Screw Spiderman — Dress Your Kid as Don Draper!

Cookie is going as Pocahontas for Halloween this year (not that she’s “going” anywhere; I’m
trying to avoid the whole candy thing as long as possible, as pointless as that may be), mainly because someone gave us the hand-me-down costume for free, and because it’s a dress, which definitely trumps the handmade pumpkin costume her grandmother slaved over. Cookie will wear anything as long as it’s a dress. I’m hoping that’ll change before next year, before she outgrows the pumpkin. Yeah right.

But I really want her to have a unique costume. Last year she went as Princess Leia, which I
thought wasn’t too bad. (Look at that: two princess costumes in a row from the anti-princess
mama.) However, I was blown away by this Flavorwire post.

The year after the pumpkin, Cookie’s totally going as Frida Kahlo.

-East End Mama

The Wait

Okay, here I am six days overdue with baby #2. Brief history, W was induced at nine
days over, so I guess you can say that my babies are not really in a hurry to be born.
That’s okay, I suppose; I like to hit the snooze and sleep in whenever possible as well.

I vacillate between being flattered that my kids love my womb so much they never want
to leave, and on the other hand finding myself a little resentful that I may face another
Pitocin-fuelled labour. Come on, baby, I paid a lot of money to learn how to hypnobirth
you in to this life, so let’s get going. (Not very Zen of me, I know.)

As I write this, I am waiting for them to call my name for my post-due ultrasound at
my OB's posh fertility clinic. Usually I see her in a hospital, but this is clearly the job
that pays for her cottage. There is a waterfall in the waiting room and classical music
playing. It is actually making me very contemplative as, judging from atmosphere around
here, I have nothing to complain about. I am healthy, my kids are healthy, and yet...I do
complain. Is it just human nature?

With W I tried every trick in the book: pineapple, sitting on a balance ball, walking, sex,
acupuncture...and more. But nothing worked. This time I just kind of assumed that
what everyone says (“second babies come quickly”) is true; that I would not need to do
anything except wake up one day and push a few times. Not true.

I envisioned getting everything organized and then sitting down to check my emails just
as my water broke in a light trickle that could easily be contained without a package of
Depends undergarments. Then I would call my doula, we would meet in the room and
have a latte, and my light hypnosis would carry me on a strawberry mist in to bliss. HA
HA!

I know I am not great with change and I know I am a bit of a stress case. And yes, I
know that you need to be relaxed to go in to labour (ideally). I keep thinking of this story
I’ve heard about how cats will stop labouring and find a new place if they aren’t 100%
sure they are safe. Well, what the fuck, cats? Apparently they have never been married
with toddler and had to listen to an OB and a doula full of mostly conflicting advice....
Geez, safe! I don’t know — I’m just hoping for fast.

I’m getting to the point where people’s well-meaning texts, tweets, and emails are
becoming severely irritating. (Chalk it up to hormones.) My mom says she can’t sleep,
she’s so excited. This makes me want to punch her. I’m not sure why.

So, I will conclude by saying my new mantra: Come on, Baby!

-Tightrope Mama

It’s all about Teeth

My father once told me that the “terrible” in the terrible twos is all about teeth. For a man in his late sixties, he knows a lot about babies. I’m not sure that he has this one entirely right, but when you consider the teething and the biting, it certainly seems to be part of the picture. Being unable to fully express yourself may be another.

Regardless, right now it is all about teeth. J-man likes to brush them; “It’s my turn,” he demands the second I pick up his toothbrush. “I want toothpaste,” he continues, like there was ever a day when I forgot the toothpaste. I insist that I give his teeth a full brush before he has his turn. Sometimes we “fight about it” and he refuses to open his mouth. When that happens I pin him down and tickle him until he opens it. Sometimes this is really funny, other times it ends quickly and in tears, but either way, they get done.

We’ve also been counting his teeth — something a friend who is a dental hygienist told me to start doing in preparation for his first dental appointment. “Let me count your teeth,” I say, just like the dentist does (he has eight on top, and as of this week nine on the bottom). Next he counts mine (I apparently only have ten; well, sometimes I have one-teen — he can’t quite figure out eleven).

