Hannah Montana Syndrome: Don't Let It Happen To You.

My four year old daughter just fell head over heels for Hannah Montana and it was completely my fault. Don’t worry, my punishment is something that won’t soon be forgotten. The constant impulse to stab myself in the eyes and ears with a fork or pencil or any random object each time my daughter says that character’s name is just one of the many pay-backs currently being allotted for the crime.

The pop princess has been on auto-repeat in Little Miss Mind's Eye Jr. since early this past Wednesday and so far it seems my child can work her into any conversation.

Add that to the horrified look on Dad’s face when our beautiful child started spouting off on her imaginary mobile phone about [said in an exasperated, huffy tone]

‘MEN!’

That moment pretty much nailed that I had gone did wrong. Done wrong bad.

Pack Rat Barely Covers It

I've talked about my 4 year olds 'treasure' collecting before and I know many others also know the curse of the garbage treasure -- a pirate mystery that sadly neither includes Johnny Depp or me looking like a well-corseted damsel who totally kicks everyone's butt. So far I am winning the battle of keeping nature where it belongs which is not, no matter how much my kid protests, anywhere in or even near our living room.

Behold My Whirling Dervish & Her Art

But a bout of recent insane and pointless stabs at 'Spring Cleaning' has brought on a whole new type of treasure collecting -- G is stockpiling from the clothing bound for the charity boxes or other fates as determined by me.

Yesterday I caught her trying to shove her feet into her tiny knock-off Uggs that she wore when she was two. These boots had made it to the recycle box and destined for another child's feet via a long-overdue cleaning of the front closet. A closet that threatened to avalanche if I ignored it for another weekend.

G did not agree with my assessment of these lightly-worn but too small boot's purpose. Standing on her tippy-toes in order to walk in them, when she caught me looking she yelled 'SEE! I told you they still fit.' This was punctuated with a disgusted huff-like appropriate noise.

And see these roses that we purchased in a fit of 'I feel so pretty' last week? She's trying to convince me to keep all the petals now that they are wilted. All I can see coming from keeping the petals is a huge mess in the near future that will probably involve me picking crushed rose petals out of either the couch, her bed, our bed, or all of the above. I'm going to need to pull a fast one on her and dump them after she's gone to bed. How I'll justify it, I don't know (suggestions in the comment section greatly appreciated).

Though I did draw the line quickly after a recent re-acquisition of her crossed my personal comfort line. Sitting on her bed, I noticed a familiar nude coloured strap peeking out from a pile of her own clothing. After tugged on it, out slipped a bra that had recently been thrown out. It had ripped wide open -- cups separated from the centre -- which I'd like to think was from my heaving damsel bosom bursting forth from it's chains but was more than likely due to the fact that particular bra was way past it's prime. I guess I have a thing for not being able to let things go either. *ahem*

Anyway. This I had to confiscate, despite her protests. Don't need her bringing that in for show and tell at school. I'd like to call that repo: a crisis averted.

Monday's Child is Full of Meh

For a while now my 4yo has had me on edge over the alphabet. At an early age she could recite it perfectly but whenever I tried to sneak letter association in with the alphasong she would turn up her nose at textbook knowledge. She's a smart one. She recognizes surreptitious learning when she sees it.

When her nursery teacher taught her to spell her name (something I had been trying for ages) she still refused to point out which letters corresponded to what she was saying. Umprompted she would point out the letters of her name within other words but pressed to identify, she clammed up.

This monkey refuses to dance when asked. She so much like her mom. *sigh*

Anyhow, the nursery teacher and I were confident that she was just screwing with us and I was able to let go of some of the hand-wringing over her language/learning skills.

But now we are in kindergarten and it's all about letters, writing, and reading. No pressure because she's JK but I work in the classroom and I know how much is dedicated to the basics. *sigh*

The edge of worry was creeping back up under my butt and again I was back to the hand wringing over her knowledge. The back of my head was screaming "she's f'ing with you" but the paranoid, never-turned-off side of my brain was shouting "you never really know, right?"

Then G presented me with something that pulled me back from the precipice of parenting obsession:

At least I know my daughter understands what Monday is all about.

Meh indeedy my child.

And when the heck did you learn to write? I swear she is screwing with me and I love her even more for it.

little fish, big smile

Yesterday was my daughter's last day of nursery school. It was the first time in her little lifetime that she woke up and actually yelled "LET'S GO TO SCHOOL!" And yes, she said it with an exclamation point which for the record looks like a fist-pump in real life. Both her dad and I were kinda confused by this reaction and when I asked why she was so excited to go to school, she said without missing a beat "IT'S THE LAST DAY!"

Once again definitive proof that my child was not switched at birth.

It's hard to believe that the little girl who didn't know how to dress herself back in September now just refuses to dress herself. Before it was "I don't know how" and now it's just "Dressing yourself is for chumps because I know my parents will do it and if they don't, I still have no issues with public nudity." It's also hard to believe that the child who didn't know how to share back in September now knows she is supposed to share. Not that she does it but dammit, she knows it's expected. I love that my daughter is still defiant and that one of her first leaps into conformity / working for the man hasn't broken her spirit.

