Whore in the USA

Sometimes when I write for ParentDish, I have the "good fortune" of having a piece picked up by the AOL.com homepage. Which means when you go to www.aol.com, you might see a screen such as this (image below, click to enlarge) with a headline that captures your attention.


Now, the type of people that click on these links don't ordinarily read ParentDish. They are a lovely bunch with fabulous opinions. They love to comment and often, (they leave comments in the hundreds) they get REALLY MAD and use all caps to tell you what they think of you.

Anyway, I am not the type to get personally offended by negative comments. If I was, I wouldn't be writing about myself online, now would I? I'm also not one to shy away from sharing this sort of thing in order to have people laugh along. So please, if you're a bit bummed today, or just want the long weekend to get here already, spend a moment over at THIS POST reading the comments. You will not be disappointed. I, myself, can't stop laughing.

Because most of America clearly thinks I am a fat, insecure, whore, who is playing a dangerous game and ruining lives around her. Oh, and I am setting the women's movement back 100 years and I should probably be fired. All for having a crush on a coworker. OMG -- for a second I had a window into what it must be like for Rebecca Eckler.

Oh, Paris Hilton told Larry King that she is much more spiritual after spending time in jail. Plus, the Spice Girls are getting back together. My girl Mel C even looked... dare I say... feminine at the press conference. The apocalypse is nigh!

Stuck between a rock and a hard poop

It's been 2 and a half years now that I've been pooped on, pissed on and taught humility by this journey called parenthood. We've had some good laughs over the years as I shared these moments.

Like the time the Dog took it for the team -- 'member that? Or the case of the incredibly flooded crib? Well last night's events usurped anything we'd experienced before.

Nate's been on this kick lately. He eats his dinner and about 2/3 of the way through he wants to get up. Then he says, "I'll be back in a minute, OK Mommy?"

Then he goes and poops around the corner, in his diaper. I might have mentioned this recurrence before.

Well last night, the same pattern. The Dog and I are in the kitchen at this point, trying not to laugh at his strenuous faces; giving him the illusion of privacy.

All of a sudden, he starts to cry and comes towards me with his arms extended. "Ow, Mommy. Ow!"

"Oh, poor baby. Did the poop hurt your bum when it was coming out?"

"Yeahhhh... waaaah!"

I took him upstairs -- a feat in itself as I am heavy and so is he. We sat on his bed and I began to remove his diaper, only to find two teeny, rock hard nuggets in there.

"Oh. Is there still more poop in your tummy?"

"Yeahhhh... sob sob... it hurts."

"Dooog, can you boil some prunes on the stove? He's backed up... Oh, Nate, is it still coming out?"

I bent him over slightly to see what's going on and what I saw, I can never un-see. Brace yourselves, especially if you don't have kids.

His bunghole was stretched bigger than a toonie with a rock hard shit stuck there, immovable. I grabbed a diaper wipe thinking I could dislodge it. But it only broke off, his sphincter remaining stuck, stretched as far as it could possibly go. At this point he is trembling from pain, looking at me for help, eyes pleading.

"Uh, DOG! Come up here! QUICK!"

Daddy Dog inspects and looks at me with bewilderment. What do we do? What the fuck do we do?

Daddy tries to push down just below the tailbone to force it out, but that only makes Nate scream louder. "I'll run the bath," he says, "Maybe the warm water will loosen things up."

We move to the bathroom. Nate is beyond distraught. I don't know what to do. I reach for a Q-Tip, thinking I can scrape enough out to get things moving. The Q-Tip just hacks away at the dry matter, really providing no relief.

At this point, I already have shit on my hands. My son's ass is in the most horrific, undescribable state and I've got to think fast. Suddenly, I remember reading a Toni Morrison novel once, perhaps it was Sula, where she describes the mother character as loving her son so much she pulled a hard poo from his ass to save his life after days of constipation. Eureka.

"I'm going in!"

And that's just what I did.

With no thought to anything else, I dug in and scraped out every last granite-like chunk until he stopped crying.

