Rockabye: from my treetop

The initial impact of parenthood snuck up and smacked me on the butt the day I discovered I was pregnant. Or I should say, we were pregnant. We both had talked about it - at length - in a very abstract "someday" kind of way but we were just married (and when I say just, I mean just).

In fact, before meeting SB I didn't even really think I'd actually be a mother. I love kids and had worked as a nanny while in university (now there is an awesome form of birth control right there - but I digress) but the idea of taking on such a huge responsibility, such a huge life changing event, just seemed so - so - so not me. I'm too selfish for that kind of commitment shit. I have too much to do, too many things left on my "list", too many things that rotate around the sun called "ME". I just got married for **** sake, I'm just wrapping my head around making joint decisions with my life partner. I'm not ready for this.

Or so I thought.

Obviously I'm a mother now. And I've gotten over the shock. Well almost.

It would be easy to say that the majority of parents that I encounter on a daily basis live by the so called "book" and for them that is great but that concept made me feel a little bit Stepford. I'm weird like that. Conformity has a place, just not near me. I don't judge those who do live that way, I figure whatever works for you and your family is the best thing for you and your family.

Anyhow, one thing I have learned in the past 40 odd months: motherhood is hard (no shit sherlock). It's especially hard and difficult when you don't follow the norm. Or the things that the media barrages us with on a hourly basis: make your child a genius, do this for your kid or they will be damned to be stupid for the rest of their lives, do that and your child will FAIL!

Nothing like having the toughest, most important job in the world, coupled with a constant fight against of tide of crap from mainstream media, assvice, unsolicited advice, and a public attitude that sometimes seems to scream "we know what's best for YOUR child".

Parenting is inspiring, exciting, and exhilarating. It's also exhausting, confusing, and depressing. Not to mention how you are sometimes made to feel guilty when you put yourself first. Can't mom just have a minute? ONE FREAKIN' MINUTE? Can't mom keep some semblance of her former life without having someone (albeit sometimes just the voice in my head) chime in "life has changed forever" in a sing-song patronizing voice? Yes, life has changed forever - life has changed for everyone because of this new life - but that doesn't mean I have to give up my identity. Does it? DOES IT?

Of course it doesn't.

So where am I going with these familiar themes that you have heard from many articulate parents in the blogosphere? I recently had the pleasure to read Rockabye: From Wild to Child, Rebecca Woolf's new biographical book. Yes, Rebecca as in Girl's Gone Child.

She has composed many of these personal debates, boiling kettles of turmoil, powder kegs of motherhood dilemma in a way that I could only dream of achieving. Because this lady can write. Readers of her blog know that.

Rockabye: From Wild to Child has some new and some familiar stories of preparing for and being doused in motherhood. Rebecca has no fear in stating the things that someone like me, has kept inside my aching brain. She opens her life up to the reader and shares intimate stories of her past - her wild days. She pours out her struggle with giving up the single life, dealing with the judgement thrown out from other people (real or perceived), the impact on her relationship with her husband and family. I could relate to so many of the stories she told - way more than I would ever admit because I'm shy like that.

Rebecca has a talent so many crave. She tells a story, in this case hers, and I listened. As I read, I hoped it wouldn't end because it was one of the most tasty morsels of life heard in such a long time. It's not a glossy giggly book about motherhood - though it did make me laugh in some places. But it also made me damp eyed, made me examine my experiences in motherhood, and definitely made me nod vigorously in recognition of familiar trials.

This book may not be the same kind of experiences that every mother has encountered but it's Rebecca's story, it's damn interesting and, it may make someone look at motherhood in a different light.


Oh and in case anyone needs to know what NOT to say to the a SWAT team when they have a gun to your head - turn to page 257. How many books on experiences in motherhood contain those kind of useful nuggets of information? Exactly. And it's things like that, that make this book unique and special.

A sincere thank you to the Parent Bloggers Network for including me on this book review tour. To read what others are saying, check out the "what they are saying so far" post over at the PBN blog.

I should be careful when I ask - part 2

Part 1 of "I should be careful when I ask" can be found here.

I'm still doing my East Coast Tour and I'm leaving for the so called "controversial" Camp Baby in an hour. The fact that I'm doing something controversial makes me giggle because I'm super mature like that.

Honestly I'm just curious to see what Johnsons & Johnsons has to say and also it would be nice for the big corporations to get it right when dealing with the mega-force known as parent bloggers. Maybe we can steer them in the right direction.

