Sunday, August 31, 2008

See You in September

First of all, OMG it's my third post in as many days. OMG, I just typed OMG. Stop the insanity. 

So Blogland, it's my birthday today. 

I've always had an iffy relationship with my birthday. For anyone potentially planning a baby, please avoid if possible August 31 . I won't pretend is as bad as Christmas or its vicinity, but still, it's bad. 

Here's the thing. For my entire childhood we spent our summers out at our camp. (That would be a "cottage" to anyone who is not from the North and is envisioning either a campground or a cabin with bunkbeds and organized sports.) My dad being a teacher, we moved out to camp the day after school was out and moved back to town literally the day or two before school started. My parents were, and remain, cottage die-hards

So this summertime move meant that I wound up with a group of camp friends and a group of school/town friends and never the two did meet. The problem? By August 31, all my camp friends (none of whose parents were remotely as die-hardy as mine) had all moved back to town and, as for my school friends, I hadn't seen them in what seemed like forever and since our camp was a half-hour out of town, they weren't going to get dropped off for a few hours of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.  So, I wound up never really having a party per se. I think maybe some of my camp friends stuck around but since we'd been joined at the hip for 10 weeks, I'm sure it was not much different than any other day, except there was cake. My parents would give a me a Doodle Art or new pair of snazzy polyester Gauchos (that was a bad year) and that would be that. 

Some years, depending on when school started, there was nobody around but us and we would be busy packing, sweeping and closing up for the winter. On those years, I'm sure we would have stopped for cake, but the mood was always slightly off. 

When I started university, I found that my birthday was always spent on the road on the way to Ottawa. Or in Ottawa, where I wasn't yet in touch with any returning university friends. In those days, since my brother lived in Ottawa, I think I spent a few birthdays with him taking me out for a pity dinner. 

Finally, when I was officially all grown up and the end of summer no longer meant re-location, I figured things would heat up, and admitedly I had a couple of good years, but nothing to write home about. (Or blog about for that matter.) Finally, when I was about 27, I decided to take matters in my own hands and DO something. Something fun. So, I decided to fly to Halifax where one of my good university friends was now living. (Shout out to Dar, who I don't think reads this blog!!) She was/is a good partier, so we planned quite the shindig for Saturday night although technically my birthday was Sunday. She got a huge group of friends together, the vast majority of whom are actors and gay. Sounds like a good time, right? 

It started off great...we went out for a nice seafood dinner and then to bar to meet up with a few people and I remember thinking to myself, Halifax is awesome, the people are all ready for a good time, THIS was a FANTASTIC idea! Then all of a sudden, I notice that people seem to be gathering around a TV in the bar and things have started to get really quiet. I'm still drinking and pretending that nothing is weird, but finally, the situation could no longer be ignored. I joined the crowd gathered at the TV to find out that Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash (well, she clung to life for a few more hours so that her official date of death could be August 31 in all time zones). NOOOOOOooooooooooo! No! I want another round of drinks, not an international incident!!!! Instead of feeling horror and sadness, I was pissed. Gay actors are NOT interested in any type of party when princesses are killed. Party over. 

The next day, I forced my friend to go barhopping in the afternoon, but Halifax was a ghost town, as most people were still holed up in their living rooms glued to their televisions. 

And on it goes. After that, I officially threw in the towel and decided that, as far as my birthday is concerned, I should keep my expectations as low as possible. And I have. I started to just invite a good group of friends to a favourite restaurant for low-key dinners. All good. 

Then I got married, and figured, well now at least I'll never have to worry about being ALONE on my birthday. Even, if everyone else is camping or squeezing in one more weekend at the cottage, my husband and children will at least be with me. Although par for the course, last year, I remember I took the day off work because I was a) getting a new furnace installed and b) barfing my brains out at 8 weeks pregnant. 

So, this year, I should not have been surprised when Eric sheepishly asked if it was OK if his band accepted a gig (Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights) in Grand Bend. Remember my expectations are always low, so I said OK,  and proceeded to make some plans for the weekend so at least it wouldn't be totally wall-to-wall me-and-babies. And aside from a few passive-aggressive attempts at making Eric feel guilty, I was fine. 

Until today. August 31. 