I looked up at the Dog who was watching me with awe and amazement. I really needed a bourbon at that second. We both did. Our relationship had gone to the next level. All three of us. There was no going back now. The power of the mama had been unleashed, exposed for all to see just how far she would go for her offspring.

I washed my hands in silence, then washed off Nate's wee bum, greased the doorjambs for future exits and diapered him, while his father held him and comforted him. Then I went out to the sweltering heat of the front porch to collect myself.

I will never be the same again.

We're off!

Off to a wedding in Haliburton -- sans-child. But I've been got stuff going up at ParentDish all day if you need a dose of Scarb -- and my whoremones are making me extra snarky these days.

Kiss my owie

I am owie. So farking owie. Only a few weeks ago I was marvelling at how much less pain I had this time around because everything was already stretched to shite. Now the fact that I am carrying around a 16-inch parasite in my stomach is really starting to hurt. 16 inches is the size of a computer screen, or a really nice necklace. Too big to be housed in the body of someone who barely reaches 5 foot 2 on a measuring chart.

I'm not really used to back pain. I have teeny boobs and try to keep a decent posture and an ergonomic desk environment. I sleep on a really good mattress. But there is no way to protect yourself from back pain when the front of your body is growing at an alarming rate. Suddenly, these large boobs and this even larger belly are dragging me forward or causing me to over-arch my back to make up for it. I try to achieve a neutral spine, but I no longer know what that is. Must go to yoga class tonight to work it out in downward dog.

When Nate is in pain, he walks over to me, rivers of tears down his olive face, and says between sobs, "My finger is owie! Kiss it! Kiss it!" This makes me giggle. I mean we all know the power of a mother's kiss, but it's funny when it actually seems to work... to the point that he seeks it out. If he is grumpy he looks at me and requests, "Can you make me happy mommy? Can you make me laugh?" This is a call to action. I shake off my third trimester daze and spring into my Supermom suit complete with tickles and funny songs to make him giggle.

On owie days like today, I wish I could have someone kiss my boo boos and make me laugh. *sigh* Guess I'll have to wait until I get home.

It don't mean a thing if you ain't got a cool sling...

Baby Stuff:

I'd like a sling. I have a hand-me-down Baby Bjorn that has seen better days and while I know this will be the carrier of choice for Daddy Dog, I'd prefer something that offers discreet public nursing opportunities.

I recently chased down a new mom at the Toronto Zoo because she was wearing this cutie thing, which looked comfy and totally stylish. So I go to the site only to find the sling designs, styles, and options are overwhelming. Help me out will ya? Which one seems the best based on cuteness and your own experience? www.milkface.com (Keep in mind that if I have to wrap it 6000 ways, I probably will give up in a frustrated heap and never use it. Plus I don't want to look like a hairy armpit hippie mom -- no offence. It's just not me.)

Whaddya think?

Nateisms: Two-point-five, going on eighty

Some of the latest gems that I don't want to forget.

About a month ago, Nate and I were visiting our friends R&J for post-daycare pizza. Kate and family were there also and J sat the three kids down to have fruit and tarts. Carter (almost 4), Alice (freshly 4) and Nate (2.5) were hanging out when Carter turned to me and said:

"One time, at daycare, I peed in my pants during naptime."

I kept a straight face and replied, "Oh yeah? You had an accident? That happens sometimes."

Then Alice looked from Carter to me and said, "One time, a very long time ago, when I was three and a half, I pooped in my pants."

Well Kate and I sorta snickered at this. Partially at her one-upmanship, but mostly at the fact that three and a half felt like a "very long time ago" to Miss I Just Turned Four.

Nate was crouched down and examining everyone's faces. Then he focussed on the big kids with a look that said "you think that's something?" and blurted, "Everyday... I poop in my pants!"

********************************************

I was wearing a cute head scarf/bandanna to hide my greys and keep my long bangs out of my eyes. I came home to relieve the Dog, who had been home with sick Nate all day and had to get to work. Nate woke up from his nap to find me home and after his initial warm greeting he said, "Take that off your head Mummy!"