The new addition to his bottom teeth took some serious work. After a particularly fussy day, he went to the Advil bottle and insisted that he wanted some. I of course thought he wanted it because he likes the taste. So I distracted him with his toothbrush. And then, “Let’s count your teeth. Oh my, what a red bump in the back…” and I quickly got the Advil and Orajel. How long had he been trying to tell me it was his teeth? Oh well, he’ll survive. For the next couple of days he’d demand cream for his teeth, and then after it was applied, “Spicy,” he’d exclaim. A week of sleep-disturbed nights, the crankiest of days, and a tooth was born.

When I counted last night, there were more coming. Maybe my dad is more correct than I thought. We have six months until age three, and I fear we’ll be dealing with teeth, sleeplessness related to teeth, and temper tantrums related to teeth until then!

-Sleepwalking Mama

Biting

So Lo is getting bit at school. His bestie has very few words and uses his teeth
and other objects to communicate his disdain and reluctance to share. What is a
mama to do?

Lo speaks about his playmate all of the time. He wants the same shoes; he tells
stories about how much fun the two of them have and how they “kick the ball.”
He also shares stories about how his friend bites him, and his response is, “It’s
otay, Mommy.” Which destroys me….

It’s not otay!

He is playing with a friend who hurts him often — and being the little boy that he
is, how does he understand that? His friend, whom he enjoys and who plays with
him all of the time, also hurts him. I am wondering if this is life, if this is a lesson
that is inevitable. Those we love hurt us at some point, no matter how much we
enjoy being with them. Maybe…but Lo is so little, can he understand what is
happening — that his friend has no words to express himself and is therefore

expressing himself physically by biting? Likely not, but why does he say, “It is
otay?” Why does he enjoying being with someone who is hurting him?

It worries me.

I think about who I have been socially through my thirty-seven years. As a young
child, I was easily led, whether that was by the male neighbours to the dark
corner of the furnace room to kiss, or by friends to their houses to look at all of
their toys. As I got a bit older, I followed further — I wanted to be friends with
the pretty girls, and experienced that feeling of being accepted but bullied at the
same time. It is this memory that haunts me as Lo experiences the high of having
a friend and the low of being hurt. And in the end, he says, “It’s otay.”

I don’t want him to get used to giving a lot and getting hurt. I don’t want him to be
the one who learns to accept that being hurt by people is normal and you cannot
trust anyone without being disappointed, over and over again. I am worried that
this experience with his little friend is setting up a lifetime of expectations — that
will inevitably disappoint him.

Does this cycle ever change?
Does pleasure always include pain?
Does being human always mean we will be hurt?

I know there are a million life lessons to come for Lo. I am hoping that the impact
of all of these lessons does not dim his light and charm, hold him back from
taking risks, affect his ability to love and be loved.

I hope I make it through…make it through each lesson. I do not want to
protect him from it all, but I do want to show him that I will always be there —
unconditionally. Even though I am sure I will disappoint him too.

-Gray Mama


[image: Biting My Fingers]

Mingling with the Locals, Episode Two

2: Alice Munro Land

I have scampered out to gather drugs in this one-horse town; we have colds. I take this
moment to steal into the “expresso” bar and crack my food-encrusted MacBook.

I will tell you a story.

The Perils of Smalltown

Once there was a girl (me) who liked to shop at Mennonite thrift stores. (Think Witness
— Harrison Ford? Kelly McGillis? Anyone?)

Why? Because deals abound, they are clean, maybe no bugs yet, and yes, Santa, I
discovered they DO host public bathrooms (refer to previous embarrassing post where I
desperately pissed into three of my daughter’s diapers in the parking lot.)

I also like to shop at the church on Thursdays and occasionally go to auctions with
Eldora.

So about a month ago I bought a coat at the church. I love it. It is shaped like a
stingray, which suits my tall frame. It is quite elegant, has a decent collar, and is warm.
It is cream in coloir, and you can zip it up from the bottom as well as the top — very
versatile. Fourteen bucks.

Now I am in Shoppers, arms loaded up with Kleenex, drugs, diapers, etc. (Why didn’t
I get a cart? Because I am happy to not be pushing a stroller around, thank you.),
checking my iPhone shopping list when suddenly I am caught unawares by a woman,
not a day under 80, must be 80, with her friend, also 80, maybe 75 (they really look
good, actually), and she sings, from her slightly hunched frame:

“Did you buy that coat at the church sale?” Eyes shining.

