Listen to Lena

Perfecting the Art of Conversuasion

random rant

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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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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I’ve Decided to Re-Name My Son “Don’t”

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So it occurred to me this morning that actually say “Don’t” to Ryder more often than I actually say his name.

Don’t jump.
Don’t touch that.
Don’t hit your brother.
Don’t eat that.
Don’t crawl behind there.
Don’t pull on that.
Don’t kick the back of my seat.
Don’t you dare give me that look.
Don’t say that.
Don’t scream like that.
Don’t stand there.
Don’t make a mess.
Don’t make that face.

Don’t DO that. (10x per hour, at least.)

Hence, I’ve decided to cease calling him Ryder, because he obviously responds more effectively to Don’t.

(Or maybe he doesn’t. But do I care at this moment? DON’ T think so!)

Friends, let’s all bow our heads and pray that I don’t decide to sell him for two Bon Jovi concert tickets.

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.

I’m Not Deaf; I’m Just Ignoring You.

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Before having children, I often took offense at the way mothers handled their whiny, annoying kids in public.

For Christ’s sake, shut them up! I’d silently pray. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

I often theorized that if I had a kid, there was no way in HELL I’d let him carry on like that, caterwauling like a demented lunatic. My offspring would be polite, well-mannered and conscious of their environment and those around them.

I believe the term is to “eat crow?”

The thing is… I get it now. I really do. As moms, it’s not that we think it’s reasonable to let our children go off on a tangent, audibly torturing everyone within a four-block radius. The simple truth is, we just don’t hear them anymore. Seriously, we are immune.

I call it the fuss filter.

And it comes from long hours of being subjected to whining, temper tantrums, crying fits, hissy fits, outbursts, “he touched me!”, shrieking, ranting, biting, repetitive insanity and the like. After a while, it takes us progressively longer to realize that someone is speaking, let alone screaming his head off. Fuss filter in full effect.

Last Saturday, I was at Wal-Mart with the kiddos.

Let’s see, I’ve gotta grab lotion, toothpaste, check for that silly DVD, get a surge protector, I think we’re out of paper towels, are Pampers on sale this week? Hmm… no, I hate paying full price (Want red car.) but I don’t want to put the little guy in the cheap diapers either, maybe I’ll check Loblaws and come back tomorrow if I need to… (Want red car.) … even though I rather not, should I just buy now?… (WANT RED CAR!) … I can’t believe there’s no freaking Tide Free laundry detergent. Does everyone use it or do they just refuse to keep it in stock? (WANT RED CARRR!!!!) And why do they have 12 different Febreze-scented… (WANT RED CARRR!!!! WANT RED CARRR!!!!! WANT! WANT! WANT!) …thingies. I can’t tell the difference. They all smell the same (WANT RED CAR) but I don’t think I want my house smelling of apples (WANT RED CAR) although…

“Huh? What?”
“WANT RED CAR!”
“Um no, you cannot have a red car. Now pipe down before you make a spectacle of yourself.”

Mmm…. crow.