In Search of Some Traditions

Woof Woof!

You know those springy, coil door-stoppers that make a funny noise if you stub your toe on them? They’re literally a mounted spring with a rubber stopper on the end and they’re usually on a baseboard?  Well, in my family, growing up, whenever we’d hit that and hear that “sproing boing” sound reverberate, someone, would bark in response.  Yes, they would actually imitate the sound of a dog going, “Woof!”  Its weird, but its a family tradition.  No one ever really asked my mom, the one who started it and who would faithfully remember to do it every time someone accidentally hit the thing, why we did it, but now, whenever it happens at my house, I bark like Pavlov’s dog hearing that bell (only barking instead of drooling and licking my chops).  My son, now nearly 2 and a half, thinks that I’m a real space cadet for doing something so weird - he pauses and smirks when I do it because he knows, even at his young age, that the action makes no sense, but it sounds so empty if no one does it.  Its like picking up a penny when you see one, or walking out of the way instead of going under a ladder.  Its a tradition that taken on superstition status.   

The reason I’m writing about something so random is that I keep reading about family traditions, however zany, and how important they are to establish with your kids. Whether its making pancakes together every Sunday morning or Friday night movie night - something routine and predictable and comforting - and something special that kids can look forward to doing with their family. I can hear burly Tevye singing now.   There is nothing more lame in my opinion, then forcing a tradition upon unwilling participants.  Like nerd mom declaring to her reluctant kids, “Scrabble time! Get out your thinking caps!”.  I’m not going to do this - well - I’ll try not to.  I’d love for something fun to happen organically, that we can repeat all together, at will.  Over the summer, I’d say our local bike rides together that would invariably end up at our favorite park with our pail and shovel were a pretty good tradition.  And now, when I’m with Charlie all day, we nap together, I take him to the library or play group in the afternoon and we have a treat somewhere (usually a muffin). But I’m looking forward to something unique and highly memorable.  Something that only we have.

Yes, those are marinara stains.

Recently my mom emailed me some scans of paper napkins she’d saved from years gone by.  That sounds like the opening sentence from an episode of Hoarder’s, but I assure you, she’s undiagnosed and just sentimental.  The reason she’d saved these used paper napkins from places like Pizza Hut and Earl’s is that these were the same restaurants that my family frequented and to pass the time while we waited for our order (half canadian/half hawaiian pan pizza), my artist mother would take out her trusty black Staedtler ink pen from her purse (fine-nibbed and permanent! big responsibility for little girls) and we would play “squiggles” a make-something-out-of-this doodle-and-guess-what-it-is game.  We were IN LOVE with squiggles and to this day my sister and I fill the void by playing each other on Draw Something on our iPhones (she from Vancouver and I in Burlington).  This is the kind of tradition I know will never leave my memory and my heart and its weird enough that now, even though I'm usually inclined to, I can’t just ask someone I’m dining with to play with me (most people don’t enjoy the challenge of drawing on a surface that may rip at any moment should the pen be wielded in a careless manner) and besides, we tend to dine at places with cloth napkins now, thank heavens.   I never asked my mom why she never stole one of my dad’s reporter notepads that he had stacked by the dozens in our house to play our game on, but I don’t think the memory would have been the same if she had.

Prepping For A Dinner Party: 2 Year Old Godzilla Edition

The scribblings of a mad woman/ wannabe foodie mom

On the last Saturday before I had to return to work from winter holidays, we decided to invite our whole family over for a “fresh feast”.  We had recently bought a juicer after watching a frightening documentary on weight gain and processed foods (knowledge we already had, but paired with some foggy new year’s resolutions and packaged in a really convincing way, this documentary scared/ inspired us into trying to be healthier - at least for a little while).  The fresh feast was totally vegetarian (except for a small salmon filet for those not willing to go “all the way” with our idea).  The recipes were all from a vegan chef’s website and require a lot of preparation.

My husband was working all day and so I was alone with Charlie.  This is usually a pleasure, but on a day when shopping, cleaning, planning, cooking prep and actual cooking is required for a large group, entertaining a 2 year old can be extremely daunting.  I know, there were plenty of (and still are) women who can manage this day in and day out (an image of a 1950s octopi-supermom with 15 arms in a gingham apron comes to mind).  But I don’t do oversized family calendars and coloured sticky notes.  I’m not that person.  When cooking, I don’t have mise en place and I don’t keep a hot soapy sink ready to plunk in dirty dishes as I cook.  I don’t have a garbage bowl ready for keeping my work space clean.  Well, not normally.  