In an instant a feeling of...shame, intrusion, self-judgment, general weirdness comes
over me for having been caught wearing an 80-year-old lady’s coat.

“Yes I did!” I respond cheerily, a faltering smile that says, “I love old people!”

Glancing down to meet her gaze, I take in the ragged state of the coat, unraveling
bottom zip, black crap clinging to it, the Guppins’ winter boot prints at breast level from
late-night shoulder rides, and baby food in general — it’s a mess. When I picked it up it
was pristine.

“It was from one of those fancy stores in Toronto, wasn’t it?” the friend asks winkingly.

“Oh yes! It’s a goood coat, nice and warm.”

The previous owner pulls the coat open to reveal the “Virgin Wool” insignia and points at
it.

I apologize for its unkempt state.

But this lady, God, she’s beaming.

“It suits your tall frame,” she says.

And off they bustle, trying to remember what’s on their shopping lists.

I feel lost. Who am I? What am I doing here? Where is MY coat from the fancy shop in
Toronto? This would never happen in the city, you never MEET the people who have
died or donated your thrift store treasures. You don’t have to get The Story; I mean,
there is no one in Toronto putting a damper on your New Find.

The world around me dissolves and I am in the middle of an Alice Munro story: I’m
having an affair, and my lover, the school gym teacher; his Granny is Fancy Coat Lady,
who, when a girl accidentally murdered a stutterer at summer camp because her best
friend pressured her into it, and the coat was bought at the surviving stutterer twin
sister’s store years later in Toronto. Out of guilt, or hatred, or…oh God, help get me out
of Alice Munro Land!

The world re-shapes around me. I bring my empty coffee bowl to my lips. I look around.
The expresso place is empty.

I am the only one left.

I am the only one left.

-Drama Mama

What Lice Taught Me

As you recently read, W had his first round (I’m sure there will be more)
with head lice this past summer (cue: itching). Upon reflection I realized I actually
learned a few things from the experience.

Because, as you have also read, I don’t quite work in the most pro-parenting/supportive
office environment, I didn’t miss any work as a result of the lice. Honestly, you may be
thinking, “Well, obviously, who would take a sick day for lice?” Really it would have been
a much-needed mental health day for me (reminder: I am pregnant and cranky and it
was about 45°C here in Toronto during the incident).

One day, on the walk from the parking lot, one of my co-workers from another
department came running up behind me yelling out my name. I was in the middle of
composing a text message to one of my single friends and holding back tears as I
congratulated her on something but inwardly cursed her joy (not very nice, I know).
When this co-worker (who has two pre-teen kids) saw my face she said, “What’s going
on?” with a tone that implied she could tell I was about to have a full-fledged melt-down
on the sidewalk. I burst into tears about lice, and mouse shit, and how my husband
wasn’t checking my hair well enough, and how the daycare wasn’t posting signs about
the lice and, oh, just about everything under the sun. She listened totally patiently as I
said cliché things like, “I know every kids gets lice, but…” and “I know it doesn’t mean
that our house is dirty, but…” and when I finally stopped, she told me a story.

She told me that when her son was three months old, she got lice from her niece. She
said she was postpartum and had to have her mom come over and do the lice treatment
on her TWICE. She also confessed that while her baby never got lice (thank god!), one
time a bug fell from her head onto him while she was changing his diaper! She said
she was bawling and bawling and felt miserable and terrible. But you know what? Her
story made me feel better, and she knew it would. She trusted me enough to confide in
me about a time when she felt like a shitty, out-of-control parent, and was able to laugh
about it now. It made me feel good enough to actually make it to my desk and move on.
Which really was the most anyone could have done for me in that moment.

This is the kind of support women and co-workers need to give each other. Just
compassion and understanding. When I told my boss why daycare was calling, I caught
her in the bathroom ten minutes later checking her head for lice in the mirror. I kid you
not — this happened. I swear, who could make that shitty act up?

When I caught her, she turned beat red. Yeah, as if I could say the word “lice” and a
million microscopic eggs would jump across cubicles from my head to yours. (And for
the record, I never did get lice myself.)

