bb photo: changes

Now I know how my hubby feels when he returns from an out of town work trip. Spent the afternoon downstairs after being cooped up sick in my room for 4 days. Lots of changes. LittleR dude grew a beard and Little Dude is off to university!

Just kidding. Lots of growing up did happen. Ones only a parent would notice.

Sent from my Blackberry device

off to cough myself to sleep?

I'm sitting in bed, unable to sleep, recovering from the flu and pneumonia. My fever broke late last night but the coughing lingers. I'm thinking back to a recent tweet. "Off to cough myself to sleep," a mommy blogger wrote. I thought it was clever. Now I realize what an impossible thing that is. A nagging cough, especially one accompanied by thick green phlegm, does NOT induce sleep. Quite the opposite really. And so I sit in bed reflecting on a multitude of things.

My in-laws are here. The morning after they arrived I woke up unable to get out of bed and here I've remained since, except to see the doctor and get an x-ray. I worry that I will pass on the flu to them but am also glad that they're here to help the Good Man with the boys.

I've only seen glimpses of the boys over the last three days. In my more wakeful states, I listen for them wondering if they've noticed my absence. I missed the gift opening with grandma & grandpa last night but could hear the boys' squeals of joy from my room. The Good Man also instant messaged me some photos ... Gotta love technology and a man who tries to include you in family events if only virtually. It was a sweet gesture, though I must admit, was hard to enjoy as I had reached my daily dose of Tylenol and was sufferring through severe body aches and chills.

My in-laws leave tonight. It was a short visit but a timely one. I'm so grateful. I'm not sure if the Goodman and I could have managed as well without them. I'm sorry I wasn't able to spend anytime with them but would be even sorrier should one or both of them come down with this awful flu.

Wishing all good health.

And, now maybe to sleep.

Sent from my Blackberry device

bb photo: kiss me

LittleR Dude turns to me and purses his lips, face covered in this morning's breakfast. I smile back at him. Apparently, not good enough. "Kiss me!!" he demands.

Sent from my Blackberry device

bb photo: and so it begins ... again

'Twas the day after christmas
When all through the house
No floor space left uncluttered
By the offspring of my spouse.

Okay so I'm no poet. Just figured out how to post a quick blog with a pic using my blackberry ... so I'm super psyched. Yay!! I don't have to maintain a 2nd blog site afterall. Goodbye daily bb. It was great while it lasted.

Sent from my Blackberry device

baby on board

"Baby On Board!"

Seeing this sign attached to the back of cars always makes me smile. I'm, of course, laughing at myself and not anyone else.

"Baby On Board!"

As if seeing me driving a mini isn't telling enough. No. Not the cute little Mr. Bean variety Mini. I'm talking about the big mass of steel on four wheels, equipped with child-friendly sliding passenger doors, the ever-telling pull-down video screens, and hatchback storage large enough for a double-stroller and our horde of kiddie gear.

Me in my mini ... more popularly known as the minivan ... is a sure sign that I am indeed toting around offspring.

Minus one child ago, the GoodMan and I opted for a much cooler SUV to transport our first-born and his baby gear. Soon, Baby #2 arrived and then grandma came to visit which left me trying to squeeze my 30-lbs-overweight entirety in between two car seats. Not an easy or flattering task!

And so the mini was picked and bought. Later, the "Baby On Board" sign was attached. A redundant addition, in retrospect.

If driving a minivan wasn't enough to let others know that I have toddlers on board, my driving habits surely will. Yep, that's me. In the van still stopped at the light even after it turned green because:

A) I'm trying to retrieve a dropped toy that one of my boys cannot possibly live without, not a single second longer. Or,

B) I'm too busy reassuring my first-born that his name is in fact "Little Dude" and not "mommy" or "monkey" or "nannor" or other made-up names that his younger brother is calling him with a big-ass cheeky grin splashed across his face.

Ever wondered who the idiot is locking her van, making that annoying "beep-beep" sound indicating that it IS locked, five times in a row! That's me, too. Sleep-deprivation withstanding, the act of navigating two kids who are not yet 4 and all their kiddie gear across a busy parking lot and finally arriving safely at the mall entrance has left my brain unable to remember nada. Nothing. Kaput. Including whether I locked the van or not. So I click my remote several times because I can't actually hear the horn go "beep-beep" from that distance. And then I click it a couple of more times for good measure because the thought of retracing my steps so I can hear the reassuring "beep-beep" sound is unthinkable given the hardships endured getting to the store entrance already.

