With today being the kids’ first day back at school and all, I had big plans to get some stuff done around the house. On my list, in addition to tidying, dishes and vacuuming, was to organize the pantry. I figured that after getting the kids settled at school, I’d have some nervous energy to unleash on cleaning the house. What I didn’t anticipate was that my nervous energy would only be released by sending text after neurotic text to my girlfriend, anxiously pacing the house while doing nothing in particular, and attempting to phone or email everyone I know.

I got home approximately 4.5 hours ago and so far all I’ve managed to accomplish is the dishes. Oh, and a bit of tidying downstairs. Frankly, I’m not sure what happened to the other 4 hours. They just disappeared on me somehow.

Before heading off to school this morning, I took some pictures of the kids on the front porch.

Logan was ready and raring to go. He’s got no fear at all. He couldn’t wait to make new friends and meet his teacher.

Lily, on the other hand, was feeling a bit more apprehensive. She was worried that her teacher would be mean. I reassured her that everything would be fine and she’d have a great time at school. She seemed to accept my word for it and was happy enough on the walk to school.

When we got there, I was faced with the task of separating the kids into their seperate grade levels. The grade one kids were all sent to the library and the grade three kids were meeting in the small gym. When I walked into the library with Lily, I immediately noticed a group of parents and kids from her kindergarten class last year. I left Lily with one of the other moms while I took Logan to the gym, promising her that I’d be right back.

Right off the bat, Logan discovered that he was in the same class as his best friend, so when they left with their classmates to go to their new classroom, they were happy as clams.

I headed back to the library and chatted with the other moms (and a couple of dads) while we waited for the grade one teachers to sort out how they were going to organize the kids. Lily was feeling shy and nervous and wouldn’t even talk to the other kids she knew. She clung to me like a little monkey so I concentrated on trying to help her feel better while we waited.

Finally, the teachers were ready to read off their class lists. They informed us that, as of the day before, there were now going to be four grade one classes instead of three. When Lily’s teacher read off her list, I was disappointed to hear that Lily didn’t know a soul in her class. I was shocked as quite a few of the children from her kindergarten class had moved to the new school as well. As it turns out, the kids from the old school had all been separated, with each of the four girls going into a different classroom and the boys being separated as well. I’m sure it happened randomly but I was still upset that Lily would have to start out her school year without any “old” friends around.

When Lily and I got to her classroom, I noticed another little girl sitting at a group of desks alone and suggested that Lily sit next to her, hoping that they’d bond simply because of the fact that neither of them knew anyone else. Another upside to the extra class was that Lily’s class appeared to be quite small, with only about 15 kids in it. Plus, I instantly clicked with the aide that had been assigned to her classroom.

Once Lily was settled at the carpet so the teacher could take attendance and read a story, I was able to leave with no tears (Lily didn’t cry, either!) and head back home.

Normally, the kids and I make the walk from home to school in about ten minutes. On the way home today, I did it in five. Maybe I can translate this whole nervous energy thing into some massive, kickass weightloss! Actually, never mind. By next week, school will be old hat and I probably won’t move that quickly any more.

I’m off to pick them up again in about half an hour. I can’t wait to hear how their days went and I’m hoping and praying that Lily clicked with at least one other person in her class.

Whew. One day down. Only about a bazillion more to go.

______

In an unrelated note, I think my poor, unfortunate firstborn child has a future involving orthodontics of some type, don’t you?

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring by WWS (Lynn) - 4 Comments →

* I know, I know. It’s not actually a word. But, it totally should be.

Behold! Here is some of the random crap that has happened in my life recently:

If I ever had any doubts about being “done” after two children, the past two hours of my life spent sharpening as well as labelling 36 pencils and labelling 48 crayons, 48 colored pencils, 24 markers, 20 duotangs, 8 erasers, countless glue sticks, a couple of binders, scissors, pencil sharpeners, tissue boxes and shoes has cured me of it. If an “accident” were to happen, said accident is allowed no more than two letters in his or her name.

______________

Whenever I vacuum (which is frequently), my five year old daughter scrambles away in a panic. She is intelligent enough to understand that it is impossible for a human girl to fit inside a vacuum (though a hamster slides quite nicely down the hose, but that’s a story for another time), but she doesn’t want to take the risk, just in case.

______________

My husband is morphing rapidly into one of those eccentric, crabby old men. In addition to the striped Dad shirt that he insists upon wearing, he has recently embarked upon a crusade to beautify the neighborhood by walking up and down the boulevards with the lawn mower, merrily mowing away because “if none of these young whipper snappers care about how their neighborhood looks, somebody’s got to.”

______________

I recently bought an iPhone and holy crap, why did nobody tell me about these things earlier? I’ve had it since Friday and there’s a good four hours worth of my life that I’m never getting back. Who knew I could spend so much time helping a family cross a river on a raft? Don’t even get me started on the virtual checkers. I may never get any more housekeeping done ever again.