"Why?" I inquired, "I like it. Don't you like it?"

"No. Take it off. I want you to look pretty."

*********************************************

We were playing in the living room when suddenly, Nate bolted out of the room. "Hey, where are you going?"

He leaned his head back into the living room and replied with a strained face, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Ah, I see. Are you pooping?"

"Yes, I'm pooping. And I trust you not to peek."

The Gospel of Clean

They say cleanliness is next to Godliness and since this recovering Armenian Apostolic Orthodox (with a short stint in Catholicism) hadn't been to church in a while, she decided it was time to repent for her sins. So down on my knees I got to make amends for all my spiritual neglect and clean the high heaven out of my bathroom.

The problem is a few-fold:

1) I am hugely pregnant and therefore, tired all the time.
2) I am hugely pregnant and therefore, can't bend and kneel and get into cracks and crevices.
3) I fucking hate cleaning.

But my house is dirty and, like much of the population, I am suffering from what I can only think to call "green anxiety." Everyday there is something new in the news about all the VOCs and the lead in the water and the lead dust and the neurotoxins that are making us sick. Me no rikey.

I have taken great steps to make my home more eco-friendly. I've been making and using natural cleaning products for years now (since we first got the cat and she foamed at the mouth after licking a Tilex-soaked sponge). We spent the winter draftproofing and having our home insulated. We've changed 90% of our lightbulbs. We buy organic when we can afford it. We don't garden with pesticides or unnatural fertilizers (who has time to fertilize) and try to plant things that can handle it when I frequently forget to water.

But I have been reading Adria Vasil's Ecoholic and although it's written in a very un-scary, "hey friend, here are your options" way, I find myself getting increasingly nervous about what might be lurking in my 85 year-old house.

For the longest time I was happy about the studies that came out saying children that grew up in dirty houses were healthier than those who grew up in sterile ones. Well, I guess there is a big difference between dirty and filthy, because the latest advice is that you should dust and vacuum once a week. I guess the key is to avoid the Lysol wipes and the antibacterial stuff, because some bacteria is good for your immunity, while keeping the dust bunnies at bay. The problem is, I don't really dust. Or vacuum.

So when I got the opportunity to have the house to myself yesterday afternoon, I chose to scrub my soul clean. And nothing, nothing helps me clean better than music and squelching along at the top of my lungs. Why not make this a meme -- Music to Clean Rooms By. (adjust as you'd like. Do it by room, task or merely the artist/album). Here are my go-to albums for getting domestic with the Lord.

1. Aretha Franklin -- Natural Woman and Other Hits
Any Greatest Hits compilation should get you the classics, like House that Jack Built, etc. (I prefer her later works to the R-E-S-P-E-C-T phase that we've all heard a thousand times.) Her versions of Son of a Preacher Man and Eleanor Rigby are just chilling. But it's her rearrangement of Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Waters that will have you feeling the kind of shame that makes you reach for that ratty old toothbrush and get into those long ignored nooks and crannies.

2. Ben Folds Five -- Whatever and Ever Amen
Ben Folds rocks a piano the way Eddie Van Halen kills it with a guitar. There is something very 90s, very early dot-com feeling about this album that some consider cheesy, but belting out "Gimme my money back you bitch!" over a catchy piano tune that makes me ferociously attack my mirrors in a Karate Kid "wax on, wax off" fashion.

3. Billie Holiday -- Priceless Jazz Collection
Let's just get this out of the way: I like to clean to female African American divas. I live with a music Nazi and don't often get to listen to female vocalists whose names aren't Feist or [insert bizarre Norwegian name here]. I am usually stuck with Wilco or Bloc Party or the latest intellectual male band du jour. I also happen to own (or have compiled myself) a lot of Greatest Hits collections. I like to dust to Billie. Because I hate dusting and find it demeaning and Billie gets that. She's been done wrong so many times. She's saying to me, "Hey girl, dusting's a bitch, but I got slapped in the face, cheated on, and I'm outta smack, so count your blessings and get busy with that cloth."

