I was recently party to a conversation with regards to junior high school. A woman I know was discussing the school we both attended, and she stated “Those were still the best days of my life”. People, I was astonished. Junior high? I myself was so miserable in junior high that I almost can’t comprehend how someone wouldn’t be, let alone being able to think of that time with nostalgia and fondness. Let alone saying that your junior high years were the best days of your life. When I close my eyes I can picture myself perfectly, with a late-eighties spiral perm and teased bangs, tight rolled-up jeans and a tucked-in Depeche Mode t-shirt, and glasses that I refused to wear which subsequently caused me to wander around in semi-blindness until I obtained contacts at the age of fifteen. I can still feel the struggle of fitting in, the difficulty in figuring out who I was, and the almost total lack of self-esteem.

Later, I slowly started to figure out who I was and what I wanted. I can see myself evolving as a teenager, losing the rolled-up jeans, but not, sadly, the perm. I picture myself in a black babydoll dress, tights, and strangely, army boots, which would later make way for short plaid skirts and turtlenecks. My goal in life was to be a concert pianist, and then it was to be a great theatre actress. In grade twelve I was introduced to and fell in love with calculus, which shaped the rest of my academic career. Just writing that makes me feel like Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club (“and in the physics club we talk about physics”). Maybe I should rename this blog “Nerdy Girl in a Boy House”.

I have never been happier than I am right now. I love my husband, my children, my dog. I’ve never been so happy with my physical appearance, despite the fact that my varicose veins make my legs look like they are being strangled by boa constrictors and a hundred fine lines have taken up residence under my eyes. I’m happy and content with my life, but never at any point did I think I would be where I am right now. I, who in grad school had a poster of the feminist manifesto on my office wall beside a picture of a fish on a bicycle, am a housewife.

It’s not like I don’t have some internal struggle with this, especially when I hear about old colleagues achieving success and traveling around the world, or when the boys question me about my pre-partum life. But at the end of the day, this is where I want to be.

Today was a good day, actually a very good day, as opposed to yesterday which was a very bad day. Anyone who is or was a stay-at-home mom can understand how a day in which nothing significant happens can actually be a great day. In the past half hour I have heard phrases uttered such as “Hey, I know! We can BOTH be Batman” and “Let’s be a TEAM” which is nice and heart-warming. I was actually thinking about putting my children up for sale yesterday (hey, they’re cute!) or even myself up for sale (hey, I’m cute!). But today is a much better day.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I actually don’t really like babies. I mean, I love my children so much, and I somewhat enjoyed the time when they were babies, but boy, am I happy they are not babies anymore. I know many many women who think nostalgically about their children’s babyhood, but I am not one of them. Today when I saw them frolicking around the melting snow, and then chasing each other and the dog around the house, I just thought – it just gets better and better, doesn’t it. As they grow into the little people that they are, even the bad days seem not so bad.

Although, I can’t help but think I just jinxed tomorrow.

I don’t know about you, but I LOVE getting new books at Christmas. I just finished one such book – The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – and I have a word of advice: don’t bother. What a bore. Predictable storyline, boring and unsympathetic characters, and a literary style (using letters and correspondence to convey the story) that can work, but in this case just didn’t. I noticed the blurb on the back was written by none other than the celebrated Elizabeth Gilbert.

Now, I’m not sure if I should hack on Elizabeth Gilbert – I mean, did I found a whole you-go-girl-find-yourself-travel-around-the-world-do-some-yoga-build-a-house-for-a-native-Islander movement? No, I did not. – but wow, did I dislike Eat, Pray, Love. Not because of the concept; conceptually it is a very interesting story. I just thought the writing was boring and I found myself really not caring what happened to her, Miss “I Gave Too Much of Myself and So I Get To Live a Fabulous Year Abroad Doing Whatever I Want and Getting Paid For It”. Sorry if that sounded a bit bitter. The thing is, once I finished enjoying the food descriptions in Italy, I found that the rest of the book sort of sucked. One big snore. I really expected more from an acclaimed writer; instead I found myself paging through the book looking for whatever it was that made it a sensation. I still haven’t found it.

The point is – read the blurb on the back of the book. Often the blurb author is a great indicator of the quality of the book. So I’m looking for a book recommendation – anyone?

So I was reading this local parenting magazine, and I came across an article on picky eating. Since my children will not even eat macaroni and cheese – macaroni and cheese! Nectar of the comfort food gods! – I read every single picky eating article I come across. After reading, I realized that it was written by someone I know, which was exciting, and yet depressing, as I know for certain that her children regularly eat everything set in front of them. I have the utmost respect for professional opinions, but when it comes to picky eating, I think you actually have to live with a picky eater before you can offer advice on how to deal with it. Otherwise, it sort of feels like getting parenting advice from a non-parent, a phenomenon which has happened to all of us I’m sure, and is especially lovely when it comes from a relation who likes to visit and tell you how you are DOING IT ALL WRONG. But, I’m not going to go there.

Some picky eating advice is quite decent, like paying attention to the food presentation, or involving your children in meal planning and preparation. I do all these things, but yet, the variety of foods consumed by my children is fairly limited. Mark can happily scrub an entire sink full of potatoes, but is about as likely to eat one as he is to don a tutu and dance the Nutcracker. Which is to say, not likely.

