Pooches and Pussy Cozies

Mother Nature doesn't play fair but you can make the most of your postpartum hair loss.

Satan Sent Me Spam (or My DVD Player Just Hates Me

Satan's work or Dora the Explorer's?

You're Not In The Boom Boom Room Anymore

Has your bedroom lost its sexy since baby moved in? You're not alone.

I Nominate Myself For The Worst Mommy Blogger Ever

Not your typical mommy blogger.

My Doctor Made Me More Depressed

Talking about depression is difficult, especially when you're talking to idiots.

October 31, 2011

What Must The Neighbours Think (alternate title: I need to stop swearing in front of the kids)

Here is a real conversation I had with M and K this morning:
(Context: We're all dressed up to go to a birthday party and M thinks Daddy needs a wand because she has a princess wand.)
There's the wand and then there's The F*$king Wand
M: Daaaaaaddy, where's your f*$king wand?
NM: M, what did you just say?
M: Where's Daddy's f*$king wand?
NM: <stifling laughter>
M: Where's your f*$king wand, Daddy? Do you have it?
NM: Daddy's upstairs, M. <shouting> Honey, M's asking you something.
K: <shouting from upstairs> What?!
NM: M's asking you something! Go ahead, sweetie.
M: <shouting> Where's your f*$king wand, Daddy?
K: What?
NM: Where's your f*$king wand?
K: My f*$king what?
NM: Your f*$king wand.
K: <now at the top of the stairs looking bewildered> What are you guys talking about?
NM: M wants to know where your f*$king wand is.
K: I don't know, I don't have one.

October 29, 2011

What Goes Down Must Come Up

At first I felt strong, pedalling uphill, into a strong headwind, towing my firstborn behind me. The hill is steep and long, and many a person walks her bike up it, but I'd gone up that hill before and wasn't going to let a little (50 km/hr or 30 mph) wind stop me. My cadence was crap and my handlebars dipped perilously from side to side, but every revolution of my wheels brought me closer to the top. I started to feel like The Little Engine That Could - I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. - except my rhythm was more like I. Think. I. Can. Ithink. I. Can. I. Thinkican.

Before I knew it, the hard part of the ride was done. To make a loop, I masochistically turned up yet another hill on the way home, though a much more forgiving hill. When I crested that lesser hill, I zipped up my soft-shell for the long descent. There would be one molehill on the way home, but most of the climbing was done!

Coasting downhill, with the wind now at my back, I felt invincible. When I got to the turnoff to my street, I decided to go a bit further. The ride was just starting to feel good, why stop now? I flew down the path with my hair streaming behind me. After a few miles, I realized every bit of elevation lost would have to be regained. Crap. Forgetting that M was in the trailer, I hastily pulled a U-turn, almost causing a collision with another cyclist. Double-crap.

The homestretch was a push. The wind had not eased up and if anything had been turned up a notch.  Pulling up in front of my house, I suddenly felt tired, sink-into-bed-fully-dressed tired. Of course now that the Chariot was no longer moving, M was suddenly awake and wanting out. I hauled her out of the trailer and went inside for cookies and milk, the snack of champions.

How do you incorporate your kids into your fitness regime?

October 28, 2011

My (Big) Little Princess

M's First Hallowe'en 2009: Don't touch me with that!
M Playing Dress Up Fall 2011: Where's my Princess dress, Mommy?

October 27, 2011

I'm Pretty Sure I Was A Princess In My Past Life

Featured on BlogHer.com
Since I failed to be pained by a pea beneath my mattress, it's clear that I'm no Princess. However, I'm pretty sure I was a Princess in my last life since certain sensitivities and snobberies persist despite my current modest place in society.

Take my delicate, thin-skinned, long fingered hands, for example. These are not the hands of a peasant or craftsman, these are hands that chap at the touch of household cleaners and become useless at the sight of toys thrown in the toilet. These are the hands of someone who had a plethora of servants in another era.

And don't even think about putting costume jewellery on these dainty hands! Only 18 karat (and up) gold will do. The same goes for these tender earlobes and creamy neck. My husband experimented with 14 K gold earrings as a Valentine's Day gift, thinking it was all in my head, and lo and behold, my ears wept,  crusted over, and soon were aglow with the fire of infection. Only folks with substantial means can afford 18 K gold, no?

I loathe housework of any kind, but spend copious amounts of time in the kitchen preparing a variety of culinary delights. This would seem out of character for a Princess, but since our household budget is equivalent to what a Princess would spend on her dog, if I want to eat the high-class food I deserve, I must make it myself. While we're on the subject of dining, let it be known that I absolutely cannot tolerate cheap wine. A mere sip will give me a sore throat and cough for the rest of the evening. Give me a fine Amarone, Valpolicella, Chianti or Malbec, and I can manage much more. If I have too much, my alter ego pipes up and I start ordering people around. A true sign I used to be a person of power.

And why else every time my husband does something disgusting would I jump to the conclusion that he's secretly trying to kill me? Most women would roll their eyes and exclaim, "Men!" along with some colorful adjectives. Obviously, in at least one of my past lives, I was a royal at risk of assassination!

So you see, friends, life as a middle-class commoner has been challenging for me, but I endure with grace and will continue to make the most of my circumstances. When the girls learn about Disneyland and think we should go there to see the Princesses, I will tell them there's no need because there's a former Princess (does it matter how many lifetimes ago?) in the house. They will be thrilled to learn all about Princesses from me and be amazed that I was able to conceal my true self for so long. Or, they're think I'm full of crap in which case my secret will remain safe. I'm only sharing it with you so you don't think I'm crazy every time I complain about cleaning or my husband secretly trying to kill me.

Now hand me my fucking tiara!

October 24, 2011

The Princess And The Pee

During the preschool years, like many little girls, I yearned to be a Princess. I practiced walking very daintily and holding my pinky out when I drank tea, used my very best manners whenever I could remember to, made daisy chain crowns, paper crowns and cardboard and tin foil crowns, turned any scrap of fabric into a princess dress (and wore Mommy's high heels to complete the look), and even caught a frog with the intent of kissing it. The latter didn't go so well because of all the frogs I could have chosen, I picked a weak, sickly-looking runt that almost perished in my determined grasp. Disgusted, I tossed it aside convinced that there had to be a more elegant way to go from commoner to royalty.

When I learned that the only other way you could become a Princess (other than by birth or frog kissing) was by marrying a Prince, the fantasy started to fade. I didn't want to get married! Boys were yucky! My Mom and Dad were married and they were super old! I wasn't old! The nail in the coffin was seeing Prince Charles on TV. He was no Prince Charming - he was unattractive and incomprehensible. Being only four years old without a lot of experience with accents (we were living in the most WASP neighbourhood in Canada), I thought he spoke that way because he was like the "special" kids I saw at the mall. I gave up on trying to become a Princess, but maintained hope that I secretly was one and had simply not been discovered yet.

Not long after the fateful Prince sighting, I read the Princess and the Pea (yes, I, not my parents - I was reading the newspaper by the age of four). According to the tale, if one could feel a pea beneath her mattress, she was most definitely a Princess. As soon as the coast was clear, I raided the freezer for frozen peas and tested the theory. I solemnly lay on my mattress, arms crossed over my chest like Sleeping Beauty, while a green pea melted and mushed between my mattress and box spring. Feverish with anticipation, I held my breath and waited for the pea to bruise my ribcage or otherwise announce its presence, but of course, I felt absolutely nothing... until I did feel something... something warm. What a rude awakening! In an instant I knew I wasn't a Princess because I never felt the pea under my mattress, only pee on my mattress. 

