with kisses and snuggles. The thought of driving in rush hour, paying for parking, packing a lunch, attending two-hour meetings, and staring at a computer screen all day gives me the shudders. Especially since the cooking, cleaning, and laundry will all still be waiting when I get home. It feels like I will be adding a part-time job when I’m already working 12-hour days.

But back to the point: finding childcare. Any parent in Canada knows how difficult it is to find reliable, inexpensive, high-quality childcare. In Quebec, the government subsidizes daycare so that parents only pay $7 per day. (No, that is not a typo.) But spots in such daycares are nearly impossible to find. The wait-lists are literally years long. The alternative is unlicensed home daycare, which in this part of the country ranges anywhere from $20 to $45 per day. This is certainly cheaper than hiring a nanny, but these “home daycares” are often just stay-at-home-moms who have decided they want a few playmates around for their kids. There is nothing inherently wrong with this, but some mothers have vastly different parenting styles and values than I do. How do I know that this person is not going to just plunk my child in front of a TV all day and feed him beige, packaged substances masquerading as food?

I realize that no nanny or childcare provider is ever really going to be good enough for me, because they will not be me. But since our family lives on the other side of the country, and flying him back and forth doesn’t seem very practical, I need to find an alternative.

So I interviewed a woman with a new home daycare in our neighbourhood. She was very nice, professional and organized. She had references and menu plans. Her home was nice and new. Her little daughter was sweet and bright and obviously well-loved. There was nothing clearly wrong, no red flags, no real problems. I asked her questions for nearly an hour and left feeling satisfied with her answers. Yet, when I drove away, I wanted to cry. I know, I know. It’s only two days. Some of you are thinking that I should get a grip. But he’s my little buddy, he’s my sunshine, and I don’t want to miss a thing. He’s still just a baby.

But maybe I’m the one being a baby. Maybe he’ll enjoy two days of games and playmates and outings to the park. Someone even told me that he’ll be happier in daycare than at home because he’ll be playing with other kids. I think this is a lie that mothers tell themselves so they will feel less guilty. (Also, could my son really get any happier? He giggles and laughs and grins all day long!) I just don’t believe that he’d rather be in the home of a stranger with six other kids than at home with his momma. Even for just two days a week.

But I have two months left to figure it out. Until then, I’m going to enjoy all the baby giggles I can get.

The Comfort of Denial

I have been trying to pull myself out of denial this week, with very little success. It’s like a deliciously heavy blanket on a cold afternoon.

You see, I’m supposed to return to work in just over two months, and this is causing me considerable stress, when I actually think about it. So I have been coping by refusing to deal with it. The result is that I still have not talked to my boss, I have made no childcare arrangements, and I have dug myself deeper under the covers. Now, with two months to go, I am in a panic because I have nothing lined up. Denial, it seems, does not accomplish anything in my absence.

But these facts have not spurred me into action. In fact, I just seem to become more paralyzed as the days tick by. I have not left the house in three days, due to exhaustion and sheer listlessness. And I don’t think that I am alone. Many of the young, well-educated, highly motivated moms that I know have no idea what to do in this next phase of our lives. Our maternity leaves are ending and we do not know what to do next. Some of us, including me, are contemplating a return to school, perhaps a complete change of career… but is that just another way of prolonging decisions for a little bit longer?

The tricky part is figuring out how to progress in our careers while being unwilling to work full-time, much less overtime. Some mothers choose to stay home full-time while their children are young, planning to return to work once the little munchkins are in school. Other moms return to work full-time right away, satisfied that their children are in high-quality daycare and will be just fine without them.

I am neither of these types. I want to work full-time and be a full-time mom. And yes, I realize that this is not possible in the current confines of our universe.

The problem with my generation of mommies is that we want to do everything, all at once. We want to be the successful academic, or the visionary director, or the superstar CEO, or award-winning writer, or whatever, but we also want to make all our baby food from scratch (and organic, of course), help with the homework, kiss the boo-boos, be the PTA leader, bake the cupcakes, and coach the soccer team. And run marathons. Oh, and we also want toned bodies and flawless hair while we’re doing it.