So for you my child, I play some Alice Cooper and try not to think so hard about how much you've grown up in the past nine months. Come September you will go to a new school filled with big fish and I really believe this last year has prepared you to hold your own. Because as much as I try not to think about it, my job is to arm you with the strength to be an independent and confident fish, even if that means I have to let you explore the oceans without me. Damn it's going to be lonely in this here anemone.

the smile reserved for candy stores and last day of school

spill the beans

I'm over at MamaPop today talking about my guilty obsession with the team members from Paranormal State. Please (please) come over and visit; I have this fear of getting no comments and that is a shame I cannot live with.  Strangely enough I can live with the shame of publically stating that I would have totally gotten it on with a total square given the right circumstances, but that is there not here.

Anyhow, on with the motherbumpin' show....

The other day Gigi and I were on the subway travelling to meet SB. It wasn't rush hour when we left but it was in that pre-rush hour twilight where most seats are taken on the train. In other words, the crowds had not reached sardine status yet. Gigi and I had a seat together, she was on her knees looking out the window and I sat looking forward, trying to find zen during her extended period of distraction.

Her "but why" questions had ceased for the time-being and she was more interested in people watching. It is moments like this that makes for good public transportation with a preschooler. That is, until they invent teleportation devices built into strollers. They had better be working on that one, and if a parent is in charge, you know they totally are.

Anyhow, during this lull in what I frankly consider normal, if not exemplary preschooler behaviour, Gigi started the chant. You know, the repetitive chanting of a word or two that renders the word completely meaningless and instead turns it into a weapon of mass sanity destruction.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad 

It wasn't loud, she wasn't yelling, she was just chanting those words in a normal voice.

I knew where those words came from: beans for lunch, daddy was waiting for her. Two unrelated thoughts just being hammered into my skull with a technique worthy of Stockholm syndrome methodology.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad 

Actually it would be more accurate to say that to the best of my knowledge and understanding of human physiology, this chant was being hammered into my skull and all the loverly passengers who had operational ears devoid of sanity-saving buds on car 5591 on the TTC rocket.

But I still found zen. It can be difficult to achieve sometimes but over three years practice has gotten me to this point. So there I was, in that space I found in my mind's eye.Everyone else on the train seemed to be able to block it out, or at least they didn't seem too disturbed by my daughter's mantra of paternal musical fruit.

Alas, this zen is fickle and it doesn't take much to unbalance. In fact, one errant breeze from any direction may just force me to alternate resorts - like sticking a fork in my thigh to painfully symbolize how done I actually am.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad

As the chanting continued, I was in a calm place that the keyboard cannot describe other than to compare it to a tight-rope many parents know too well. For me, one misstep can plunge me into an abyss full of snapping barbs that fly from my mouth without restraint. I must remind myself that everyone has a story, everyone has a reason for being cranky, even if that reason is they just are.

And so I remain balanced and focused.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad

Then the woman sitting kitty corner to us, turned, leaned towards us, and hissed "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUSH" right into our faces, perhaps in case we weren't aware who she was aiming this gesture towards.

*snap* The tight-rope just shook and I'm plummeting towards the thorns.  But somehow I reach out and grab the rope above.

With that flail and recovery, I took out the aforementioned fork, stuck it in my thigh, swallowed back the barbs, and just smiled a real honest-to-goodness smile at this shushing woman. I hope the smile was just wide and not maniacal.  We locked eyes for a good ten seconds before she cast her peepers downward and retreated into what I assume was her internal zen room.  And with that, I retreated again to mine.

Finding calm may be incredibly difficult some days but always worth maintaining.  For that much I really do know.

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

PSA shameless flogging: Last day for one lucky Canadian reader to win a basket of Johnson's products over at Drugstore Cowgirl. Enter now!

drugstore cowgirl: an explanation

True Story: About a month or two back I was sitting with another bloggy friend talking about my review site.  I know, how boring, eh?

But there I was, droning on about how I love doing reviews and love saying yes to trying new things (insert dirty joke here) but hate writing the actual review,.  I'm often left wondering if I would have actually tried the product if it hadn't been offered to me gratis.

Anyhow, as I watched my friend's eyes glaze over from boredom, I kept talking about my small quandary.  She kept quiet, probably lost in a nice daydream, but that didn't stop me talking and eventually I came up with an answer to my reviewing dilemma - all - by - myself:

I decided that I am a drugstore cowgirl and that's the way things are going to be around my review blog from here on in.

Let me explain what the drugstore cowgirl is about.  Back in 2005, I had this vision in my mind that when I became a parent, Gigi would be an all organic baby, one of those totally natural kids that would only use products that came from the health food shops.  The health food shops I frequented back when I had a steady job and income - and that really cool stuff called disposable income.  Friends had gone the all natural route and thought: "that's me, I'm doing it up all natural with my baby, baby".  Yes folks, I actually speak like that in my head.

When my baby (finally) arrived, I was trying all the new all natural creams and lotions, buying samplers from every line and trying them each out, first on myself, then on her.  And many products were good (many were also yucky but I'm not here to talk about that) BUT many of those good products were also really expensive, and my wallet didn't agree with my product choices.  Like seriously didn't agree.  Yes, yes, my baby is worth more than the moon and stars put together, but I can't make money appear like magic. Yet.