Moral of the Story: Let your little girls be Princesses as long as they want and don't ever let them read the Princess and the Pea.

October 22, 2011

No, I Don't Blow Bunnies

As if M doesn't hold enough titles (Master of Manipulation, Dinkerbell, Boss), she has earned one more: Master of Extrapolation. She is her Dad's daughter, a scientist, but a mad one. Given a certain scenario, she will apply it to as many variables as possible to better her position. The usual instance in which we see this complex behaviour is at nap or bedtime. My night-time observations follow.

One summer night when I was putting M to bed, I showed her what a butterfly kiss was. She loved the name, its tickle on her cheek and giggled, "Again? Again?" A few nights later, she surprised me by asking for a blue butterfly kiss, pink butterfly kiss, orange... and ran the gamut of colours in the rainbow from red to purple plus some. I didn't mind this extension of our bedtime routine because how long can it take to give 12 butterfly kisses? Plus, it was so stinking cute! How can you deny your little one kisses?

Bedtime began to take a bit longer when M asked for red polka-dotted butterfly kisses and - you guessed it - orange polka-dotted butterfly kisses, and so on followed by red striped butterfly kisses, orange striped butterfly kisses and so on, followed by red and gold striped butterfly kisses... Her vocabulary and creativity were amazing but exhausting! She's already up so late, 11ish, that we can't afford to have a super long bedtime routine (as it is, it starts around 9 pm, but that's another story).

After a week of psychedelic butterfly kisses, M decided they were getting old. She mixed things up by asking for ladybug kisses. She tried for bee kisses, then remembered that bees sting, so she settled for "just ladybug kisses, please." I didn't get off the hook that easily - she wanted ladybug kisses (same as butterfly kisses, just smaller if that's possible) not only on her cheek, but on her other cheek, hand, other hand, forehead, tummy, arm, and other arm. She even requested a ladybug kiss on her bum (but I turned her down)!

On Thursday, M's friend showed her how to catch a blown kiss. After Eskimo kisses and several cheerfully decorated ladybug kisses, M asked, "Can you blow a kiss for me?" As you can already tell, I have trouble saying no to my girls, so I blew her a kiss and she caught it. Then, she reciprocated. We rallied for a bit, then a lightbulb went on in her head and M asked, "Can you blow a bunny?" Trying not to fall out of bed laughing, I quickly set the record straight lest she tell her friends something seemingly disgusting, "No, honey, I cannot blow a bunny. Mommy doesn't blow bunnies."

M: What about a baby bunny?
NM: No, no baby bunnies. I blow bubbles with kittens inside them.
M: No bubbles, that's for outside! What about a kitty cat?
NM: Sorry, no kitty cats. <looks confused>
M: What about a tiger? Roar!
NM: Nope, no tigers.
M: Can you blow an elephant?
NM: (I almost lost my shit here) No, definitely no elephants.

M pondered this for a while, glared at me, and gave me three epic seconds of silence (she never shuts up!). By the wronged and disappointed look on her face, I could tell she thought I was making it all up. If we were "doing pretend", anything should be possible, so why wouldn't Mommy blow a bunny? Inevitably, the next words out of her mouth were, "Why NOT, Mommy?" To appease the beast and get her the f$%k to sleep, I said, "Tell you what, munchkin, I'll blow a big pink and purple polka-dotted elephant for you if you go to sleep." Now I have to remember to add kiss to the end so it doesn't sound raunchy. Mommy will blow an elephant kiss, not blow an elephant.

What's the silliest thing your toddler asked you to do?


I hope I'm doing this right! It's week 29 of Finding New Friends Weekend Blog Hop hosted by Shelly from My Saving Game and Jeannette from The Adventures of J-Man and MillerBug!  Thank you all for helping make this hop so successful!  We are finding some fabulous blogs through this hop and having a great time getting to know so many of you!  So thank you for linking up again this week to those of you who are hop veterans and welcome to those who are new!  Let's continue to make new bloggy friends and increase our traffic! We do have a few simple rules for you:

  1. Please follow Naked Mommy Diaries. (If you already follow me on GFC, please follow me on Facebook or Twitter @kkme88.) Leave me a comment on one of my posts so I know you were here and I WILL follow back. : )
  2. Please follow the hostesses My Saving Game and The Adventures of J-Man and MillerBug.  Leave a comment and they will follow you back! (If you already follow them on GFC, follow them on Facebook or Twitter.)
  3. Follow the Guest Host who this week is Mandi from Smile and Mama with Me.
  4. You can link up blogs, facebook, twitter accounts, whatever - just be sure to specify what each link is.
  5. Hop around and find blogs that you enjoy. Be sure to tell them you are following them from Finding New Friends Weekend Blog Hop so they can follow you back!
  6. Have fun!

And The Award Goes To...

Earlier this week, Fundamental Learning Academy for Girls (FLAG) awarded me with the following award:

I was so touched to be recognized by another blogger! And not just any blogger, a bloggess with a cause. Please visit her website to see the work being done by FLAG and how you can help.

The Liebster (German for friend or love) Award spotlights up-and-coming bloggers with less than 200 followers. Now it's time for me to pass the torch.


Upon receiving the Liebster Award, you must do the following:
1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Post the award on your blog.
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the Internet – other writers.
5. And best of all – have fun!


Modern Mommy Magic Ashley keeps it interesting with a variety of topics: family life, vegetarianism and open adoption have been recent ones.

southandstrand Kristy's like me, but funnier... and probably smarter. 

Bucket of Ice The Ice Princess is sarcastic and funny. She calls herself passive-aggressive, but seems pretty direct to me!  

I Want a Dumpster Baby If the title doesn't get you laughing, her posts certainly will. 

If Only She Had Applied Herself  Lynda is a 40something mom but sounds young in a good way. She has some good advice about not drinking boxed wine. Man can I relate.

I hope you enjoy these blogs as much as I do! 

October 21, 2011

Photo Friday: Em and Her Little Hands

Are you talking to me?
Em has gotta be the most low-maintenance baby. She feeds herself and soothes herself! No searching for teethers or binkies required. And she's gorgeous. xo

Where are all the comments?

I recently installed Comment Luv to make it easier for readers to see what other bloggers are blogging about. The good news: It works! The bad news: The import old comments feature is currently not working. As soon as the feature has been fixed, I will import your previous comments.

I really value your comments, so please continue to leave me comments. I always reciprocate and follow back. : )

October 20, 2011

Lessons Learned from a Wannabe Baby Name Stealing Bxtch

According to a girl who is no longer my friend, I made a few massive mistakes when I got pregnant with M. For starters, I shouldn't  have gotten pregnant before her. Second, I should have had a boy, not a girl. Third, since I couldn't change my baby's gender, I should have named her something else. Had she told me like that, we could have laughed about it and remained friends. Unfortunately, events unfolded differently due to hormones and crappy communication. I'll take the high road and leave it at that. There's been enough trouble between me and her about names without calling her all the bad ones I know.

