Listen to Lena

Perfecting the Art of Conversuasion

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It’s Time to Have “The Talk”.

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My boys are only about a month shy of their 4th and 6th birthdays, so I’m a little surprised that it’s already time to have “the talk”.

Truthfully, I assumed I had at least a few more years. My sons are barely out of the toddler stages! I had convinced myself that the the dreaded conversation would take place sometime in the distant future, so I did little to prepare myself – I gave it little thought and importance. Let the parents of tweens worry about it, I thought, I’m still PVR’ing Disney Junior shows!

But it happened. It happened and I was caught off-guard; silently cursing the acceleration of childhood. And it happened at the most inopportune moment; I was flustered, disorganized and trying to accomplish about a thousand things at once, and there stood Ryder, hovering in my doorway. I could tell he wanted to ask me something, and I turned to him, my face dripping with annoyance and expectation. “What is it?” I snapped.

If I had known this would be the pivotal moment, the moment I had both feared and dreaded would come eventually (but not now!), I would have been better prepared. I would have had all my key points of love, nurturing and most of all, quiet authority and instruction, ready to dole out with calm, maternal intelligence. I would have called out to my husband, who, as the man of the family, would’ve been able to delve from his own experience.

Yet my perfect vision of “the talk” crumbled at my feet when out of mouth of my sweet, young and naive son, the dreaded words flowed: “Can we get a dog?” Unprepared, I blurted out an unintelligent, garbled response that only the most practiced ears would understand and interpret as no f*cking way.

So, my friends, the hour is upon us and it’s time to have the “No Dogs Talk”. As an aside, I blame my best friend for the premature timing of the discussion, as she recently acquired the most adorable puppy I’ve laid eyes on and I’ve been showing the boys his photos. So I suppose I’ve had a hand in this debacle after all, and now it’s time to set the record straight. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stand firm – and that troubles me. In fact, my husband is fairly convinced I’ll eventually give in. But for the time being, I will only take care of two babies, dammit.

Do you have pets? Were you convinced by your children – or, as a child, did you convince your parents? 

Life Hacks: Disney Cars Diecast “Parking Garage”

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Since I have two young boys who have an affinity for everything related to Disney Cars, I can pretend that their Mattel Diecast Collection is… well… theirs.

Truth is, I am a 35-year old woman who collects small cars with faces on them.

In fact, the only thing that keeps me from signing up for one of those online trading boards is the realization that I am in fact a 35-year old woman and perhaps I don’t need the Doc Hudson diecast car (even though every fibre of my being is telling me that yes, I really do).
Anyhoo, we have reached the point in “our” Disney Cars collection that we sorely need some organization. At just shy of 100 cars, I’ve been relying on the boys to keep the collection together in a neat and (somewhat) orderly manner. However, I’m constantly finding errant cars under the couch, in the clothes hamper, and my personal favourite: “Mom, can you pull out the fridge? Holley Shiftwell is under there.” Uh, never again.

Alas, finding a carrying case for a large collection was proving to be much more difficult than expected. Most Cars-branded cases available in Canada only hold about 10-12 cars, and regular diecast cases just won’t cut it for the many oversized cars we have. So, I decided to get creative.

First, I found this 39 Drawer Storage Bin at Home Depot Canada. Sensing that our collection would grow over the coming months, and that it was marked “Special Buy” (translation: get ’em before they’re gone), I decided to pick up three. We’ve opened two for the time being, pictured below.
I love that the Disney Cars diecast cars are a great fit in the storage drawers; lots of room to move back and forth and just the right amount of space on the sides. Plus, since they’re clear, I can peek through to see what’s inside….

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Tales of Embarrassment: The Ex-Files

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I’m a woman. I’m a woman who has dated men before meeting the love of my life. I’m a woman who has not moved from the town I was born and raised in, and therefore, I allow myself the opportunity to have inopportune run-ins with ex-boyfriends. So really, I shouldn’t have been surprised that eventually, I’d cross paths with a former flame.

Except, my former flames sure know how to stay hidden. I’ve had two long-term relationships before meeting my husband, and both men still live in the city. Yet, neither of them are on Facebook, Twitter or any other social media sites that would allow for mild cyber-stalking, which is of course completely acceptable and arguably a right as an ex-girlfriend. Of course, you’ve probably guessed by now that we do not stay in touch, which on some days is a shame, as it would relieve me from my online-creepfests and the disappointing results.

So I guess you can say that even though I have ex-boyfriends, they are somewhere in the city – doing their thing, living their life – just as I am. And as such, they are normally the furthest thing from my mind, and I’ve learned that the odds of a chance encounter are very low. Low, but not zero.

Cue the embarrassment.