So I decided to go back to the drugstores and to the brands I grew up using, and made it my mission to find body-friendly products that don't break the bank or cause us to break out in a rash.  So began the painless birth of my inner drugstore cowgirl.  Why cowgirl?  Why not, I've always wanted to be a cowgirl plus I look good in hats and I love boots.  And I've always found comfort in moseying around the drugstore and rustling up new products to try, in fact, I love doing it in foreign countries (like the US - ohhhh exotic Walgreens) and revel in useful and affordable goods that are easy to find.

Thus begins a new era in reviews for me: stuff I actually would buy, be able to afford, and love.  Novel eh?  Anyhow,  I'm kicking it off with a bunch of giveaways for Canadian readers over the next few weeks so come on over and enter to win a basket of goodies from Johnson's.

I'm not fancy folks but I love to give stuff away, and if there is something wrong with that, well I don't want to know about it ;)

the long con

Today my daughter and I had the most wonderful lunch date right after nursery school pick up.  Often we head straight home, maybe with a stop at the grocery store, or a quick play with friends before we say our goodbyes at the busy city intersections.  But today for no other special reason than I wanted to, we headed out to buy Valentines and have a bite to eat.  The lunch date was a real success.

Hmmm...I really do need to address those cards to her classmates sometime soon but that's nothing that can't wait until... oh crap, is that party tomorrow? Okay, that's nothing that can't wait until commercial breaks during LOST.

Our day was going so well that I decided we deserved a treat of chocolate - the good stuff - a small tin of truffle-filled love in individual, handy dandy wrappers.  We had two each and saved the last one for Dad.  Saving the last one for Dad was her idea - I was all for splitting it right there but she insisted we keep it for him.  It was touching to hear her say "and this one is for Dad, Mommy - when he gets home from work".

And yes, only one for him - not two - because some fancy chocolate company puts five chocolates in a box instead of six. Five? That's not a chocolate number - that's a number that says "go back and get more".

Anyhow, I thought that was adorable and mature to save the last one for Dad though I had my doubts the chocolate would last the afternoon.  She has a pachyderm's memory when it comes to sweet stuff so I figured the cello wrapped gift would last another fifteen minutes before she justified the eating in a chocolate-muffled response that includes a statement about how he would want her to have it, and she heard him say she could have it.  She's got great hearing that can span cityscapes.

I placed the gift under the stroller and our day continued.  I didn't think of that single chocolate again until bedtime when she announced she had a gift for Daddy and would like him to open it.  She trotted off and came back to present to him - while giggling - the box with a lonely chocolate waiting inside.

She appeared pleased with herself, I was touched by her maturity, and was completely taken off guard when she said "You want me to have this, right Daddy?" and plucked the chocolate from the box he just opened and proceeded to eat it right up.

I looked at SB and said helplessly "she promised it was for you" to which he responded "honey, she went for the long con and she got you good".

Oh sweet juju, we are in so much trouble.

For the record, that one chocolate in a three year old was what I'm sure is equivalent to a triple expresso in me before bedtime.  I think she hovered an inch above the bed until she finally passed out.  That girl has got my number I say.

* photo from my trip to Nashville which was overwhelming as usual - putting faces to words is always a shock and a half - the good kind.

Friday's Lesson: do what I say, not what I do

So yesterday my daughter successfully turned herself into an Ooompaloompa which isn't a bad thing... I guess... but still - try explaining THAT to a group of nursery school teachers while dropping the child off for school.  Seriously folks, people look at you strange when your kid is forty shades of all colours that aren't found in a box of Crayola flesh-tones.

Have I ever mentioned that Willy Wonka is one of my favourite movies in the history of movies I adore?  And that I didn't really mind the remake because I could watch Johnny Depp read me a third notice for an unpaid bill and I'd sit on the edge of my seat, drooling and praising how he delivered each line.  Blinded by the Depp, revved up like a douche in the middle of a blight, Blinded by the Depp...

But yes, my offspring = oompaloompa and I love oompaloompas, I just don't want to raise one.  Because that.... well that would be creepy.

So "How, did this happen?" you ask.

You see, I do my best to be a SAHM/WAHM (thank you ma'am).  Each day I try to sneak learning into her day - usually through our afternoon craft sessions.  Now I prefer a craft that takes multiple sessions to build, like December's paper mache volcano, or our current project - a drum set made from recyclables.  Gigi loves glue, paint, hodge-podge, and all things crafty so I take advantage of these time-suckers and try to incorporate a little sneaky science into the mix because I'm her mom, yo.

Now before you think I'm all Martha Stewart on crack, I'm not.  I'm just on crack, coffee being my crack.  I bet if you tapped my veins, all that would come out is pure Colombian gold - not snow because I'm poor yo.

How many times can I work "yo" into this post? Not sure but I'll die trying...

ANYHOW... yes, I sneak science into my child's day (yo) and yesterday we were waiting for the drums to dry so I thought we'd do some colour mixing (yo) - since that's what they were doing at school.  Reinforcement dudes, just isn't for the army anymore.

(yo)

So I collected some pie plates, water, and (cue sinister dun dun dun DUH music) food colouring for our experiment.

Basically the story ends there because I don't need to tell you what happened.  Oh but I will because I'm all about closure.

