Because they have been taken down!  Today, taking advantage of the reprieve from minus twenty degree daytime highs, my husband and I took the outdoor lights down.  Well, actually, he took the lights down.  I held the ladder and shuddered as little frozen bits of leaves fell from the eaves and got stuck in my hair.

I know, it’s not even January.  Around here, though, one must strike when the iron is hot, or when stepping outside doesn’t make one feel like one has been transported to the planet Hoth.  The fact that I just referenced the planet Hoth indicates just how much Star Wars talk has been going on around here.  Who am I?  What have I become?

My husband goes back to work on Monday, and I have a feeling he may be relieved to do so, since his vacation has mostly been comprised of building or helping to build various Lego sets.  To mix things up, we have also been playing Just Dance on the Wii with the children, and I will say this: I may be consistently twelfth out of twelve while playing Mario Kart, I may die instantly or drive off cliffs in racing games like I’ve never actually driven a car before, and I may be the source of much frustration and/or amusement to my children for every other video game, but I rock at Just Dance.  I don’t mean to brag, but you should see my routine for I’ve Had The Time of My Life.  No one puts Baby in the corner, is what I’m saying here.  I also consistently amaze the children at my ability to get four stars – almost five! – while dancing to California Gurrls.  That’s right, kids.  Watch and learn.

One of the many benefits to having a blog is the ability to go back through old posts and reminice about things that would otherwise be completely forgotten.  I am working on a 2012 year in review, and I have discovered that my New Year’s Resolution last year was to drink less coffee.  What the fuck was I thinking?  I don’t even remember consciously making this resolution, so obviously I did not keep it. 

Are you making resolutions this year?  A friend was telling me about the trend – which has apparently been going on for years, but which I have been hitherto ignorant of – about choosing a word and incorporating it into everyday life.  This strikes me as beautiful and brilliant, and so the word I will choose for 2013 is patience.  Patience not just for my children, but for dealing with other people as well. 

It’s a sweet idea, I think.  Although, I was just severely tested.  While I was writing this, one of my sons, who shall remain nameless, just talked AT me for twenty minutes about some godforsaken Pokemon video game, including every detail about the characters and levels that one could possibly imagine.  I am constantly encouraging my children to have normal conversational skills, and god bless them, they try.  They talk and talk and talk, stopping occasionally to ask ME questions about such topics as Pokemon or Star Wars or Mario Kart.  “Do you think you would like the Boulder Bash or the Togo’s Swing-a-long better?”  Um, I don’t know?  Whatever you think?  I think I really need more patience incorporated in my life, given that this conversation was the oral equivalent to sticking a pin in my eye.  Patience.  Patience.

Yesterday, I was going to write a post.  It was going to be lighthearted, and would describe the rabbit hole I fell down while looking at old photos of the boys, ending up watching old home videos and crying in the manner of Clark Griswold locked in the attic.  “Mama go yo-yoga!” impossibly chubby, not quite two year old Jake exclaimed into the camera.  “Ha ha.  Jake a silly billy.”  Mark, climbing up a slide ladder at the playground, said “Mama, you meet me at other side, okay?” and my own voice answered him that yes, I would.  Later that evening I described the videos to my husband, tearfully saying “I should have enjoyed it more!”  He assured me that I DID enjoy it, to which I answered, irrationally, “But I should have enjoyed EVERY SECOND.”

Yesterday I was out all day until it was time to pick the boys up from school, early dismissal Friday.  I picked them up and took them to get their haircuts: their hair was brushing the tops of their ears, like total hippies.  While they sat in the chairs, getting the number three, finger length on top, I thought about the post I would write.  I would describe my heart aching with nostalgia from watching those videos, while appreciating that I could stand to the side at Beaners’, watching them calmly and like normal people getting their hair cut, happy that they never want to play in the germ-and-urine infested ball pit anymore.  The boys collected their lollipops and I paid for the haircuts.  We went home.  I sat down at the computer to write my post.

But first, I decided to take a look at the news.