It happened last week. I was rushing around, trying to juggle a thousand things like I always do. And, I was particularly stretched thin as I had been sick the week before – hence, I was in catch-up mode for everything from blogging to grocery shopping to getting my hair done. Last Wednesday, I was scheduled to host a private shopping event with AIR MILES for Toronto’s top influencers, and I sorely needed to have my roots touched up. So, I did something I don’t normally do; I scheduled a hair colour appointment for the very same day as the event….

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A Mom by Any Other Name…

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*EDIT – JULY 1st, 2013*

Sometimes, I’ll look back on an old post that I published years ago, and chuckle to myself – thinking about the “problems” I once faced. In this instance, I was going through a phase (a terribly long one, mind you) where Ryder referred to me by my first name. Yes, it bothered me. Enough to write a blog post! He called me “Lena” for much longer than was tolerable, and at one point, it really, really hurt me.

But just like that, he grew out of it… and has called me “Mommy” ever since. Often hundreds of times per day – in a raspy, whiny voice that from time to time, grates at my nerves. “Mommy, Mommy, MOMMY!”

(However, I won’t complain. I’ve earned my title, and I cherish every single “Mommy” that leaves his sweet mouth.)

And so, won’t you take a trip down memory lane with with me? This blog post was originally published on September 6, 2011 – so Ryder would have been just about 3.5 years old; his little brother, 1.5 years old. Is it strange that I have a hard time remembering this phase? I fear that life is speeding by way too quickly. Sigh.

Readers, I have a problem.

Now I suppose I should toss out a quick disclaimer: I have my health, my kids are well fed, and for the moment, we do have a roof over our heads. So in the grand scheme of things, perhaps it isn’t a biggie.

An inconvenience? A concern? Regardless.

Ryder calls me “Lena”. And I can’t get him to stop.

I know, I know, I know it shouldn’t bother me. Not much, anyways. Many friends and family members actually think it’s kind of cute. And for a while, even I thought it was rather enduring: Ha ha, my son calls me by my first name.

Now, it drives me crazy.

I’m not exactly sure why he prefers addressing me as “Lena” – after all, it hardly has an interesting ring to it, right? Let’s be real, it’s not “Desirée” or “Katerina” and furthermore, I spend the equivalent of 6 hours per day rambling off phrases such as “Give it to Mommy,” “Mommy said NO!” and “Come hold Mommy’s hand”… so… what the hell? And I AM his Mommy, right? I pick out his clothes, kiss his boo boos, cut his grapes in half and jump on Google for every symptom he’s ever had (or I’ve thought he’s had, which includes, but is not limited to, shingles, bee stings and leprosy).

So… what the hell?

It’s been getting worse, friends. Last week, while taking a Popsicle out of the freezer for him, he looked at me pointedly and said, “Don’t lick it, Lena. That’s MY Popsicle.” Sure, I can deal.

Later that day, I accidentally spilled milk all over the counter due to a milk bag malfunction.

“What the hell, Lena?” he observed. (Yes, it’s indeed horrible that those exact words came out his mouth, but I will be the first to admit that I burst out laughing when he said it. I think this Mommy needs to watch her own potty mouth.)

But my absolute breaking point was while we were in Gymboree last week. Sorting through some of their cute fall merchandise, a salesperson sidled up to me.

“He’s so cute!” she gushed.
“Thank you,” I crooned. “Do you like this top, Ryder?”
“I don’t like it Lena!” he screamed. “Let’s go home Lena. Want to play cars.”
“Oh!” the salesperson gushed. “Are you his nanny? Or an aunt?”

Great.

No, I’m his mother,” I retorted tersely.
“Ah, a stepmom. I thought so… I didn’t want to say, but I was trying to find the resemblance.”

B*tch….

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The Not-So-Viral Picture You Loved

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There are so many buzzwords in social media today: trending, clickability, engagement, advertainment… I could go on. And on.

But the single most overused buzzword? Viral. As in, “My Facebook post went viral! It was liked and shared a gazillion times.”

Amazing! And having a “viral” post or picture is certainly a measurement of success – one that should be both applauded and respected. (Unless you’re spamming people with voting requests, “earn $100/hour” ads or funny animal pictures. Then you’re not a viral success; you’re a douche.)

Unfortunately, I’ve never experienced the high of having a viral post or image, but I have received amazing feedback and engagement from a few posts in particular. It’s a nice feeling! Of course, when I published the following picture last Thursday, clearly I had no idea it would be received so well…

It’s just a photo of me and the Director of Menu Management at McDonald’s Canada, Anne Parks – from the post They Came. They Tasted. They Savoured the Flavour. I didn’t think much about it until over the course of the next few days, my inbox was filled with questions about my hair, beauty routine, makeup and wardrobe. Er… I’m flattered, friends!