(yo)

We sat at the table, mixing water with food colouring, then mixing the water together to make orange! green! yucky brown! It was fun and it covered a whole whack of reinforcement skills sh*t - if you are into that kind of thing (yo).  She was pouring without spilling, she was identifiying her colours, and making new ones - hell, it was a nobel prize winning exercise in nursery school science.  It was freakin' fun.

Then I had to pee.  I know, I know, TMI but I need to explain why I had to leave the room so suddenly.

So yes, I got up, ran out of the room and was gone for probably, I dunno, ninty seconds.  And in that time, Gigi removed all the tops off the food dye, mixed them in one pie plate, then proceeded to paint her entire torso, arms and hands a colour that bordered on black.  The end.

I came out to find my daughter, who now looked like the cutest little aubergine ever, standing at the table.

Oompa Oompa Oompa da boo, I have some colours to share with you, 

Oompa Oompa Oompa da bee, I'd like to smear some on my mommy


Consider this a warning: pack up all crafting supplies before leaving child unattended, but you all probably already knew that.

(yo)

Several scrubbings and soapings later, and she is now a mighty fine shade of orangish-pink.  Heaven help me folks, three is kicking my butt.

apple sauce

I should file under stuff that makes me question parenting skills before coming to my senses:

Lately Gigi has returned to adding a bad word into her random monologues and doing it just for effect.  She loves to see if we are really paying attention so she peppers it with butt, a*s (?!!), or *sigh* sh*t.

As far as I know, we always catch it.  Keeping a straight face is sometimes difficult, especially when she uses it correctly, but we always give a warning, that leads to more serious consequences if ignored.

She knows it's bad, and this knowledge is written all over her face when she's doing it.

Tonight when I was putting her to bed, she had jumped on the edge of the bed and I heard her say a*sy a*s a*s - her own little taunt she came up with (OMG, she totally made it up herself, I swear - the kid is a natural poet) - so she got a warning.

This made her laugh.

Then she saddled up next to me and said knock, knock

[ me, hesitant and dreading what she was going to say ] who's there?

[ her, with a half smile on her face ] orange

[ me, completely dreading what she was going to say next ] orange who?

[ her, taking a pause for effect]  orange you glad I didn't say aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa - aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapplesauce?  Followed by a longer than necessary laugh.


This kid really should be in show business.  Or the mob.

avoiding reality

Hey, remember the other day when Gigi had a revelation about Boots the monkey and I pondered what dream-shattering revelation would be next? This latest incident proved the kid is on to me already - Santa Claus doesn't even have a fighting chance. And you know that really sucks because I really couldn't wait to screw with my kids head by telling her that a stranger breaks into our house once a year (without the benefit of a chimney) and leaves us stuff. And then in the same breath warning her to NEVER TALK TO STRANGERS - especially the ones giving out free candy or puppies. Commence mindf**k.

Anyhow, recently we were at Union Station where the walls are plastered in Telus Ads - ya know, the ones that can't help but make all kinds of folk smile with their insatiable abuse of animal cuteness. They got me during the monkey phase. Anyhow that fact is completely irrelevant, the point is - Telus has moved onto marketing meerkat smiles.

While passing through the gauntlet of huge wall-size, seemingly smiling faces of these damn cute specimens, Gigi asked me what kind of animal they were. All I really knew about meerkats was learned from staring at one of these posters back in junior high.

I imparted all of my wisdom and probably helped her get a D in grade four science. I know when she does animal science in grade school, she will flunk because I learned her real good. You know, like when we were at the zoo and I told her stuff like: There is no baby lion in this display because the lion parents ate her after she didn't share with the other baby lions and threw tantrums all the time so parents just up and ate her. Hey, I've never claimed to be a perfect mom.

Anyhow, later the same day after we again passed through the gauntlet of meerkat in the train station and then boarded a subway plastered in the very same ads. It's nonstop meerkat in Toronto I tell ya.

Gigi had now stepped up the meerkat conversation to what they are to the WHY phenome. Everybody loves the WHY component of parenting - don't they? (says the momma pulling her hair out in chunks).

So yes, she wanted to know WHY there were pictures of meerkats everywhere "in 'dis place?" (that's how she talks, and when she says "in 'dis place" she spreads her arms wide and shakes them like she's some mini Al Pacino). Excellent question my grasshopper of cynicism, question the corporate intention.

So I told her that the meerkats were selling phones to commuters. She pondered this answer for a few minutes.

Then she responded with a voice so laden with disgust, it dripped: "Mummy - meerkats don't sell phones. They don't use phones". Oh yes they do grasshopper, cute sells to the masses, right after sex.

Oh and in case you are wondering about the cat - that's my parent's cat and his look pretty much mirrors mine. Deer caught in headlights. Gigi and I are at my parent's house this week, doing family business. Which makes us sound mobish. So I think I'll run with that.

talk to the hand

When it comes to toys, Gigi is pretty much like most kids - she has way too many and it's usually the most annoying toy that is the favourite. You know, the one that creates the biggest headache and teeth-grinding is also the one that warrants a hell hath no fury kind of tantrum if it's misplaced or - gawd forbid - lost forever.

Not that I ever hide or "lose" her toys on purpose *ahem*. Because that would make me a bad parent, right? Or just normal?

Anyhow, SB and I have recently hit a lucky streak. We really hit the jackpot because if we lose her current favourite toy well we are f**ked too.

Gigi likes our hands.

Yup: hands.