Having to manage Charlie (or atleast keep him out of trouble) while I prepped was a big task.  I needed a game plan.    I reminded myself to be positive, upbeat and oozing joy the entire time, else Charlie would sense my true stress levels and be B-A-D (we're talking: sneak into the bathroom and squeeze out all mommy's expensive-ish shampoo onto the tile floor or throw tin cans down the wooden stairs = previous behaviours which will go down in the books as maniacal).

Here are some activities that I successfully did which kept him occupied, happy and maybe interested him in one day being the next Tyler Florence.  I only burned the candied nuts on the first attempt! I call that a job well done!

• Get out play food and a variety of stuffed animals and allow charlie to use “grown up” and safe kitchen utensils to make them a “fresh feast” or “brunch” (pronounced “fesh feest” and “bunch”).

• Pull up a chair to the counter and allow your kid to be your sous chef minus the sharp knives, microplanes, food processors, and cheese graters. (Charlie was an excellent radish picker, scrubber and passer).

• Teach him to repeat the following phrases:

• Mmm! This is delicious white bean dip!
• Wowza! Have you been slaving over a hot stove all day to make this risotto? I can tell!
• Is that Tamari in the dressing? It gives it a real whole-mouth feeling!

• Cave and let him sit at my feet while I chopped playing ABC Food and Toca Kitchen on my iPhone.

• Let him wear oven mitts, apron and any other kitchen apparel while pretending to do pantry inventory.

• Let him pour dry pasta into a variety of bowls (that you’ll mark - DON’T EAT - EVER! in a ziplock bag afterwards for re-use) and use the swiffer and dustpan after to clean up.  Stepping on dry pasta is a little like DIY reflexology.

One and Done

spoiled? lonely? the only way for an only child?

My son just turned 2 and already the questions about when I’m going to have another have already started.  They are harmless questions, their askers mean well and some (basically strangers) are just making conversation (in line at the store mostly).  For me, I don’t know how to field this question.  I don’t have a short and sweet answer that’s canned and ready to deliver when the moment arises.  If I’m asked, first I issue a rather awkward pause, and then I start in on this long winded, philosophical answer about the meaning of life and the mother and child bonding process and who I am as a meaningful member of society.  I think that this response is effective in that it tends to throw people off the scent of the answer they were looking for (and maybe even forget their question entirely).  

Do people not realize what a loaded questions this is? I mean, what if my husband and I were trying (unsuccessfully?) what if I had a hard pregnancy (oh wait, I did!) and postpartum (oh wait, I had that too).  What if I find it hard to rally the patience for just one let alone two children?   Nobody thinks about these things - they just ask.  They raise one eyebrow, suggestively, and say “Time for baby number 2?” Like a waitress desperate for a big tip, encouraging me to order another Amaretto Sour.  

I know that people have this stereotype about only child syndrome or that I should try it again because now that I know what to expect (even though every conception / pregnancy / birth and postpartum story is different) I might be able to handle it all better and, this time, enjoy myself.  I do consider these things when deciding for myself.  My husband and I discuss these things too. And money and lifestyle and careers and family.  Funny how we never discussed these things in detail before they happened.

Family members hint all the time about going out for a night on the town with my husband so that we can produce another heir to the throne.  Or a princess sister for our little prince.  “His eyelashes are so long, Michelle, think about if you had a girl!”  I do get baby flutters now and then when I hold my baby niece or see cute (not crying, screaming babies) at play group.  But they are momentary flutters that go away rather quickly.  It so hard.  I never thought that I would feel this way.  My absolute favourite game growing up was playing with my dolls or playing “house” and I was always, always the mommy with my babies.  I love kids, I’m a teacher for goodness sakes.  But motherhood is different.  A friend of mine has a young son - a bit older than Charlie - and she is expecting twins.  What if that happens to me? I don’t mean to make it sound like getting hit by a car.  I shouldn’t refer to it as “happening to me” like its a tragedy.  I know others who’ve have had baby number 2 turn out to be baby number 2 and 3 and while some look at it as a blessing (and it is one, of course) it doesn’t always present itself clearly as a blessing until they are in school full time and you can enjoy them in small doses.  