______________

A couple of weekends ago, I had a girls’ night out with some friends. We sat in the bar section of my favourite restaurant and I made lots of really inappropriate moaning noises as I ate what may possibly be the best butter chicken in the world. (Sorry, India. I really doubt you can top Albertan butter chicken and naan. I’d like to see you try, though. And send me some.)

Out of the six of us, three are married, two might as well be married and one has unloaded a total jerk of a husband and is now living a much happier life without him. Considering that she is currently unattached, she was quick to notice a table full of hot, muscular men close by. At one point, someone decided that we should try to sneak pictures of the hottest, most muscular one. We started out by setting the camera on the table, flash off, and trying to surreptitiously get a good shot of him. Failing that, I (emboldened as I was by my two bellinis and long-lasting marriage), grabbed the camera and tried to take pictures of him without actually looking as though I was taking pictures of him.

I started by taking a picture of the table:

Mmm. Bellinis.

Then I moved on to looking like I was fascinated by the lit-from-beneath liquor bottles at the bar:

(Seriously, that woman was side-eyeing us like mad the whole time. Pshh. We weren’t giggling maniacally and taking pictures of you, non-hot, non-muscular lady. Sheesh. You just can’t take some people anywhere without them causing some kind of scene.)

Finally, I took a picture of the hot guy in question:

We took the fact that he was staring right at us and smirking as a good sign.

My girlfriend, armed with the liquid courage provided by her second pitcher of Bellinis, asked the waitress to send him a drink, courtesy of her. Following that, a conversation was struck and before I knew it, I was standing in the middle of a bar, surrounded by cops and taking pictures of a bunch of poor schmucks who had no idea that the song they were flailing their arms in the air to was “It’s Raining Men.”

(True story.)

In the end, my friend decided that the hot, muscular guy was actually kind of a dud in the personality department (isn’t that always the way?) and we left not long after determining that the bar we were in must certainly be a gay bar. I’m just glad that the hot, muscular police officers I was taking pictures of didn’t decide to arrest me for invading their privacy that way. I guess a little crazy-stalkerish flattery goes a long way for some people.
_______________

So, what random crap has been going on in your life lately? Do tell!

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 1 Comment →

My Gramma D. passed away in May of 1995. That’s fifteen years ago. Almost half my life. And yet, today when I was considering purchasing something off eBay from Great Britain, I thought to myself, “Gramma is from England, I’m sure she buys stuff from there all the time. I’ll phone her and ask how long it’ll take for my item to arrive.”

Funny how the mind works. Gone but not forgotten, indeed. Never forgotten.

And now, I’m sad. I think I’ll go find some pictures of my Gramma to look at for awhile.

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me by WWS (Lynn) - 3 Comments →

On Friday morning, I had planned to go to a BlogHer first-timers meet and greet between 7-8am. Following that was the newbie breakfast from 8-9am. When I squinted blearily at the clock, the numbers 8:47 glared angrily back at me. Oops. (To say that I’m not a morning person is putting it mildly.)

I showered, dressed and made my way downstairs to see if there was any breakfast left to be had (there wasn’t). Thankfully, I was able to score a coffee and I retreated back to my room to regroup for the day. I opened my Twitter (since my fracking phone service abandoned me at the border) and found a message from my roommate Momo letting me know where she was. Armed with an ally, I dragged my introvert self back down to the session room (late) and pulled up a section of carpet.

In a matter of moments, it was time for lunch and, attaching myself like glue to my gracious roomie, I filled my plate and sat down in the ballroom to eat.

After lunch, Momo and I made our way to the nearest Staples so that I could pick up my replacement business cards. We figured we’d be there and back in no time because we had a native New Yorker tell us, “Oh, it’s only three blocks away! No problem!” What she forgot to mention was that when a New Yorker says something is “only three blocks away!” what that New Yorker really means is, “three blocks to me, a million, zillion blocks to you! Muahahaha!” Sixth avenue became Fifth avenue and we figured we were almost there until Fifth avenue became Madison, which became Park which became Lexington which then FINALLY became Third. Then we had to navigate about fifty kajillion STREETS until we arrived at Staples.

(I guess New Yorkers don’t count all the “word” streets as actual blocks.)

(Hi Patty!)

Looking back, I think forgetting my business cards at home was actually a blessing in disguise because I don’t know if I would have had much of a chance to hit the streets of New York otherwise.

(Wow, New York has a lot of pigeons!)

(I’m pretty sure the closest I’ve ever come to seeing a pigeon before now is watching Bert from Sesame Street do his fancy little jig.)

(We have Seagulls here. It’s no better, trust me.)