I shut down my computer, putting it away without writing a word.  I called the boys upstairs and we watched Christmas Vacation together, the first time for them.  I smiled at them laughing hysterically at Clark falling off the roof and punching the plastic light-up Santa in the face.  I made them their favourite dinner – chicken fingers and oven fries – and I made myself my favourite dinner – Greek salad and pitas.  I allowed the boys to play Wii after dinner and we read a chapter of On The Banks of Plum Creek.  I drank three glasses of wine and went to bed.

It was a pleasant, and very ordinary, Friday.  But my heart ached for the people who would give anything for such an ordinary day.  My heart ached for the people who would fall down the rabbit hole looking at old photos and home videos, knowing that those old photos and home videos was all that was left them.

“I have a feeling you’re not going to do well when the kids leave home,” my husband said to me today.  My parents took the kids to their place at the lake, and when they left the dog – who is me, but in canine form – flopped on the floor, dramatically whimpering.  The dog and I stared at each other in silence for about ten minutes, then I silently moved from room to room, aimlessly staring out the window.  Fortunately my lovely friend popped by for an iced tea in the backyard, or I probably still would be staring out of Jake’s window, singing Landslide to myself, while the dog lay in a heap at my feet.

I’m afraid of changing, cause I’ve built my life around you…

The house is so quiet.  I realized around 4:00 that I didn’t even need to start dinner yet, since it would be lame to eat all by myself at our regular time, instead of waiting for my husband to get home from work.  But, since I am accustomed to eating at early hours with the children, I was starving, so I decided to eat a plate full of crackers with cashew pretend-cheese spread, and drink a beer.  I’m feeling much better now.

Speaking of cashew not-cheese spread, a friend passed on his recipe and I don’t know if it’s super amazing or I’m just so cheese deprived that I’m enjoying anything these days, but it is pretty good!  My husband thinks it’s the latter, by the way.

But what does he know?  Husbands.  They are the reason the “Better Marriage Blanket” was invented.  Have you seen these things?  Apparently this is a real thing.  Although – I don’t know.  It seems a little Saturday Night Live for me.

I don’t know what I love most about this product.  Is it that it completely and quickly absorbs the odor of flatulence?  Is it that it contains technology used by the military to protect against chemical weapons?  Is it that it is recommended as a wedding or anniversary gift?  No, I think it’s the part where it is a real solution to a real problem, and I OWE IT TO MY MARRIAGE.  How many couples are breaking up because of bedtime flatulence?  If this is a joke, I don’t want to know.  I just want to enjoy the thought of giving this blanket as a gift.  You guys seem like you could use this…  Maybe it could be given out in couple’s therapy?

Listen to me.  The children have been gone a mere three hours and all I can write about is flatulence?  It’s like they’re right here with me.

Speaking of silent houses, school starts in two and a half weeks!  Where has the summer gone?  I’m not quite ready to get back into routine, maybe because it’s been a strangely hot and fabulous summer here in YYC, or maybe it’s because I seem to have the attitude THE CHILDREN ARE GONE, I MUST EAT ALL THE CRACKERS AND DRINK ALL THE BEER.  Speaking of which, my beer is empty!  How did THAT happen?

I know all over the continent there is much consternation about school supplies and back-to-school and whatnot, but here’s the great thing about the public system in Calgary: they supply the school supplies!  I mean, there’s a fee and everything, but the fact is that I don’t have to kill myself labeling pencils and finding very specific and colour coded duotangs.  So that’s kind of awesome.  Also kind of awesome – and here’s how you can tell I’m a Canadian girl – I went through all the kids’ winter gear and discovered that buying things that they can grow into really works!  The only things I needed to purchase were a pair of mittens and a hat.  SCORE. 

The house is SO QUIET.  Clearly I’m not ready for back to school, and neither is the dog.  Although, carpe diem.  CARPE FUCKING DIEM.  I think I will take advantage of this situation by having another beer and watching an inappropriate television program.  What do you do when you have the house to yourself?