Am I a terrible person for admitting all this?  I don’t know.  One and done is looking like it might be our family story, not by necessity, but by choice.  I wonder if I should make a decision tree and concept map my way to a decision?  Am I over-analyzing it?  I’m so on the fence its not even funny.  I guess its a pretty privileged place to perch.

Glimpses of Stellar Parenting

attempting to exercise patience at meal time

I just finished rereading Mommie Dearest.  My step-grandma gave it to me because it was the one book I always took off of her shelf and leafed through as a young girl.  (That and an illustrated tour of Graceland by Priscilla Presley).  I never wanted to be anything like Joan Crawford as a mother.  Obviously not.  She was portrayed by her daughter as demanding, critical, evil, even insane.  Sometimes I say things and I hear a bit of Joan in my voice.  Oh dear.  What do I expect? He’s only 2! He’s discovering and learning, he doesn’t know!  I always wanted to be a blend of Marilla and Matthew as a parent (Anne of Green Gables reference) - a mix of mushy-sentimental and strong/ no-nonsense.  I started thinking about my own mom - pretty darn patient woman considering.  She had her moments, her special saying for those trying moments where we didn’t want to do as she’d asked: life’s tough and then you die. When she said that, we knew she meant it and we generally smartened up and acquiesced.  Life is hard.  I don’t have it bad now, don’t get me wrong.  My whole family is healthy and relatively happy (knock on wood).  Things could always be better, but then again, they could always be worse (like "We Need to Talk About Kevin" worse).  Much, much worse.  Being a movie lover I started to think through all the movies I’d seen where the parents exhibited some pretty stellar patience.  Some unconditional love.  They were open-minded, they let bad (not life-threatening) but tough things happen to their kids so that they’d learn their own lessons, they weren’t over protective.  They were relatively liberal. My own wishes for myself as a parent are to be these things: to not try to fit Charlie into a box, to let him be himself (to a point) and to socialize him in ways that aren’t over-the-top strict, but that will allow him to be liked by others (and maybe even a teacher’s go-to helper).  

Movies Where The Parents Rock (Despite being sometimes overbearing, pig-headed, short-sighted, poor communicators and selfish)

Baby Boom (Diane Keaton)
Father of the Bride (Steve Martin and Diane Keaton)
Steel Magnolias (Sally Field and Tom Skerritt)
The Family Stone (Craig T Nelson and a very hard to love Diane Keaton)
Rachel Getting Married (Bill Irwin)
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock)
The Blindside (Sandra Bullock and Tim McGraw)
I Am Sam (Sean Penn)
Twilight (Billy Burke and Sarah Clarke in a cheesy loveable way)
Little Miss Sunshine (Greg Kinnear and Toni Collette)
Pieces of April (Oliver Platt and Patricia Clarkson)
Spanglish (Adam Sandler and Tea Leoni)
The Pursuit of Happyness (Will Smith)
My Girl (Dan Aykroyd)
Pretty in Pink (Harry Dean Stanton)
Juno (J.K. Simmons)

Cake Fear

When my son was about to turn one I got pretty obsessed with party planning.  I wanted his fete to be just that, something people referred to other than “birthday” because it was so darn smashing.  Something that would go down in the annals of family history.  A party not to be forgotten.  To prepare, I bought overpriced paper streamers and balloons in a variety of shades of blue and created a nice menu of classy nibblies for the adults with accompanying kid versions of many dishes.  I even bought palatable wine.  But the cherry on top was that I actually designed my very own, very unique birthday cake.  The vision was to make the cake entirely out of cupcakes, which, when placed side by side, would comprise a life-like fire engine.  The vision was awe-inspiring.  This would be an award winning cake.  Guests would fawn over it.  “Its too amazing to eat!” they would say.  I might even get a feature in the local paper, real calendar-worthy firemen would come to my house to try the cupcakes...(okay fine, but daydreaming is allowed to be far-fetched!)   I guess I’ve been indoctrinated by Ace of Cakes and Cake Boss.  All the boutique cupcakeries opening up in the neighbourhood haven’t helped either.  They needed to be epic.

