Monthly Archives: August 2010

Garmins don’t work if you don’t use them.

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“I think fall is coming!” Jake said happily, looking at the orange leaves on the grass below our Mayday tree. It is weird that two weeks ago we were doing this:


And now I’m wearing a sweater. August in Calgary. My thoughts, since we returned from vacation, have been turning to back to school, specifically in the clothing department since my children are looking decidedly like hobos. Yesterday, though, I went to Mountain Equipment Co-Op to pick up a lined jacket for Mark – Jake, in the tradition of subsequent children everywhere, is the recipient of Mark’s old jacket: “Mark, this is the jacket you GAVE me” he says in a heartbreakingly cheerful way – and it was a trip filled with mental anguish on my part. I’ve mentioned, I’m sure, my absolutely terrible sense of direction. I Mapquest everything, both directions. I once got so lost driving through Houston in a rental car that I actually LEFT Houston and ended up in a gas station in Sugarland, where the attendant informed me I was in an entirely different location and I cried a little, then turned the wrong way to get back on the interstate and drove for twenty minutes before realizing my mistake and making an illegal u-turn on some strange Texan secondary road. It’s like I am destroying the women’s movement with every turn of my wheels; like I’m just begging for some man to ruffle my hair and tell me not to worry my pretty little head about it, driving is a man’s job anyway, and am I crying because it’s my ladies’ days? Then best not to go hiking in the woods. My husband, exasperated with what he perceives as mental laziness in the matter of directions – “How can you not know which way is north? You’re a smart person!” – bought me a Garmin, which seems to have only escalated my direction-related anxiety, since I’m sure that it’s going to give me weird directions and also I only remember to use it when I’m actually driving and certainly unable to locate it, type in an address, and affix it to my windshield.

So I was heading to the Mountain Equipment Co-Op, a place where I have been many, many times, and also used to live within walking distance to, and yet. And yet I was coming from a different direction and therefore I couldn’t picture where, exactly, I was supposed to turn to get there. True story. I used to live within walking distance to it and yet I could not figure out where to turn. I finally circled around to some streets that would surely lead me to my destination, only to find them CLOSED due to construction. Did I mention it was pouring rain and there was a tangle of traffic? And that my kids were in the back seat, talking, talking, talking. And then once we did get there no parking spots were available and I circled the lot, whilst children talked. And talked. And talked.

You know, it’s the talking that can kill you. So I was pretty much in need of a sedative/drink/box of cupcakes by the time someone pulled out of a parking spot, and I flipped on my turn signal. The man pulling out suddenly put his car into park, jumped out of his car, and headed toward me, hand outstretched. He handed me his ticket from the parking meter, with time left on it, and told me he hoped I was having a good day. And after that small, kind gesture, I was.

I’m With Stupid

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My husband went back to work this week after two weeks off, and to be honest, I oscillated between looking forward to getting back to regular routine and dreading the kids’ emotional fallout from getting back into our regular routine. This week has been fine, anticlimactically enough, and so yesterday we went to an amusement park with a good friend and her daughters. We were standing in line, and I noticed the twentysomething guy behind us wearing a t-shirt proclaiming “Vagitarian”.

Ew. Also? Unlikely. I’m fairly certain that someone advertising himself as a Vagitarian is more likely to be living in his parents’ basement playing Wii and using his mother’s back copies of Glamour magazine instead of purchasing pornography than he is to actually have been ever involved in an intimate relationship with a woman. I’m just speculating here, but that seems the most likely conclusion. I mean, I cannot imagine any self-respecting woman seeing a guy in a Vagitarian shirt and thinking that she would like a piece of that action, yes please, and can you keep that shirt on for the duration? Seriously. I once saw a guy wearing a shirt that read “Yes, it IS that big!” Uh huh. Sure it is.

Of course, I am writing this while wearing a shirt that says “Harmony, Peace, Serenity”, so I’m not sure what that says about me as a person.

T-shirts with statements are strange things. On the one hand, I find them somewhat amusing when I see them in a store. When I see them actually being worn, I have the same feeling that I have when I see personalized license plates – somewhat LAME. Or worse. I saw a little onesie that said “All Mommy wanted was a back rub”, which is slightly amusing, I guess, but if I actually saw it being worn by an infant, I would be absolutely appalled.