Time makes you bolder, children get older, I’m getting older tooooooo….

Last week, in what can only be described as an incredible burst of energy – of gittin’ ‘er dun – I made pre-back-to-school appointments for the children to see the doctor, dentist, and optometrist.  I’m not sure what this says about me as a mother, but I’m always very anxious prior to any kind of medical/dental appointment.  It’s like my self-esteem is tied up with healthy checkups and no cavities.  It’s been this way since the kids were born.  What percentile are they in?  75th?  Yesssss.

So I had a teensy bit of a crisis yesterday when Jake – who, like his brother, and if I’m being honest here, also like his parents, is tall and skinny – slipped from the 25th percentile for weight into the tenth.  THE TENTH.  And yes, I know, intellectually I know that these are just numbers, the real indicator is that he’s happy, healthy, energetic, and smart.  I know that those charts are probably inherently flawed, and I know that one cannot fight genetics.  Still.  There’s something unnerving about having a child who is one stomach flu away from being seriously underweight.  Something that makes me want to explain to random strangers that yes, I do feed him, and no, of course I don’t give him low-fat anything, and yes, he is allowed to have ice cream.

I really have to watch myself so that I don’t accidentally give him some kind of complex about it, watching every morsel of food that goes into his mouth and mentally counting his caloric intake.  No one needs that kind of glaring spotlight on their eating habits.  I deeply resent anyone who watches and comments on what I eat, so I will endeavour to relax, Frankie, and trust him to eat what he needs. 

As a society, we are so focused on weight and body image.  If we’re not griping about childhood obesity, we are snarking about Angelina Jolie’s arms or Keira Knightley’s protruding breastbone.  We mock women who may have an eating disorder and dismiss their illness by saying Just eat a cupcake, Jesus.  Then in the next breath we express deep concern about someone’s weight gain, rudeness masked as worry.  I’m so worried about you, it’s not healthy to be so heavy.  Someone who shall remain nameless but who I believe should be unconditionally adoring of my children said to me I wouldn’t love them so much if they were FAT KIDS.  Yes, really.  This person wouldn’t feel the same about my children if they were on the other end of the scale.

It’s disturbing.  And yet it is perfectly acceptable in our society to disparage others who do not fall into the narrow realm of “normal weight”.  Sure, it’s only acceptable to whisper about the obese behind their backs, or on the front cover of the Swimsuit Shockers! edition of Star magazine, but it’s okay to say directly to skinny women that they are horrifying, and we hate them. 

It’s wrong and we all know it.  We all know that our society’s focus on appearances and our unrealistic expectations and impoverished neighbourhood’s inaccessibility to fresh foods and our busy-busy-busy fast-food lifestyles are wrong.  And yet we can only fix the things that we can fix.

So I take a deep breath and I continue to prepare healthy meals for my kids and to stock up on ice cream and whole milk and protein sources, I will not allow myself to shine the blinding fluorescent torture light on Jake’s plate at dinner.  I will not say things like “Just one more bite” or “You can’t leave the table until your plate is clean”.  I will trust him to know what’s best for his body, and as long as I provide him with healthy, calorie dense foods, I will trust him to do the rest. 

I don’t want him to feel like his worth is tied up in what he looks like or what he eats.  As long as he is healthy, he’s fine.  He’s more than fine.  He’s smart, happy, healthy, and energetic. I have struggled with body image for my whole life, I do not want the same for my children.  It’s idealistic, but there it is.  Now excuse me, I have some cookies to bake.

I’ve been blogging for a while now, and I am still blogging for the same reasons I started: for a creative outlet, to ensure my mind didn’t atrophy from and to make connections with other moms and writers.  I feel like I’m part of a blogging community, which is very cool.  You, dear reader, read what I have to say which is beyond cool.  Many blogs that I read back in the day are defunct.  Many blogs are all about giveaways, and product testing, and sponsored posts, but the blogs that I read and love are the ones that are interesting, funny, and from the heart.  Not that I scorn the other kinds of posts – I just won a label pack from my sweet friend Kimberly – but the bloggers that continue to get my love are those that feel like friends to me.  