That morning, as my fresh cupcakes cooled (mistake #1 = runny icing), I began to create bright red icing.  Fire-engine red.   A culinary endeavour not for amateurs - my kitchen looked like Dexter and his dark passenger had been by for a visit.  I don’t like fondant and so I decided to take white icing (homemade) and 2 bottles of red food colouring and hope for the best.  After 1 whole bottle of Red dye was mixing with the icing I began to sweat.  As I added more drops, I saw the icing transform like a colour wheel.  Ballet slipper, Pepto Bismol, cream soda and then, what would be the final shade.  Not the desired shade either. My fire truck was fuchsia.  I was mortified and time was ticking.  Guests would be arriving shortly.  Who the heck knew that it would require more than 2 full bottles of red food colouring to make white icing red?  I tasted the icing and my tongue instantly went numb.  More food colouring? Probably not safe.  What to do?  I opted to change my fire truck to something pinker, and was left with no other choice than to create a giant pig from the cupcakes.  A stuck pig at that.  My memorable first birthday party was beginning to look like a John Waters film.  As guests arrived and caught sight of the garish focal point of the table, they giggled.  I had to explain the entire ordeal to all of them, and it became a funny, memorable party, not due to its “Martha Stewart” perfection, but because of its homemade, quirky pizazz.  This year I will get a Dairy Queen ice cream cake.  Stress-free and delicious.

deranged pigs make a party more memorable

Through The Fog

don't let it creep in on you and try to manage it on your own

Its foggy outside today.  Where I live, its never foggy very often and so its odd and notable to see the mist hanging there in mid air. There have been a few times already today where I’ve glanced outside while passing by a window and actually stopped for a moment to keep looking.  No real tangible thoughts occurred to me when I stood there, but I stood for a pause nevertheless. 

Charlie had a really long sleep today and instead of the regular chores or movie watching, I decided I’d reflect on being a mom.  Maybe I’m dried up on unique topics for my “mom blog”.  I don’t know.  But ever since watching the tear-jerking film, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, based on the novel of the same name by Jonathan Safran Foer, I’ve been ruminating on that vital parent-child bond.   Today I thought a lot about the events or things about becoming a mother that have left me changed and the things that have bonded me to my son.  I tried hard to define motherhood (and parenthood and dependency and responsibility).  To express the epic change that occurs when you bring someone into the world.  I thought of many images and metaphors, but what I realized beyond anything poetic, artistic or with a writer’s sensibility is that I experienced for the first time in my life, real mccoy depression.  Post-partum depression, baby blues, whatever you’d like to call it.  I think the majority of it is over now, I’m “through the fog”, but sometimes, on days like this, due to pathetic fallacy I guess, little whispers of it creep back.

For those of you who have depression on a good day versus a sleep-deprived, hormonal rampage one, well, I guess this post is pretty empty for you (or maybe not).  I’m not looking for sympathy and I certainly don’t feel sorry for myself.  I’m writing as an open confession (though confession seems like the wrong word for talking about depression - it assumes there is some shame there - which there isn’t) maybe an open letter is a better way to express it.  

Before I was married and had Charlie, when I was in high school, I babysat a lot.  This one family had three kids and seemed pretty perfect from the outside.  I used to watch crap tv when the kids went to sleep, but one time I noticed on the book shelf Down Came The Rain by Brooke Shields.  “Maybe their mom isn’t so perfect.” I judged.  I read the entire book over the next 3 babysitting jobs.  I was far away from having a baby and yet I, for some reason, was interested in it.  After I had Charlie I was in a fog.  A thick one.  I couldn’t even see what, for those close to me, was as plain as day: I was majorly depressed.  It took me about 6-7 months of suffering before I went to my family doctor who referred me to a mental health specialist.  I was afraid to go.  I thought, this isn’t depression, I’m just tired.  I’m just bitchy and sore and frustrated.  But, when I went, she administered the Edinburgh Post-Natal Depression Scale/Test and told me that, yup, I needed some help.  I didn’t feel like I loved Charlie.  I wanted to.  I knew that I should, but I was too overwhelmed and sad to feel that emotion.  To love anything frankly, even things I used to love.  Before.  