Following an afternoon session, it was time for the Voices of the Year Community Keynote, Art Auction and Gala. For me, it was definitely a must-attend evening. I sat in the front row as I listened to speaker after speaker present her (or his, in one case!) chosen post from the stage. There was everything from same-sex marriage to breast cancer survival to talk of vaginas and even a New Moon rap. I laughed. I cried. I laughed until I cried. Most of all, I was deeply moved. It was an amazingly empowering feeling to know that these women (and man!) were bloggers, just like me. Their voices were heard and recognized. Those posts (and later, readings) forever impacted the lives of those who were lucky enough to witness them.

A post by Momo was chosen as a finalist and her words inspired a wonderful piece of art:

Art inspiring art. It makes me happy!

As I was walking through the art exhibit, Momo exclaimed, “Oh, there’s Karen! Let’s get in line!”

Karen is a blogger, a photographer (currently working on a project entitled 1000 Faces), an artist and a seeker of beauty. Actually, scratch that. Karen is a finder of beauty. In everything and everyone she sees, Karen finds beauty. I think she’s so successful at it because she embodies it so completely. I’ve never met anyone quite like her before. Karen is all long, lithe limbs, grace and composure. She’s kindness and no-nonsense mixed with a healthy dose of sass. She’s beautiful, inside and out.

On Friday night, Karen was spreading her message of empowerment by creating word art on the arms, legs, collarbones and backs of women. I watched women walk away, smiling, with words like empowered, strong, love and heart scrolled beautifully on their skin and wondered dubiously what Karen would choose to paint on my skin. As I got closer to the front of the line, I realized with horror that Karen wasn’t the one choosing the words to paint on these women. She was asking them to choose. I looked at Momo in shock, completely at a loss as to what on earth I’d ask Karen to paint, and did what I do best: make jokes.

“Maybe I’ll get her to write, ‘good enough’ on my arm,” I laughed. Momo laughed, shook her head and essentially told me that I was acting like a twit. Easy for her to say! She already had the perfect sentiment – a heart in honour of her amazing, heart-stealing son. I didn’t have anything specific in mind and I’m most definitely not used to shining a spotlight on myself.

When it was my turn to have Karen paint on me, Momo brought Karen up to speed on my little joke. “Can you believe she actually said that?” Momo cried with an impish smile in my direction. I was speechless at the fact that Momo, my dear, sweet roommate and twin sister MOMO had thrown me under the bus that way and I could only look at Karen with a shrug and a guilty smile.

There were no smiles in return from Karen. She shot me a side-eye and exclaimed, “Are you crazy? There is no way I’m writing that on your body. And just for suggesting it, you’ve lost the right to choose your words.”

With one last side-eye for good measure, Karen picked up her brush and began to paint.

When she was finished, I looked at my arm and couldn’t believe my eyes.

Uncommonly beautiful? Me? Never once ever in my life have I ever though about myself that way. Ever. I was equal parts mortified and giddily happy. “Thank you so much,” I whispered as I walked away.

“I don’t ever want to hear those other words come out of your mouth again!” Karen shot back.

A few minutes later, in an unusual burst of braveness, I blurted to Momo, “Do you think she’ll take my picture? I think I’m going to ask her!”

Karen didn’t even blink before replying, “Of course I will! Meet me in the lobby tomorrow morning!”

(The results of that little lesson in self-worth will be showcased in Part 3 for anyone interested in seeing what a photoshoot with me as the subject ends up looking like.)

As uncool as it may sound, I was so happy after meeting Karen (which never would have happened the way it did if it weren’t for Momo stepping up and forcing me to acknowledge that I have self-worth too, just the same as anyone else) that I felt like I was floating on a cloud for the rest of the night.

Momo and I met up with another of our roommates, an exhuberant, full-of-life girl by the name of geekbabe and a few other friends to head to a bar somewhere in Manhattan where the beer cost $10 a pop. We talked, laughed, joked, drank ridiculously expensive alcohol, made quiet fun at the skanky outfits on some of the girls walking around, bonded with other drunk girls in the horrifyingly bad smelling bathroom and just about got run over by about fifty seperate cars in our attempt to hail a cab back to the hotel. Then, at approximately two in the morning, I stood in line with two people I met for the first time just hours before, to buy meat from a cart on the street which we then successfully snuck into the hotel bar to eat with the rest of our crew.

I believe it was called Halal and it was a mixture of ground chicken and lamb, along with rice, cheese, lettuce, a yogurt dipping sauce and a hot sauce so hot that after one taste off the tip of my finger, I was convinced that my face was melting off. Maybe it was the fact that I was high on life, or a little tipsy, or just ridiculously tired, but it was the best meat-from-a-cart-in-the-street that I’ve ever tasted. And I’m not just saying that because it’s the only meat-from-a-cart-in-the-street that I’ve ever tasted.

When we had finished our late-night-snack, my roommates and friends seemed like they were ready to party all night and I decidedly wasn’t, so I excused myself and headed off to bed.