It all started at lunch on a brisk winter's day. We were seated at table, waiting for our Chinese food - we didn't feel like muscling our way through the buffet line - and my then-friend, let's call her S, announced she had some news:

S: So, guess what?
NM: What?
S: I'm pregnant.
NM: Really? <squealed loudly enough so all the neighbouring tables look over>
S: You don't seem that surprised. No one is with the second one.
NM: Are you kidding? I totally was! That's awesome, S! When are you due?
S: In September.
NM: Oh wow, so you like got pregnant just a few months after me! Our kids are gonna be almost the same age. Fun!
S: You know, I wanted to tell you the last time I saw you...
NM: But it was too early, that's ok, I get it.
S: Well, I was so gutted when I heard you want to use the name, M (I told her a few months ago). Is that still your first choice?
NM: It's not our first choice, silly, it's her name. We know she's a girl and I already call her that! Did you know I picked the name in 2006 (before I even started dating K)?
S: It's just that I picked that name for my daughter. A long time ago, T (her husband) and I decided if we had a girl we'd name her M.
NM: So our kids will be the same age and have the same name. That's cool.
S: Not really.
NM: What's the problem? It's not like we have the same friends and it doesn't bother me. Anyways, if it makes you feel better, we're not spelling it the way everyone else does.
S: How are you spelling it?
NM: <spells M's name>
S: But it's still the same name!
NM: Yes, but it won't be exactly the same as your daughter. We're spelling it that way so we can also use Japanese characters with a nice meaning. Hey, do you know what you're having?
S: No, but I just have this feeling that it's a girl.
NM: Maybe you'll have another boy and not have to worry about this at all.
S: <gives me a dirty look> I'm just gutted you can't change her name. I picked it first.
NM: Are you kidding me? I don't see what the big deal is if our kids have the same name. And if only one person can have it, it should be me cos I was pregnant first (totally joking).
S: That's not funny.
<awkward silence>
NM: Oh look, it's our food. Wow, that took ages. I'm gonna have to eat and run because I have a 1:00 meeting.

I chalked it up to crazy preggo hormones and gave her some time to settle down. After about a week, I called her at work - no answer. A few days after that, there was still no reply to my voicemail. Rather than stalk her at work, I sent her a text asking if she wanted to get together again for lunch. No reply. I then resorted to Facebook, but noticed she'd placed me in the loser "Limited Profile" group. Very confused, but still eager to work things out, I sent her a simple message asking her how she was doing and telling her I hoped she was feeling better now that she was in the second trimester. No reply. After another round of email, text and Facebook message, I was tired of playing games. There was no point pretending to be friends with someone who wanted no contact with me, all over a baby name that she did not own, so I unfriended her on Facebook. Oh the ease and lightness of it. To unfriend someone is a big deal, but on Facebook, it's a breeze. I felt so relieved that S wouldn't be seeing M's birth announcement and photos. I didn't want her to make it all about her and grieve "her" baby's name. I only wanted to share the news with people who would see the joy in the occasion and celebrate it with me.

After the baby name bullying / attempted baby name stealing incident, I pared my friends list considerably. Although most of the "friends" probably wouldn't kick me to the curb over something so ridiculous, they also didn't seem to care much about me. I questioned the point in being Facebook friends with someone you never communicate with or see in person. If I hadn't exchanged a message, wall post or photo comment with someone in over a year, they were gone. It felt good. And you know what? None of the unfriended seemed to care so it would seem I made the right choice. Life is better when you're surrounded with positive, caring people. Ironic that I learned that from a wannabe baby name stealing bxtch.

Has anyone ever stolen your baby name or put dibs on it?

October 19, 2011

New Mom Must Haves

When you're expecting, you are bombarded with advice on everything from where to deliver the baby, when to go to the chosen birthing location and how to have a pain-free birth (what a crock of s@#t that is), to what color to paint the nursery and the number of onesies to include in your layette. While M was incubating, I eagerly sought out Top 10 [insert baby item here] lists so my bundle of joy could have the best of everything. Friends rallied to the call and overwhelmed my inbox with names and prices of things to buy for the new babe. Magazines, parenting websites, and stores had recommended buy after recommended buy to ponder. I pored through the lists, made my selections, and after countless trips to Toys R Us and Walmart, thought I was totally prepared. Once M came home, I realized that she was all set, but I was not. Sadly absent in all my research were new mom must haves; according to my prenatal class manual, the only things I would need in the early postpartum days were ice pads, stool softeners and personal cleansing bottles.

Since new mom essentials lists have either been compiled by men or childless women, and are as comprehensive as someone giving you the bird when you ask for directions, I have drafted a list of Super Cranky Really Exhausted Witchy Emotional Deranged (SCREWED) New Mom must haves. Someone should pay me for this. Really.

SCREWED New Mom Must Haves
  1. Mouthwash and a Waterpik flosser: I thought my mommy friends were disgusting when they said they were lucky to brush their teeth once a day after baby and were like, "Floss, what's that?" Speculating how gargantuan the bacterial colonies in their mouths were (can they grow cheese in there?) gave me goosebumps. Of course, I judged too soon - four days after M's birth, K went back to work, and more often than not in those first few weeks, when he got home, I was still in my PJs, and hadn't eaten or brushed my teeth. Mouthwash made me feel I was somewhat keeping ahead of the tooth and mouth critters.
  2. Dry Shampoo: Gone are the days of daily showers and leisurely hair washing. Shower when baby sleeps? Ha! Your sleeping baby will either a) wake up screaming the minute you lather up, or b) fail to stir when you turn on the water and end up awake and screaming because you will dash out of the shower to see if she's breathing, trip on your feet because your belly is still so big you can't see your feet and bump into the crib cussing. Either way, you're screwed. By coordinating with friends and family, you may be able to schedule one or two hair washes a week (but don't plan on it). Dry shampoo will be your dirty little secret. It will help you look presentable when guests drop-in, and drop-in they will because you made a little person.
  3. Vacuum cleaner, mop and broom: Of course you already have one of each, but take a close look at them.  Are they so wonderful you would marry them? They should be because you'll spend more time with them than your baby daddy. Time to upgrade (the cleaning tools, not your man).
  4. Ben Wa balls: Kegels will never be the same! Use them while vacuuming with your ridiculously expensive Dyson vacuum. If you don't know why you should kegel, see The Kegel Mantra.
  5. Heavy duty hand cream & Polysporin: You will wash your hands more often than any chef, surgeon or esthetician and get cracked man hands if you aren't careful. Take care of your hands. It scares the kids when Mommy drips blood on their toys (been there, done that).
  6. Mom Uniforms: You will be hating your maternity wear even thought it's the only stuff that fits at first. Splurge on some cute accessories until you feel ready to buy some new clothes then choose carefully so you don't look like a disillusioned fatty desperately trying to channel Britney Spears.
  7. Spanx: A look good and feel good item. There's something about not having lumps and bumps in the wrong places that makes you feel pretty again.
  8. Take out menus, fast food coupons, or frozen food: Yeah, yeah, you eat special food, only organic, nothing processed, no white flour or sugar, blah, blah, blah. I was kind of like that before (only the organic part, I love sugar and white bread!) but when you have no time to cook, crappy food is better than no food. Do you think the starving kids in Ethiopia would turn down chicken nuggets and fries? 
  9. Large capacity washer and dryer:  Get a bigger washer and dryer asap. You say you don't mind doing laundry now, but when you do a load a day and still have heaps of dirty clothes on the floor, you will be wishing you spent the time to research a large capacity washer and dryer before baby arrived. I was fooled into thinking all those itty bitty baby clothes couldn't possibly add up to much, but the reality is that my spat-up on clothes fill up the machine. 
  10. Valium: This is probably contraindicated with breast-feeding so substitute with a good sense of humour and/or wine.
    SCREWED New Mom Splurges / Things to Ask For
    1. Spa gift certificates: Book a massage because you know what happens when you ask your man for one (half-ass rubdown to get in your pants sound familiar?). You don't want to get pregnant again right away do you? If you're not in need of a massage, use the spa treat for waxing because goodness knows the last time you shaved or waxed if you don't have time to even brush your teeth.
    2. Cleaning lady vouchers: You know someone loves you if they pay someone to clean your house! Not having to stress about mess is priceless.
    3. P&G shares: I'm certain every baby born raises the share price - just think of all the diapers, diaper cream, detergent, baby soap, wipes, etc.
    Does that about cover it or have I left anything out? 