And while I would normally just respond to e-mails individually, I thought this was a great way to share the “secrets” of my beauty routine. (Prepare to be underwhelmed. Seriously – I’m pretty much no-frills and no-fuss.) Below is a collection of questions I received stemming from the photo I posted on Thursday – except the first, which I received a few weeks ago and just had to include!

Hi Gorgeous – Do you do botox?!? Your skin is flawless. Secret safe with me if its a yes – please tell me where you go! xo – R

LOL! I wish I was interesting enough to have a reason to botox, but alas, the kindergarten carpool in sweatpants does not necessitate a smooth and wrinkle-free forehead. I am, however, blessed with good genes – and I do use a “miracle” cream called Olay Regenerist Micro-Sculpting Serum. It is seriously the best thing you can ever put on a problem area; just a few dabs on fine lines and they disappear like magic.

Since I only use it from time to time (usually for big events), I’ve had the same bottle for almost three years! A little goes a looong way.

Love your orange dress! Where did you get it? – A

It’s my “little orange dress” from the Old Navy Fall/Winter 2013 collection. A steal at under $30; it originally came paired with a black belt, but I swapped it for a pink belt to add a punch of fun colour!…

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My Brush with Fame. Without a Makeup Brush.

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I suppose I can laugh at it all now. But let me tell you – 48 hours ago, I was highly stressed out.

It all started with my recent press trip to Visit Orlando. In exchange for a family vacation, my obligation was twofold: blog coverage on my site (a given), and media appearances to chat about our amazing adventure (a bonus).

Now you’re probably familiar with my blog coverage, as I’ve been churning out reviews of the places we visited and the wonderful things we did. But, you may not be familiar with some of my media appearances. I’ve chatted about Orlando and family travel on outlets such as Daytime Live, CH Morning Live, and this past Friday – CP24 Live at Noon.

And while all media appearances give me the opportunity to go LIVE in front of the camera (which I actually adore! Yes, I’m an attention-you-know-what) I was particularly excited for my CP24 appearance on Friday afternoon. After all, if you live in the Greater Toronto Area, who hasn’t tuned in to the all-news station? It’s like media royalty, if you will.

So, Friday arrived and I was super pumped. Because not only was I appearing on Live at Noon, but then I’d literally be walking over to the Canadian Council of Public Relations Firms PR Agency Boot Camp, where I was a speaker on the Social Media Blogger Panel. And so, I gushed accordingly –

I checked over the instructions once more. Chatting with Stephen Ledrew, segment to air live at 12:45pm. Check. Arrive at 12:00pm, as one of CP24’s professional makeup artists will get me camera-ready. Check. Need to get to the infamous 299 Queen Street West, where there is ample parking within a few blocks. Check.

Okay, I was ready….

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Ryder, The Four-Year-Old Face Bomber

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If there’s one thing I sorely need in 2013, it’s a camera with a faster shutter speed. Because really, it only takes 1/8 of a second for Ryder to face bomb our pictures, and apparently I’m not taking pictures fast enough.

Case in point: pictures from our recent family vacation to Walt Disney World. Sifting through the lot, I shuddered at the sheer amount of photos Ryder managed to face bomb. I swear it’s a skill; I’ll say, “Smile!” and I’m expecting to see something like this –

But then, the moment my finger hovers over the trigger for a second shot, THIS happens –

For lack of imagination, we call it “Ryder’s Ugly Face”. And boy oh boy, does he pull out that ugly face often. As soon as the picture is taken and I see the final result on the camera’s LED screen, I normally shriek and threaten Ryder within an inch of his life to stop ruining the family photos. He’s repentant for about 45 seconds… allowing me to snap an album-worthy shot or two. And then… BOOM! He drops another face bomb. For the love of God….

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I Am Thankful.

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With Thanksgiving just a few days away, I’ve started chatting with Ryder about the holiday and what it represents.

(Believe it or not, 4-year-olds grasp the concept of Thanksgiving very easily if we simply substitute “thankful” for “likes a lot”. Of course, coming from Ryder, one can expect cars, vacuums and gummy bears to be on that list.)

I decided that I too wanted to make a list of the things I am thankful for; but let’s be honest, you can likely guess the contents: my beautiful boys, my wonderful extended family, health, happiness… yes, it’s all terribly predictable.

And so I began thinking about the little things I’m thankful for. You know, the small stuff that in the end, somehow made a huge difference. Sometimes I laughed; often, I cried; but for the most part, I am thankful.

Inner Beauty.

I am thankful that I was never a conventionally pretty or popular girl. Being ignored for most of my high school life was likely the greatest gift ever. For when other 15-year-old girls simply had to toss their hair or flirtatiously giggle, I had to be funny, witty and interesting. Yes, I was the forgettable girl with the great personality – the one the boys didn’t want to be set up with. At the time, I spent countless nights wondering how I could make myself more popular, more trendy and definitely more pretty. But in the end, the fact that I had to depend on my wit and charm – not my looks – allowed me to develop my inner beauty. Later, when I finally blossomed, not only was I a looker – I was charismatic and likable, too.