No one is quite immune to the lure of the t-shirt, though. Recently my husband and I were in Banff for the night and immediately following a meal in which I was channelling my inner Carrie Bradshaw by drinking one too many Cosmopolitans we stopped in one of those tacky tourist shops. Right in front of me was a shirt that said “Too pretty for math”. Squee! I wanted that shirt right away and had I had two too many Cosmopolitans, instead of one, I probably would have purchased it on the spot, but as it was, I still was somewhat capable of rational thought: a) the population at large does not know me, so the irony of the statement would be unappreciated, and b) a woman in her mid-thirties with permanent forehead creases, grey roots, and varicose veins wearing such a shirt is pathetic at best.

So perhaps I should follow my own “Harmony, Peace, Serenity” t-shirt and give the “Vagitarian” the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was channelling his inner Frank the Tank when his t-shirt was purchased. Perhaps.

Travelled down that road and back again

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So I’ve been feeling blue and gloomy and then I realized this morning that in four weeks the kids are back at school, and a cursory glance at their dressers indicates that every single pair of pants they own have no knees. I’m not saying they have small rips, either, I mean that when they are kneeling on the ground large amounts of their legs are exposed. So I took my blue and gloomy self to the mall today, where I was immediately faced with the Gap, advertising – girls of the 80’s, are you ready for this? – jeans with zippered ankles. Zippered ankles! I stood and stared until it got weird, then I snapped out of my reverie to notice the mall was filled with young girls, all wearing jeans tight at the ankles with big, blousy tops and pointy-toed flats. What’s next? Acid wash denim? Bubble skirts? Going through a can of Salon Selectives hairspray every week to obtain rock hard four inch vertical bangs? Because I honestly don’t think the environment can withstand that kind of abuse.

If that wasn’t enough, I walked past the Apple store and the hundreds of people waiting for the new iPhone. There’s a new iPhone? My cell phone doesn’t even have voice mail. I feel like maybe tomorrow I would be shuffling around with a walker, wearing turquoise slacks and a floral blouse, with matching plastic jewellery and a gigantic purse containing a change purse and a roll of Scotch mints.

Then – I know! There’s more! – I walked by American Apparel and it reminded me of this article about the company’s sketchy hiring practices and the ensuing boycotts. Of course, that affects me not at all since American Apparel is not one of the two stores that I actually purchase clothing from, given my great dislike for going into different stores with different sizing methods and different clothing qualities.

When I was in university, I waitressed at a chain restaurant that had similar hiring practices. If a person was to drop off a job application, one was supposed to put a mark on it indicating that person’s “bar appeal”. If that person sat next to you in a bar, my manager explained to me, would you start up a conversation? If not, perhaps there was a position for that person in the kitchen. American Apparel’s hiring practices are not exactly unique, but they are distasteful. In a weird way, it made me think of that Seinfeld episode where George hires a secretary, passing up all the gorgeous, sexy women for the plain and hyper-organized and efficient one. Then – of course – he becomes insanely attracted to her efficacy on the job and they end up having an affair. The point, I guess, is that one should not judge a book by its cover? Or maybe that being a Type A is really really hot? I don’t even know what my point is, except that in writing this, I’m not so blue and gloomy. Even though I feel a bit like I’m one step away from getting a once-a-week hairdo at the local beauty parlour and finding a secondary use for bread bags.

Giselle Bundchen must be an awesome mother, because she breastfeeds.

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I’m not sure what I would do without a supermodel’s parenting advice. Surely I would not be able to be a truly effective parent without it. Especially advice from the lovely mouth of one Giselle Bundchen. First, Giselle has advised me that my pregnancy weight gain was a direct result of my gestational evolution into a human garbage disposal, which is very helpful advice for anyone attempting to lose the baby weight. Now, it appears that Giselle is advising that there should be an international law stating that every woman should breastfeed for at least six months. Breastfeeding is best, and evidently, what is ultimately a personal choice should be made mandatory.

Well, lawdy, Miss Clawdy.

Is there anyone out there, in our generation, who does not believe that breast milk is the optimal choice for a baby? Of course it is. Does that mean that we should make mothers who do not breastfeed feel like inferior mothers? Here is my story.