    October 18, 2011

    Love you, Daddy

    My relationship with my Dad has changed considerably over the years, but the one constant aspect is love.

    When I was small, I thought my Daddy could make stars. I would watch him from the edge of the garage as he welded things or sharpened skates or lawnmower blades (he owned a landscaping company), see the sparks fly, and think my Dad was the most amazing man on Earth. Piggy-back rides brought me closer to the stars, moon and sun, so I practically lived on my Dad's shoulders until I was three.

    Fast forward a couple years and one of my fondest memories is that of Dad copping out on spanking me. My Mom was quite strict but didn't like to be the enforcer, so would make Dad punish us when we hadn't behaved to her standards ("You wait til your Dad gets home." Sound familiar?) If we had done something bad (talk back, not do what we were told), we would get a smack on the hand with a wooden spoon or belt on the bum. Sometimes though, Dad just didn't think it was fair (Who spanks a kid over a missing cookie?). Incapable of openly defying Mom, he would put a pillow over my backside, give it the strap, then tell me to look sad when I went out. I still smile thinking what a softie he was.

    My sister was almost five years younger than I was, so as I got bigger and more capable, often it was just Daddy and me going to do things like windsurfing, swimming or checking the job sites (and working them! I never told you I was a child laborer, did I?). I can't recall many specific conversations we had, but I cherish the time we spent together. Of course most outings ended with a trip to the ice cream shop or McDonald's so that made time with Daddy extra special. He didn't make a big deal about ice cream dripping on my clothes or on the truck and let me hug and kiss him with food all over my face. I was the luckiest kid (along with my sister)!

    The teen years were a bit rough - I went through a phase where I told my parents I hated them and wished they were dead - but Dad didn't give up on me even though he had his own troubles (Mom didn't give up on me either). By that time, he was hardly working due to mental health issues. It was scary not knowing what was going on with him. He spent a lot of time in his basement room alone. We didn't hang out much then but when he was having a good day, he would express interest in what I was doing and tell me what a good kid I was. I accepted that he was going through something and worried, but didn't know how to help. I just made sure to tell him "Good Night! Love you, Daddy." every night before bed. Some nights I had to tell him through the door - but when he did make it to his door, his eyes would light up and he'd give me a big bear hug.

    Not long after high school graduation, I moved away and a year after, my Dad moved out. From then on, separated by 1,200 kilometres, I visited once a year for a few years, then there was a gap of a couple years, but we kept in touch by email, with occasional letters and phone calls. Although he was burdened with fears and financial woes, he took time to listen to my trivial problems. If I was upset with someone, he would sagely tell me, "He/She is doing the best they can." Food for thought. He himself was doing his best to survive, but unable to work, his best wasn't enough to keep his house. He hid it from us until he had to explain why mail was being returned and his phone was cut off. Somehow, he managed to keep his vehicle and came to visit me in 2002. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the last time I would ever see him. I remember him telling me how proud he was of me, and how I struggled to stay positive knowing he was living in his truck. After some more pleasantries, I asked him where he would go and if he wanted to stay with me, and he changed the subject.

    My father's paranoia didn't allow him to accept the help most of the family so fervently offered. My Grandma and Aunt also invited him to live with them, but he was too afraid.  Over the next year he made his way up the West Coast and was out of contact for most of that time so I didn't even know if he was alive anymore. Every time the phone rang, I prayed it was him calling saying he would come stay with me. I did get a couple emails from different locations asking me to send money, which I did with a message saying, "Call me collect anytime. I miss you and I'm worried about you. Love you!" He never called.

    Finally, Dad "landed" in a better place both geographically and mentally. He started working, made some friends and had an address. Communication became more regular and by mid-summer, eight months after arrival, he said it would be great if I came for a visit. This was a huge leap as he'd discouraged me from coming before (and refused to give me his address) and had turned down my invitation to come stay with me over Christmas. I started to think about when to go but had used up all my holidays for the year and was broke. I spoke to my sister in September and we tossed around the idea of going at Christmas so we could spend more time together than a weekend.

    On October 17, 2007 I received a call telling me I would never get another phone call from my Dad. It didn't seem fair because Dad had been through so much and was doing better. He was only 55! He couldn't be dead! The phone call was supposed to say, "Your father is in the hospital, but he's stable." if there was to be any such call. At least he died quickly and supposedly without pain because he had such a sudden and massive heart attack. Hindsight is 20/20; of course I should have gone to him the instant I knew where he was, but it's too late for could have, would have, should haves. My only hope is that he knew how much his girls loved him.

    I'm still not over his passing and don't know how you can get over the loss of a parent. I have yet to find a final resting place for Dad's ashes, I haven't closed his bank account and I haven't filed his taxes. In time these things will be easier to do and may offer some closure but I'm not ready yet.

    I miss you and love you, Daddy.

    October 17, 2011

    My Husband is Secretly Trying to Kill Me (with Diapers)

    My husband and I frequently play a little game called Something Stinks. It involves him leaving something stinky where it doesn't belong and me sniffing around the house like a bloodhound and screaming "F@#%!" when I find it. After that, if you were a well-fed fly on our wall, you'd hear a foul tirade something along the lines of this (earmuff alert): "What the f@#%, dude?! There are garbage cans for shit like this! How many times do I have to tell you? Our house is not a f@#%ing barn! People live here!! Please don't raise our children like farm animals! Do you want us all to get cholera? Why do you do this?" Actually, I may have exaggerated somewhat - you wouldn't have to be a fly on the wall, anywhere within a hundred yards of our house would put you in hearing range.

    The stinky somethings I find are not your run of the mill dirty socks and half-drunk glasses of milk souring in the sun; they are nasty nappy landmines. Common mine sites include the floor next to the change table (even though there is a diaper pail there), beside the tub (even though there is a garbage can in every washroom), the living room floor (even though there is a diaper pail in the room), and the sofa (WTF? Watch where you sit!), but I have to be vigilant as I receive intel of new locations all the time. If I didn't locate and dispose of the diapers, they would remain untouched for days, the only changes being the increasing stench and number of diapers in the piles. That is, unless the girls disturb them. M knows to stay away, but sometimes the mines are unavoidable when rushing to the potty. Em, with her newly acquired mobility, crawls through the minefields like a kamikaze minesweeper. After gruesome accidents involving diaper face washes and diaper-gelled tootsies, I now conduct a thorough sweep and reclamation work (disinfecting) before letting the kids enter a new zone in our home. The bathrooms take the most time as the floors are carpeted not only in dirty diapers, but bio-hazardous bum rags.