Instead of sleeping in until almost 8 as they have been all summer, both kids are up at 7. I blearily make coffee, feed the cats and settle in for some repeat episodes of Mighty Machines. (OOOH, it's the one about the sawmill!) My parents call, and while we're chatting, Kieran who has been potty training for the past few days and doing really well, decides to stand on the arm of a chair in the corner and pee directly into his plastic bucket of Mega Blocks. I get off the phone and start mopping up and then dump all the blocks into the sink to be washed. I start to tidy up a bit, and walk outside to put a few things in the Blue Box only to see that some kind animal has spread the contents of our festering Green Bin all over the driveway. I try to shovel up the rotting, fly-infested organics and but finally have to resort to using my hands to get the last of it. Gross. 

I go inside, finish cleaning, get Kieran breakfast, and while I'm off getting the baby dressed, I hear him screaming. He, is standing on his booster, unable to get down, peeing all over the dining room table, chair and floor. So much for potty training. And breakfast. And dinner invites to anyone who reads this blog. I toss him in the bath, disinfect the dining room and start getting dressed. Eric has arranged for a babysitter to come for 1130 and I'm going downtown to meet a friend for brunch at noon. At 1125, Eric calls. His wallet is gone. Lost, stolen, hiding in the bottom of his duffle bag perhaps, but gone. 

Seriously. I am devoid of all sympathy and tell him so. The only place left that it could be is some music store in Grand Bend that doesn't open until noon. The babysitter has arrived. She's a high school girl that Eric trains, seems perfectly lovely and intelligent and I hurriedly go through the basic instructions. At some point she says, she's never babysat an infant, so I go into more detail, but I'm only going to be gone a few hours, and am anticipating that both kids will be napping while she's there. 

I email Eric the bank phone number to cancel his cards and head off. I'm on the road 10 minutes, not even out of Mississauga when the phone rings. It's not, as I hoped, Eric with a found wallet. It's the babysitter...Kaya is crying inconsolably and she doesn't know what to do. Ten minutes, I've been gone and it's already disintegrated into calling the parent? NOT a good sign. I tell the girl to give Kaya a bottle or put her in the swing, both surefire tricks. Five minutes go by and she calls again. The baby is still wailing. I contemplate turning around but suddenly she says that it sounds like Kaya is settling and all is good. 

I have a lovely afternoon full of brunch and Frappucinos. I come home and everything is fine. 

Both kids are now in bed. Its quiet. Eric's wallet is still MIA and I just ate Kieran's leftover soup (from lunch) for my birthday dinner. On TV, are the annual obligatory Princess Diana tributes to mark my day. A very peaceful evening to bookend to a chaotic, and mostly disgusting morning. 

Bring on September 1. 




Friday, August 29, 2008

Want to Buy a Breastpump?

I'm conflicted. 

My beloved Kaya, who is now exactly 4.5 months old, is soon going to be a fully formula fed baby. My goal was to breastfeed for 6 months, so I've fallen short of what I would have considered success and way short of the 12 month goal that is currently recommended by most, if not all, pediatric associations. 

Now, considering Kieran was only breastfed (and not nearly exclusively at that) for 2 months, I guess I should feel good that I hung in for twice as long, but instead, I just feel guilty and selfish. I read the articles. I know the facts. It's the whole grass vs astroturf argument.  Natural vs synthetic. Formula, I'm sure was invented to save lives and not to make it easier for future mothers like myself to read email during feeding time. 

But people, the fact remains that I just don't enjoy it. Like, at all. 

Now I realize that, if I were a stellar mother,  my enjoyment should not matter.  What should matter is what is best for my child. But I'm being seduced by the bottle. Oh, how I love the bottle. (I'm talking baby bottles right now, the "I love wine" post will come later on.) And what is more...Kaya loves the bottle. If she so much as sees it out of the corner of her eye, her head whips around, excorcist-like, to stare at it. When I bring it close, she grabs the bottle with her little hands,  chomps down the nipple like it might get away and sucks away with what can only be describe as relief-tinged-joy which eases into total relaxation. This does not happen with breastfeeding. She is quite blase about breastfeeding...in fact, I'm sure that should she be able to articulate her thoughts she would be saying something like..."Mom, I can barely breathe down here...I think it's time to put those bad boys away." Or something like that. 