Despite the fact that I don’t even remember falling asleep, I managed to get up in time to meet Karen for my impromptu photo-shoot the following morning. (Because the early morning after a late night of drinking and debauchery is always the best time to have your portrait taken, am I right?)

Part Three (the final chapter) of my BlogHer ’10 experience is coming up next!

Filed under: Confessions, Happy Happy, Keepin' it Real, Me by WWS (Lynn) - 6 Comments →

My whole life, I’ve struggled with self-esteem and body issues. My inner critic has always been very vocal and I’ve spent years beating myself up over what I perceive to be my numerous shortcomings. I’m too tall. My shoulders are too broad. I’m too fat. My profile is horrendous. My nose is terrible. Heck, my whole face is horrible. I hunch over like I should be ringing the bell at the Notre Dame Cathedral. Et cetera ad nauseum.

I’m not sure when this negative self-talk began, but I’ve been self-conscious and self-critical since at least the age of eight or nine. What started as a single errant thought, “hey, I’m taller than almost everyone, I guess that’s why I’m always stuck in the back row!” turned into, “I’m too tall. I’m not pretty enough. I’m not thin enough. I’m not good enough. I’m the most horrifying creature on the planet. OMG, stop looking at meeee! I’m so glad that I’m hiding in the back row!”

It’s a vicious cycle, this negativity. I’ve missed out on a lot of joy because of the voice in my head, mocking me. It’s a brutal, exhausting way to live life.

The older I’ve gotten, the more outgoing and friendly I’ve become. I’m making valiant attempts to override the negative thoughts running rampant in my mind and I’m stepping outside of myself more often. I enjoy myself with friends and family and will all but forget the voice in my head until something happens to bring it back to the forefront of my mind. I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, or see an unfortunate photo of myself. The goings-on in my brain are positively appalling when I have to undertake the hateful task of trying on clothes.

Over the past few years, I’ve been dealing with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome and the havoc that it’s been wreaking on my body. I’ve gained weight and feel frumpy and unattractive. People talk about “mom jeans” like they’re a specific brand with a specific frump-cut but the truth is that mom jeans don’t look that way because of a specific design, they just look that way on some people’s bodies. Like mine. I put on my mom jeans and then try to find the longest shirt I can to cover them up. Having these extra pounds on my body has only served to amplify the voice inside my head. It has taken on an “I told you so!” kind of attitude.

Recently, though, I’ve had a bit of an epiphany. It came in the form of a book that I was asked to review, which is based on a website with a beautiful message. As I began to read the book and the stories of the women inside, my chest began to feel full. I felt happy and accepting of myself. I realized that I had been trapped in this emotional negativity for so long that I had stunted myself. Emotionally, in regard to my outward appearance, I was stuck in my adolescence. I realized that I wanted to help spread the message of love and acceptance to other women in the hopes that I could help just one person break free of the same emotions I was feeling. I put a post-it pad and a small purple marker in my purse so I could put random “You’re perfect just the way you are!” messages up in change rooms and bathroom mirrors when I went out. The more I read the book, the better I felt about myself. It’s funny that such a seemingly small, insignificant thing could make such a drastic difference to my outlook, but I’m grateful for it.

I decided to look at some photos of myself from back when I was feeling the most awkward and unattractive. Photos of my profile and my most hated feature: my nose. I tried to look at the photos objectively, as opposed to reacting the way I always have in the past – with embarrassment and disgust. Funnily enough, I looked at those pictures as though I was looking at a different girl and couldn’t find a thing wrong with them.

Frankly, I’m surprised that I didn’t rip this photo up and burn it years ago, because it’s exactly the type of picture that would have had me moaning about all of my many inadequacies, head in hand. The horror!

When this was taken, I was young, thin and in love. Yet, when I saw it, all I saw were bug eyes and a too-pink face (not to mention the nose). Looking at it now, I wonder why I spent so much time and energy beating myself up when I looked perfectly fine…

This is more or less the last time my stomach saw the light of day.

Better cover it up! What if I look FAT?

I found myself being dragged down with my exhausting negative talk even when looking at photos of my wedding! What a time to beat up on one’s self…

Fat! Ugly! Double chin! The nose! Aaah!

Looking back at all of these photos now with my fresh outlook, I don’t see any of the things I was so self-conscious of before. I see big, brown eyes and beautiful cheekbones. I see a kind, caring person. I see someone who should have given herself the benefit of the doubt. If I had it to do over again, armed with the knowledge I have now, I think I would have enjoyed my life a lot more.