    Strangely, the most common mine site is on top of or beside a garbage can or diaper pail.

    There can't be much satisfaction in that for K because it doesn't take me long to find the stinkies. Why, then? He forgot how to open the bin? Or, he practiced aiming, couldn't get it in and gave up? The hole is way bigger than another hole he has no trouble getting into (why do you think our kids are so close in age?)! Further, he used to play college basketball, so shooting baskets in the trash bin should be a piece of cake. The reason, my friends, is that he is secretly trying to kill me. Whether the diapers are near or far from the garbage can doesn't matter because he knows that I take issue with the stinky somethings not in their rightful place. He knows that my compulsion to dispose of the dirty diapers will overcome my fear of contracting ailments inherent to bum cooties (I do not have OCD, I do not have OCD, I do not have OCD.). What he doesn't know is that I wear protection!

    Then again, he may be on to me... One day last week, K decided to up the ante and put M's used Pull-up on the kitchen table. When I asked him what the hell the Pull-up was doing there, he looked at me with an evil glint in his eyes and said, "It's only a pee diaper".

    By those standards, I should wash the dishes with the toilet brush! And perhaps the children should just stop using diapers and Pull-ups and do their business all over the floors and furniture since that's where their crap ends up anyways! I think this new level of disgustingness is Plan B: He's hoping I will get so worked up invoking the inner demons that I'll stroke out and die. Well I refuse to give him the satisfaction of that happening!

    What to do? I've tried making diaper disposal fun, leaving the lid off the garbage can, and leaving snide notes to no avail. I think the only solution is to potty train Em right away. Seven months isn't too early, is it?

    Some may argue that K is simply trying to get out of changing diapers, but since I lectured him on the dangers of staph and E-Coli bacteria, he enthusiastically volunteers to change diapers every chance he can get. If this isn't solid evidence he is secretly trying to kill me, I don't know what is. Is it too early to look for a lawyer or do I have to die already?

    October 15, 2011

    Toddler Logic

    Scene: Em is napping, M and I have just finished lunch.

    M: What doing, Mommy?
    NM: I'm cleaning up sweetie. We can't leave dirty dishes on the table.
    M: <waits about 20 seconds> What are you doing?
    NM: Putting the food away. I have to do some dishes after, so why don't you go play?
    M: I don't wanna go play! What doing?!
    NM: I told you, I'm cleaning.
    M: You don't have to clean, Mommy.
    NM: Yes I do. Otherwise it'll look like we live in a garbage dump.
    M: I want to live in a garbage dump! You don't have to clean!! Come play!!

    Scene: Em has cold symptoms and a rash so M and I are taking her to the doctor.

    M: Em has a rash on her bum so we have to take her to doctor.
    NM: That's right. We're almost there.
    M: She has a rash on her bum so doctor's gonna listen to her heart with stethoscope. Right, Mommy?
    NM: <laughing silently but super impressed she could make such a long sentence> The doctor might listen to her heart. I think she's gonna look at the rash first though.

    October 14, 2011

    There's more fun on Facebook!

    Naked Mommy Diaries Facebook page now has 99 likes. That means there are 99 fun people to have interesting conversations with. Please join us!

    Photo Friday: Naked Mommy & Daddy Cookies

    It was Canadian Thanksgiving this weekend so M and I made gingerbread cookies. No, it isn't some weird tradition up here, they're more of a Christmas treat, but gingerbread is not too sweet, fun to make with kids and the spices are similar to pumpkin pie spices so I thought what the hell. We cut out gingerbread men, bears, leaves and pumpkins, baked them and then - the best part aside from eating them - decorated them!

    M has a love affair with sprinkles and candy in general, and tends to spill the majority of the decorations on the floor, so we rapidly destroyed a whole party pack of sprinkles (mostly on the pumpkins and leaves) and box of Smarties. Rather than salvage sprinkles from the floor (I was tempted), I grabbed a bag of shredded coconut from the pantry. We used coconut for hair and bear fur. Well, once you put hair on a gingerbread man, it becomes a very life-like thing and you can't stop there. M asked, "Is this a Mommy cookie? Where's her bobos? What about her pee-pee?" Those are her words for private parts. We try to teach her the real words but she prefers hers. Can you blame her? Her names sound so cute! Anyways, I decided this could be a teachable moment so we made a Naked Mommy Cookie. And then of course we had to make a Naked Daddy Cookie.
    Naked Mommy & Naked Daddy Cookies
    I hope she doesn't grow up expecting men's penises to reach to their ankles.

    After consuming several heavily iced and candy coated cookies, we put the Naked Cookies on a tray with some normal (yawn) gingerbread men and left them on the kitchen table for K to admire.
    Naked gingerbread couple & friends
    He grabbed one for a snack and didn't even bat an eye at the naked ones, can you believe it? Or maybe he was busy thinking about how he could sneak poison into them since he's secretly trying to kill me. What do you think?

    October 13, 2011

    The Kegel Mantra

    I had no idea what kegel exercises were until I was in my mid 20s and even once I knew about them, I didn't do them often. I figured why work out your pelvic floor 24/7 and have nothing to show for it, when you could be doing lunges and squats and sculpting an ass that would make J. Lo jealous?

    It wasn't until I got pregnant, that I took up Kegelism and learned the Kegel mantra. My family doctor reminded me every visit to "Kegel, kegel, kegel", my doctor friend facebooked me urging me to "Kegel, kegel, kegel" and yet another friend offered to buy me Ben Wa balls to make the notorious exercises more pleasurable so I would take them up with gusto. Little did she know I would become addicted to vacuuming while kegelling (try it, you'll become a devout Kegelist too).

    Why must one do these invisible exercises? If you strengthen your inner cooch muscles - what's up and beyond the lady bacon let's just say - labour will be a breeze, you'll be able to shoot that baby out like a lunatic from a cannon at a county fair; you won't pee when you cough, sneeze or laugh at ridiculous blog posts; and you'll enjoy sex more because you won't have a big vagina, or tunnel between your legs as one of my bxtches elegantly calls the post-partum vag.

    Now a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. If you go to a comedy show and the main act starts talking about the differences between what men and women want - women want a man with a big dick, no man wants a woman with a big vagina - and asks, "What are those exercises women do to tighten their vaginas?", do NOT answer him! Half in the bag and feeling oh so clever, I loudly and proudly called out, "Kegel exercises!" along with a few other women in the crowd. He rapidly rallied, "There are the big vagina girls." How I wish I could remember the offensive comic's name so I could bombard him with hate mail.

    In closing, Kegelism is the best secret to share with friends. The rituals are simple (and fun!), the benefits are many and no one is going to hell. Are you ready to convert?

    October 11, 2011

    Baby Shower Gifts for Frenemies

    You know those people you rarely see - and don't really like, let's be honest, that's why you don't hang out with them - but you feel obligated to go to their wedding showers (yawn), staggettes (didn't know she could slum it like that), weddings (cheap bitch, no open bar), and then the worst of all, fucking boring baby showers (party for presents with no open bar)?