Back in the day, bloggers gave each other awards often, and I think we should do that more.  We should show the love to the ones we love, right?  And so I am going to pass along the Very Inspiring Blogger award that my dear friend Hannah gave me!  Some of the people I am going to pass this along to are my very good friends, others may not know I exist.  But, as we said in high school, why should we let that stop us?  They don’t even know we exist is no excuse for not giving a loving shout-out, right?  Keep on keeping on, my fellow bloggers.  Dance like no one’s watching.  Write like your mother isn’t reading (my mom totally reads this blog, but she’s polite enough not to comment when I talk all about sexy times).

And without further ado, I shall accept this award!  Here are the rules:

Very Inspiring Blogger Award

1.  Thank the person who gave it to you, and link back to their blog.

Hannah at Hodgepodge and Strawberries gave me this, and she is like my East Coast sister.  She’s an inspiration, even though she refuses to move onto my street so we can be neighbours.  Just because we have no ocean here!  Whatever, we have the Stampede.  Anyway, I adore Hannah, and if we are ever at a blogging conference together, I am going to force her to be my roommate.  Also, she always answers my Star Wars questions, so much that my kids actually ask me to ask her when they have a question.

2.  List seven random things about yourself.

If you’ve been reading this for a while, you probably already know everything about me.  But I will endeavour to come up with seven previously-unknown things.

* Along with every popular song lyric from the 1970s to the early 1990s, I also have in my brain Kenny Rogers’ entire catalogue.  I impressed my father-in-law last week by singing Lucille.

* I love drinking wine, but I hate to be drunk.  I prefer warm fuzziness.

* I hate the term LOL.  And yet, I use smiley face emoticons disturbingly often.  Sometimes I even sign my name – like, with a pen and paper – and add a smiley face.  I do not know what this says about me, except that at one point in my life I a) dotted my i’s with hearts, and b) signed my name with a flower.

* I – like Hannah – wore army boots when I was a teenager.  I paired them with short little babydoll dresses, which is a grand look.  Later I switched to short little plaid kilts and super tight turtlenecks, which may explain my father’s grey hair.

* Kidding!  My father went grey way before that, and since I take after him, I was completely grey by age 30.  Which means I’m going to be colouring my hair for a long, long time.  I envision myself as one of those old ladies with improbably bright red hair.  Also a grand look.  I shall pair it with bleeding lipstick and Chanel No. 5.

* I was feeling sorry for myself when I discovered I have a dairy sensitivity, until one of my besties discovered she has a COFFEE sensitivity.  Like, no coffee, ever.  I am in awe of this. 

* I was once romantically pursued by a guy who later became a much-reviled politician.  But we never went out!  I swear! 

3. Nominate other blogs

The rule was fifteen – FIFTEEN – blogs, but I have amended it to include blogs I am currently loving, and that I find inspiring.  After all, it is the Very Inspiring Blogger award! 

Allison from Bibliomama!  She is hilarious, and if you don’t believe me, read her posts about chaperoning field trips.  Talk about inspiring – field trips I just don’t do.  I always thought that if she lived on my street, we would be hanging out drinking margaritas all the time, so it’s probably good that she doesn’t, because I like my liver and a gal can’t JUST drink margaritas all the time.

Gretchen from Lifenut.  The woman is making her own baseball team.  HER OWN BASEBALL TEAM.  I stand in inspired awe of her and her (soon to be) brood of nine.

Kimberly from All Work and No Play Make Mommy Go Something Something, which is the longest blog name ever, but she writes with great humour and great heart.  She’s a dear friend of mine, whose honesty and strength inspire me. 

Swistle from Swistle.  Whenever a post from Swistle comes up in my reader, I get super excited.  She has five kids – twins in there! – and she is a fabulous writer.  Also, she won a math medal in her youth, which is to say she is my people.  I think she’s the bomb, and she was one of my early blog inspirations. 