I’ve always worked out and tried to eat the right type of foods because I felt that I needed to be thinner to be good enough. And at night, after I had exercised and eaten properly all day, I would sabotage myself by eating chocolate. Not surprisingly, the extra weight stayed on my frame. Over the last little while, I’ve stopped exercising and eating right for all the wrong reasons, and begun doing them because I want to be healthy and treat my body well. In the last week, I’ve dropped 4 pounds because I haven’t felt that weird pull to sabotage my own efforts. I’m thinking of all the positive things that are happening – my back isn’t hurting and I have more energy – and that’s what’s motivating me. I don’t want to know what the number on the scale reads and I don’t have a magical weight that I want to reach. I want to be pain-free and happy. That’s it. It’s much easier for me to get on the treadmill or leave that bag of chocolate chips on the store shelf when I think of it that way. It’s just too bad that it’s taken me 34 years to get to this point!

When I took the time to think about the type of friends I am most drawn to and why, I realized that I don’t become friends with people because they are super-model skinny and gorgeous, with flawless makeup and bodies. I become friends with women because they exude kindness and happiness. I am happy to be around them because of who they are inside, not because of the way they look on the outside. I made the conscious decision that I need to stop putting myself down and start accentuating the positive. I’m not the thinnest or most beautiful woman in the world, but I have family and friends who love and want to be around me anyway. Clearly, I’m the only one obsessed with how many pounds I need to lose or wondering whether or not a nose-job might turn me into the beautiful swan I’ve always wanted to be. Plus, there will always be someone prettier and thinner than me, no matter what I do to change my appearance. I like who I am on the inside and I need to let go of the insecurities of who I am on the outside.

What I need to work on now, today, is accepting myself for who I am. I know that in ten or twenty years when I look back at photos of myself taken in 2010, the imperfections that I feel are so jarringly obvious now won’t look that way any longer. I need to take a step back and see myself as others see me – as a person like any other. How vain must I be if I’m assuming that everyone is looking at me, judging everything about me? They’re not and they never have. I am more than my looks, or my weight, or the width of my shoulders. I am me and obsessing over the things I’d like to change is a waste of my valuable time. Time I could be using to live my life to the fullest. It’s a difficult journey, this self-discovery thing. But, as I’m slowly finding out, it is so worth the trip.

Filed under: Confessions, Happy Happy, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS by WWS (Lynn) - 6 Comments →

One of my favourite things about summer so far? No more schoolyard stalker.

Now that I don’t have to spend time near him anymore, I can write about my experience without fear that he’s going to club me over the head with his cane and leave me for dead somewhere.

(What? Stalkers can have canes! I didn’t say he was particularly agile.)

For some reason, I tend to attract the weirdos. I’m not sure what it is about me (and, frankly, I don’t think I want to know), but freaks love me. As a general rule, I am polite to everyone and I try not to label, but sometimes you’ve just got to call a creep a creep.

Uh, hey, creeper. Thanks for bombing my photo, man.

This guy. This smelly, dirty (yet iPhone/BlueTooth wielding), socially inept guy (who, somehow, ended up with the daughter of a friend living with him, and therefore going to kindergarten at Lily’s school) would not leave me alone for the last several months of school. He followed me around mercilessly, no matter how hard I tried to dodge him. At first, I tried to be nice to him whenever he cornered me, making a little small-talk before bolting. Eventually, though, I couldn’t help but listen to my inner voice, which was telling me to stay far, far away from this man. Literally every cell in my body would start cringing whenever he was near as if I were physically trying to repel him.

Aside from his leering expression and unwavering stare, he also had an extremely potent odour, consisting of many layers of stale cigarette smoke, B.O., fresh cigarette smoke and something just plain oily. I could barely breathe when I was near him and spent the final months of the school year attempting to stay out of his path.

I employed many methods when trying to dodge the creeper. I was usually unsuccessful, but it didn’t stop me from trying. Generally, a morning of dropping Lily at the kindergarten doors went like this:

1. Walk across field with children
2. Say goodbye to Logan and watch him take off for the grade 2 doors
3. Walk toward a group of parents that I recognize
4. Notice creeper staring at me from across the tarmac
5. Silently hyperventilate
6. Deliberately look anywhere but at the creeper, who is now striding with purpose toward me
7. Hyperventilate some more as I attempt to infiltrate group of friendly parents, sliding into a one-person opening
8. Try to act as if I don’t notice the creeper walking around the group of parents to stand behind me and breathe in my hair
9. If creeper talks to me, give polite, to-the-point answers while thinking of reason why I need to leave right that very moment to do something extremely important
10. Kiss Lily goodbye, watch her enter the school and take off like a bat out of hell across the field to my car

On the last day of school, the creeper treated me with a birds-eye view of the vertical rip right down the middle of the right butt-cheek region of his shorts. It seems only appropriate that he’d come up with a show-stopper of a final encounter. I think it pretty much summed up the awkwardness I felt whenever I was near him. *shudder*

In September, my kids are going to the new school opening up in our neighborhood, so my days with the creeper are over. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that he keeps a good distance away from my mom-friends who are remaining there, though. At least until he takes a shower, visits a dentist and has a complete personality overhaul.