Thanks to that supportive co-worker, and all the people like her who know how to listen
and comfort without one single ounce of judgment. I wish there were more people like
you out there.

-Tightrope Mama

Sleep

As I’m sure you can tell by my name, sleep has always been an issue in my house. It
started when I was eight months’ pregnant and basically, except for the odd couple of
weeks here and there, has remained the same.

J-man is a night owl. I recall in those last few months of pregnancy trying to sleep while
he did gymnastics or kick-boxing, or played basketball with my internal organs. It would
generally start at 8 p.m. and carry on well into the two and three a.m. range.

The first night in hospital he didn’t stop crying, and that continued well into his sixth month.
At a year he was waking only a couple of times a night.

I tried everything. From rum on the soother to every sleep book, doula, and training method
known to mother. I spoke to every other mom I could find, even those who had long stopped
raising babies.

There was always a problem. He was hungry most of the time, the neighbour turned on the
light that shines in his room, I dared to go to the washroom (completely in the dark without
closing the door or flushing the toilet), it was a tooth, his ears, he was hot, he was cold, or
maybe he just wanted his mommy.

The thing about being in crisis (okay, maybe a strong word, but there were days for sure)
is that you ask for help and people try to give it to you. Try this method or that. Let him
cry it out, it will only take a couple of nights, develop a routine, give him as much support
as he needs, try rocking him, don’t rock him, teach him to fall asleep on his own, he’s
just a baby don’t expect him to fall asleep on his own, give him a bottle, don’t give him a
bottle you’ll ruin his teeth. And inevitably someone will say or insinuate, or you will feel and
internalize what they are saying is that you are responsible because you’re doing or not
doing something.

I would like to say there is a happy ending to this post, but at two and a half “we” still don’t
sleep through the night, though we do a little more often than we did six months or a year
ago. Maybe it’s still teeth, but every night starts with a one-hour tantrum. Some nights
there’s another at two or three a.m. Thankfully those are mostly short, except Sunday night,
which lasted an hour and a half! And in the morning, long after Mom’s at her desk, J-man
doesn’t want to wake up.

And who could blame him? I don’t want to wake up either. Oh right, I have my day job too!

-Sleepwalking Mama


[image: moon]

The ‘L’ Word

Well, W hit a childhood milestone – LICE!

It started while we were at a family cottage (yes, with the husband’s family,
OBVIOUSLY). W stumbled in for Cheerios and was violently scratching the crown of
his head. I saw a few scabs — mosquito bites, I figured. But the scratching continued,
so I went to the pharmacy and told the pharmacist about it. He suggested (overpriced)
eczema shampoo. The ‘L’ word was never mentioned.

Fast-forward THREE days: we are home from the cottage, and despite my husband
saying “it’s not lice” for like the nine hundredth time, I delve in to W’s sunny blonde head
a pluck out what is unmistakably a BUG. It has legs and a head and is honestly just
disgusting. I practically fling it into my husband’s eye — “What. Is. That?” He googles
it; “lice,” he says matter of factly. As if this is the most painfully obvious question in the
universe.

So, off we go to the local pharmacy, where the kind, young fairy-like pharmacist (she
seriously looks 18) keeps a fair distance and answers my questions (which I am asking
with a lot of intensity). Husband drags W away at some point in the middle of this
because he thinks my reaction to lice is going to traumatize W for life.

We buy two bottles of NIX (at $25 each) and a special lice comb ($15) and head home to start the fumigation. I remember having lice as a kid, I remember all my stuffed animals tied up in garbage bags, I remember leaning over the tap as my mom combed and combed and combed for hours. I let out a big 8-months’- pregnant sigh: motherhood, fuck you.

At home we run the bath, we pour the vile shampoo on his precious baby head, and
I run around washing every towel, every pillow, every scrap of cotton that has been
in contact with a living human in the last 7 days. I feverishly vacuum the couch, the
mattresses, the CAR SEAT — literally there was NOTHING left un-cleaned. (Except
under the sink where all the mouse shit is!)