Sarah from Sarah Piazza.  Sarah, oh Sarah, my heart breaks with the beauty of her writing.  She’s a lyrical inspiration.

Catherine from Ben and Birdy.  File this one under people who don’t know I exist, but hers was the very first blog I ever read, way back when she wrote for Baby Center.  She wrote an exquisite piece in the latest Brain, Child, which summed up things for me very nicely. 

Julie from Dinner with Julie.  She’s my foodie inspiration, and I spent an evening with her in June of this year, and it was one of the most fun evenings I’ve ever had!  Even if I almost fell asleep when everyone stayed up until almost 10:00, omg. 

Angela from Oh She Glows.  This is a new blog to me – and so she totally doesn’t know I exist – but a friend told me about her when I complained that the vegan cookbook I bought to get ideas for dairy-free recipes just used regular recipes with fake cheese substitutes.  Burn.  I could have totally written a vegan cookbook if I knew you could just put in regular recipes with fake cheese and egg substitutes.  But Angela has a wonderful recipe repertoire!

Ciara from Hilarity in Shoes.  The title alone is enough.  But Ciara is a funny, honest, and heartfelt writer.  We were also born in the same year and have a thing for Little House on the Prairie, so I feel kinship.

So, smooches, inspiring ladies!  Feel free to play along and pass the award along, but if not, just know that you have inspired me with your words.  I just wanted to share the love with you – you are a fabulous group!

A few weeks ago, I picked up We Need To Talk About Kevin from the library, on the recommendation of a friend.  I took it back today, 90% unread.  Over the past couple of weeks, I would pick it up, read half a page, and put it down again, upset and unnerved.  Upon telling him about it, my husband – like my friend’s husband – asked why I would ever want to read such a book.  The answer, as I took it back today, is that I don’t.

When tragedy strikes, some people take deep breaths and hug their children more than usual.  They think about the first time they were allowed to go to a movie by themselves, they think about how they take their good fortune, their family, their very lives for granted.  They vow to do something good for the world; sometimes they even follow through.

Other people, people I don’t like so much, use tragedy as a platform to politicize, or to push their own personal agenda, or – and this is the worst – to sell or market their own products.  As an example, I know someone who, the day after the tsunami in Japan, referred to the tragedy as Mother Nature unleashing her wrath about our collective mistreatment of the earth.  If that wasn’t enough, he then began touting his product that would counteract any negative effects from possible radiation exposure.  TELL ME MORE ABOUT THIS MIRACLE PRODUCT.

I think we can all agree that the days immediately following a tragedy are not appropriate for politics or – god forbid – sales.  

Fuck it.  I AM going to push my own agenda.  That is this: be kind.  Live the change you want to see. 

When I was pregnant, and due before my firstborn would be eighteen months old, I fretted to a girlfriend about the logistics of getting around with two very small children, especially with the long winter looming in front of me.  After giving me some practical advice in the areas of infant carriers and double strollers, she patted my arm and said “Don’t worry.  You’ll be amazed at how helpful perfect strangers can be.”

Her words turned out to be very true.  Countless doors were held open for me as I struggled with the heavy and awkward double stroller, and once someone helped me navigate that same stroller, impossibly stuck in the snow, through a slushy parking lot.  Strangers offered to return my grocery cart for me; they carried my takeout coffee to my car while I wrangled the little ones into their car seats.  A woman smiled at me and said I was doing a good job as I held back tears, holding a screaming, colicky infant in one arm and a tantruming toddler in the other.  Every single one of those acts was almost effortless for the givers, but for me they would change my day; each act was a gift to me, a beam of sunshine in what I would later recognize as one of the most difficult periods of my life, that first winter that I was an exhausted and overwhelmed mother of two children under age two.

All these years later, I remember those moments perfectly.  Those gifts of compassion and kindness inspire me every day to look with compassion and kindness on the world.  There is so much sadness and anger in the world, but we all have the power of choice.  We can all make a choice to make someone’s day a little brighter, with a smile or a hug, an encouraging email or phone call, a kind word or a compliment. 