Filed under: Confessions, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 5 Comments →

He laughed at her and said “no,” thus saving himself from the divorce papers that would have come flying his way had he said anything but.

True story.

Honestly, just knowing that he still sort-of considers her a friend because he knew her before she became a drug-addicted secret-prostitute/stripper and because she is not currently a drug-addicted secret-prostitute/stripper but merely a reformed drug-addicted secret-prostitute/stripper, and not getting in his face about how completely weird and awkward it is that she is even around at all (even though he only ever sees her occasionally when she’s at her parents lake lot on the same weekend we’re at Lucky’s parents lake lot) has to give me awesome-open-minded-and-laid-back wife brownie points and clearly proves that I am awesome enough to get this dog, even though my husband is really, really opposed to it:

Am I right or am I right?

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 3 Comments →

This is the part where I say that if you are related to me and you’re NOT my mother, you may want to skip this one. It’s entirely your choice, but I’m going to be very clear right now that I hold you responsible for your own therapy bills if you choose not to heed the warning…

Dad, I’m not joking here. Move right along, please. You don’t want to read this. Really.

DaaAAAD!! Go AWAY!!

___________________________

When I was pregnant for the first time, I did what most expectant moms do and purchased a truckload of parenting books. I then proceeded to read each one and scare the ever loving crap out of myself. The sadists who write these books must really get off on instilling complete and utter panic into the hearts and minds of pregnant women. It’s like reading a horror novel. I found myself obsessing over the weirdest things – stuff I didn’t even realize could be a problem. And now, having successfully birthed two babies who somehow made it through the gauntlet of infanthood, I have one small nugget of wisdom to impart to all my pregnant (and thinking of becoming pregnant) peeps.

Put the book down. Just drop it. Those what to expect books were written by the devil. If you want to know what you should expect, ask your mom. Or your girlfriends. Take a lamaze class. Or, if you must, choose a book whose goal isn’t to scare the crap out of you.

Now, (and Dad, seriously, if you didn’t listen to me before, listen now. It’s time to click the little “x” on the top right corner of your screen because I am about to talk about boobs. And not just any boobs. I’m going to talk about MY boobs.) I’d like to quickly share one specific experience with you:

So, I was in the shower the other day when I realized that, aside from the stretch marks and general droopiness, my boobs look pretty much like any other set of boobs out there. Now, I know that all boobs have the same general setup, but back when I was pregnant with Logan, my doctor told me that I had a classic case of inverted nipples and would probably have trouble breastfeeding because of it. Reading through those damnable parenting books did nothing to quell my fears. I became convinced that I would never, ever be able to breastfeed because of my jacked up nipplage.

This threw me into a tailspin and I spent a lot of time researching stuff like nipple shields, breast pumps and the like. I was convinced that because my boobs were broken, I would not have the quality breastfeeding experience that I wanted to have. I would be an epic failure at motherhood! Quel horreur!

And then my son was born. Once all the trauma and craziness was over and he’d been sprung from the Intensive Care Nursery, I nervously gave breastfeeding a try. I raised my baby to my breast, he opened his hungry little mouth and whammo. Instant suction cup action.

Since that day, I’ve managed to accumulate almost three years worth of nipple Hooverage and guess what? No more inverted nips.

Basically, I’m writing this as a public service to all women out there who are planning to breastfeed one day. I can only write from personal experience, of course, but I can tell you this: babies are little human leeches. Your inverted nipples are no match for a hungry baby. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if your baby was hungry enough, you could attach him to the window of your car by his mouth, Garfield style, and he’d stay there until you physically pried him off.

Basically, my point is this: those darn books spend so much time pointing out every possible thing that could go wrong and, if you’re not careful, you can end up doubting your abilities before you’ve even had the opportunity to try. Just ask my nips. They were far more capable than anyone gave them credit for.

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 2 Comments →

So. I got a cat eleven days ago. Those of you who know my husband me understand that this is a huge deal because:

1. I don’t deal well at all with change of any kind
2. My husband is blatantly anti-pet
3. My husband is very good at getting his way (namely, not getting a pet)

 For reasons that I’ll get into on another day, and because Lucky has threatened to divorce me if I get a dog, I decided that I must have a cat. I needed a cat to retain my sanity and happiness. “No” was not an option. I would have a cat. Oh, yes. I would have one. With a little strong-arming and a lot of emotion, I managed to convince Lucky that letting me get a cat would be a good idea. (A happy wife is a happy life and all that). I researched online until I found the perfect cat, a sweet one year old with all of his shots and none of his gonads.

“Hi! My name is Max and I’m the greatest cat who ever lived. Word.”