If not, I'll just grab as much free shampoo as I can before they secure a restraining order. I'm faster than the cops most days. Actually it totally depends on how much I've had to drink - but that's another story all together.

Anyhow, this is part deux of the questions and this time I'm just tackling a couple because I'm sharing a computer with my lovely parents who have foolishly graciously volunteered to take care of my rabid badger beautiful child while I gallivant around with fellow bloggers in the land of Tony Soprano.

Mrs. Chicky asked:
If you could pick one person, alive or dead, movie star, rock star, or person you know, to slather in chocolate and nibble at like a candy Easter Bunny for ever and ever, who would you pick? And why?

EASY F'ING PEASY: Viggo Mortensen. He doesn't even need to be dipped in chocolate, though that would be a nice bonus. He is the one thing that distracts me from my lovely SB. And SB understands (I hope).
Of course the only time I had the chance to see the guy in person I just happened to be 10 months pregnant and looking like Jabba the Hut. SB and I went to the TIFF premier of A History of Violence (uh - best sex scenes EVER) where I had to get all hot and giggly while trying not too looked too pained from sitting in the most uncomfortable seat for the love of art.

Oh Viggo, you are the Princess Leia to my Jabba. RAWR.

Oh and why? Well if you met my SB you'd figure it out. But you won't so let me just say that he draws me in like a tall cold drink and his boyish charm, political awareness, deep intellect, steadfast opinions, and rock hard sexiness makes me swoon. Just like SB.

If you are done gagging over my gushing, let's move on. I'm skipping down the list of questions because the others are too involved so I want something easy.

My girl crush Jessica from Daysgoby asked:
Why Motherbumper? Why the title of your blog, and why do you call yourself Motherbumper?

AGAIN - EASY PEASY (don't sue me Jamie Oliver for abusing your little catch phrase)

For the entire length of my pregnancy - which seemed like at least year long - I referred to my Bumper as... Bumper. She was like a pinball from week sixteen onwards and I remember that very first moment I felt her bumpin' about. I thought I had the wickedest gas ever but quickly realized it was her. It was pure fetal magic that could not be quelled with any kind of antacid.

Anyhow, when it came time to dream up a blog name, I started with her "name" since she was my inspiration for blogging. As the creative brainstorming juices flowed, I thought "hmmm well I am her mother so why not motherbumper?" I liked the fact that it sounded just like motherf**ker and with that the heavens parted and the voices in my head sang out "SO BE IT" and so it was.

True story. Except for the heavens parting thing - it was actually a hole in the floor opening up with flames and brimestone shooting out - but the image wasn't as pretty.

And considering I say mo'fo' in my head about once every two minutes, it's easy for me to remember.

So next time you swear at the person who cuts you off in traffic, maybe you can yell MOTHERBUMPER instead and somewhere a little devil will get it's pitchfork.

OK - I gotta go run and catch a plane but I'm far from done answering questions. There is so much more to come - like the story of how SB and I met, my preference between mayo and mustard, some of my regrets, my regrets of regrets, and regretful regrets. Or something like that.

Oh and I'm over in the lab today reviewing the newest Thomas & Friends (as in tank engine) DVD and their latest adventures in Sodor.

Mmmmmm Sodor sounds like Mordor which makes me think Aragorn which brings me back to yummy Viggo and makes me miss SB more than ever. DAMN YOU LITTLE TANK ENGINE (*shakes fist in air*).

Lost for the Ages

First Assertagirl brought me immense relief when she pointed out Bumper looks more like Amelie rather than the editor of Vogue (and my little girl is definitely quirky in that beautiful Amelie way if I say so myself):


Well holy heck, it's a relief to have no more Wintour flashes and glimpses - too much attitude for me to deal with. So now it's Amelie. Cool I can deal with that.

But then Kittenpie brought up Ramona Quimby and well... that cannot be denied, both in nature and looks:

Well I'll be darned, doesn't that look like her? If Ramona is tough enough to be tattooed on your arm, well that's good enough for me.

That is a relief, and thank you for letting me sleep at night. To think that I could have been raising a Prada loving devil was hard to wrap my mind around.

Though she would probably get me into that legendary closet at Vogue AND send lots of free shoes my way.

And bags. And maybe some clothes. And definitely some make-up. I'm mean, I AM her mother after all.