A Charitable Cause.

I am thankful for my first boyfriend. He was a cute, popular boy and for some reason, decided to pluck me out of social obscurity. One day, huddled behind the high school portables, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I thought I’d combust with happiness! We ended up “dating” for 2 months – a lifetime when you’re 16 years old. To this day, I still don’t know if I was a “She’s All That”-esque charitable cause (certainly no on else could figure out the attraction – not even my friends!) but I’ll forever be thankful that he spent a small portion of his life making me feel so special. The confidence that ensued helped me keep my head held high when other boys rejected me (sadly, my social life did not pick up after that brief stint – see Inner Beauty)….

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Sleepless in the Suburbs

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At first, it was kind of cute.

After tucking Ryder into his toddler bed, he would fall asleep for an obligatory three hours… then lightly pad across the hallway, enter our room and crawl into our bed. At the time I was pregnant with Reid, and knew that my alone time with my little buddy was drawing to a close. Hence, I turned a blind eye (literally, I didn’t even bother to get up) and let him stay the night.

Then Reid came along, and I soon discovered that breastfeeding in the middle of the night was vastly easier when I could just roll over and relinquish a boob. So, he too found a home for the night on our bed – but only after we kicked Ryder to the curb (I wasn’t willing to chance Reid being crushed by a toddler who has a penchant for sleeping sideways). And with a brand new big boy’s bed and bedroom, for at least 6 months Ryder stayed away, reveling in the novelty of his new room (actually I think he just cottoned onto the fact that Reid woke up crying exactly every three hours – and couldn’t deal with those sleep conditions).

For a while, there was balance in the force.

Reid slept between hubby and I, letting us know when he wanted a midnight snack. Ryder bounced on our bed at 6:00am, willing us all awake as only 2-year-olds can.

But then, Ryder decided that perhaps he didn’t love his new room after all, and he wanted to sleep with mommy and daddy. After all, why should only Reid have access to the prime real estate? Reid was now over a year old, and having never been introduced to alternate sleeping arrangements, literally thought our bed was HIS own.

One night, late last June, I came to bed after a late night of blogging to find this:

“Past 1:00am, finally done blogging, drag myself to bed… only to find the real estate occupied by the 3 stooges.”

I sighed in defeat and made my way to Ryder’s room, where he has a big, comfy, EMPTY double bed.

But my slumberous ways were short-lived; realizing that his drink ticket didn’t come to bed, Reid lightly padded across the hallway, entered Ryder’s room and crawled into his bed. And lifted my top for some boobage.

GAH! Was it so unrealistic to want a solid 6 hours of sleep? Hell-o!…

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February 2, 2011

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For my boys:

One day, you will fight over whose turn it is on the Xbox (or whatever futuristic game station is relevant).
You will argue over who “needs” to borrow dad’s car immediately.
You will poke fun at each other, keeping the insults just above the belt until someone gets really peeved and will go there. (Though he will apologize later because it’s the right thing to do.)

Someday, you will borrow each other’s clothes.
However, well before that happens, you will put a stop to me dressing you both in matchy-matchy outfits.
You will accuse me of favouring one over the other, and believe it until you’re 35.
You will scream “He’s hitting me!” exactly 4,348 times over the course of the next 10 years.

One day, you will be embarrassed to be related to one another. (Thankfully, it will pass quickly.)
You will hide toys, steal crayons and take the last treat for yourself.
You will be an honest and enthusiastic snitch – pointing out your brother’s shortcomings and faults.
And, when asked to borrow 5 bucks, you may opt to keep it for yourself.

Someday, you may take each other for granted.
You will intend to call, but the days will stretch into weeks.
You will be busy with your own family and your own priorities.
Maybe, you just won’t feel a connection to each other.
You will forget about your best friend.

And, on that day, I will forward this link – and these impromptu pictures that I took on a cold winter afternoon in February 2011.

Yes, you were in matchy-matchy outfits.
Yes, you were very young.

But you only had eyes for each other.
Unadulterated affection written all over your faces.
You took care of each other in way that makes my heart explode.

Boys, meet your first true love: your brother.

…

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The Story of Ryder

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It is 9:13am on Friday morning. The boys are enjoying a late breakfast of Cheerios and a sliced banana, and I am typing away from my kitchen office.

(Yes, I have a kitchen office. Where else do “working moms” handle their biz?)

The sun is shining through an open window; the sound of giggling and Treehouse in the background. And I am wondering why – after four long years – I am finally ready to tell the story of Ryder’s birth.