4. Mary J. Blige -- Greatest Hits
If I had to pick one, I'd probably go with her first, What's the 411? But why settle for one when you can compile all the greats? From "You Remind Me" to "Real Love" to "Not Gon' Cry" to "Everything" to "Be Happy" to "All That I Can Say" to "Family Affair" to "Be Without You" -- Seriously good shit. I like to put Mary on while I do living room, dining room and bedroom decluttering because I get to shake my booty as I take out of place items and relocate them to their proper homes.

5. Erykah Badu -- Baduizm
This album was the album of my coming of age (in fact, so many of these are circa 1997/98 it's not even funny). I killed this in my last year of college. No one to date has matched Erykah Badu's soulful deep voice, nor her wacky-yet-intelligent lyrics. The arrangements are Nu Soul-perfect. This is my clean the kitchen album. Slow and sultry, I can languish over my cupboards. When the up-tempo songs hit, I get to the fridge, the stove and the sink.

6. The Garden State Soundtrack
A friend just sent this to me, but I'd downloaded a lot of the songs on it already, or had the original albums of some of the tracks. (Oh Zero 7, how I love thee.) I like this for cleaning the bedroom. The Shins "New Slang" is perhaps one of the greatest songs of all time. It makes me happy, while I ignore my dusty lingerie drawer and opt to wash my vibrator instead.

7. Stevie Wonder -- Natural Wonder
Unlike my friend RJW, I'm not crazy about live albums. But this one has all the exuberance and excitement of a live Stevie show. You can hear how much he loves the fans and songs have a different quality live than their popular radio formats. This is the ultimate vaccuuming album because it should be listened to very loud. Oh how I take out my enthusiasm on the couch cushions to "Superstitious". "My Cherie Amour" makes me ponder cleaning the windows, 'cept Mama don't do windows.

8. Ella Fitzgerald -- Pure Ella
Finishing touches are best done to Ella. Slow and clean -- you can't be dirty when listening to Ella. You must have purged and polished and said 10 Hail Marys for the amount of dust bunnies lurking under the bed. Making beds to "Someone to Watch Over Me" is a spiritual act in itself. Folding fresh out of the dryer laundry to "I'm Glad There is You" is as close to zen as this big city spaz gets. Amen.

What do you clean to?

Adventures in Nesting

As I keep repeating, I've been enjoying my family and fluffing my home. Plus, after hours of staring at the walls while holding Nate's sick, sleeping body, it occurred to me that I'll be breastfeeding again soon. I was reminded of the utter boredom (yes, non-moms, breastfeeding is beautiful and all, but it's mind-numbingly dreary too.) and that horrible feeling when you can't reach any form of entertainment, save the remote, only to find there is NOTHING on!

The cable guy was called swiftly and the Dog and I have been blissfully spending our nights getting caught up on Entourage and The Sopranos. So forgive me if my blogging is sporadic, but until my Adrian Grenier fantasies are fulfilled I'm finding it hard to make time to write.

In the meantime, why not delight in the Martha Stewart obsessions I've been burdening my design guru (Marla Good) and my husband with. As we've been spending so much time in the living room, I am constantly scheming and dreaming of what we can do to make it better. I'm pretty sure I'm going insane, but I'm not at the level of say, Claire on Coronation Street yet, so don't reach for the phone book to call Child Services just yet.

On my design guru's recommendation, I ended up at Nestings yesterday. They are having a crazy sale while they redesign their showroom. Though I was overwhelmed by the choices in bedding and had to walk away, I was enchanted by a couch/futon that was ultra-cool and compact and could be folded and unfolded in a variety of stylish ways.

Since we swapped out living room and dining room, we have a bit of space to play with. And while I managed to keep my mother at bay during my first post-partum experience, I think I will have to admit that I need her this time. Meaning, I need a place for her to sleep that's not my EQ3 couch. The room is not large enough for the rare double sofa that pulls out to sleep two.

