Heated Seats are Blessings, Like Children.

My husband had heated seats installed in my minivan, and I am not exaggerating even a little bit when I say that this is the greatest gift I have ever received, with the exception of my children, without whom I would not likely even have a minivan.  I mean, there are not too many non-parents zooming around in minivans, are there?

But, my goodness, heated seats are possibly the greatest invention since the fucking wheel, especially for someone like me who is always cold and who is in the car at five in the morning.  Let me tell you something: at five in the morning, it doesn’t matter what month it is.  It’s cold. 

The heated seats have improved my quality of life vastly, not that my quality of life was particularly suffering before this, but still.  The last time I had this kind of increase in my life quality was when the boys were babies and I got a lightweight Chariot double stroller.  That, my friends, was paradise in a stroller.  Prior to that I had a heavy Evenflo back-to-front double stroller.  There was a very awkward phase in my children’s lives: Jake outgrew his baby bucket seat at around four months, and was too little to sit up on his own, and if I needed to get groceries, I had a floppy little four month old and a busy little twenty two month old to work with.  It was January when this phase began.  Snowy, cold January.  My options were a) bundle the children up, push them with all my strength in the heavy, cumbersome stroller through the unshovelled sidewalks, get as many things as I could possibly fit in the stroller basket, push the stroller back home, and then collapse with exhaustion, b) drive to the store, put the toddler in the seat of the cart, and strap the screaming baby into the Bjorn in the icy parking lot, while baby was in a gigantic snowsuit and I was in a gigantic coat, and then take the wailing and subsequently overheated children into the grocery store while I lost my mind, or c) stay home.  More often than not I opted for C, which led to a depressing period of loneliness and isolation.  But occasionally I would have to go out immediately, such as the time when Mark had just recovered from a ten day bout of the rotovirus and subsequent explosive diarrhea, and I actually ran out of diapers.  Let me tell you, the day I acquired the Chariot, with its lightweight frame and big wheels that could even go through snowbanks, my life improved dramatically.

Just writing that makes me thankful that the only calamities that now occur when I take the boys grocery shopping are the constant debates as to whether or not Caramilk bars are a staple item, or my concern that their running through the aisles is going to result in someone knocking down and breaking some old lady’s hip, and subsequently, me being shunned from the community.

Speaking of being shunned from the community, I was at the hair therapist this weekend, getting my roots done, and NOT getting my hair dramatically cut, since I’m growing it out, although the growing it out process is somewhat trying.  I also caught up on my pop culture, since I forgot my book, and besides, the book I am reading is Anna Karenina – still – which is not exactly a nice light read for the hair salon, especially when I find myself high on the fumes from all the hair colour.  But I learned a few things by reading the magazines at the salon: Sophia Vergara is three years older than I am – and it’s my birthday in ten days, squeeeee!, The Hunger Games movie is amazing and/or terrible, and Alicia Silverstone feeds her baby by chewing his food for him.  I know.  I know.  I’m late to the party. 

I have to admit, it does squick me out a bit to think of chewing food for my children, but then again, I am easily squicked out.  I don’t even, and never have, kissed my own children on their mouths.  Judge me if you will, but the thought of kissing anyone on the mouth, unless I am getting it on with that person (JUST my husband, thanks) gives me the heebs.  But I know I’m in the minority on that one. 

However, in the case of Alicia Silverstone, well, meh.  Who cares.  Except for the addition of saliva, isn’t that just what baby food is – mushed up regular food?  I mean, yeah, it’s not my thing, but who really cares.  Kids put way worse things in their mouths than their mother’s saliva.  Once, I had to put baby Jake down on the grass at a playpark and dart off to grab Mark as he climbed up a teetery, not-really-safe slide, and by the time I got back to Jake he had put a cigarette butt in this mouth, my god, people, who butts out a cigarette at a children’s playpark, you should all be ashamed of yourselves.  He also used to try to eat the gravel at playparks.  Mark used to chew on his own socks.  They both have thrived despite such horrors, so I’m sure Alicia Silverstone’s child will be just fine.  His name is Bear, though, which gives me pause.  I find the strange naming techniques of today’s celebrities to be quite unnerving, especially considering the rash of copycat names we are sure to see.  When I’m a flame-haired, overly-made up old lady in the nursing home, will my doctor be named BEAR?  Or Indiana, or even Neveah?  Because that will be odd.  Just think about it – a whole generation could be named things like Rats, because that is Star backwards, or maybe Alaska, or Giraffe.  Where does it end?  It makes me long for the innocuous hippie names of the sixties, like Starlight or Sunshine or Rainbow, because at least they are a) not things spelled backwards, b) a state, or c) a wild animal.