I'm not sure who started it (bets are on my cheap-ass husband) but for some reason Gigi likes to use our hands are her dolls. As in, playing with baby.

She will grab one of our arms and start rocking and talking to baby and doing all the stuff most kids do with dolls. She also usually ignores the rest of the body attached to her "baby".

Our hands have names. My left hand is "cupcake" and my right is "strawberry". SB is "toohoo" and the always original "baby" though I'm not sure which name goes with which hand. I don't think it's important.

Best thing about this latest craze: we always have one of her toys around and I cannot tell you how many times this has saved my butt on the subway.

Though the handdolls hasn't really helped on road trips because driving down the 401 with one arm extended into the backseat so it can have it's 'diaper changed' is nearly impossible. It also would be super hard to explain to the police officer when pulled over. "Sorry officer, it was an emergency diaper change for my - uh - hand?". My standard line with the cops is "I'm being chased by the devil" while making devil horns with both hands and looking as insane as possible. Which isn't really that hard. ANYHOW.

Sure, folks look at us like we have three heads when they see us letting our daughter contort us into sometimes painful positions but I know they are just jealous that they spent so much on name-brand, licensed toys and creepy looking dolls when in reality, baby dolls were so easily on hand (hee).

High five for free toys!

Only problem, she tries to detach them from the packaging with so much force, I'm afraid I may dislocate my shoulder before she grows out of this phase.

Based on the scary/slutty looking dolls that hang on the shelves these days, a shoulder dislocation is a risk I'm will to take. Anyhow, Gigi has demonstrated she has very little tolerance for anything so trampy looking - gawd knows I hear it every time I go to slap on some war paint.

I've gone straight (well kinda)

OK, so life has been totally insane for weeks now but in a good way. It has been difficult to post here at motherbumper which is weird because I've been writing my little butt off every spare moment that I can find.

What have I been writing about that hasn't been appearing on motherbumper? Well Gigi and I have been all over town doing research for my new job. You read that right: I've gone legit and gots me a job.

When I heard that City Mama, Stefania was looking for City Editors for places all over North America, I thought "wow, I could get a job talking about the stuff that Gigi and I do each and every day? HOLY HECK!".

Seriously, do you know how many times in the past I've written a post about things we find around town or tidbits I've discovered about cracking the code of my child and then never published because I didn't think it was suitable for motherbumper? Of course you don't because I don't publish those posts. But trust me when I say it happens often.

So I checked out the site that was looking for contributors because I've tried out some other parenting sites and found they were just are too broad or overwhelming corporate for my liking. But when I checked out Savvy Source the first thing that struck me was the focus - preschoolers and only preschoolers. And then I noticed they have some fantastic bloggers that I adore covering their home cities (I lifted the list below from Christina over at A Mommy Story). Then I said "sold, now how do I get them to hire me?" So I wrote my little heart out, maybe threw out a bribe, with buttery words or two, and managed to land myself the Toronto City Editor job.


Now I'm a very proud member of this looooooong list of City Editors from around North America:

Christina (Columbus)

Shawn Burns (Silicon Valley)

Kim Mordecai (Sacramento)

Jonathon Morgan (Austin)

Caitlin Giles (Chicago)

Mike Adamick (San Francisco)

Leticia (DC Metro)

Rachel Mosteller (Houston)

Casey of Moosh in Indy (Indianapolis)

Colleen (Delaney Diaries) (San Antonio)

Aimee of Greeblemonkey (Denver)

Rita Arens of Surrender Dorothy (Kansas City)

Jenny Ciampa (San Diego)

Bethany Dunn (Seattle)

Kelly Leahy (New Orleans)

Amy Kuras (Detroit)

Nicole Teed (Charleston)

Meredith Pelham (Nashville)

Julie Woo Yang (Honolulu)

Amy Davis (The Lovely Mrs. Davis) (Atlanta)

Becky (Tampa) (Tampa)

Heather Gibbs Flett(Rookie Moms) (Oakland/Berkeley)

Whitney Moss (Rookie Moms) (Oakland/Berkeley)

Kim Prince (San Fernando Valley)

Amelia Sprout (Minneapolis/St. Paul)

Jill Notkin (Boston)

Nina Moon (Los Angeles)

Gwendolyn Floyd (Vancouver)

If you have a preschooler in the Toronto area and are looking for things to do or have any suggestions of places, events, parks, drop-in centres, etc that Gigi and I should check out in the city, please come on over to Savvy Source Toronto and drop me a comment or email at SavvyToronto [@] gmail [.] com. I'm there every weekday and totally looking forward to hearing from you (no seriously, I am).

And don't worry (like you were really worried but), I'll still be over here dropping f-bombs and spinning stories about crazed emus or things my daughter has lodged up her nose, because that's what being a motherbumper is all about.

you know when you are...

You know when you are a parent to a preschooler when: a search for a subway token reveals the contents of your pocket include the following items:

(1) A piece of threaded bolt-like garbage item that is very VERY important to my daughter and if lost will result in tantrum when not produced upon request. By keeping this particular piece of garbage treasure in my pocket means it will never be requested because I SWEAR to gawd, this child has a sixth sense for items I have thrown out or gotten rid of in order to make some space around this extremely cramped space we call home. And if I have to make space by cleaning out her huge collection of precious garbage found items, I think you can pretty much assume we are at war.