I packed the kids in the car one Saturday afternoon and drove a kajillion miles over to the far north-east end of the city to go pick up our new kitty. On the way, I gave myself a mental talking-to because I knew from past experience that I was going to morph from a rational cat-wanting human being into an irrational, overreactionary what-the-hell was-I-thinking basket case and completely freak the frack out once the cat was in my possession.

“Okay, Lynn. It’s just a cat. You’ll be just fine. It’ll be good for the kids to have a pet not living behind bars. It’ll be good for you to have a warm, purring little bundle to cuddle. Everything will be just fine. Don’t. Freak. Out.”

(If you think this kind of reaction is completely over-the-top, well, you’re right. However, when I say that I really don’t deal well with change, I am not kidding. If you look up the term “panic attack” in the dictionary, there I am, in all my freakish glory.)

As an aside, here’s a little cartoon to help me illustrate my overreactionary quirks. The scene: I’m frolicking at the beach, trip and fall in the sand… (just click the picture to see each of the three panels)

(Ok, fine, so it’s a crappy cartoon. Better not quit my day job.)

Back to the story!

The kids and I spent a few minutes petting the cat and talking to his previous owner before packing him in a cardboard box and driving him home.

“Your old green couch may be ugly as sin, but it sure is comfortable!”

Max mellowed out in the car all the way home, poking his head out a couple of times to check out the view before settling in to do what he does best: lay around and do nothing.

I, on the other hand, was most definitely not mellowing out. The entire kajillion mile drive home had me alternately freaking the frack out in my head and mentally telling myself that buying a cat was certainly not panic attack-worthy.

We got the cat home, let him out of his box and watched him explore his surroundings. (By exploring, I mean that he wandered around for about six seconds and then laid down in the living room for a nap.)

When Lucky came home from work that night, I was in full-on panic attack mode. I couldn’t take a deep breath. I couldn’t eat. I sat woefully at the kitchen table with my head in my hands and lamented about how I never should have gotten a cat and I can’t believe you actually agreed to this!

Lucky (previously known as the animal-hater) calmly told me, “Lynn, he’s just a cat. He’s not even doing anything. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not! It’s not! How could I do this? What made me think it would be a good idea to get a cat! I need to find him a new home NOW! I can’t take the stress! Ahh!!”

“Lynn, calm down and give it a few days. You always get like this. Everything is fine.”

And you know what? He was right. I calmed down and things were fine. For awhile.

Being that Max wasn’t declawed, I thought it would be best to purchase him some sort of scratching post to lie apathetically next to use so that he’d leave my furniture alone. It quickly became obvious that Max viewed his claws as merely a decoration and not as something actually worth using. (Yay!) In addition, I bought him a couple of toys to play with.

Lily adopted him as her very own baby, hand-feeding him his cat food (pellets, not the jellied stuff from a can!), petting him lovingly, and carrying him all around.

“Oh, man. Here she goes again.”

“Why does this small one always have to carry me around? I can walk!”

“The things I put up with around here…”

And Presenting… MAX! from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

Whenever things got quiet around the house, Max would emerge from his current napping spot and curl up on my lap for some love.

(Ever been gently head-butted in the jaw by a cat? It’s surprisingly pleasant!)

After a few minutes, he would very gently and deliberately reach his forepaw out and place it on my arm before loudly purring and settling in for yet another nap.

Things were going great and I was mentally congratulating myself for not letting my unstable mental condition beat me until Logan started complaining that his eyes were itchy. He sneezed whenever he got too close to Max and he was beginning to have trouble falling asleep at night due to the uncontrollable urge to claw his own eyes out.

Logan had always been fine whenever he was around cats at his friends houses but I suppose there’s a difference between being around a cat for a couple of hours at a time and having one actually live with you all the time.

By the time Max left with his new owners (a lovely couple who had both lived harmoniously and un-allergenically with cats in the past), Logan had rubbed his eyes so much that he had bruises under them. Max has been gone for just over three days now and Logan is only just beginning to feel normal again.

I, on the other hand, am sad. It was hard to give up the cat, being that he was perfect and all. But, perfect as he was, my son and his health is my top priority.

In the six short days that we had Max the cat, I learned several things.

1. It is wholly possible to fall in love with an animal in only six days time. Especially when that animal is the best, most awesome and amazing cat who ever lived.
2. My husband, despite being known for his decisiveness and unbending nature, was willing to put my needs above his own and let me proceed with my crazy cat-owning scheme even though he really didn’t want to
3. The aforementioned husband is remarkably calm and unflappable when faced with his wife’s neurotic tendencies and, despite not wanting a cat in the first place, actually recommended keeping the cat around even when the basket-case wife was ready to usher said cat out the door and run screaming in the opposite direction.
4. Even though he protested mightily to getting a cat in the first place, and even though I know he’ll deny it until his dying breath, the truth is that Lucky actually liked the cat. I even caught him watching TV with Max tucked right in on his lap.
5. I have panic attacks entirely too often and for the most inane reasons. I think I may need to pay a visit to my doctor and have my meds adjusted.
6. I grew up not liking cats even a little bit and now I’m pretty sure that, given the right circumstances, I would make the awesomest crazy cat lady in the world.