The "Baby On Board!" sign fell off the back of the van soon after it was attached. Its current whereabouts are unknown but I'm certain everyone already knows: I AM carrying babes on board.

just shoot me

I don't know what possessed me to think that an impromptu photo shoot would result in a Christmas card-worthy photograph.

The inspiration:
I noticed that the boys were dressed in coordinating colours.

The downfall:
Teething-induced relentless drooling (Don't let LittleR Dude's smile fool you. He's been a salivating, miserable little guy all day, as in this photo) ...


... plus an equally incessant runny nose ...

... make an attention-deficit and very uncooperative second child.

Merry @%$#-ing Christmas Grandma & Grandpa!

daydreams at night

Restful sleep has been elusive lately. The flu has worn me down.

Last night, I slipped in and out of consciousness moving from one surreal dream or thought into the next. I opened my eyes wondering if I just heard LittleR Dude crying ... from teething pain. There was silence. I sighed ... glad that this was the final molar and last baby tooth to come in. But this feeling of relief was momentary because I knew full well it will not be the last time I will be awakened by the sound (real or imagined) of my boys crying.

I touched my forehead and caressed the small lump still stinging from this morning's collision with a door as I rushed outside to put a bag of mouldy oranges in the compost bin. "F*ck!" I screamed, immediately feeling guilty because both boys were at the kitchen table only a few feet away. I envisioned the two of them greeting their daddy with an exuberant, "F*ck! F*ck! F*ck!" when he got home from work. F*ck it, I thought and decided not to say anything further. My forehead was already throbbing.

Moments after this incident, and because I love the sensation of flesh meeting wood so much, I walked into the side of the bathroom door hitting a different part of my forehead, albeit not as abruptly. This time I had the sense to keep my thoughts to myself.

I closed my eyes and dreamed some more. A young girl was being led away by a young boy. They looked in love. I became conscious of the good man snoring beside me. I coughed. Hacked. He snored. He can sleep through anything.

My thoughts darted to the house that we considered buying this summer. I remembered salivating at the thought of moving into a house with fewer and smaller rooms to clean. And, the backyard. Well, it was utterly stunning! I fell in love with the garden, the pool, the grass area and the clumps of mature trees ... a forest for the boys to run through, discover nature and build a tree house in. But we didn't act fast enough and the house sold before we could even put a bid in.

Construction in our backyard began this fall. We're putting in a pool and cordoning a section of "play space" for the boys. Instead of searching for the perfect house, we've decided to make our current home perfect for us, an investment that will ground us here for at least 10 years. It's an incredibly liberating decision and I now look forward to notching a door frame with the kids' heights and creating other memories deep in the walls and space around me.

I closed my eyes again. Other daydreams whirled around my head. Then finally, sleep.

blogging on the side

Yes, it's true. I've been blogging elsewhere. Little Dude's sleep schedule has made it impossible to maintain my night time blogging ritual. Since I'm not ready to completely give blogging up for good, I've found an alternative ... micro-blogging using my blackberry and a the new Typepad Micro app. Please check it out at http://www.dailybb.typepad.com/. The boys have been renamed c1 and c2 because, frankly, thumbing "Little Dude" and "LittleR Dude" is more work than I'm willing to take on right now. The Good Man is still the good man or gm, for short. Longer thoughts will still be posted here. Gotta run. The babes are a-calling.

++++

I'm back. C2 ... I mean LittleR Dude was screaming and crying about wanting something from Little Dude who was running around giggling and clutching the object of desire. More at the Daily BB blog.

an ape in little dude's bed

The Good Man is tucking Little Dude in for the night.

GM: Good night.
LD: Good night.

GM: Love you.
LD: Love you.

GM: Have a good sleep.
LD: Have a good sleep.

GM: I'm going to sleep now.
LD: I'm going to sleep now.

GM: I'm going to stay in bed.
LD: I'm going to stay in bed.

GM: I'm a chimpanzee.
LD: I'm Little Dude!

duped

Little Dude crushes a cracker into his cup. He still likes to make concoctions with his left-over food. He lifts the cup up to me and asks, "Mommy, what's this?" Crumbs are everywhere.

"A big mess," I reply casually.

"No, it isn't," he insists.

"What is it then?" I ask, wondering if crumbs has made it to his vocabulary.