Perhaps it’s to reach out to fellow “Androids”. Perhaps it’s because my sweet little boy will be 4 years old in less than two weeks. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because of a video I watched this morning, which included three key phrases:

Pediatric Neurosurgeon.
Sick Kids Hospital.
Miracle Story.

And it is undoubtedly the way I felt in November 2008 when I left the neurosurgeon’s office for the final time, with a spring in my step and a profound wish to never see the hospital again, that I am riddled with equal doses of guilt and thankfulness Ryder is one of the “lucky” ones. Because not every parent exits Sick Kids with a spring in their step; and certainly they do not have the option of “never again”.

The Story Of Ryder

It is shortly after 11:00pm on Thursday, May 8th and I am experiencing tummy cramps that ebb and flow. Our little baby is not due for another three weeks, so I am confused as to why the cramps are taking on a predictable pattern – every 10 minutes or so – with equally predictable intensity. I decide to call Telehealth Ontario, my go-to resource for everything from a paper cut to a raging migraine. After I explain the symptoms and how far along in the pregnancy I am, the nurse (who to this day I picture to look like Aunt Jemima) chuckles and says, “You’re in labour, honey!”…

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Imperfect.

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Definition of Imperfect: Not Perfect.

{Also see: Defective}

I am an imperfect mom.

At least twice per week, I wonder if I can get away with feeding the boys strawberries for breakfast and popcorn for lunch. It’s all they’ll eat and dammit, I am TIRED of trying to force feed them the perfectly crimped sandwiches, heart-shaped cheese slices and stategically portioned celery stalks (complete with dipping sauce) that we’re told perfect moms put in their child’s lunchbox. In my house, sometimes lunch comes from a cracker box that may or may not contain my sons’ entire recommended daily intake of sodium.

I can never remember to brush the boys’ teeth. Yeah okay, I do pretty well in the morning, but before bed? Fail. Their toothbrushes are on the vanity right beside the bathtub, and all I have to do is reach over and brush them while they’re bathing. Problem is, when they’re in the bath I’m usually sitting on the toilet (seat down) drinking a glass of wine and staring into space.

I scream at my kids – often louder, and nastier, than I’ve screamed at anyone in my life. Sometimes I don’t even recognize my voice; it’s a mix of anger, disgust, and most of all, desperation. A deep desperation that is etched in every syllable because I am rendered insignificant and helpless with every cup of spilled milk, every overturned laundry basket, every crayon scribbled across the wall. They just don’t care – and don’t seem to get that I do. When it’s really bad, screaming turns into sobbing.

I spank/hit/smack my kids – in appropriate places and with appropriate force – as a form of discipline. You don’t have to agree with me – I really don’t care if you do, because I’m not here to judge your parenting methods. But I’ll tell you this: last year, Ryder reached for a pot of boiling water in jest. Me shouting (sorry – calmly instructing him) “Go stand in the corner” would not have saved him from 2nd degree burns. I swiped at his arm so hard it knocked him over – and prevented him from knocking over the pot. So maybe I am barbaric. But I love my children and when safety is involved, I do not worry about hurt feelings or egos.

I have no idea how to engage with other children. I don’t know how to kneel down and sip tea from a tea set or feign interest in some silly zombie video game. I work hard at relating to my own kids, and that’s where I draw the line. At this very moment, I can talk about Cars 2 and Thomas and Friends and Courdoroy the Bear and Toopee and Binoo and Hot Wheels and Iggle Piggle and Lego Duplo. And that’s it. And when my kids move on to something else, that’s what I’ll be interested in. I may like your kids, and I may love your company, but please don’t ask me to like the company of your kids. You go ahead and amuse them, please. (Somehow I don’t think I’ll be volunteering on class field trips.)

At least once per day, I wonder what a perfect mom would do. What a perfect mom would say. How a perfect mom would handle a situation. And then I do what my instincts tell me, perfection be damned. Sometimes, that involves letting Reid have a sip of pop at a party (I breastfed him for 20 months, so spare me the bugged eyes and death stare – true story), keeping the boys in pjs all day, or letting Ryder stay up way past his bedtime. Sometimes, I pull marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box, and divvy them up – one for Ryder, one for Reid, one for mommy. They never keep a close count, so sometimes it’s two for mommy.

I don’t spend a lot of time trying to be perfect. I’m a pretty girl, a good cook, a doting wife and regardless of my prior confessions, I think I’m a great mom. My kids are well fed and well loved. They have average intelligence and above average contentment (though that could be the sugar, which yes, they do receive as a treat).

I’m not quite certain what motivated me to write this post. Perhaps it’s this February blahs thing, festering until the last possible moment. Or maybe I’m just outing myself – behind the shiny pictures, must-try recipes and brand spanking new products (which I’m not gonna lie, arrive by the truckload every day) life goes on and life is hard. Parenting is hard.

