iKid

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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from two to three

I made a lemon cake for Nuv on September 26th, in the evening, and my water broke a few hours later. And broke and broke and broke. I splashed and leaked and soaked amniotic fluid into the backseats of three cabs, a couple of hospital wheelchairs, through all my tights, pants and pajamas and towels and sheets, into bathwater and across hospital toilets and floors. And they almost sent me home from the hospital a third time because they were unsure if my water had broke. If my fluid had been red, the West End would have looked like a fucking battlefield massacre for the ages.

 

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the one where it gets gross

I suppose if I can go back to work today, a mere 15 days after I last clocked out, TEN OF WHICH I WAS SICK, I should have the stamina to actually write something longer than a photo caption to accompany a picture taken on an iPhone and saturated & blurred to shit with two free photo Apps (Mill Colour and PS Mobile if you were itching to know).
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the one where it gets gross

I suppose if I can go back to work today, a mere 15 days after I last clocked out, TEN OF WHICH I WAS SICK, I should have the stamina to actually write something longer than a photo caption to accompany a picture taken on an iPhone and saturated & blurred to shit with two free photo Apps (Mill Colour and PS Mobile if you were itching to know).
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