The chair had been reduced to $299 + delivery ($85) making it a total steal. My sis and I sat on it for some time and found it to be comfy, with the arms easily folding down to convert into a bed or chaise. The problem is there's only one left and it's a hot persimmon colour, (pictured here, but the whole thing is the same colour -- so ignore those printed cushions) a colour that is tough to live with. My existing couch is sage green. But that price and the size were too hard to pass up. Maybe I am up for the challenge?

I consulted my design guru, who had seen it earlier in the week and got her approval. She suggested throw cushions and accent that tied in the persimmon with the earth tones in my room. OMG. I think I am going to buy a "feature" couch.

At this point I can't stop thinking about it. So I go to Designer Fabric Outlet's online shop. I could do throw cushions on the sage couch in this handsome floral print:

Or this which would tie in the oriental area rug that I inherited from my aunt:



Then over the bright couch, I could do some wall canvasses that would put some sage to tone down the persimmon. Maybe three panels, one in each? Or I could repeat that gorgeous floral.







Of course I'm on a Mac, so heaven only knows whether these colours will work out in person as they come across on screen, but it's well worth investigating. Giddy at the thought. What will I do till Friday comes around?

OK, take that all in. I will post some photos of the room as it is now sometime soon and also discuss ottomans and coffee tables with you in the near future. And you'll just have to deal because I'm hormonal and this is my space to do whatever I want. [insert maniacal laugh here]

The Incredible Naterator!

I haven't been feeling very writerly lately (hence my absence from ParentDish as well as MFM). Apparently Martha Stewart has taken my soul and I've gone all Stepford Wife (think Julie Kavner in the TV movie sequel, not Nicole Kidman). New obsessions are creeping in. Gardening, for one. I have become obsessed with watching things grow.

It might be because for the month of May I was watching things wither away to nothingness. One thing in particular: my greatest creation to date -- my 29-month-old. After a week of not eating, my son dropped a diaper size and began resembling the bobble head dolls his dad gets when he walks into a Blue Jay game. It was emotional torture, watching him deteriorate, too weak to play or walk or squeeze his cute voice out -- except to cry out in pain, "It's owie Mommy!" while looking at me like I had betrayed him for allowing him to hurt.

And yet, I constantly reminded myself, it could be worse. How do parents of children with cancer do it? How do they watch their children suffer through pain and teeter on the edge of death?

"Some day, you'll remember this week of herpes hell and laugh about it," Kate counselled me over the phone.

"No, that's just it, I won't. Because this will not be the last thing. The worry will never be over. We've signed up for a lifetime of it. There will be something else, something worse."

Wow, I'm usually the optimistic one.

But Nate not only had the herpes that week. No. He got conjunctivitis/pink eye and an ear infection too. Oh, and he managed to squeeze out a rear molar on the side the ear was infected. Fun. And then, of course, the sleep-deprived pregnant mommy went down with the most evil cough I've had in a long time, with no alternative but to tough it out.

The kid is a trooper. In utero, I always believed he was a fighter. When he was born under difficult circumstances, he proved that he was. My husband began to believe that he may have comic book hero super powers. I'm starting to believe it too.

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger," the old saying goes. Never has that been more true. After a week of starvation and few words uttered, Nate's brain is alive again -- scarily so.

I can't explain it. His sentences are clearer. He speaks at the level of a three-year-old. And he is wicked sarcastic. "What's the matter with you man?" he asks his dad after being forced to put his shoes on, against his notable objections.

"Can I get up now?" He asks from the dinner table.
"Only if you eat one more bite of chicken," goes our usual futile attempt at negotiations.
"Hmmmm... No."
"How about you have some peas then? Then you can get down."
"How 'bout No?"

See? Superhuman intelligence for a toddler/preschooler. (Never really sure of when that switch happens, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.) One thing is for certain: I am obsessed with watching him grow up.