My firstborn, Mark, was jaundiced at birth and was an indifferent feeder. He was not a strong nurser and matters were not helped by the fact that it took five days for my milk to come in. I supplemented with formula. When my milk did come in, I nursed him constantly. “Cluster feeding” was the term used by the public health nurses. When I stumbled on my nursing log years later, I started to cry, remembering the feeling of waking up every half hour to feed my baby who would fall asleep twenty minutes into feeding. He lost weight. My doctor sent me to the breastfeeding clinic, where I learned to nurse him for an hour, then give him a few ounces of supplemental formula, a ninety minute process that would start over again in an hour, twenty four hours a day. I rented a scary, hospital grade breast pump to increase production. I went on drugs to increase production. I started to lose perspective and began believing that life would always be like this, I would always be exhausted and sore and my life would revolve around feeding and recording diaper changes and worrying about infant weight gain.

I went to the public health clinic. I can see myself perfectly: hair in ponytail, bags under eyes, carrying forty extra pounds and wearing maternity jeans and a DDD nursing bra stuffed with bloody nursing pads from my cracked nipples. I stood next to another new mother at the change station, while we changed our babies’ diapers. She glanced at my diaper bag and the little bottle poking out of it, and started up a conversation. Boy, was she tired! She nursed her baby every hour. The public health nurses, they were amazed at her stamina. They couldn’t believe she could keep up! But she did. She did keep up because her baby needed her and that’s all that mattered, didn’t it. She turned to her baby and cooed, “You just LOVE mommy’s milk, don’t you? Don’t you? You love it!” Then she turned to me with a smile and said, “Remember, any woman can breastfeed. Maybe you just need to try harder.”

I smiled shakily and nodded, my eyes filled with tears. She was right. She must be. I wasn’t trying hard enough. I got a 4.0 in grad school, surely I could breastfeed. I just wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t a good enough mother.

What I didn’t know then was that breastfeeding does not make a good mother. I didn’t know that breastfeeding is just a blip on the map. I stood there and I let that woman, that woman who didn’t know me or anything about me, make a judgement on my ability to mother. I let her make me feel like I was a second class mother. So fuck you, Giselle. Fuck you and your judgements. Fuck you and your attempt at making millions of mothers, whatever their story, feel inferior. Go back to the catwalk and keep your comments to yourself.

Are we there yet…are we there yet…are we there yet…

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I spent nine and a half hours in the minivan today! We’ve been on vacation for the past week, and this morning we left at six to get a nice early start. After less than four hours of driving, we pulled into Golden BC, which is approximately three hours from home. Wow, we said to each other, this is a record! Less than four hours to Golden! We’ll be home so early!

Immediately after that we came across a tragic, horrific accident that subsequently shut the highway down for over two hours. This is where my number one piece of parenting advice becomes relevant in the extreme: ALWAYS HAVE EXTRA SNACKS.

So, nine and a half hours. What is it about car travel? It’s not strenuous. I spent the time sitting, basically, and alternating between doling out sandwiches, changing DVD’s, and occasionally stretching around the back seat to retrieve errant Bakugan balls. It’s not that challenging. However, I look like I spent the day pulling a rickshaw containing an entire family in the middle of the rainforest: tendrils of hair wildly escaping the ponytail, harassed and exhausted expression on face, clothing inexplicably stained. I looked in a mirror and gasped a little, startled. Plus, there’s the little matter of the pimple.

On my (very lovely) vacation I developed a pimple on my jawline. Big deal, right? I would not have cared, really, except that Someone Who Shall Remain Nameless pointed it out to me. “What IS that horrible blemish on your face?” I don’t know about you, but if I notice a pimple on someone’s face, I most certainly don’t comment on it. I don’t know. Maybe that’s just me. Then, in a misguided attempt to soften the blow, the comment after that was something to the effect that I have a lovely complexion, really, except for the horrible blemish. Like instead of a pimple I contracted a particularly horrible strain of leprosy and was suddenly missing my nose.

Anyway, my vacation was lovely with the exception of the pimple and my irrevocably damaged self esteem. There was much sunshine and beach time and enough delicious food and beer to make me think that perhaps I should go on a cleanse to counteract all this eating, drinking, and being merry. I shall tell you all about it but for now I am going to relax with a glass of wine. Perhaps I will start that cleanse tomorrow.