I also won’t go on record saying I’m a “real” mom. WTH? Every mom is a real mom, regardless if they fit your definition or drink your brand of Kool Aid. There is no such thing as an “unreal” mom, unless you count those chicks on soap operas who fake a pregnancy and then steal someone’s baby by performing a c-section in a living room/dive bar/side of the road. They’re fake moms.

I’m an imperfect mom. And I’m okay with it. And when I’m not, there’s wine.

Apparently Shopping Makes Me Cry

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I’m not usually driven to tears when I hit the shops. I must be getting old/sentimental/foolish.

It started out as a normal Saturday morning – there were things to buy, chores to split up, sticky handprints to erase. Except this morning, I had the pleasure of running a few errands ALL BY MYSELF. For a mom, running errands by yourself is akin to finding a $20 bill in an old pocket. Oh yeah, the good life.

My excellent adventure had only a few stops; the gas station, the bank, and Toys R Us. In that order. Since you don’t read my blog to hear about me pumping gas or handling my finances, I’ll skip forward to Toys R Us.

Although this (obviously) needs no disclaimer, shopping at TRU without your whiny, obnoxious kids totally freakin’ rocks. It’s actually a well known fact that even if you’ve raised the most well behaved children on the planet, they will turn into whiny, obnoxious, toy-grabbing-face-smacking mutants the second you cross the store’s threshold. Trust me, it’s science. And it is a truly euphoric feeling to acknowledge the background screams and caterwauling belongs to someone else’s offspring. Ha ha!

And just what was I doing at Toys R Us on a Saturday morning? I’d rather not say. (Okay, twist my arm.) Sigh… I was picking up two plush, talking Iggle Piggles. Yes, THE Iggle Piggle from the seizure-inducing, suicide-pondering, freakishly cultish “In the Night Garden”. My boys LOVE the show. Conveniently on at 8:00pm (just before the boy’s bedtime), we’ve been allowing them to cuddle up on our bed to watch the nightly episodes. Often, by the time the credits roll, they’re both sweetly sound asleep. So for Christmas, I reckoned I’d surprise them both with a soft sleeping buddy.

I should have grabbed the damn dolls and left.

Instead, I decided to plod around, enjoying my child-free excursion (frankly, reveling in it). And as I passed the opening to TRU’s sister store, Babies R Us, I paused for a moment before wandering in. After all, I didn’t actually need anything – with Reid being over 18 months old, my BRU days are likely behind me – but I decided to pop in for old time’s sake. And then it happened.

The SMELL of the store. The familiar COLOURS. The wall of BOTTLES and PACIFIERS. The exquisitely beautiful PREGNANT customers, joy and bewilderment etched plainly on their faces.

It was like a punch to the gut – or perhaps, a punch to the ovaries. It was a trip down memory lane that I was not prepared to take. It was a funeral – saying goodbye to the thrill of expecting, anticipating, organizing, expanding. It was the stark realization that my baby is actually a toddler, and my toddler is now a little boy… and I had no damn business loitering in Babies R Us.

So, I cried.

There was no rationale or reason for it; I know that my family is complete and we have no plans to have more children. I know that I have two beautiful boys whom I adore wholly and unconditionally. I know that I can finally, finally enjoy moments of freedom – the very reason I laugh off suggestions to expand our brood. And yet, there I stood, cowering behind the high chairs, wiping my tear-stained face with the back of my hand.

(On a related note, high chairs today are so ridiculously stylish. Like black leather and contemporary patterns. Seriously? The kid is going to dump pureed crap all over the thing. Just stick to animals and neon bubbles and get over yourselves.)

Hours later, I still can’t pinpoint exactly what drove me over the edge. Perhaps I’ll never know; perhaps every time I venture into Babies R Us I’ll turn into a nostalgic, blubbering fool.

Note to self: apparently shopping makes me cry. bring tissues.

Meet My BFF

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I never thought of myself as the type of woman to have a BFF. 

It’s quite obvious, actually; I covet my personal space, don’t mind being by myself for long periods of time and would much rather dance to the beat of my own drum. So the fact that I’ve been attached to the hip of my BFF for the last 18 months is somewhat puzzling to me – especially since it’s out of character for me to share so much with one individual.

Meet my BFF… my Breast Feeding Fanatic.

Reid will be 18 months old next week, and he’s still firmly attached to my boobies.

(That’s 1.5 years for those who don’t speak mom-ish; I know, we’re insufferable with our measurement of baby’s age by months, no?)

Please don’t assume I’m one of those women who believes exclusive breast milk is best until the child is 4 years old, because Reid does eat table food (he loves fruit and pasta) and drinks homo milk, juice and water. But, he also loves a good cuddle with mommy, and asks for breast milk about 10 times per day.

