she made me a mama


Have you seen Frozen? It’s become part of the very fabric of our lives since Stella saw it in the theatre (her first large scale cinematic experience) and, as was reported back to me (working Moms feeling guilty and sh-tty about missing milestones since 1972), she sat still and rapt for the entire movie. No movement or vocalizing. Wouldn’t let my Mom or brother even think about leaving until the entire credits had rolled and the popcorn sweepers had ambled into the theatre.
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The mantra for my mothering style is: don’t be an asshole. A solid rule for the kid, but also for me. Wouldn’t it be rad if all parents just agreed that the way we’re doing things isn’t necessarily right, but it’s the option we’re choosing to survive? Whether it’s breastfeeding, leashes, TV or the lack thereof, nutrition, sleeping and diapers - we just have to trust our guts, do what works safely for our kids and if our neighbour chooses to take a different approach, well, shrug, high five over a bathtub of wine and carry on. Perfect. I can stop feeling defensive about everything and finally get Stella’s septum pierced. (KIDDING, MOM. WAKE UP.)
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expectation vs reality

Subtitle: A Holiday Fable I am Doomed to Repeat Forever and Ever

If you have a kid, every goddamn month there is an obligation. When I was little, (latch key swinging around my neck, thick stack of Babysitter’s Club books wedged under my bed), we did birthdays and Christmas up big. Two holidays. Spoiled and beautiful and the smell of freshly blown out candles and cats shitting out tinsel. Perfect.

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Two years. Two years old. Two years ago today. 

Dear Stella,

Thank you for being a total science dolt like me. Your frustration and utter lack of common sense with the mechanics of stacking blocks relieves me – I will never be called down to the cop shop at 2 am after you’ve been caught as the leader of a 1950s girl gang who steals cars in saddle shoes.

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mama dearest

For all the ways the Internet enriches my life (hello never bored pooping), it also does a helluva job making me feel like a terrible mother and general all-around human being. Because if the Internet (and it's beautifully tweaked Wordpress sites) are to be believed, doing crafty things with and for your child, creating rambling meals chock-a-block full of exotic yet earthy ingredients, while capturing every exquisite expression to ever spread across their little faces is the NORM.

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locks of love

Oh, hey. Right. My blog. God, I've missed you. It's been nearly a month since we talked. I think of you every night before I fall asleep in that sweet spot of the day. In the seconds where I am completely relaxed, every morsel of my body has stopped humming and is ready to recharge with some precious sleep AND THEN LIKE CLOCKWORK THE BABY SPRINGS AWAKE AND SHITS ON MY DREAMS.
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six months

On the 28th, my muffin turned six months old. In culinary terms and scope, this would make her now more of a layer cake. Sliced so that you can see all her delicate layers (adorable, frustrating, crying, laughing, crying while laughing, squealing, jumping, drooling, farting) and served on the most beautiful china plate. That will then break into 67 pieces right before I want to go to sleep. And we have no glue. Or any more plates.
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The bubs is now 4 months old, in the 97th percentile for her weight, and just survived her second round of shots like a pro. The surprised wails were quick and short, then she passed out with a smirk on her face like Whatevs; I had forceps attached to my temples and was forcibly yanked out of a vagina. Come again.

We have also reached a stage where she and I are incredibly bored with each other. A standstill if you will. She isn t the best reader (She gets through half The Very Hungry Caterpillar but loses focus when he s eating his body weight in food), she doesn t like toys (anything that she can t immediately jam in her mouth results in a frustrated scream and dismissive drop on the floor), and she can t talk yet to tell me why exactly 6 am is suddenly the time where we PARTY HARD with squeals, pistoning legs and bold spit-projecting raspberries. Routines are dead, so I am a zombie. That may explain why I suddenly feel sapped of energy and the will to entertain a wee girl that now loves to kick me in the throat when I change her diapers. And then grab my bangs and fart.

So, I have to mix it up. I have made an Edith Piaf playlist and will don a beret for her next bath, so that it s not the same old routine of me hunched over the side of the tub, pouring water on her tummy and watching her attempt to slyly lap up all the bathwater out of the side of her mouth. Diaper change time is now going to be Hip Hop Education, whereupon I play an old school album on my phone near her head and beatbox into her belly. And when I feed her I m going to play The Darjeeling Limited soundtrack and whisper all the Punjabi I know (1- 10 and the words for slowly, shit, yes ma am and the phrase What happened? The barf came ) into her dirty ears (seriously, the hardest orifice ever to clean).

I know I need to relax and enjoy this time before she s crawling and gnawing off the spines of our graphic novels, and turning solid food into bio-hazardous diaper loads. But some days I just really wish she'd turn to me and say, "You know what sounds really awesome? A nap, 3 episodes of PVR d Criminal Minds, another nap, then I ll make you a smoothie and we can dance and lip-sync to the Grease soundtrack until Pops gets home."


the beginning

Since I ended 2010 with a little Wal-Mart ditty, I figured it would only be fitting if I started 2011 with one. I left the bubs with Gramma and a breast milk bong, then headed out to do some solo shopping. This is pretty much heaven - not having a 16 pound weight attached to your chest, a ticking time bomb that may pop awake at any time and lose her mind for reasons unknown. It's still doable, even with my back threatening to buckle and sweat streaming down into my breast pads; it just gets tricky when you drop something or have to unload the cart or have to use the bathroom. (Which I have totally done with her still strapped to me. It’s like the tandem pissing Olympics. No booties lost in the toilet = success.)
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the end

For good or bad, I'll never have another year like 2010. Everything changed. And even though the books I received for Christmas will not get read, my back muscles have turned to silly putty and a full night sleep is now an urban legend, there is a 16 lb muffiny muffin asleep in the next room that I'd do it all over again for. Happy New Year to all the people I love that make my life that much better.