"It's an accident!"

D'oh! Little Dude: 1. Mommy: 0.

Later, Little Dude asks to have a Coffee Crisp from his Halloween stash. After some quick negotiations, I find myself watching him lick a second helping of ice cream on a mini cone. And, I wonder if the reason why I caved in so easily is because I wanted to keep the Coffee Crisp to myself or if my chocolate-hating 3 1/2-year-old, in fact, had planned to have ice cream all along and successfully duped me for a second time today.

boo

LittleR Dude insisted on going trick-or-treating with his lunch bag tonight. Who am I to argue with a dragon?

thank you

My lola (grandma) died at age 98, several years ago. Although she often talked of her life in the Philippines, I remember very few details now. I had always wanted to record her stories on tape and transcribe them but never did.

Among many things, my lola lived through the Japanese occupation of the Philippine countryside. I remember her recalling how she witnessed the stomach of pregnant woman in her village suffer the rage of soldier's bayonet.

My lola's daughter (my mom) to this day will only speak of high school beauty pageants and dances. But my (dearly departed) father would sometimes talk excitedly about living through the war as a young boy not yet in his teens. His eyes would widen as he recounted how he was sometimes forced to hold his breath underwater for long periods of time and used reeds as make-shift snorkels in order avoid capture.

I cannot even begin to imagine living through those times. The years of sleep-deprivation. The atrocities of exploding vomit and poop. The massacre of peas, mushed but uneaten. The torture endured on watching yet another In the Night Garden episode. These are the struggles I have faced. Although the exhaustion, helplessness, frustration and boredom I've felt are very real to me, these as well as the guilt and feelings of inadequacy that sometimes overwhelm me do not compare to having lived through a war.

And so as I reminisce about the old stories told by my father and lola and as this (Canadian) Thanksgiving long weekend comes to a close, I find myself reflecting on the things I am grateful for. There really is so much. Too many to write down here. So I've kept my list brief:

The Good Man
You've taken your fair share of raising the boys and, certainly, of dealing with the night time and early morning wake-ups. I love you for that and, on a more selfish level, I love the way you often lie on my side of the bed on cold nights, warming it for me before I climb in beside you. Thank you.

Little Dude and LittleR Dude
Mommy was 39 and 41 when she had you but, still, you were born with 2 eyes, 2 arms and 2 legs and no physical abnormalities. Good genes, a healthy lifestyle, my avoidance of the dentist (and consequently, x-rays) stacked the deck in our favour, yes. But not all mommies, some much, much younger than I was, were so lucky.

I'm so grateful that I have the three of you in my life and that my daily struggles are not those involving life and death, as did my lola and father.

ouch

In one of my rare waves of neat freakishness, I was tidying up the family/play room and jammed my knee against the corner of the toy box. I yelped, grabbed my injured knee and writhed in pain on the carpet.

Little Dude was playing nearby and with real concern in his voice, he exclaimed, "Don't worry, mommy. I'll kiss it better." He did.

This brought a smile to my face but did not relieve the pain. I muffled the expletives screaming in my head as I tried, unsuccessfully, to get up. I must have sounded like a wounded puppy.

"Don't worry, mommy. You'll feel better soon," Little Dude encouraged and patted me on my head.

Good god! Is this the same boy who initiates the torture tag games that usually ends with his younger brother or both of them in tears? I couldn't help but feel proud.

Eager for more evidence that my first-born has, in fact, learned how to sympathize and give comfort, I faked a cry of pain.

Little Dude walked back to his toy. "You need to be more careful, mommy," he suggested.

Ouch!

no shame

It's always been difficult hiding my emotions. The Good Man will attest to that. In my pre-baby, corporate office life days, I had to work very hard to contain the negativity, displeasure, anger and anxiety I felt at times. Back then, I considered these as signs of weakness and inappropriate in high doses in the workplace. Worse even still was crying in front of peers or supervisors. The kiss of death to one's professional career, I thought.

Although I was not shy about expressing my opinions about projects openly and passionately, I worked hard to remain composed and not appear hyper-sensitive or negative. I remember turning to my coworkers one day, apologizing for complaining so much. They turned to each other and laughed. They hadn't heard a peep from me all morning. I had been having unpleasant conversations in my head while typing away at the computer.