So, I have lasted almost four and half months. Let's call it almost five. In fact, by the time she is fully weaned, it might BE five months and which point I can start revising history to say I lasted "just over five months." See? That is the guilt is talking.

When I was struggling with Kieran, my mother, who had four perfectly healthy formula fed babies, said that in her day, breastfeeding was something "only poor people did." Times have certainly changed and I would agree, rightfully so. But for me, and for Kaya, I think our time is almost done. 

Bring on the wine.










Thursday, August 28, 2008

Back to Regularly Scheduled Programming....

Forgive me for my last ranting post. I'm calmer now. Although perhaps it was a nice refreshing change from my usual boring "mommy blogs"?

Regardless back to mommyland we go...

So, I have been successful in fixing Kaya's napping issues. Or rather, she fixed the issues herself and would undoubtedly roll her eyes at me trying to take credit for her success. I was only sort of half-heartedly trying to get her to transition her naps from the swing to the crib last week and then suddenly, more or less on her own,  this week we have a solid morning and afternoon nap happily in the crib, almost three hours each.  I love this baby. 

Of course, Kaya's apparent new napping schedule is quite distressing to Kieran. All day (excluding his own nap) all that kid wants to do is ride his bike around the neighbourhood. Now, I seem always be saying that we can go when Kaya wakes up. When he hears this, he runs to her door and screams "Wake Up Kaya!!!" which of course she doesn't. Poor Kieran

I've also started potty training the boy. What a messy job THAT is. He'll sit on the potty and go, but that doesn't mean, of course that anything lands in the potty itself.  It's like visiting the Trevi Fountain, only more erratic and less tourists. Little boy potty training must be why God invented the Swiffer Wetmop

Long weekend ahead of me...and Eric is out of town with his band. This prospect is distressing to me, since this long weekend also happens to be my birthday. The thought of three days and nights on my own is boring the hell out of me already. Throw my birthday into the mix, even if  it just means that I get out of diaper duty for a day, and its much, much worse. 

Stay tuned...there may be another rant coming...


Saturday, August 23, 2008

Attention Welmert Shoppers....

Many people who know me, know of my intense dislike of a certain huge discount store. My hatred of this store, which we will just call Welmert, is based on the following indisputable facts: that it's insanely busy; it's full of rude shoppers clogging the aisles with their big blue carts; and by far the worst offense - it's consistently slow and understaffed checkouts. (Why have 20 closed registers and only have 2 or 3 open? To mock your shoppers? It drives me stupid.)

Every time I go, which is rare, I vow to never shop there again, but then I see a sale price and decide to try it once more. But I'm done. Do you hear me Welmert? Done.

It started few weeks ago. We had to buy a new lawnmower and they had the best price. Off we went one evening at 7:30 - packing up the kids even though we were nearing their bedtime. We got to the store, found the lawnmower, located our own dolly and picked up a few sundry items - which ARE remarkably priced - and headed to checkout. This part took us 20 minutes tops. At checkout, 2 are open for people with more than 10 items, the lineups are all backed up well into the clothing displays. It's now 8 pm and the kids are tired, but I take Kaya out of her carrier and let Kieran wander around the store while Eric waits. And waits. And waits. He's in the line for about 30 minutes before finally its his turn. But the price of the lawnmower is scanning at $50 higher than advertised. The girl rings for the manager and then stands there staring at her nails. 5 more minutes go by, I count 24 people lined up behind Eric and no manager appears. I sooooo want to leave but we NEED that lawnmower and God knows when Eric will have another free evening, so I bite my tongue. Finally a manager comes over to the checkout area delivering extra bags (NOT answering our cashiers call) and we explain the situation. She pulls us out of the line and checks the flyer but there are no lawnmowers in it. So, we have to go all the way back to the seasonal section and physically show her the sign and then she OKs the sale price. I'm pissed at such a total waste of my time and am about 2 seconds away from telling her that they should be ashamed of making people wait 45 minutes to pay for their crap, but I refrain. We leave...it's 9pm.

That night, coincidentally, we are going through all our summer photos and trying to decide which to print. After shopping around we realize that Welmert is advertising 15 cents a print and nobody else even comes close...so I cave. The prints, all 160 including some 5x7s and 8x10s, are ready the next morning so I go pick them up, there is no line and I'm happy. So happy, that while I'm there I look into their portrait studio and decide that I'll book a session for the kids. (They are advertising a pretty good portrait deal for $7.99 whoo hoo!). I'm happy until I get home and see that EVERY single photo has a big scratch line through it. Every one, including the 8x10 etc. So back I go, fuming and they reprint all the photos. Fine.