Of course, I don’t actually give in to his demands – allotting him only about 5 minutes at the breast a handful of times. But that doesn’t stop him from trying his luck; he normally gropes at my top whenever I’m too close for too long, and although Reid hasn’t mastered speech just yet, he can clearly articulate his desire for “Neh-Neh”. And sometimes I cave; it’s just the best way to calm him down from a tantrum, get him drowsy for a nap or keep him shushed while I talk on the telephone.

Trouble is, I’m not quite sure how to wean him. And I’m not quite certain I want to.

Truthfully, I’d love for him to sleep through the night without the expectation of a warm quickie to lull him back to sleep. And, I’d be even happier if I could be away for a day and not have rock-hard boobs by the end of it. But the simple fact is, I can’t imagine not pulling him onto my lap and bringing him in close; having his warm hand on my heart as he settles in to feed. I rather enjoy the one-on-one time with him, and feel the need to protect a bonding experience I’m not willing to give up just yet.

My continued relationship with my BFF is met with mixed reactions.

“Good for you. I breastfed my little one until she was two.”
“You know you need to stop, right? He’s old enough.”
“Are you still f%#king breast feeding???”
“That’s awesome. I plan on breast feeding for as long as possible.”

I’m not too concerned with what others say. Depending on my mood, I’ll wholeheartedly agree with them (“I know! I’m sick of it already! He needs to be weaned…”) or just shrug my shoulders and go about my day. I know that the decisions I make will be best for Reid and me, and it’s sometimes hard for onlookers – even friends and family – to appreciate that. But it’s not a big deal –

After all, nobody comes between a girl and her BFF.

Hold on My Heart

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A few nights ago, while lying in bed, I whispered to my husband, “They wouldn’t remember me. They wouldn’t know me.”

Having being aroused from his slumber, he blinked his eyes and asked “Huh?”

“If something happened to me tomorrow,” I clarified. “Ryder is only 3; he would perhaps have selected memories of me, if any. Reid would remember nothing.”

“Go to sleep,” my husband ordered.

But I couldn’t let it go. I became obsessed with the idea of writing a letter to my boys. A letter that speaks to them today – but one I’d want them to read much, much later in life. Perhaps even after I’ve passed. Just a little note that gives them insight into my feelings, at this exact moment, while they’re still babies and will likely have no recollection of this time.

I also wanted to write a letter that tells it like it is. Because I’m not perfect. And they’re not perfect. But for better or worse, this is a snapshot of our time together. It goes something like this:

“Dear Ryder & Reid,

I’ll start this letter by addressing you both at the same time, because when writing about how much I love you, my feelings apply both equally and unconditionally. You are my LIFE. I have vague memories of a time before you, but at this very moment, every waking moment is consumed with thoughts of how fiercely I love you. Having children has both defined and justified my existence.

For Ryder:

Oh, where to begin. Dude, you cry waaay too much. It’s almost insufferable. Just shut up and calm down already; no, you can’t have jujubes for breakfast and yes, when I say stop jumping on the couch, I mean it. There are times when I really think you will break me; that I will throw my arms up in defeat and check into the hotel for bad mothers.

But at other times, I see this light shining in your eyes which reveals a beautiful, kind spirit. I see a playfulness and naughtiness that every child should hold onto for as long as humanly possible, before rules are established and routines are kept. Your smile is like warm sunlight on my face; it dazzles me and makes me incredibly aware of the quirky little man before me. I fantasize about the man you’ll become, and the lucky people who will bask in your glow. You are my first true love.

For Reid:

Just give up the boob already. What you’re doing is purely for show now. And I get it; it’s nice to have a warm, soft booby nearby. Remind me to mention this to your future girlfriends. But enough already; demanding “ne-ne” twenty times a day and then latching on for 2 minutes before you walk away does neither of us any good. You suck (literally) and it’s time to stop.

But I can never say no. I’ve got this unhealthy obsession with you. Perhaps it’s because I see so much of me in you, or because by nature, you’re just the sweetest little thing. But from the moment I held you in my arms, I realized that I could fall in love a second time – and just as hard. From your uncanny intelligence to your ever-ready smile, you pull at my heart and bring me to life. I’m not sure what I did to deserve you, but I will spend the rest of my life giving thanks.”

As you can see, it’s not all roses and lollipops. But it never is, is it? Still wouldn’t trade them for all the tea in China.

Have you recorded your thoughts & feelings in a journal – or post-dated a letter to your child? If you take the good and take the bad, what would it say?

Someone, Somewhere…

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Last night, it took me a good two hours to fall asleep. In between staying up with Ryder (his tummy has been funny lately and therefore he’s been a bit clingy), trying to finally wean Reid (today is his 15-month birthday, translation: get off my freakin’ boob) and sorting through all the posts and commitments I have coming up, I was literally staring straight ahead for what felt like an eternity.