Maybe I should rethink this.

Anyhow - have you been over to MommyBlogsToronto lately? This week, four of the fantastic bloggers over there wrote some kick ash stuff: Shooting for Hip (IRL: Don Mills Diva), Pick of the Litter (the librarian with sass aka Life of Pie), Restauranter (yummy it's The Petite Gourmand), and Mama Drama (the blogger formerly known as #, now known as nomotherearth). All great reads, let me tell you. You're welcome.

UNRELATED TANGENT!

So I was waiting for the bus at the subway station this morning and the conversation of two older ladies caught my attention (picture Maude's mom and Betty White + 20 years - didn't really watch the show).

OK, so I was eavesdropping out of boredom and they were the only other ones around the station. I had no book and forgot my iPod and they were talking loud enough for me to hear so what's a girl to do?

Now that we have established that I'm a snoop, let me regurgitate what was overheard. I came in just as their conversation went something like this:

Diane*:Who do you think Jack wants to be with?
Lydia*: (no hesitation) Kate. Definitely Kate.
Diane: If I was Kate I'd like Sawyer.
Lydia: Well if I was her, I'd be with Sayid.
Diane: Reeeee-ally?
Lydia: Yes. I like foreign men. My first husband was Irish.

* names have been changed because I didn't steal their purses to find out their handles. Bad security camera angles - motherbumper is no fool.

I almost started to add my two cents but stopped myself for no reason other than I was enjoying how a LOST talk was progressing between two women who appeared to be in their late 60s (and I'm being nice). They looked more like Wayne Newton fans rather than LOST junkies.

Obviously I have no idea what older people watch because I couldn't think of one show to compare to the popularity of LOST. Must brush up on geriatric pop culture.

In case you are wondering - the bus came before Desmond was mentioned (you know they had to have talked about him at some point - Lydia's husband was foreign and all). Seriously, I would have totally pegged them for Jack ladies. You really do learn something new every day.

TANGENT VEERS ELSEWHERE.

Anyhow, I'm over at motherbumper's laboratory reviewing the latest dvd offering from Bob the Builder (CAN WE READ IT? YES WE CAN!).

Oh and because I have lemming tendencies: what do you want to know about me? what questions about motherbumper don't let you sleep at night? I'm trying to write my "About Me" section but each time I start it, it bores me to tears - so please help me spice it up. What do you want to know about the blogger called motherbumper?

fade to black

Liquid Paper: Use #43 and 40,000 question marks

Does anyone even use Liquid Paper anymore? Not important. Moving right along:

You know how random memories from childhood sometimes just pop right into the ol' noggin and you are like POW! that was crazy and totally disconnected from anything in my current reality (as tenuous as that may be).

And then you think: I need to remember that random-batshit memory so when I'm old there is something to say Senior's Bingo besides: my bunions hurt and my gawd! what is with these haemorrhoids? Piles? More like landfills! And what's with this weather?

So what to do with these single-serving, snack-size memories?

Why write it down and publish it on your blog!

Isn't that what blogging is all about? Brain dump for future reference? Or is it to find more like-minded and equally traumatized folk to lean on?

What? We're supposed to be swapping recipes? Gawddamnit, I got in the wrong line AGAIN!

Back to the post:

Sometime in the 80's, motherbumper's tenth grade homeroom

The girl who sat behind me in homeroom, who's name totally escapes me but I can lay bets it was either Tammy or Mary, would use her super shiny ruler as a mirror and paint all her visible teeth with liquid paper.

It was really freaky looking. Kinda like glow in the dark fake teeth with a white-washed wood panelling finish.

In order to preserve the look, she would then proceed to sit there with a super goofy look on her face to let dry. Kinda like when you dry off your teeth and push your upper lip over so it sticks to your gum and you look all Gomer Pyle.

We were in the far side (in more ways you can imagine) classroom row, against the hallway wall and I would sit sideways, watching the paint dry, and marvelling at the fact that if that was me painting my pearly whites, Sister Mary Margaret would be yelling "Mary Catherine Motherbumper! Get that goop off your teeth!". Sister Mary Margaret never said anything to bad-ass girl.

I never got away with anything (total lie but it seemed that way to my fifteen year old self).

And that's the end of the random brain fart memory. There is absolutely no story around the girl and her liquid paper teeth.