So, yesterday was the portrait appointment. I made it for 6pm so Eric could be there and it was early enough that I can still get the kids home at a decent time. We dress them up in their matchy-matchy navy and white outfits and go.

It starts out OK, except that Kieran is being uncooperative. The set up for a toddler and baby is less than ideal as the carpeted hump they have the baby propped up on precludes Kieran getting close to her unless he's willing to put his arm around her, which he isn't. We convince him to lean in a couple of times and kiss her, but although cute in theory the photo is of the back of his head, blocking her face. But without him leaning into her, the photo set up looks stupid. So we abandon the two-shot and take some individually. Kaya is an budding supermodel - smiling and laughing- but the photographer is having trouble and keeps saying the camera isn't taking shots when she's pressing the buttons. Same thing for Kieran. But after about 45 minutes we have enough and we're done.

Now apparently, a few days prior, the studio had made the big switch to digital, so the photographer had told us ahead of time that when we were done we sit at the computer and they show us some of the "optional enhancements" they can now make to the photos right there. The photographer picks only the 8 or so (of 35 total) that she thinks are best and one by one pulls it up and without any input from us makes some kind of enhancement to it...for example: cute photo of Kaya with a navy shirt and white background NOW can have a huge hot pink "PRINCESS" printed on it. We watch her go through and butcher most of the photos - adding ridiclous crayon borders and typing "Giggles!" beside a laughing Kieran shot. In the middle this her computer crashes (surely it was protesting her lack of taste). Kieran is starving and rolling on the floor. Kaya is starving and fussy and this is taking FOREVER. We hate all four photos of the kids together and but do we have a cute series of three photos of Kieran laughing that they put side by side in what they are calling a "collage" and there is one shot of Kaya that we absolutely love. We're thinking of going ahead and ordering that when the photographer says the cost for the three photo "Kieran collage" is $179. For a moment, I'm thinking...she must mean they are a $1.79 but I get her to repeat the price and its $179, plus $80 for the frame.

Exsqueeze me? You KNOW you're Welmert, right?

I realize now that the $7.99 package sign is gone and I ask about new package prices. The girl gets a little flip book out, which is apparently top secret as she sheilds it from my eyes, and says the cheapest package is now $79.99. I see. So, I ask about getting the photos on a CD which she had mentioned earlier was now available. That is $99. What if we go with no package and just get one 8x10 of each child..that would be $9.99 per sheet. OK, we'll do that just to get the frak out of there. The picture of Kieran we like best is off center so she zooms it in a bit and then tells us that if we print the zoomed in version, even though its correcting her error, it's another $6. She can tell we're pissed now. But we pick another of Kieran that is at least centered and confirm the order. We would have left empty handed but we had wasted over 2 hours now and I wanted something to show for it.

Anyway, both kids are now crying and we pack up our stuff and leave. We get home...its almost 8:30, I'm trying to get the baby to bed and Eric is giving Kieran dinner and I see the message light is flashing. It's Welmert. We forgot to pay for the two photos before we left and if we don't go back to the store that night and pay, its going to cost us an additional $9.99 Call Back fee.

Screw you Welmert, I'm going to Bellers. 


Sunday, August 17, 2008

Higher, Faster, Stonger of the Preschool Variety

So, as happens every 2 years, I'm addicted to the Olympics. I, who normally couldn't care less about sports (unless you count the years the Blue Jays won the World Series) can watch anything as long as it happens during these two weeks. Even ridiculous Olympic sports like Show Jumping, which as far as I can see should be in the Horse Olympics, not the human ones.  But still, for me it's all about the actual races...anything based on speed where you can see first, second, third all at the same time.  I'm increasingly lukewarm about any sport where judges (or animals) are involved. Swimming, rowing, running...those I can watch all day. I'm not even sure if I care that they are all drugged, I still love it. 

Also, Michael Phelps is hot. 

Anywhoo

Back to real life, which has been relatively quiet since we got back from Thunder Bay...