    Carrie Bradshaw and the gang call them Frenemies, would go to the parties looking marvelous and toting fantastic gifts, but frantically bitch nonstop all the way there, at the party and afterwards. If I don't want to go, I just don't, but I realize that's unconscionable to most. "We went to school together from Kindergarten 'til 11th grade!" Then what happened? Did she become a crack addict and drop out? Did she turn into a slut and not have time for you cos she was banging too many boys? Forget about that crack-smoking whore, please! But if you really must go to the stupid shower, talk to people you don't know or care about, find out how big Mommy's tummy is and taste disgusting crap in a can (barf beef and vegetables baby food, anyone?), here is a killer list of seemingly innocuous baby items that will later wreak havoc on the bitch. Trust me, I've received this crap. Guess some people hated me.

    Baby Gifts for Frenemies 
    1. Tight-fitting items of clothing that need to be pulled over baby's head: Clothes that have to go over the head (sleepers with snaps only on the legs, fooler suits, narrow overalls with no side snaps) and are hard to remove are not a parent or baby's friend when baby's bowels burst. Shit will be everywhere and the word will be spewing from her mouth. If you the cutest outfit ever, there's a very good chance she'll be dealing with a Rocky Horror Poop Show in public! If you can stand to be around the bitch one more time, invite her out so you can witness the horror. Be sure to ask her if that outfit you gave baby still fits (she'll take the hint).
    2. Gender-neutral items of clothing even though you know what she's expecting. This stuff is always pale yellow, pukey green or brown. It's just fugly (you know, fuckin ugly). No more explanation needed, but if you are buying clothes, I recommend going with point #1 rather than this one. Imagining the outcome of #1 is so much more fun than picturing ugly clothes in a donation bin.
    3. Bibs with velcro closures: Velcro is cool if you're mentally handicapped and can't tie your shoelaces, but in your washing machine, it is pure evil. When your frenemy is doing the 104th load of laundry of the week, she will not think to sort and separate said evil bib and I can bet you almost anything that the fucking bib will attach itself to her favorite shirt, panties, or sweater. Since velcro is a non-negotiating hostage taker, the only thing she'll be able to do is rip the items apart and pray for minimal damage in an inconspicuous spot. Of course this shit always happens to brand new $29 Victoria's Secret panties and delicate $80 tank tops, not to Old Navy tees or Fruit of the Loom undies. Again, velcro is evil.
    4. A Gourmet Cookbook. Get one with beautiful pictures to pain her all the more when she's tired, hungry and has no food in the house because she hasn't had time to grocery shop in weeks. 
    5. Baby shoes that are impossible to put on. She will already be feeling exhausted and inept and these two cute shoes will be the end of her when she's running late for a play date and trying to get her kid dressed. She picked the outfit to match the shoes (hopefully-your-hard-to-remove-poop-inviting-outfit) and now has to change baby's clothes and has thrown the shoes against the wall and is cussing rabidly. Hightops with laces are awesome.
    Whatever you do, do NOT provide gift cards or gift receipts. In the case of the latter, she may be cleverer than she looks and return your gifts for better stuff or *gasp* a cash refund. Plus, she'll find out just how cheap you are and let all your other little frenemies know. Happy Shopping!

    What's the worst baby shower gift you ever got?

    October 10, 2011

    Happy Turkey Day! For What Do You Give Thanks Today?

    It's 6 AM and I've been awake since 3:45 AM... in this moment, there wouldn't seem to be a lot to be thankful for, but I am...
    • in a big, warm house (it's 1 C outside tonight!) on a comfy couch (K didn't banish me from the bed, I needed to get away from his loud-not snoring-breathing)
    • drinking a glass of clean, cool water (too early for coffee or something stronger);
    • not hungry in the least (well, I could eat but I don't need to.. damn, now I want a snack);
    • as far as I know, healthy (but given the last comment, I could have worms!);
    • not worried if my husband is up to no good because he's in our bed (he's not a man-whore, I just thought that was funny);
    • not up because my kids are screaming (no explanation needed); and best of all,
    • so madly in love with my husband and kids, it's crazy (<3 x 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000).
    For all of this, and more (this blanket term covers everything from family, friends, YOU, and peace on our continent to cinnamon buns and sexy fall boots), I am thankful. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

    October 9, 2011

    The Mom Uniform

    A couple years ago, while pregnant with M, I read on a parenting forum about being trapped in a wardrobe rut, always wearing the dreaded "Mom Uniform", khakis and a button-down shirt. At the time, I chuckled and made a mental note to mix up my body coverings once baby was born. After M was born, however, I found myself in the Totally Let Myself Go Uniform - I wore the same PJs all day (and night) several days in a row, even though they stunk of spit up. I just didn't see the point in putting on clean clothes when I wasn't clean. Between dealing with normal newborn care, infant GERD (spitting up on steroids) and milk supply issues, I was lucky to shower twice a week.  Sleep and nourishment took precedence over hygiene.

    After five weeks, when I had a moment to think about something other than puke, diapers and pumping, and could entertain the idea of venturing out of the house for other than Baby Wellness appointments, the Mom Uniform came to mind. In my sleep-deprived stupor, I laughed hysterically. Even if I could hoist my pre-baby khakis over my bulging thighs and zip them up, I'd be risking a wardrobe malfunction. I'd already split the ass of my fat jeans keen to wear my old clothes as soon as possible. And as for button-down shirts? Couldn't button them cos my boobs had exploded. Thanks to my milk-enhanced jugs, the rest of my shirts didn't fit either; they were all way too short, exposing my newly-acquired muffin top. I looked like a disillusioned fatty desperately trying to channel Britney Spears. I stood in my closet and cried. I was overwhelmed by all the clothes that didn't fit, the unmercifully unflattering ones that sort of did but made me look fat, and the maternity clothes I loathed and didn't want to wear anymore. I changed four times, finally settling on the least repulsive maternity outfit and made for the mall, armed with plastic, to reinvent the Mom Uniform and take back some self respect.

    I propose the following Mom Uniform criteria:
    • Washable: Forget about that Dry Clean Only silk tank top. It's just gonna get snagged on razor-sharp baby nails or stained with carrot baby food.
    • Right size and fit: To avoid wardrobe malfunctions and muffin top accentuation, avoid items that are too tight. Humility and an honest friend can help you while shopping. When I modeled an ill-fitting pair of jeans I thought was ok because they were better than what I had in my closet, my friend kindly told me, "Those jeans give you a hungry butt." It was true, it wasn't pretty. I thought I could still wear 27" waist jeans, but couldn't. Accept that your body has changed and be ready to try on different sizes. You will be surprised at how much better you look and feel in clothes that fit right. 
    • Iron-Free: Who the hell would wear clothes that require ironing when they have a baby let alone small children? Not only is ironing extremely time consuming, it's downright dangerous. My kids ignore me while I sort and fold laundry, but the minute I get out the ironing board, M is all "Let me help! I wanna watch!" and Baby's like, "I bet if I keep climbing, I can get up there and see what's making clouds!". 
    • Easy boob access if you plan to breastfeed: Consider boob access carefully unless you like playing peekaboo with strangers. All the stylish nursing covers in the world won't help you if Baby decides she wants out from under the cover. This said, long shirts you lift up are a safer bet than shirts with buttons; they're like a second cover you can drop the instant Baby gets antsy. A-line tops/tanks tops, t-shirts, peasant shirts and tunics are great. For the latter, just make sure you can either lift the shirt easily (no tight elastic under the breasts) or the buttons go at least halfway down the shirt.
    My favorite Mom uniforms are tunic and leggings, ruched t-shirt with pretty details (ruched t-shirt allows the t-shirt to drape nicely and not hug the muffin top) & low-rise jeans, and t-shirt and yoga pants (get the ones with a higher waist if you're saggy around the middle).
      If money for an In-Between (until you lose the baby weight) Wardrobe a.k.a. Mom Uniforms is an issue, I recommend one pair of inexpensive jeans that fits well (splurge on designer jeans when you've reached your weight loss goal), one pair of yoga pants, two pairs of leggings (one black and one pair of jeggings), and some nursing-friendly shirts. All except the jeans will still fit if you go down a few sizes, so get as nice ones as you can afford. Keep in mind that the Mom Uniform is not as strict as a Catholic School uniform - you can accessorize and make it your own. If you have beautiful boots or shoes, a cool hoody, funky hat and unique jewelery, no one will notice that you only have four pairs of pants.