(2) Animal feed. This is feed for actual animals and not my child who only appears to be partially wild when her mom has the kahoonas to throw away her precious, so very precious* garbage treasures.
* must be said like you are channelling Gollum

Any other parents of garbage treasure collectors out there? Help.

what nerve

How dare she does something like this to her mommy.

How dare she grows up so fast that her mommy doesn't even have a chance to say goodbye to those disappearing baby days.

Where does she get the nerve to she say to me "Mom, I'm not a baby anymore" all while barely grasping the rail of the escalator up to the bus terminal. How dare she make that announcement without my prior knowledge.

How dare she announce "I'm a girl now mommy, not a baby" with such pride and sense of accomplishment. Because mommy just isn't ready for this right now.

I'm not ready at all to let go of that baby one bit.

Dammit - I don't have a choice, do I?

All I can do is respond with a very wistful "You're right Gigi, you're not a baby anymore" and hope she doesn't see the leaks in my eyeballs.

Damn leaky eyeballs. They give me away every single time. How is someone supposed to be a tough motherbumper, when they are thrown greeting card sentiment filled love bombs at every turn? Oh well, it's what I signed up for.

Friendly reminder: Today is the last day to enter my Build-A-Bear draw for a $25 dollar gift card - draw will be happening tonight so hop to it.

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.

In a boundry country

Bumper has really increased the usual testing of the boundaries lately. Like by about 1000%. Give or take 17%.

For instance in the food arena, offers of her favourite hummus result in her taking a mouth full of water and what possibly what might have been a covertly chewed crayon (still can't crack that wax habit) and spitting (!) it into the recently opened tub of chick pea delight.

This was followed by a slap shot of her plate onto the floor. Then a request for more falafel and hummus, the recently flooded and flying food.

Since I cannot deny this is my kid - basically because we are home alone and there is no one else to blame - I do what any average parent does, I burst into tears hold back the urge to yell and speak in an even voice, simply explaining that this behaviour is not acceptable then this is followed with pleas for the return of your other child, the one who smiles, says thank you mommy when served her meal, and eats without too much fuss then I ask her to help clean up and we move on. So far it's being met with mediocre success.

Success is considered achieved if I can get her to help clean up the mess in any part and failure would be something like... say, her throwing a full glass of liquid anything at me.

The most recent (yes, multiple incidents - it's like she's practicing to be a diva and I'm her lover scorned) was thrown while I was standing near my lifeline laptop (near accounts for 1/3 of our living space - our type of apartment dwelling falls under the real estate code descriptor of "cozy"). She wailed with laughter and scout's honour, I wasn't using the laptop at the time - we had just finished dancing to Basement Jaxx (for the 50 billionth time). All was calm and apparently the temptation to throw something at mom was too hard to resist.

This phase is exhausting. I'm apparently no fun right now but these statements are punctuated with "LOVE YOU MOMMY" or "hug me" or "you're so pretty mommy". And then good behaviour until the next outburst. It's like living with a lunatic.

And to think, that used to be my crown to wear.

you are the lunatic mommy
not me - not by a longshot

Six months to three and I shudder to think what that age might bring. Hold me.

Oh and in case you are trying to figure out why I have Big Country up there at the top - no real reason other than the namesake song is stuck in my head - go Scottish 80s rock!

next up, moby

Monday started somewhat as expected. I'm definitely sick with something low grade, more ick than yuck, but manageable compared to previous fair this season has offered. I'm upright, and basically just having body aches and a bit of vertigo.

Something inner ear perhaps? Whatever it is, it better not take up residence for long or I'll go postal on it.

Anyhow, threatening to pull out the raving lunatic face essentially means nothing to the germs within, but the going crazy will directly effect the subject or possible focus of future posts. Pray for a quick recovery. Too much whine and cheese makes for bad reading.

Moving right along - in the morning SB and I confirmed that we had all the necessary parts of Bumper's nursery co-op registration filled out. Money, are all cheques filled out properly - yup, police check - Bumper has a reputation - completed, all the policies understood, initialled and signed. So much to do. Such a huge folder for such a wee person.

Off I went, forms, medical records, our complete family tree, sworn affidavits from ten friends, and the last seven years of our tax returns tucked under my arm. Not an accurate list of the folder contents, but it kinda felt like that. Across the street I went, heading toward the site of our Bumper's very first independent(ish)* activity: Nursery School.

Effort was actually exerted when picking the place (I know! Someone lazy like me in the parental sense, not just taking the closest available spot). Research and visits and searches were conducted by lil' ol' me: lazy butt. Damn proud of that feat. And confident. Kinda.

And yes - it's just a coincidence that this is the closest Nursery to our home - no really, it is.

As for independently(ish)* - word choice due to the fact that it's a co-op and I'll be there on my duty days. Now that should be interesting. Having so many minds to warp at one time, will definitely prove challenging.

Arriving at the gate a few minutes before the registration was to start, a few others were already crammed into the small mud room. The staff was inside the glass doors making prep for the mad rush of parents - many who brought their offspring. I was thankful that this task could be done alone, because personally I was too distracted to parent. I'd probably show off my fine mom skills when Bumper dismantled their photocopier and kidnapped the turtle while mom was lost in thought.