I continued this hot-water laundry and vacuuming for 7 days. Every night W was in
heaven as he sucked back warm milk and watching Chuggington on repeat while I
picked his head with my bare hands like a good like chimp mom. (The $15 comb was
virtually useless on his thin hair.)

After 5 or 6 days, I stopped seeing any of those disgusting little nit-egg things in his hair
and started to relax. I made my husband check my head twice a day, convinced he saw
lice in my head and was just lying to make me go away. In the end, the lice went away
and I stopped washing and drying our pillows daily, but even now, a month later, I am
still itching and itching just thinking of my short stint as a the official de-licer.

P.S. My iPhone refuses to spell LICE and constantly autocorrects it to “LIVE” — which
is pretty ironic.

-Tightrope Mama


[image: Marquee letters]

My Collection of Inappropriate References in Children’s Media

A few months ago I heard someone mention that the Muppets song “Rainbow Connection” is
the only children’s song with the word “lovers” in it. This wasn’t said critically or puerilely; it was just an observation. For me it made me think of the era the song came out of, and how it was a time when media directed to children could also appeal to adults because it didn’t talk down to children or attempt to coddle them. We pay a lot of lip service to that idea these days, inserting clever adult references into Finding Nemo and putting Ricky Gervais on Sesame Street and saying constantly that we don’t talk down to our children. But The Muppet Show didn’t try too hard to appeal to everyone; it just did. I remember loving the episode with Rudolph Nureyev, even though I knew very little about ballet (never mind who Nureyev was), and the whole time feeling so privileged and special because I knew someone thought that children like me were smart enough to appreciate this.

The comment also made me think of other rather inappropriate references I’ve come across in children’s media recently. Some of them are accidental, perhaps, but others were created in the same spirit as “Rainbow Connection,” I believe: acknowledging that this is a part of life and children are smart enough to handle it. Here’s my collection so far.

This New Baby, Teddy Jam and Virginia Johnson (Groundwood),
I’ve mentioned before that Teddy Jam’s Night Cars is a favourite in our household. Matt Cohen also wrote This New Baby long ago, and Groundwood has recently re-released it with gorgeous illustrations by local textile designer Virginia Johnson. We bought this to give to a new baby who lives near Johnson’s store, but Cookie loved it so much we had to read it five times before we finally handed it over.

The part that reminded me of the “Rainbow Connection” comment, though, is “This new baby
opens his eyes…like morning love.” I know the look of morning love in a baby’s eyes, but this poem is open pretty wide to interpretation, and my mind also went some place completely immature when I read this. Grow up, Mama!

Canadian Railroad Trilogy, Gordon Lightfoot and Ian Wallace (Groundwood)
Groundwood isn’t particularly known for edgy children’s books, but here’s another entry from
them. Uncompromising, maybe.

If you’re Canadian, you’re supposed to know Gordon Lightfoot’s song “Canadian Railroad
Trilogy.” I’m pretty sure it’s on the citizenship test. So I was thrilled when Groundwood came out with a picture book version. The illustrations are epic and glorious, and Cookie loves finding all the little details built into them.

The illustrator, Ian Wallace, made a point of filling in the blanks with his illustrations. Many
allude to the darker side of the building of the railroad, such as the displacement of First Nations communities, the horrible treatment of Chinese labourers, and the, er, shenanigans of men living far from home for long periods. One such illustration shows a man being embraced by a woman in a red dress. Naturally Cookie asked, “Who’s that?” and I instinctively responded, “His wife. She’s all dressed up because he’s been away for so long and she’s happy to see him.” Inside I’m thinking, “Is that a…? It can’t be, but…” Fortuitously, in the back of the book Wallace describes his inspiration behind each picture. Sure enough, the woman in the red dress is a prostitute. In a children’s book. Honest and uncompromising, and easy to tell a white lie about. Nothing wrong with that, in my opinion.

Plus, I’m sure this is not the first children’s book with a prostitute in it. There must be religious
children’s books that I will never come across that have Mary Magdalene in them. And when I was growing up, she was still a prostitute.

“I Love Trash,” Oscar the Grouch (Sesame Street)
This one falls under the category of “accident,” I hope. Apparently Katy Perry’s dress was too
risqué for Sesame Street to air (luckily not for YouTube: click here), but somehow someone missed the double meaning of this lyric in Oscar’s anthem: “I’ve a…rusty trombone.”