I may be going out on a limb here, but if your child eats a fairly rounded and balanced diet, who really cares if he doesn’t eat certain items. I mean, sure, it’s great to expose your children to new foods, but it’s also great not to waste time and money on preparing things that will almost certainly be not eaten. It’s great if your child will happily dig into everything you prepare, but hey, that is totally not the situation in my house. Add that to the fact that I am really not an enthusiastic cook, and you get the following rules in my house:

1. Breakfast is always eaten and always contains at least two or three food groups.
2. Juice is fine at snacktime, but only milk or water at dinner.
3. Fruit and veggies are served generously at snacktime, along with home-baked goods (that contain sugar! Bad bad mommy indeed).
4. Dinner consists of a vegetable, a grain, and a protein. If the protein I have prepared is not to your liking, yogurt may be substituted.
5. Yes, yogurt is acceptable at dinner. I care more about calcium and protein than drawing a line in the sand with regards to acceptable dinner foods. This may or may not be the result of my own childhood memories, in which I am forced to sit alone at the table, long after everyone has left and the kitchen cleaned, crying into my plate of liver or hamburger casserole that I must consume before leaving said table. Which leads me to number six.
6. Eat until you are full and then you may be excused. We do not have a “clean plate” rule in my house. This means that small portions are served to reduce waste and seconds and thirds are available, if needed.

My children are healthy and tall, they take their vitamins, they eat vegetables and fruits, and they are picky eaters. Sure, I wish they would try a few more things, that they wouldn’t grimace when I cook something different, but on the whole I would rather not fight with them about eating. I think dinner should be pleasant and social, rather than stressful and experimental.

Do you have a picky eater? If so, how do you deal with it?

So Rob is at a hockey game tonight, and I just finished my standard “Rob’s not here” meal of pita and Greek salad, I’m counting down to bedtime while my children are, strangely enough, playing a game in which they are hammering something – what? – through the holes in their play workshop, and laughing in a shrieking, hyena-like way. I’m looking forward to wine and maybe an episode of Jeopardy and NYPD Blue. I’m also laughing about Mark’s new obsession: just in time for his birthday (okay, it’s seven weeks away) he has been taken by a new commercial. Remember how I said the kids are largely unaffected by commercials? Well, I was wrong. They just needed to see the right one. Mark really really REALLY wants a “Sham-Wow”. It’s a miracle chamois that can clean up an entire spilled can of cola, should you spill an entire can on your carpet. You can wash ANY vehicle with Sham-Wow, and that vehicle will shine like the sun. “But Mom, you will never have to buy paper towels again if we get the Sham-Wow”. Good to know.

With the giant lottery draw this past weekend, I reflected, as I always do, on what I would do with the jackpot if I actually purchased a ticket and subsequently won. My conclusion: I would get the f*** out of Calgary.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice city and everything, somewhat friendly people, etc., etc. The thing is, I’ve lived here my whole life and a) I wouldn’t mind a little broadening adventure, and b) this place is terrible in the winter. I wouldn’t move to anywhere tropical, as I actually really like the change of seasons and snow on the ground. I would move to someplace where winter is actually only three months long. I remember as a child being fascinated by the idea that November is an autumnal month. November! To me, winter goes from mid-October to mid-April. Not to mention the not-uncommon gigantic May snowfalls. Or the July that I stood amid snow-flurries and high winds for a Stampede breakfast. Groundhog Day is coming up and I always laugh a bit: on February 2, six more weeks of winter IS an early spring.

But maybe I shouldn’t complain, even as I layer the kids into their enormous winter coats and boots, fielding arguments about whether or not mittens are necessary when it is 20 below, and yes, you do need to wear your hood if you refuse to wear your hat. Etcetera. Because even as I’m performing these tedious motherly duties, there are other mothers in this city who are not bundling their children due to the absence of items with which to bundle. This city of prosperity, which lures tens of thousands with promises of wealth and jobs, only to discover the crippling cost of living. This city, which has been insulated for so long, is starting to feel the pain of the economic crisis.

The air is positively biting. Even with the clear Alberta-blue sky and sunshine, the cold is painful.

So, I’m still singing the Pina Colada song, and I still have no idea if that is its actual name or not. If I wasn’t so lazy I’d google it, but alas. The thing about that song is that it is nearly impossible to sing along without belting out in an impassioned way “IF YOU LIKE MAKING LOVE AT MIDNIGHT”. I think I speak for mothers everywhere when I say, um, no, I don’t. (Or maybe I just speak for myself. My ideal scenario is that by midnight, I will have been sleeping for at least a couple of hours. I guess I’m more of an “Afternoon Delight” type of girl, so maybe not totally un-dateable in the 70’s.)

Not to brag or anything, but my husband is incredibly hot – in fact, if I were the editor of People magazine I would surely crown him “Sexiest Man Alive” year after year – but if he were to wake me up to suggest making love at midnight, my impulses would be more homicidal than erotic, if you know what I’m saying. After years of broken sleep (which is still all-too-often broken) I have one general rule: do not wake me up unless absolutely necessary.

Of course, this is partly hypothetical as it seems like my husband is actually physically unable to wake me up. During our recent bout of illness, apparently he had a prolonged and very loud middle-of-the-night coughing fit, throughout which I lay beside him comatose. After his coughing, Jake made a tiny “ahem” type of noise, and I bolted up, wide awake, and ran into his room. What can I say? It’s maternal programming.