So I began to play the simple game I always play – a little time-filler I invented years ago while coping with a broken heart. It’s called “Someone, Somewhere…” and I begin by defining my feelings at that exact moment in time. For example, I may think:

“I’m so tired of shouting at the boys. Why can’t they just behave.” And then the little game begins… and I let my imagination run free.”Someone, somewhere is throwing up her hands in defeat.”
“Someone, somewhere took a positive pregnancy test and is screaming for joy.”
“Someone, somewhere just learned his petition to adopt was denied.”
“Someone, somewhere just reunited with an estranged child.”
“Someone, somewhere is holding her baby for the first time.”
“Someone, somewhere is kissing her child goodnight.”
“Someone, somewhere just lost custody of his children.”
“Someone, somewhere watched her baby take his last breath.”Because that’s the way the world works, right? No matter what you’re doing, or feeling, at any moment in time, someone… somewhere in the world is either going through the exact same thing – or has it much better or worse. And I find it really helps put things in perspective for me; it allows me to feel connected to a lone stranger out there who’s on the same page; gives me hope that things will turn around; or it helps me look on the positive side knowing that it could be so, so much worse. Someone, somewhere thinks that I’ve got a wonderful life.

And for the moment… Someone, somewhere is lying on a beach. Sigh… one day.

What is your Someone, Somewhere…?

Two of Hearts

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Is it possible to love your children equally – but like one better than the other?

Before Reid came along, our whole lives revolved around Ryder. Pictures were taken, milestones were recorded, and we endeavored to fulfill every want, whim and desire. And Ryder lapped it up; as a first child (and an Alpha Male), he pushed our limits of patience, sobriety and tolerance – but never love. There was always too much love to give – an obsessive, all encompassing love for our only child.

In fact, so powerful was his hold over me that, consumed with our daily adventures, I missed the early signs of my second pregnancy. But a tiny little miracle was growing inside of me; a beautiful little boy.

Guilt.

I’d been drinking. Not taking pre-natal vitamins. Jumping off park benches with Ryder. It hit me. I was going to have another baby. So I did my best to play catch up; I cleaned up my act and started acting like a pregnant woman. But all through my pregnancy, I was still consumed with Ryder.

“Is the baby kicking?” my OB asked late in my pregnancy.
“Um, yeah,” I responded. I was too embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t even bothered to do a kick count.

Guilt.

I began obsessing that I would never love our second baby as much as I loved Ryder. How could I? For two whole years, my world revolved around him. Where in my heart could I find the room to love another as deeply? I was prepared to feel love for Reid, hoping against hope that it would measure up to the obsession I felt for his older sibling.

And then Reid arrived. And my heart literally burst open. This tiny, lovely little being who looked at me with eyes full of wonder and adoration. I cried out in relief; all that time worrying that I wouldn’t have enough love to give, and here I was, falling all over again. I understood why my mom never declared favourites; I identified with every mom who ever said she couldn’t choose. With excitement and profound peace, I realized that I loved my two sons equally.

I did it! I was a good mother!

Reid needed me. I nourished him, held him close. Ryder needed me less; happy to watch TV or play with his trucks, he loped in for the occasional hug or kiss good night. The balance of attention was temporarily skewed, but my affections were nonetheless level.

And then Ryder entered his two’s. And he became TERRIBLE. And now I realize, after much self-loathing, that although I love Ryder to pieces, I like Reid more.

Guilt.

Reid doesn’t throw tantrums. He doesn’t talk back. He eats what I give him, goes to sleep at a convenient time and certainly doesn’t drop the F-bomb during Christmas dinner. Ryder challenges me on absolutely everything. Nothing comes easy; every request is met with defiance. He pushes my buttons. He pulls at my emotions. And the little sh*t just kicked my leg because I wouldn’t let him watch YouTube.

Like a pendulum, I can feel my emotions swing back and forth. What happened?

How in the world did I go from adoring Ryder to wanting to lock him up? Where is that unconditional adoration for my “perfect” first born? I think back to when he was younger and try to resurrect those feelings of patience and tolerance. Before I screamed at him, threatened him and shook my fist at him in disbelief.

And then I look at Reid – peaceful, happy, agreeable. It’s no wonder our relationship is so easy; he’s a chilled, content dude, just like his father (as opposed to his fiery, argumentative sibling who takes after…). But will he too turn terrible? Will I be singing the same tune with him in 2 years? Why is parenting so difficult?

I know with all my heart that my two boys are my life, my reason. I hate feeling that I’m “favouring” one in any way. Yet I am certain, without a doubt, that my relationship with Ryder has changed. But whenever I ask around,  I’m confronted with “Oh no! I love them all the same! How could you suggest otherwise?”

Well, I do love them equally – but is it horrible that, for the moment, I like one better?