Not sure what a rusty trombone is? Google it (probably best not to at work), or better yet, don’t, and maintain your charming innocence (and your breakfast).

Got any more hilariously (or charmingly) inappropriate references? We’d love to hear about
them.

-East End Mama

5 Reasons Not To Have (More) Kids: Part One

There was a pretty awesome article — “5 Reasons Not To Have Kids,”  by Jessica Valenti 
— on the Publishers Weekly website recently. It was about why we should not be having more children. It is funny, as we have a million debates about this topic in my home right now, and it always come down to a few important points, which also came up in this article.

The first being…

“1. Our society does not support mothers. The United States is the only industrialized nation without paid maternity leave, putting families and children at severe economic risk. And due to the distinctly American belief that child care is a personal — not a political — issue, there is very little momentum behind changing the status quo. Parents are too busy fighting over breast vs. formula feeding to mobilize for lasting change.”

Okay…so we have 12 months in Canada. It is awesome. Maternity leave in the States is much shorter, and that totally sucks as I could not even imagine leaving a 2-month-old.

But still, even at 12 months they are very small. They are still likely breastfeeding, and they have very few words. They can’t tell how terrible daycare is, or how great. They are not even fully walking. And FYI: you will miss that milestone for sure.

Child care for 12-month-olds is soo expensive and crappy. All they really need is their mama. Well, they don’t have her, and daycares take complete advantage of the guilt and the enormous amount of work it takes to replace us beautiful mamas.

Yes, it is all political, but more than that, as the author shares, it is VERY personal. It is this personal piece that the current daycare system manipulates, creating a whole new level of debt for the working professional.

I say hell no.

-Gray Mama

You’ve Got Ten Minutes — What Should You Read?

It seems these days that all anyone is reading is shades of Fifty Shades. Which is okay by
me; I’m not a book snob, I believe the market has spoken, and a good story is a good story,
no matter how sloppily told. Although I am still stumped by the popularity of Twilight, I have
to admit. However, after reading Gabriel’s Inferno (being in the biz, I like to stay on top of the
market; plus, I was promised great things— those are my excuses and I’m sticking to them) and being furiously disappointed, I thought it was time to remind ourselves that there actually are well-written books out there, books to turn to when you’ve had it up to here with the
“Holy shit!” and the overly sensitive deflowering. (Here’s me reading Gabriel’s Inferno:
Read ridiculous sentence, something like “You make me want to be gentle and kind.
And when we make love, that’s how I will be with you,” and tear hair out. Throw book
across room. Pick it up; open it briefly, only to see that he offers her cranberry juice after
they do it, for fuck’s sake; yell, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”; and throw book
across room again.)

Here are my picks for when you want to read something between your kids’ bedtime and your collapse into a coma. It’s a small window, so you need to choose wisely. These books feature believable relationships, delightful mind games, a little dirty sex, and undoubtedly good writing, and they’re all written by women.

Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding
This may be obvious, but it invented the chick lit genre, and it’s one I go back to time and again to remind myself that writing for young women can be good and fun at the same time. Unlike the movie version of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. That thing should be thrown into a bottomless pit along with the director and the screenwriter.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt
Some books linger in your mind for days; this one has stayed with me for years. Not for women specifically — most characters are male — but a sinister story about desperately wanting to belong (something everyone can relate to, for sure).

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
I mentioned to a colleague that this was my favourite book of the moment, and she sneered and said, “Mass market. Bah!” Whatever. I’m tired of book snobs. Sometimes books are bestsellers because they’re genuinely good. A rarity, like a mom who has enough time to read more than a page at once, but it happens. This book messes with your mind and your relationships and will haunt you for weeks.