There is a tenet in yoga called ahimsa, which literally means non-violence or non-harming and stems from the belief that all living things are connected.  I believe this is true and I believe that we all have a responsibility toward each other, to treat each other with kindness, to spread positivity and good energy.  Think of the amazing power in that!  A small gift of compassion can have a snowball effect; one person truly can change the world for the better.

In light of the tragedy in Aurora, remember this: the best way to deal with terrible tragedy is to do something good for the world.  Start with yourself.  Be kind.  Be well.  xo  

If you’re from Calgary, or you know someone from Calgary, or if you have ever been in the vicinity of Calgary, then you know of what I speak.  For the benefit of my readers who are not in the YYC area, I will attempt to educate you on the local cultural phenomenon known as the Calgary Stampede, which is celebrating its 100th birthday this year!

The Stampede takes place for ten days in July, and the Stampede grounds are the site of many a teenage group date/ drunken debauchery/ parents walking around with furrowed brows and crying children.  I don’t go to the Stampede grounds anymore, but I do enjoy the general camaraderie that only decorative hay bales and store windows painted with cartoon cowboys and bucking broncos can bring to an urban platform.  It’s not a big deal to me now, but when I was working in an office downtown, Stampede basically equalled a license to get drunk during the day and on company funds, two-stepping with drunken coworkers and watching them do tequila body shots off of waitresses/prostitutes, wheeeeee.  I am not even kidding about the prostitutes, people.  We like to pretend it actually IS the Wild West out here. 

The weeks following Stampede, divorce attorneys are kept busy, and sales of home pregnancy tests skyrocket.  March brings a mini-baby boom every year.  I have a son born in March, ahem.

Another “benefit” of working in downtown during Stampede is the novelty of being able to don “Western wear” at the office.  For many, that simply means wearing jeans.  For an alarming number of people, though, it means WESTERN WEAR.  I don’t know how many times I was completely startled by a co-worker who, during the rest of the year would be wearing normal business casual clothing, but during Stampede would show up to the office in skin-tight Wranglers, a Stetson, and a shirt with wolves howling at the moon on it.  It was oddly unsettling, like my co-workers had whole other lives aside from stressing out, screaming obscenities at brokers, and breaking phones (true story).

Let me be clear: I’m not a hater.  But this week is full of fashion disasters, and it doesn’t have to be that way.  Little dress worn with cowboy boots and jean jacket?  Cute.  Super short Daisy Dukes with “Save A Horse: Ride A Cowboy” t-shirt?  Skanky.  

As an aside: I really, really want to get one of those shirts when I’m ninety and living in a nursing home.  It will be simultaneously hilarious and horrifying.  Wearing one NOW would indicate that I’m a slutty coug, and would probably alarm my non-cowboy husband, but when I’m ninety?  COMEDY GOLD, BABY. 

But there is good Stampede wear:

I may be biased since I have a total girl-crush on Kate, and also I love all her clothes and her shoes, my god, her SHOES.  There is also terrible Stampede wear:

  
This is a poor, poor choice.

Now, lest you think I’m being judgemental, I’m not.  I just want to prevent complete fashion disaster.  Let me give you the benefit of my experience; back in the early nineties I had a denim vest, for the love of god.  A denim vest.  And I wore it, over a tiny cropped tank top, to the bar.  That denim vest was the catalyst for the only celebrity comparison I ever received: a very, very drunk man told me I looked like Shania Twain.

Note: I do not look like Shania Twain.

Stampede can be fun, though, ignoring the bad fashion and the poor life choices that are frequently made.  This morning my parents took the boys and I to a private pancake breakfast where there was a good band playing, bouncy castles, and a plethora of sno-cones, popcorn, and cotton candy.  Jake received a cone of cotton candy that was way bigger than his head; Mark had three sno-cones.  Good times were had by all.  Plus, it was at the military museum!  Boys + tanks = happiness.