It's a lot of non-refundable money, I thought while tapping my foot and trying to distract myself with small chat with others. It wasn't working - I couldn't stop thinking about how this might be wrong. Maybe she isn't ready to go to school.

No, that's silly. She really needs to get out and meet other kids. She loves organized activities, she survived her first sleep away without a peep. It's the right thing to do.

Registrant #4 goes into the interview room - I'm number five. I could just leave now.

Good gawd, I never noticed that mural on the wall during the tour. It's of motherf**kin' clowns. Six of them.

This is wrong... I should of seen that... what else did I miss?

The clown on the far left looks like that creep out of Saw. This isn't good.

A bead of sweat actually formed above me ear. Am I hyperventilating? Why am I freaking out like this.

Snap out of it. If I was Nick Cage to your Cher, my cheek would be smarting.

Sure, I knew what this freakout was really about but couldn't I find one lame-ass reason that would give me license to run. Because the one about not wanting my daughter to be growing up this fast is just not cutting it.

Moby came in on my left.

Mental note: take this post down or edit before other parents find me out.

I really don't need or want Moby crapping on me.

But seriously - dude was a dead ringer.

Wonder if his kid is nice. Better be.

Gawd - what if she has a class of total bullies and knobs? Wait, her best neighbourhood buddy is registering also. Please let them be in the same class.

I'm gonna faint. I can feel it.

Gripping the sides of the chair and looking completely insane, the room opened and they call number five.

Last chance to leave.

Getting up and putting on that fake smile that I've donned too many times since becoming a parent, I entered the room and sat down on the mini classroom chair. Thrust my hand out, said my name loud and clear, and smiled. Passing myself off as a confident parent. I hope.

It's the right decision but it sure as heck doesn't make it any easier.

Must remember to suggest a repainting of the murals on clean-up day. You know, so I can't blame the flippin' clowns.

She's in - we got our preferences and now I have weeks to fret over our decision. Fun times ahead.

Survivor and Two: not so different after all

Anyone out there watching Survivor Micronesia? I've got to say that there is some b-a-d hair going on on that "Fan" team. Those dudes need a mirror. The ladies are doing fine but the boys, well let's just say the salt-water is not being kind to them. Joel the Hulk looks like he's wearing a Hulk wig, Long-lost-Arquette, Mikey is channelling Elvis, and the Erik the ice-cream scooper (that is not a smart-ass quip by me, he really is an ice-cream scooper) is like Leif Garrett on acid.

Just my two cents. Otherwise the festivities are quite a snooze and HELLO, it's too early for a blind-side. Blind-sides must be executed with precision and it's far too early kids. Patience is a virtue.

Anyhow, patience is something lacking around these parts.

In the past week I have said the words "TWO is kicking my butt" about a zillion times. Give or take a billion. But seriously, that somewhat romantic but small number is making me curl up all fetal-like and cry.

I'm not sure how such a small number, encased in such a teeny-tiny armoured shell can be such a butt kicker but it is. And it is successfully bringing down two totally immature adults.

It has to be the number TWO that has possessed our child. TWO is mind numbing, yet we are in awe of it's super powers.
Our little lady could not possibly be behaving like every single freakin' event and action in the world is in exact opposition of her, which only can be corrected with brain-piercing screams, throwing of all objects not nailed down in close proximity, and general feral-behaviour. It must be TWO!

Yet thirty-odd seconds after the last scream has burrowed into my brain and the last glass has broken in the cupboard, we have our child back.

She is singing, butterflies flit around her head, small woodland creatures gather at her feet, everything is soft-lit, and all is right in the world. It usually happens right before (or immediately after) I snap and therefore this sudden switch in toddler-personality makes my reaction seem over-dramatic.

Yes, it's got to be me that's being over-dramatic.

Hell no, these days the Oscar definitely goes to Bumper for best non-approved stunts, best over-dramatic acting, and least original screenplay.

Motherbumper gives up. TWO wins.

Oh I know, you've heard or even experience this all before and it will pass. And something else will hijack my child and I will be begging TWO to come back in the most pathetic ways possible [post pending - approximate ETA: Bumper's 3rd birthday].

But the main reason that I record these days - these feelings of absolute defeat without the option to give-up - the main reason I write these thoughts down is for future reference.

I know that one day in the future 16 year old Bumper will bring home a tattooed, pierced, motorcycle-riding, odd-smelling boy of undetermined age and tells us "I will be home when I'm home, and NO! I will not tell you where I am going, and OMG, butt-out MOM".

Yes, I pretend that my child will say "butt-out" when she's a teenager, yet I am fully aware that my delusion of her escaping 'yar "curse of the potty-mouth" is slim to none.

Anyhow, when she brings this absolute winner of a (gag) boyfriend home: I will look back at TWO and I will laugh.

This post will be re-read and then I will uncork another bottle of tequila. And while balancing the salt shaker in the crook of my arm and grasping lemon slices with my free hand, I will remind myself that I once thought TWO was the hard days. Resume fetal position.

The Wingman Falleth Away

There are many sacrifices that the good parent submits to when opening heart and home to a child.

Notice how I said good parent. Oh do not let what I assume make an ass of you and me.

Speaking of butt (how's that for a segue?), the sacrifice I'm talking about today is bathroom privacy or lack there of.