      In closing, don't settle on the Totally Let Myself Go Uniform and invest in a Mom Uniform you love. You're worth it!

      What do you wear to feel beautiful?

      October 7, 2011

      Photo Friday: Peekaboo!

      I'm gonna let you in on a little secret: nursing bras are kinky. Whoever says nursing bras aren't sexy hasn't thought hard enough about it. With the magnificently simple ta-ta access, nursing bras are as naughty as crotchless panties. Today's model, Lucky Bear, will demonstrate the Peekaboo Effect.
      Nursing Bra Closed.

      PEEKABOO! Nursing Bra Opened.
      For the record, no animals were harmed in the making of this post. Lucky Bear volunteered her time because a) she is a spotlight whore, b) she likes to get lucky, and c) she owed me a favour. Further, please do not worry about Lucky's discoloured boobs; she doesn't have a skin disease, she just has a farmer's tan (that's what yours would look like if you were lime green).

      Now... Get lucky, tell your friends (about the Peekaboo Effect, not how you did it), and go stock up on nursing bras before they sell out! 

      October 6, 2011

      Put Your Toys Away

      An oldie but goodie with an important reminder to put your toys away:

      I have nightmares about this kind of thing happening while we have company. My girlfriends would likely interview M about the toy (What's that? What's its name? You can turn it on and off? Cool! How fast can you make it go?) while comparing the colour of my face to lipstick and nail polish shades (Very Cherry, An Affair in Red Square) and then would ask for a detailed product review. It would be slightly uncomfortable but not completely traumatizing because it actually wouldn't be the first time we'd shared such info.

      The people I worry about are everyone else. If my husband's coworkers saw an IKEA re-run in my house, even if I could dig a hole big enough to jump into, I don't think I would ever come out! Just cover me up and put a nice stone on top. Since we bought something new recently (3rd Wedding Anniversary Gift = Vibrator, didn't you know?), I told my husband we should invest in a safe because a) our toy collection isn't that big so we could just get a small, inexpensive safe, and b) we eliminate the risk of me leaving toys in bizarre spots (like the linen closet and M's desk) and then forgetting to put them in better hiding spots and God forbid M finds them, but he looked at me like I was insane. He wouldn't say what was crazy: a, b or both. I think he needs to work on being a better communicator.

      If I can't sell him on a safe, any other ideas for secure hiding spots?

      I Nominate Myself For The Worst Mommy Blogger Ever

      Featured on BlogHer.com
      1. My posts contain adult themes (my husband is secretly trying to kill me) and bad language.
      2. Even my baby talks about sex, bribery and extortion so not only am I the Worst Mommy Blogger, I'm the Worst Mom. Aim high!
      3. I'm not gonna give you the homemade playdough recipe even though I have it. It's nothing personal, it's just that there are already 1,824,493 pages with the recipe online so if you ask me, parents need another playdough recipe like they need another poopy diaper to change.
      4. I'm more of a Domestic Goddess than I let on, but unless I'm really desperate for something to write about, I won't be sharing what we had for breakfast/lunch/dinner tonight. Reasons why: a) There are cooking shows that do a way better job of explaining how to make stuff and b) This is not a cooking blog. The exception to date is ButterMILF Waffles because the name was brilliant.
      5. Although this is a diary of sorts - and the blog's name would certainly suggest so - I'm not going to regale you with tales of all the mundane things we do in a day (e.g. I love fall. We raked leaves today. They were so pretty. The kids had fun playing in them. Here are some pictures of my darlings playing in the leaves.)
      6. I don't give good advice, unless you count my instructions on what to do if you put a poopy diaper in the washing machine.
      7. I love my kids but I don't love their shit. That's what it is, it isn't an extension of my babies, it's their excrement so no, I don't have to love it. Expect to hear volumes of complaints about dealing with crap. Honestly, I don't get those moms who assert they love everything about taking care of their kids and exclaim,"It's different when it's your own [child]!" as if their kid's shit don't stink. 
      8. My blog is not inspiring or uplifting and my gratitude list is a joke.
      9. Instead of helpful reviews of kids' movies and books, I tell you what movies will scare the bejeezus out of your kids and what children's books are dirty.
      10. The photos I post are not always politically correct (but what would you expect from someone who calls herself Naked Mommy)? Example: Tranny Mr. Potato Head
      If you know of a worse Mommy Blogger, please let me know. I'd like to relinquish the title a.s.a.p. as I'm feeling the strain from fulfilling my role as Worst Mom.

      October 4, 2011

      Soapbox: The Entitlement Generation

      Last month, I listened to an interesting story on CBC Radio, CBC Books - Are today's students too entitled? As I sat there nodding and occasionally shaking my head, it dawned on me that O M G, I am O L D. Only old farts sit around tsk, tsking "this generation"! However much that will never change, the challenges each generation presents and has to deal with continue to change at a rapid pace.

      The generation entering University now, offspring of the helicopter parents, has been labelled the most entitled generation of all time. They expect high salaries, an extensive employee onboarding program, regular check-in meetings with peers and supervisors to make sure projects are on track, and their parents to intercede on their behalf whether it be grades (in post-secondary) or salary negotiation. They don't have a lot going for them other than knowing how to drive, tweet, download music and program a GPS at the same time.

      How did they get this way? By being spoiled, or coddled if you prefer, by their adoring parents. I used to work in human resources, the helicopter parents are not a myth. They think they are doing their kids a favour by being there every step of the way, but at some point they need to learn to let go so their kids can grow up and be accountable for their own actions. Parents are still packing lunches for high-schoolers and buying them luxury cars. What happened to being an adult? Has childhood been extended into the 20s? Kids need to learn life skills which include being able to feed themselves, keep their rooms clean and take out the trash.

      I am a proud Gen-Xer. We may be less hard working than our parents' generation because we see how hard they worked, how little they were around and how many committed to one employer only to be let go at the first hint of economic downturn, but we are known to be independent and eager to learn new skills. Gen X is probably the last somewhat political generation as well. We cared about causes, organized and attended rallies, and volunteered for nonprofit organizations. If you listen to the CBC clip, you will hear the girl's response to why her generation isn't politically involved - she pretty much says that the University should light the fire under the students' butts and organize events for interested people to attend. Yep, pass the buck and pass me a bucket to puke in at the same time.

      To clearly illustrate how things have changed since I was in my late teens, I provided several scenarios for our guests - My Mom (in the mid 90's), and Today's Mom - to answer. Didn't you know time-travelling was one of my secret talents (and so is it any surprise my kids are tswarpers?)