How Should a Person Be? by Sheila Heti
Although it was published in 2010, this book only recently hit the big-time because Lena
Dunham of Girls cited it as one of her influences. And the connection is pretty obvious when
you read it. The Los Angeles Review of Books recently tore it apart, but I think that once again it really doesn’t matter what the critics think. The fact that everyone is talking about it two years after it was published is remarkable enough. I also think a lot of women can find a little of themselves in it, or the selves they’ve been too smart to be, or something like that. This book is more of a beginning of something: a lot of it bugged me, but it’s a whole world away from Fifty Shades of Grey, so that was refreshing, and yet it really isn’t so different in many ways. I think the answer to what women want to read lies somewhere in between. Tamara Faith Berger’s Maidenhead is another recent book featuring explicit sex that takes us far enough out of our comfort zone that I think it will pave the way for that “somewhere in between” in women’s fiction. (If you read Gabriel’s Inferno and puked at how romantically she lost her virginity, you’ll love the flute scene in Maidenhead.) You may be disgusted or bored or unmoved by these books, but if you’re open-minded, you’ll probably like them a lot. And they are worth reading if only because they are ground-breaking, just as Bridget Jones’s Diary was in its day.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
The great-great grandmother of Harlequins, Pride and Prejudice is still the gold standard. It has wit and intelligence and romance and crazy-making family dynamics and even smouldering sexual tension. If you haven’t read it, you are seriously missing out. Get over yourself and read it, already.

P.S. At a recent Secret Mother gathering, we observed that an elderly male neighbour spent
most of the day reading Fifty Shades Darker. Which reminds me that you don’t have to be
female to enjoy the charms of any of these books.


-East End Mama

Mingling with the Locals, Episode One

1: Don’t Blame the Baby

I have a dilemma: my espresso place in Smalltown closes at noon on Sunday
(stupid idiots) and the other place is the cafe where famous actors in Canada Go
to Die. Meaning Sir Dick might be there with the Guppins and I do not want to run
into them. I picture my family without me: the Guppins occupied (from trashing
the place) by young girl baristas who worship Sir Dick’s fame as the Perfect
Canadian Television Patriarch; Sir Dick holding court with the older ladies who
worship his fame as a ’70s folksinger (there is a mural of him in the alley off the
main square — oh horror); our daughter covered in coffee (he feeds her coffee).

Did I mention this town is the actor retirement capital of the universe? The other
night I had Guppins outside, on my shoulders, and a jaunty gent proclaimed,
“Good eve” as he strode past — it was Graham Greene.

(Dances with Wolves…anyone? anyone?).

I drive. Vague memory of hole-in-the-wall “expresso bar” on the tourist strip. It’s
open. I enter the place. Once in, I surreptitiously glance at my shoes, finally pick
them up and inspect the bottoms, for the place smells… poopy.

I order. Barista understands the meaning of “dry.” Oh Heart.

I sit.

No child, no Sir Dick...

A couple and a baby in a large stroller block the aisle. He’s cute (the baby) and
chewing on a rubber giraffe. I smile. This makes me think about Tightrope Mama
who is attending a baby shower today (which has presented some emotional
complications for her and a hilarious post about stupid shower gifts), and so I
say, “Hey! A Sophie!” like, “I have a kid too! Even though she’s not here…” I feel
compelled to do this when I am without the Guppins and encounter people with
babies.

“Good score!”

The Man slash Mother —

women here tend to look like their male counterparts

— says,

“Yeah, we got a deal.”

“How much?” (Would I ask this in Toronto? I can’t resist. I remember being
thrilled to find a Sophie on sale after the Guppins had tossed her original — a
shower gift — off the Dundas West Bridge. I still picture it sailing down down
down like a confused yet free nun from a Michael Ondaatje novel.)

“$15 Bucks. Kids are Us.”

“That’s great!” I enthuse. “Did you get two?”

Uncomprehending stare.

“My daughter went through, like, six.”

She looks like she’s going to beat me up.

“But I can see he LOVES his — my daughter wasn’t really into it... I can SEE
CLEARLY he’ll never let his go.”

She’s going to punch me.

They leave.

Subject closed.

(It still smells poopy. Guess I can’t blame the baby.)

-Drama Mama

Teeth

Today I want to talk about teeth — yep, teeth. I started thinking about teeth as a
possible blog entry when after SIX days without eating dinner, W sprouted three
new teeth!

I started thinking back on how many times I have thought about or said the
word “teeth” in the past couple years. I don’t have a final count, but I have said it
a lot!

