God bless the makers of stretchy pants.

Facebook; what a strange thing when you think about it, or not even when you think about it. I’m sure everyone would agree this “social networking” revolution has put a weird twist on the perceived image of people and their families. Before you would just assume that that acquaintance was as seemingly perfect at home as they are at work, or what have you. Now you get inundated with tidbits in the “news feed” which are all encompassing in terms of capturing their overall awesomeness. I find myself thinking “really? Now you’re baking how many cupcakes, from scratch, just for the hell of it?” Facebook is basically a new way for these super-moms to make you feel bad about yourself without actually spending any time with them. These Moms and their ‘mobile updates’ have always made me laugh. “Hey world! Look at me!! I’m at the grocery store picking up the ingredients for homemade butter tarts!” Really? Homemade butter tarts? Why would you ever do something like that when Zehrs makes a whole tray for like five bucks? Ah well, I guess that’s just another reason why I will never be able to write “supermom” on my resume. I can barely keep up with the odd facebook message I receive. Usually I skim through and make a mental note to reply only to remember months after the fact that I need to facebook so-and-so about that planned get together that came and went. I digress.  That made me sound far more “facebook popular” than I actually am. In spite of this, you would expect I could handle something as simple as writing one or two people back in a timely fashion. Oh well, coulda-woulda-shoulda, I guess.  It’s a miracle I can even dress myself in the morning....who am I kidding, in the afternoon. Oh, you caught me; I don't get dressed. Unless lulu lemon pants and a tank top, spotted with baby-vomit (that I wore to bed), count as getting dressed. In that case, I get dressed every day. Oh lulu; so expensive, so silly, so amazing. Last year around this time I declared, rather obnoxiously, to a co-worker that I am absolutely NOT the kind of person who would ever justify buying $100 stretchy pants. Now I stand before you, four pairs richer, all because last summer I squeezed my pregnant “A” (oh, I abbreviate swear words now thanks to Isla) into a pair and instantly decided that my “A” has never looked better. Even more surprising was that while staring at myself in the properly lit lulu change room (God bless them), I was the only one who could hear the radio-edit of Baby Got Back. Even my imagination is edited, apparently. Speaking of lulu lemon, I refuse to believe I'm the only one who is utterly amused by that store. The motivational sayings scattered all over the walls and on the bags about “dancing, flossing, doing something that scares you every day…etc” are all too much. They’re lucky they have pants that make my “A” look like a Christmas ham; otherwise I would only go in there to make fun of it. I hope it’s OK that I don’t dance and floss in those pants, let alone do yoga. I wonder if I’m violating some sort of unspoken sales agreement. Anyway turns out, yes, I AM someone that would happily spend $100 on stretchy pants. Who knew?

Please stop this madness

I’m new at this blogging thing so if that first entry didn’t suffice as a good enough introduction to my life, my sincerest apologies. On that note, as promised, I would like to just dive into my first rant of the day. Ah, there’s nothing like a cup of Costco coffee and a good rant. So, on that note, what is with people inserting their dirty finger into the mouth of a crying baby? Is this a generational thing? Was this taught in “home ec.” circa 1985ish? I can’t for the life of me figure it out. Maybe it’s because the paramedic part of me is a total germ-a-phobe and I can’t imagine anything more disgusting than a finger that’s been God-knows-where. I’m sorry if while reading this you’re remembering a time that you’ve had a finger and/or knuckle in the mouth of a child you did not give birth to. I’m not trying to offend you or make you feel bad about yourself. Honest. I get that it’s probably an automatic reflex and was probably passed down from some matriarch in your life, and I’m sure nothing ever came of it in the long run. However, this practice, on the grand scale of ‘things you should not do to someone else’s baby’, is right up there with smoking a cigarette in my child’s face. Like really. Think about what you’ve touched today and the last time you washed your hands. Also, think about how long you spent washing your hands when you did. I’m sure, positive actually, that you didn’t sing “Happy Birthday” twice in your head to ensure the antibacterial soap has had a chance to do its thing. To put things into perspective; how would you like it if I put my finger in your mouth?

I'm not a Paramedic, I just play one in real life

A good friend suggested I start blogging. I suspect it’s because I seem to be on a run-on rant which probably has lasted, let’s say, five years. I’m not a negative person by any means. I think I’ve just found myself at odds with the rest of the world, especially as of late. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the vast majority of my socializing is with a toddler; a genius, but a toddler no less. So I thought to myself that maybe this will be good; a healthy way to express my many qualms about society and people in general. Not only that but also it could be a great way to convey the joys of my day. As mother of two and wife of a shift worker, I actually experience some hilarity that may be worth sharing. Or maybe it’s perceived hilarity and it’s actually the by-product of being cooped up all day long because I’m too much of a suck to go outside in the winter. My husband Mike, whom I casually referred to as a “shift worker” is a Paramedic. I used to be one too, but since the commencement of my maternity leave I’m feeling more like a dairy cow/chambermaid/professional laundry sorter. I guess you could say that I’m not a paramedic, I just play one in real life. Don’t get me wrong, I love everything about being a mother. Isla’s sweet little voice calling me from her room in the morning, telling me that yes, she would like a combination of cheerios and rice krispies in the green and white bowl, with enough milk left over to spill all over her bare legs because, incidentally, I forgot to put pants on her again. Every morning, in spite of the very specific requests regarding her cereal, I still manage to screw up the ratio and, like clockwork, we engage in the first battle of the day. Cue time-out, followed closely by a scream so shrill I’m sure it’s the reason my van window cracked last week (seriously, how can something so small be SO painfully LOUD?!), followed by a brief exchange of somewhat insincere apologies (after said time-out), and then finally the eating of the now soggy cereal. Wow. Don’t get me wrong though – carpe diem. Bad, good; love it all. Then there’s Sam, oh Sam, with his perfect little face with the perfect little dimple in his right cheek, looking up at me expectantly, wondering why I’m walking around with a boob out but not yet feeding him. I say wondering and there’s probably an implication of patience, but this child, like his father, does not like to wait when it comes to mealtime. So I try to breastfeed whilst doing all of the other things on my morning to-do list. It’s quite the sight. It’s like I’m a primate. I’m just waiting for the day that I walk outside to take out the recycling or something only to realize, much too late, that during the conversation with the neighbours I’ve had one or both boobs exposed. It’s going to happen one day, there’s just no way around it. So if any of my neighbours are reading this, I’ll just go ahead and apologize for flashing you in advance. You have to understand, things can sometimes be a bit chaotic with a two year old and a three month old. Having a boob out is the least of my concerns at this point.