I had a horrible "incident" at one of the Early Year programs this week. We went to one of the sing-a-long classes where the kids all sit in the middle of the room and they wheel in all the old people behind them. There was one particularly decrepit looking woman who seemed mostly paralyzed from the neck down sitting in a wheelchair behind us. 

As it turns out, this class is like a giant Health Hustle, or for those who may not get the 80s reference, it involves songs that make kids do things of the "jump up if you're wearing red" variety. There was one song that involved tossing a bean bag to the person next you. Kieran, who is always really slow to warm up to these classes (I secretly hopes he finds them as lame as I do) happened to love the bean bag song. He jumps up and starts throwing his bean bag around and before I can stop him, he whips one with incredible-unforeseen-force, right into the face of the old, paralyzed woman behind us. I run over to the woman and grab the bean bag which is now sliding off her face and am apologizing profusely, but this woman, like something out of a bad comedy movie is FURIOUS. She starts yelling and swearing and asking "what the hell I'm doing hitting her in the face." It was brutal. The lady beside her, which I think may have been her daughter, was telling me it was OK and that she didn't know what she was saying, blahblahblah. But it was totally awkward and it look about three people and, finally,  a rousing rendition of a "Bicycle Built for Two" to calm her down. Needless to say, as soon as the class was over we took off. 

Maybe really, really old people and little children aren't the greatest mix. 




Friday, August 8, 2008

Nice Potatoes

I don't have a lot of time today, but I felt like updating since I haven't logged on since we got home earlier this week. 

It feels like we were gone forever. I will spare you all gory details of my absolute horror when we pulled up in front of the house. Instead of seeing my cute (to me, at least) little house, with its tidy, happy little garden,  there weeds close to two feet tall all over the front lawn. The garden was almost 90 percent weeds. Everything was either overgrown or dead. Not the welcome I had hoped for, but in Eric's defense, he was wounded for the two weeks prior to his arrival in Thunder Bay, so I suppose gardening/mowing was the last thing on his mind. Still, I almost wanted to take a picture of the lawn, but realized there is no need. The scene in burned into my brain forevermore.  

I spent the next few days, unpacking, cleaning and weeding and now things are more or less back to normal. 

Now that Kieran is going to  daycare two days a week, I decided to partake some more in some of the programs offered at our local Early Years Centre. We walked over on Tuesday to the Centre down the street...the one, I have mentioned that is located inside a Long Term Care facility. The building is under total renovation and the Centre, which used to be located in a nice room off the lobby has been relocated (temporarily, but for at least a year) to a former residents room in one of the wards.  The relocation happened while I was gone, so it took me forever to find the new room and can I just say, I was sort of creeped out. 

You can't really tell this from the lobby, but Long Term Care really isn't a happy  "retirement residence." No, it's more like a hospital. An old hospital. One without air conditioning or enough nurses.  To get to the new room I had to wheel my stroller past all these rooms full of old people lying in their pyjamas on hospital beds. It didn't seem very kid-friendly any more. The new room is OK, but I felt sort of uneasy and I think Kieran sort of felt it too.

So yesterday since we were trapped in the house in the middle of yet another rainstorm, I packed up the kids in the car to go the other EYC (the one with all the Filipino nannies and the mommies and their BMW SUVs.) They have also done a remodel. Now, there is Starbucks inside. Not a real Starbucks (which would be far preferable), but a little storefront complete with Starbucks logos, cups and laminated menu cards. I can now go up to a four-year old barista, invariably named Bella,  and order my own pretend Venti Sumatra Decaf Extra Bold No Foam. Shudder. I think I prefer the creepy hospital setting. 

Is maternity leave over yet?

One last note: after dropping off Kieran at daycare today I made a run to the grocery store as we have out-of-town friends coming over. Kaya was in a good mood and was happy as a clam in her carseat as I shopped. Happy, smiley babies always get lots of attention, so I wasn't surprised when an older lady veered out of her way to come over to peer into my cart where I had the carseat resting. I'm all set to start rhyming off the baby particulars (she's 4 months, her name is Kaya, yes she's a pretty good sleeper) when the woman says: "Nice Potatoes!"

"Uh, thanks. They're local..." I sort of stammer and the woman continues on her merry way. 

Sorry Kaya, they WERE nice potatoes.