We are convinced that “just” being a mom is not enough. Somehow we also have to be everything that our childless friends can be. But our babies need us more than the boardroom does. There will always be someone else to step up and fill my desk chair. But no one else can be mommy to my son. I know that. But I still need to feel smart. I need to remember why I went to graduate school. I need to think and write and be a part of something bigger than my little life of avocado kisses and lullabies.

You see, I think that we can have it all. But we can’t have it all at the same time. That is a lie we women keep telling ourselves, and we are turning ourselves inside out trying to achieve the impossible. So we have to choose. We have to breathe, rest, compromise, laugh, and choose.

And I don’t know what to do.

The Epic Nap Battle

Ahh, naps. New mothers long for them, babies resist them. We could all use more of them. And this past week, my eight-month-old son and I engaged in several nap battles that can only be described as epic.

Most of the time, my little blonde munchkin goes down for a nap without too much difficulty. Most of the time. But when I need him to sleep, when I really, really need him to sleep, he will resist defeat like a prize fighter.

It goes like this. It’s his regular naptime, and he is yawning and obviously tired. I nurse him, give him a cuddle and a lullaby, and put him in his crib. The curtains are drawn, the white noise is playing, and he is awake but sleepy. This is textbook nap routine perfection. I give him a kiss and go downstairs to make my lunch. He coos and plays for a while. If he were a perfect baby, he would just drift off into a pleasant sleep. But he isn’t, and he doesn’t. He starts to cry. I set down my fork and trudge up the stairs. Replace the soother. Pat the bum. Shhh, shhh, shhh. He closes his eyes and falls asleep. I walk away

I have just taken a mouthful of salad when he starts to cry. I wait. Is he serious, or just whimpering? The cries escalate to wails. He’s serious. I drag myself back up the stairs. Replace the soother, pat the bum, shhh, shhh, shhh. This pattern repeats, three, four, five times. Well, at least the stair runs are giving me some exercise.

Now the cries have escalated into full-scale screaming. I lean into the crib to wrap my arms around his little body without picking him up. My entire torso is in the crib now, the crib rails jammed into my stomach, my cheek pressed against his tiny face so I can shush into his ear. This is a truly painful feat, made possible by contortions that even my yoga teacher would protest. He calms down. My back starts to spasm. His eyes close and I wait, hoping this is the end, wondering how I’m going to extract myself from the crib.

He wails.

I give in and pick him up – tactical error number one. Maybe now he is tired enough to nurse, or maybe a lullaby will work. But as soon as I pick him up, the little stinker breaks into a beaming smile and tries to do a back flip off my lap. Score one for the baby. Mommy has been tricked. He opens his mouth in a wide grin and attempts to eat my nose.

Shhh, shhh, shhh, baby. It’s nap time, baby. Time to sleep, baby.

I try to cuddle him in the rocking chair. He tries to eat my face. He starts to giggle, so I start to giggle – tactical error number two. If I laugh, this battle is over. I try to look stern. I give him my best “mommy is very serious” face. I must convince him that this is not playtime. I put him back in the crib.

He wails.

Replace the soother. Pat the bum. Shhh, shhh, shhh. Repeat.

At this point, you are probably all wondering why I don’t just give up. But no, my friends, this tired mommy never gives up. Because I know that he is exhausted, and I know that if he doesn’t get his afternoon nap, we will all have a terrible sleep that night. And I know that if he doesn’t nap, then I can’t nap. So I dig deep. I persevere. Soother in. Pat the bum. Repeat.

Finally, finally, he gives in and falls asleep. I lean into the crib for five excruciating minutes, my body bent at a 45-degree angle, one hand on his back, the other on his head. I’m afraid to move. Is he really asleep? He is. I silently rejoice. I might even do a victory dance, but my back has seized up. I look at my watch and realize that this particular nap battle has taken an entire hour. My soup is cold, my salad is wilted, and wet laundry is fermenting in the washer. But I won. And that’s what matters.

I collapse into my own bed, desperate for a nap after all that stair climbing and bum patting.

I am just drifting off to sleep when he wakes up.