Of course, babies force you to think about teeth for obvious reasons. Any time
a baby cries, one of the first answers is, obviously, teething. But seriously, how
cruel is it that they have to endure growing teeth? You see their little faces all
scrunched up, their hands desperately clawing at their gums, and it is sad.

And then there are my OWN teeth. Last winter I woke up with searing, terrible,
torturous pain in my mouth. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I was
writhing in pain. It was horrible; let’s leave it at that. W was about six months old
and still full-time nursing. I didn’t know what to do so I did the obvious: I went to
the dentist at the mall (a rather ghetto place with stores named Spexx and Lidz).
Yes, in my pain-induced fog I thought a visit to the local, low-grade excuse for
retail therapy could HELP me! The hygienist told me I needed a mouth guard,
and that would take three weeks — not exactly what I was hoping they would
say. I was fitted for said mouth guard while W taunted me by eating Cheerios and
chomping on his soother from the comfort of his ridiculously large and comfy-
looking stroller. Getting fitted for this mouth guard was further torture: they filled
my mouth with foam, pressed down, and walked away for what felt like an hour.
When the hygienist returned, I was bawling, like full, watching–Dancer in the Dark
losing my shit. I was so tired, and so sore, and just wanted a jaw amputation…but
what I had was a baby, a twenty- something hygienist, and the sickening smell of
Pizza Pizza wafting across the hall. It really was one of those moments when
you think: Jesus, fuck — this isn’t how I pictured living as an “adult.”

So the terrified hygienist says something like, “I have better hair than you,”
or “Where is your bra?” or maybe she said, “Are you okay? You can go now”; I
don’t know. But I remember riding in the elevator and just sobbing. I was in so
much pain — but because I now live as a mom, I have to pull it together, operate
a motorized vehicle, slice up some banana, and get on with the show. (P.S. To
add insult to injury, the low-grade mall-dentist’s philosophy is no medication.
FUCK THAT NOISE!)

Fast forward to the next day and a visit from my childless friend. She took one
look at me and drove me to a walk-in clinic. God bless my friend.

As I waited, jaw in hand, for the doctor to come in to the exam room, I once again
started tearing up. The stress of the pain and sleepless nights was wearing me
down. In walks probably the cutest and youngest doctor I have ever been cared
for by and says, “So, what’s up?” Through sobs I explain that my tooth is fucked
up, and the dentist said I need a mouth guard but now my eardrum is also going
to explode and I can’t sleep. And I have a baby. To this doctor’s credit he did
a great job and asked me a lot of pointed questions like, “Where is your baby
now?” and “Do you have a partner?” and “Is your partner nice?” Clearly, though
young, this doctor has seen a few new moms in his day, and while he was likely
clearing his conscience of any spousal abuse, it felt nice that he was taking me
seriously. (Unlike some local dentists!)

The doctor said I probably did need a mouth guard because, due to (likely)
stress, I was clenching my teeth so hard at night I was putting something
equivalent to the weight of an elephant inside my mouth every night. Hmm.

This angel of a man also prescribed lots of meds (all safe for breastfeeding, he
assured me, but at that point, really, I was ready for heroin if it would help) and
told me to go home to bed for TWO days. He literally said, “See your baby as
little as possible until this clears up and start asking for help and then actually let
the people you ask help you.”

And you know what? Although that is not advice I would usually heed, I did it. I
took a handful of pills (two) and lay down. I still wriggled around uncomfortably
and longed for a cheeseburger, but I did rest. Lo and behold, forty-eight hours
later, I did feel a bit better.

So, to overstate the obvious, my superwoman behaviour almost killed me (and
by killed, I mean drove me to insanity with pain).

Two mouth guards (I ground through the first one — sexy, I know) and one new
dentist later, I still have mouth pain, but now on mornings when I wake up a
little sore I know it is my physical reminder to let my husband do more. It is my
reminder that maybe I can’t get the oil changed, go for drinks after work, and
make W three well-balanced meals all in one day. Some things can wait until
tomorrow. They have to. You only get one set of (real) teeth and you only get
one chance to raise your baby. It is unfortunate that the universe felt it had to
send me such painful reminders of that, but it did. Slow down. Calm down. Stop
clenching your teeth. Breathe. It’s okay. Teeth. Who knew?

-Tightrope Mama

[image: poster via etsy]