      Kid: I'm hungry, what's for dinner?
      My Mom: Food, as soon as you help me make it.
      Today's Mom: Steak and lobster. It's just gonna be another 5 minutes on the barby. Do you want a beer while you wait?

      Kid: I want to get a car.
      My Mom: Why, when bus stop's right in front of our house? Since a car isn't a necessity, if you want it, you're gonna have to pay for it.
      Today's Mom: I think an SUV is much better for this climate. Your Dad and I were thinking of the BMW X5 or a Range Rover. What do you think?

      Kid: I want to go away for school.
      My Mom: How are you going to pay for that?
      Today's Mom: Let's start looking for furniture for your new place! Ooh and we can go on a shopping trip to check out the campus!

      Kid: I got a bad mark on that paper I stayed up all night writing. Will you speak to my prof?
      My Mom: Of course not! Your crappy grade is your own fault. You shouldn't have left it to the last minute, stupid girl.
      Today's Mom: Of course, dear. What's his phone number? I'll set up a meeting. Your Dad should probably come too.

      Kid: Is there anything else I can take for lunch? I didn't like yesterday's sandwich.
      My Mom: You made it so I don't know why you're complaining to me.
      Today's Mom: Sorry about that. We ran out of Dijon. Here's $10. Buy whatever you want at the food court.

      Kid: I'm stressed about my midterms. Can we go shopping?
      My Mom: If you're stressed, it's because you haven't been working hard enough. Get back to the books. But if you have free time, you can help me fold this laundry.
      Today's Mom: Oh honey, that's a great idea. We haven't been spending enough time together since you started University. Why don't I book us mani-pedis for after?

      If I were the parent of an entitled kid, I'd be scared about what's gonna happen to me in my old age, but that's not gonna happen as long as I'm boss. Would you agree today's students are overly entitled?

      P.S. I'm recovering from a nasty bug so wasn't able to channel all of the inner demons and be as snarky as usual. Please stay tuned for the next installment of "My husband is secretly trying to kill me" as well as a scandalous Photo Friday.

      October 3, 2011

      Em's Plan to be Boss #1

      Everyone thinks I'm cute, adorable and innocent but I'm no spring chicken (I'm 7 months old now!) and I have a plan - shh, don't tell anyone - to be Boss #1. I don't think it'll be that tough. After all, Mommy and Daddy are already at my beck and call. When I cry, they drop everything to appease me. How did I work this magic? Well you see, I developed an algorithm that tells me how often and long to cry to get the desired response. Yes, I am a little genius in a drooling miniature human's body. No other baby can get her parents to do what mine do! They dote on me, never get mad at me and jerk off over all the new things I'm learning to do and even things that are old like cooing, crawling and laughing. It's like taking candy from a baby, whatever that means! (I can't even eat candy, so of course it would be easy to take away.)

      The wild card in my plan is my illogical sister, M. It seems that she's upset with me for the simple act of being born, but that makes no sense at all! If she wants to be mad at someone over that, she should be pissed at Daddy for knocking Mommy up. Of course I'm old enough to understand how that happens, silly, Daddy was knocking on my door the whole time I was in Mommy's tummy! Anyways, back to my master plan. Pulling the cute card doesn't work with M, she just snatches my toys or hits me (again, illogical behaviour but my research says this is to be expected of a two year old), but that doesn't mean my efforts are in vain. I get cuddled, M gets a time-out and my seniority in the hierarchy is maintained.

      The other options, less desirable especially since I don't have goons for hire and have to do the dirty work myself, are bribery and extortion. Unfortunately I am too small to give her everything she wants (and her wants are many) and too small to be threatening.

      By process of elimination, I've decided that if I can't get her cooperation, I will just have to take her out.  Based on my calculations, if I keep growing at my current rate, I will catch up to my sister, that lightweight, in 9.2 months. Then and only then, sweet revenge will be mine. No longer will she be able to knock me over and bruise my noggin'. I will be able to hold my ground and later, when I'm bigger than her, push back. In the meantime, I will keep looking cute and playing dumb.

      Look out, everyone! Mommy may be the current Boss #1 title-holder, but not for long.

      October 2, 2011

      Quickie: Who's the Boss?

      Scene: K has just taken M out of the bath. I am bathing Em in the ensuite. M is freaking out about her eczema cream.

      M: Special cream! Get it, Daddy! Right now! Where is my special cream?! Get my special cream, Daddy!
      K: <looks for the cream, ignores M>
      NM (me): <pulls Em out of the tub, starts looking for Valium, blood starts to boil>
      M: Daddy! What doing, Daddy? I want my special cream! Right now! Where is it?! Get my special cream, Daddy!
      K: <keeps looking for the cream, ignores M>NM: <gets more and more pissed off, start to invoke inner nasties, waits to see what K will do>
      M: <increases volume to the nth degree>  Daddy! I want it!!! Get my cream, Daddy!! I want my special cream!
      K: <keeps looking for the cream, ignores M>
      M: Daddy! Special cream!!! I want my special cream! Get it right now!
      Repeat the last two lines about 50 times or until M has gone hoarse...
      NM: <storms into bedroom, scowling>
      M: <sees me, drops volume considerably, looks at me entreatingly> Special cream, Mommy? Can you get it, Mommy? I need my special cream.
      NM: <restrained tone> Stop telling us what to do and stop yelling. I know you think you're the boss, but you're not.
      M: <contritely> Sorry, Mommy. You're boss, Mommy. Mommy's the boss, I know.

      And that's why I'm Boss #1.

      Who wears the pants in your house?

      October 1, 2011

      My Husband Is Secretly Trying to Kill Me (with Towels)

      Oh, how my husband is secretly trying to kill me, let me count the ways. Or maybe we should skip to the chase and talk about the irony of ass towels for common use.  My husband is fastidious enough to wash the kids' bums when they poop - wipes aren't good enough for their lil tushes - yet fails to clue in that ass towels must be demoted from rack to hamper immediately. Or maybe he does know that, and it's all part of his evil plan to annihilate Boss #1 (that's me).

      Not surprisingly, I haven't been well since the kids came on scene. For the first time in my life, I've been plagued with gut-wrenching stomach bug after stomach bug (and those bitches don't even give me mercy weight loss). At first, I blamed exhaustion and the resulting lowered immunity. It wasn't until I saw K leave a bio-hazardous bum rag on my towel rack that I put one and one together and went ape-shit crazy (remember, I am a major germ-phobe). Here is the plan I put in motion to foil Boss #2's plan (that's K if you're getting confused):
      1. Invoke all the inner demons for Bitch-Fest 2011. Ooh, did I ever let him have it! You wouldn't hear that many cuss words in one evening from an entire shipload of sailors!
      2. Put a moratorium on ass towels on the towel rack. How did I enforce it? By threatening a Bitch-Fest re-run. 
      3. Celebrate the inauguration of Project Healthy House with copius amounts of alcohol. I hear it kills germs, no? 
      4. Issue an apology to any houseguests that may have inadvertently become infected with something nasty. (Fine print: My apology does not equal acceptance of blame, so don't even think about suing me for your discomforts!)
      Final outcome: Ass towels go in the laundry hamper now... I think. Ok, let's get real, they're probably just thrown on the floor, but that's better than being left for someone to use.

      If I croak before I wake - from E.Coli or staph poisoning, no doubt - you'll let the authorities know what happened, won't ya?


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