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.