Enjoy your new home, Max! We hardly knew ye and yet we loved ye all the same. I hope you get all the cuddles you could ever want.

Filed under: Confessions, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 4 Comments →

I like to think that most of the time I’m not half bad at this whole parenting gig. I have become adept at breaking up kid fights, heading whining off at the pass and navigating my way through excuse-filled attempts at avoiding bedtime. By 8:00 last night, though, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. The kids had been getting progressively whinier and argumentative as the day went on and chose that evening to make bedtime into an ordeal of epic proportions. As I was tucking Lily in for the night, thrilled that I had managed to get her to the tuck-in point at all, she pulled the whole, “I’m hunnnnnngryyyyyy!” routine, complete with dramatic flailing and blanket-kicking. I wanted to scream. Or fling myself out the nearest window. Instead, I pulled a dramatic, flailing scene of my own.

(I’m mature like that.)

“I’m done! Done! I can’t do this anymore tonight!” I exclaimed as I flounced down the hall.

With a sigh, Lucky took over. I could hear his socked feet dragging across the carpet as he reluctantly made his way to Lily’s room, bringing her some crackers and water. When she was finished with her snack, he tucked her in bed amidst complaints of, “I’m not tiiiiiired!”. (Funny how kids fight bedtime the hardest when they’re overtired, isn’t it?) She was still chattering away as he closed her door.

Meanwhile, I had cocooned myself in a blanket on the couch and was watching a recorded episode of Days of Our Lives and trying to forget that I had promised myself a run on the treadmill that night. All I wanted was some time and space to just breathe – to exorcise my aching, spinning head of the sounds of the day.

A full two hours later, I was relaxed and happy. My entire family was in bed, asleep, and I was left alone with my thoughts. I picked up a book – a classic chick lit type involving strong women, strong friendships, and much laughter and tears – and settled in to read for awhile.

Before long I was sitting, teary-eyed and racked with guilt, thinking about my children and the way I’d completely shut down on them at bedtime. One of the characters in the book had spent months at her dying teenaged daughter’s bedside, relentlessly present and completely devoted to her night and day. She appeared to be the perfect mother, ever doting on her children and always putting them first. She lost her daughter to cancer despite her best efforts, leaving me feeling guilty that I had two healthy, happy children and I was letting them down.

I looked in on each of them before I went to bed, as I do every night, lingering longer than usual to marvel at their angelic, sleeping faces. I was filled with a renewed sense of devotion to them and vowed never to let myself get frazzled to the point of walking away from them, no matter what was happening. I would turn myself into the most loving and devoted mother ever. People from far and wide would see my completely selfless parenting and marvel at how very loved my children were. I went to sleep with a smile on my face, knowing that tomorrow would mark the first day of my life as a perfect mother. Better, even, than the one I had just read about.

This morning I woke up to a knee in the kidney and the sounds of screeching in my ear. This is what happens when I try, futilely, to sleep in a little. To use a term coined by Her Bad Mother, my kids were acting like a couple of rabid badgers. In fact, I’m sure she had my kids in mind when she came up with it. (If there is a better term to describe the antics of a 7 and 5 year old left to their own devices for any length of time, I have yet to hear of it.)

After a few minutes of dodging the flailing limbs of my very own rabid badgers and attempting to steel myself against their rambunctious screeches and howls, my self-preservation instinct kicked in and I escaped to the bathroom to take a shower. The kids tumbled down the hall like a couple of puppies and continued their play in the living room.

Huh. Five minutes into my “perfect mother” endeavour and I had already failed. What happened to the endless patience I had promised myself? What was it about those shrieks that managed to pierce through my skull and right into my brain? I rubbed my sore back and stepped into the shower, contemplating.

As the warm water rained down on me, the irritation of being kicked and screamed awake drifted away. I could hear the kids playing down the hall. They were happy, despite the fact that I was in another room and not hovering over them. As I was rinsing the shampoo from my hair, I realized something. It is possible to love your kids absolutely and unconditionally and still take the time to maintain your sanity. Fifteen minutes of silence (or, at least, muted noise) in the shower does wonders for me. I am devoted to my children but as wonderful as they are, they can drive me completely insane at times and it’s okay for me to need a moment to regroup. They don’t seem to mind, at any rate.

I guess sometimes it takes a swift kick in the back to shift things back into their proper perspective. I might not be the perfect mother who ever existed, but I am a good one. Even if I do sometimes escape to the shower or hide in a blanket.

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring by WWS (Lynn) - 3 Comments →