But now I feel pretty darn great.  I didn’t need medication (though I would have taken it if the doctor recommended it), but I started blogging and journaling and telling people about it.  I connected to other moms and felt better.  I wasn’t alone.  I also started to notice how Charlie was becoming more independent.  I stopped nursing.  He slept through the night.  He started to engage and be more responsive.  He started developing more of a personality.  I started to feel myself enjoying him and loving him and feel more natural as a mom.  I’m more lighthearted and don’t feel so anxious about things.  I don’t always worry or blame myself if things don’t go exactly as planned.  I don’t cry at the drop of a hat.  I sleep better and if the chores are piling up, I usually just do them one at a time instead of thinking of them as this giant, unachievable mountain of a to-do list.

Now, when I hear Charlie wake up from his nap, I don’t feel heavy or panicky that he’s awake.  I feel excited to play with him and see the world through fresh eyes.

http://www.helpformom.ca

http://www.lifewithnewbaby.ca 

Welcome!

life is sweeter when you see it through fresh eyes

there are few things in this life that make you stop and really smile (at least, there are if you’re like me, a despite-my-best-intentions glass-is-half-empty sort of gal).  i’m talking about the kind of smile that comes over you, where your whole body takes part in a complete feeling of joy.  not just a “heh, cute!” moment, like what happens when you see a kitten or a small kid trying to learn how to ride a bike, but one where your heart beats softer (even melts a little) and your mouth pulls at your whole face.  You grin so big and so hard that the skin behind your ears moves and stretches and that fleeting “oh I should probably stop smiling like a goon because I’m going to get wrinkles” thought never even enters your mind.  I’m talking about that peaceful, lovely, tingly, whole-body kind of joy (and no, this is not a blog inspired by fifty shades of grey, I’m not talking about orgasmic ecstasy).  feeling the joy has been rare for me lately as I’ve been completing (another) university degree, this time to become a teacher. I worked my butt off and now there are no jobs, yadda yadda sob story.  Enough of that.  What kept me afloat this whole time was the fact that I had a family to (try really hard to) prioritize and come home to each night.  I want to chronicle the joyous moments here because death is long and what comes before it is relatively minute.

I should stop and mention that I’ve got my act together enough to be writing this while my son is napping, a load of laundry is on and one is drying and I’m letting homemade banana bread cool on a wire rack in my adjacent kitchen.  I’ve got this whole Martha Stewart thing going on today and the birds are chirping and I swiffered (I made it a verb!) and my friend visited me from the metropolis to the ‘burbs and brought me a vase of perfect ruby and yellow tulips, so due to all these wonderful sensory things all aligning I guess I can attempt to channel a less sexy version of Carrie Bradshaw and start this mom blog that all of my girlfriends have been urging me to do.

Back to joy.  I was, and am, able to get my joy where I can, in small doses during those nice moments that happen when I’m with my son, when I drop him off at Grandma’s house in the morning on the way to school and when I pick him up at the day’s end, when I spend those last 3 or 4 hours with him before he goes “nigh-night”.   It can be little things like having him suddenly hug or cuddle me for no apparent reason.  Or his clinginess to me - why is he shadowing me and why can I not close the door for 2 seconds to go pee without an operatic wailing ensuing?  There are some truly magical moments that pole-vault way beyond “moments fit for baby book entries” that make life, well, just sweeter.  Like witnessing my son reveal a skill that had been latent or lurking somewhere inside; one that I had not a clue he possessed.  Watching a skill debut like mimicking my exact intonation and expression when I say ‘uh-oh’ or his rather impressive ability to blow bubbles in his milk. I nearly fell over from shock when I saw him screw and unscrew the lid on a jar. I guess “my son” is a tad informal and cold.  the kid I’m referring to is my 18 month old son Charlie.  He’s pretty marvellous.  As I hope I can reveal in future entries.

You might be wondering, "what's with the title of her blog?" Well, last May we moved into our first house and the thing that has made the most difference to me is our garbage disposal in our kitchen sink.  Especially having a baby, being able to throw nearly anything down there lickety-split and have it out of my life is AMAZING.  Plus I use it as a metaphor, if you don't like it or don't need it, get rid of it!  I've been working really hard at trying to live with less, need less and trying to be happy with less.  I've also been trying to unload emotional baggage and get focused on the new me, a mom.  This, coupled with an addiction to Hoarders, has made me really embrace my garburator.  Its my motto, "out with the old, in with the new".