I've had my little porcelain wingman for over 28 months. I'm proud to say she has never had to hold my hair back from over-indulgence. That's my husbands job and she's usually asleep by that time anyway.

Anyhow...

In the early days Bumper lay on a blanket in the hall floor, letting the cats sniff her while she lay helplessly, waiting for mom to do her business. It was a good arrangement. She couldn't see anything, do anything, or create any problems.

Then gawd dammit, at an early age (the kind most parents would record but I'm not that kind of parent) she started flipping like a pancake. Look at me! FLIP! I'm over here now. I thought I had months before that would happen. Big Sigh.

So the blanket wasn't enough. In retrospect it was, but being a nervous newbie, I was certain she would roll away, get stuck to one of my dirty base boards, someone would phone child services and I'd be featured on the local evening news as the mom who left her helpless infant stuck to a baseboard to succumb to the evils of dust bunnies the size of bison. Dramatic, n'est pas?

She really started to get too active for being a strapped down door lurker. So I brought her into the library bathroom, supplied books, toys, and lively discussion topics for entertainment during "business" and bathing.

It worked for a short time until she discovered a new place to put and wash toys. So I started setting up gates in the hall outside, blocking the commode, and created a baby corral if you will, and all was good in the world.

Then somebody taught her how to talk. Nice one Dad. And the questions started. What are you doing mommy? What's that mommy? Oh you know the ones I'm talking about. The ones you don't want to answer while trying to conduct a successful business meeting.

Oh, and did I tell you about the time she threw the toilet brush into the shower while I was getting clean? I won't forget it nor will my legs - because I scrubbed them with BLEACH!

But I won't bog you down with details you already know and have experienced yourself.

Lately my wingman has spent time standing in the doorway, talking or reading or running around but never allowing me to close the door completely. Noooooooo! Mommmm-meeee! No door close! Ever since having my hoohaw on display for all to see in that hospital room many moons ago, I've really tried hard to get over the entire privacy thing and begrudgingly left the door wide open for her - I guess as reassurance that I'll come back out.

So I was over the moon (actually I was pulling a moon at the time) when she recently announced that I'm too stinky and that I need to close the door. Sweet bathroom of mine, you and I can be alone once more!

Apparently smell is the last sense to develop because OMG she just noticed?

Update to the sleep situation here at Casa Bump: She woke up 5AM this morning folks - which is a vast improvement over 4:30. It's kind of like being tortured but instead of being left hanging upside down 24/7, your captor gives you a five minute breather between sessions. Yup, it's just like that.

I'm glad to be bad

That's what my daughter said to me last night while trying to get her to sleep.

Actually it went like this:

[cue Bumper jumping on bed, ignoring the silly demand from me to stop jumping on the bed and put on a diaper sometime this year]
While I appreciate the poetic rhythm, the word stupid makes me cringe.

Sure, stupid has it's place but to hear it come out of Bumper's mouth made me sit-up, drop the doritos, protest, and correct (after - unfortunately - laughing and repeating it out loud. Because oh my holy heck, what she said is totally funny).

But I protested not because Bumper was using the word correctly but because stupid is one of those stabby words and stabby words really hurt on all kinds of playgrounds. She needs to know that and I've decided it's banned in this household with the exception of political discussions.

Anyhow, before you go screaming "omg motherbumper, I can't believe you use that type of language around your child"... well you don't read this blog often, do you? because stupid should be the least of your concerns you can't blame me.

Yes you can. Hell, stupid is nothing. You should have heard what I said when I stubbed my toe on the doorframe yesterday. Now Bumper can easily make truck drivers and sailors blush or maybe even cry. Okay, so you can blame me but I didn't actually say it, so does that make it better?

She heard a young girl saying "stupid dog" in Toy Story and that irritating phrase remained in Bumper's guide book for weeks. I thought I had it out of circulation but noooooooooo, it's been republished and reformatted. Tonight she was cranky and "stupid" came back out to play. One step forward, three steps back.

Her crankiness comes after a streak of excellent sleep (unblogged for fear of cursing). The streak is over and all things related to rest, relaxation, routine and energetic feelings (I was just getting that feeling back) (sob) - well all of those wonderful things have been stolen by the little goblin named Grumper*.
*not to be confused with the toddler formerly known as V but completely related to - or possibly may be - Bumper. Security video tapes are being analysed by experts as this goes out.

Her sleep routine is so dependent on the cycles of the moon, position of Saturn, price of crude oil, flight patterns of butterflies, and all this must be factored with the percentage of mainstream medias "news" story involving either Britney, Lindsay, or Paris. When all of these factors come together with the right coordinates, we have good sleep patterns. This alignment is also known to allow Kristen the ability to change her template that I helped make bullet and blogger proof.

Do those requirements sound a wee bit complicated? Try living it.

The exhaustion is killin' us all. Combined with the cold (currently -18 with a windchill of -30 - where do we live, with Pingu?) I'm trying to convince the family to hibernate (yes, yes, I'm still on this pro-hibernation kick).

Yesterday and today our wake-up call has been 4:30am. The previous few days 5:30am. No naps on any of these days and bedtime takes forever. How can someone not love sleep? It boggles my mind.

I'm so glad that she so damn smart, mind-blowing, entertaining and charming
For those reasons, I can almost overlook the sleep deprivation and name calling