Actually the only other thing I can remember about her is:

Her parents sent her to my school because she was a total bad ass and they wanted to punish her with religion. Yup, we are here to reform! About a third of my class at the Catholic high school was there for that exact reason - punishment for being bad. I'm not sure why. It' s not like it was a Magdalene Asylum or something (though that might explain my hatred of laundry).

Actually hanging with the reform kids was pretty good. We had some really fun little get-togethers. And by fun get togethers, I mean all weekend debauchery, thrown by totally out of control and resentful kids with absent rich parents. Kids who had absolutely no sense of responsibility which is fun. Really freakin' fun as long as it wasn't my home or family.

What ever possessed a group of parents and administrators to think that sending all the bad girls to our school as punishment was a good idea, really had no idea what kind of influence they were inflicting on the ready, willing, and now able. I'm just saying.

Anyhow, I'm also over at motherbumper's lab today reviewing what by far has been the best book I've been asked to read by the Parent Bloggers Network and that's no lie. The Sky Isn't Visible from Here is one powerful memoir - trust me on that one.

Just don't trust me with your silverware or fine linens.

because I'm a masochist*

When I was single, footloose, and fancy-free, I was the queen of trying new things with my hair. I tried every colour, style, product - any and everything I tried it out - save for perming. By my mid twenties, I had done my fair share of home-kit dye mistakes so I pledged to leave my hair in the hands of professionals from there on in.

By the time I hit 30, I had decided blonde was the colour for me and due to the fact that my hair is medium mousy brown, it required a lot of maintenance.

maintenance = money

Basically to keep my hair looking super fine (or so I'd like to think), I spent approximately way too much money every six weeks - basically, I spent a shit load on my hair.

Anyhow. The days of spending a small fortune on my locks are long over.

spawn = destitution

Not really but it can feel that way sometimes.

But I'm getting off track: Pre-spawn, I had already decided that I was spending far too much on my beauty routine (no money = no fun) so I decided to try out *ahem* "more economical" salon recommended an acquaintance.

What a huge freakin' mistake.

The recommended stylist asked a billion questions and after talking for a while, I though she came off as very competent. One thing I was adamant about was that no straight peroxide should be used on my hair - I told her before she started. And I reminded her through the entire procedure - mostly because I thought the stuff being used seemed suspect.

I'm not really sure what my previous super-expensive stylist exactly did my hair, but it always came out silky, blonde and dammit - it felt good. So I panicked when whatever the current stylist was doing was looking very bleached.  And much to my frustration, this new stylist was all "no, no, no peroxide" - very much in a "cheeseburger, cheeseburger, no coke just pepsi" kinda way.

Well long story short - the appointment ended in tears. OK, not really because I'm not good at crying in public. I'll pull a ridiculous contorted face before I'll opening cry in public*.
* exception: pregnancy & post-partum. I cried at long-distance commercials, detergent ads, and laundry. In public. All the time.

My hair was straw - literally:

One of the few photos from that horrible horrible incident

About a week later, my hair started breaking off in alarmingly huge chunks. And splitting like a Hollywood couple. It felt like wire and I had to wear it in a ponytail because it was nearly impossible to style.

And to boot - I still had horrific looking roots.

I've never had my hair coloured or highlighted since that incident - at home or the salon. I have been scarred for life.

These days, my hair is it's natural colour and while I do have a box of pink highlights in my bathroom cabinet, no agents have been applied to my hair since that horrible HORRIBLE job four years ago.

So why do I share this story of blondisma woe? Well the Parent Bloggers Network is hosting a blog blast today with some awesome prizes. The inspiration for this blast is the new book Beauty Confidential which I will be reviewing on November 20th. So share your tales of woe and maybe you can win a prize, or at the very least a support group of posts that will make you feel better.

* post title refers to the fact that I'm double posting during NaBloPoMo and putting a picture of myself up for the world to see.

Only Daring Girls Allowed

We are over in motherbumper's lab today with a new review for a really cool, activity-filled book for girls - girls of any age. Actually, this book would make a great gift idea for any little ladies or tomboys on your holiday shopping list.

Hey, have you all noticed how the stores quickly ripped down all the Hallowe'en stuff and red, green, white, silver, and blue are splashed as far as the shelves are high eye can see? I love it because all the Hallowe'en candy is ON SALE! Mental note, must stock up on antacids to counteract all the tummy aches I will have this weekend.

Now go RANDOMIZE (after you read my review, please)