However, I do recall one occasion when my emotional fortress collapsed. The day I failed to hide the intense sense of betrayal and disappointment I felt on hearing about a change in the makeup of my team. I no longer remember the details of why the news affected me so much but what I will never forget is feeling my face flush as they made the announcement and walking out of the room in the middle of the meeting, not so much in anger, but to hide the tears that eventually fell when I got in my car. I was gone for several hours and considered resigning that day, not only to escape my work environment, but to avoid the repercussions of having let such a profound outburst escape.

It's funny now (as a stay-at-home mom) that I seem to have dropped my inhibitions about exposing my anxieties, fears and flaws. The emotions that I tried to hide and repress in the corporate world are now in full display. On the Internet, of all places. Today, I feel no shame in admitting the immense guilt that cuts through me on seeing my toddler deal with separation anxiety. Nor in telling you that I have cried about it. It's liberating!

Have I become soft in motherhood or just more forgiving of public displays of emotions and weaknesses?

I don't know. Perhaps, I've simply come to understand that to be a mother is to accept that there will be days when I will feel weak and, yes, cry. And, that there really is no shame in that.

+++++

This morning I dropped the boys off a half hour later than usual hoping to avoid the hand-off traffic at the nursery school. Hoping to find the other children in the room more settled. Hoping to catch one of the teachers free to give LittleR Dude some one-on-one attention. I had a doctor's appointment to get to. I needed this morning's goodbye to be less traumatic.

We arrived in the middle of snack time. I sat LittleR Dude next to Teacher J. I used different words this time. I told him I was "going to work," a little white lie that he accepts happily when I leave him with the Good Man for a few hours.

His lower lip jutted out. Tears flowed. But the hysterics did not come. I left promptly. Later, Teacher J informed me that the tears disappeared seconds after I left.

Everyone was right. It does get easier with time. I did not cry, today.

the drama ensues

I'm sitting at Starbucks again after dropping the boys off at nursery school. My chest feels like it's going to implode.

After receiving several comments to my last post, it seemed clear that what LittleR Dude and I are feeling is normal. We just have to get through it. It will eventually get easier.

I felt empowered with that knowledge walking into the school this morning. Thank you to all the moms who responded. I feel lucky to be part of such a supportive network of women.

This morning, seeing the look of abandonment in LittleR Dude's teary eyes did not reduce me to tears. I was ready for it this time. But still, here I sit again wondering if the heartache is worth it. Wondering if keeping him home for another year is the better option, making it easier for us both.

Tonight I will talk to the Good Man again. Reread my last post's comments. Perhaps, persevere for another week or two. And hope that the guilty feelings and heaviness in my heart subside.

don't go

I stood outside the classroom door hoping no one would pass by to see tears streaming down my face. LittleR Dude was crying in the room.

His face is still etched in my mind. Hysterical and tearful. A lot like what I'm feeling at the moment. His arms reached out for me as one of his teachers carried him away.

I can hear her trying to interest him in doing a puzzle on the floor now. Another child has started to wail. LittleR Dude is still upset but is sobbing more quietly.

I wanted to walk back in the room and carry him away with me. Sorry. Changed my mind. Little Dude can stay. LittleR Dude is mine.

This did not happen, of course. Another teacher saw me outside the door and gave me a short pep talk. I left and went to Starbucks. But breakfast and a latte did not provide much comfort.

I wondered if LittleR Dude was ready for nursery school. I wondered if having the boys there 2 mornings a week made any sense.

My insides churned all morning. I tried to rethink through the reasons why I needed occasional childcare. To have time to myself. Time to do chores. The boys are young for only a short while. Surely, I can wait for another year or two until ...

The first day of nursery school went so well. I had psyched myself up for a tearful goodbye then. Unlike his older brother, LittleR Dude did not take to new people and new situations as easily. I was ready for the resistance that never came that first day.

LittleR Dude barely took notice of my absence when I dropped them off 3 weeks ago. I spent that morning doing some much needed vacuuming and mopping. It felt surprisingly exhilarating to be doing housework without my boys underfoot. And the smiles and hugs that greeted me when I picked them up warmed my heart.

I was not prepared for the emotions that overwhelmed me this morning. I returned to the daycare a half an hour early. To observe. To think out loud. To chat.

I found LittleR Dude filling a bucket with sand. He seemed content. I waved at him when he looked up. He waved back but continued playing.

They showed me a video of him jumping around with the other children during a song at Circle Time. They said he had a great day. I think they sensed I wanted to pull LittleR Dude out of nursery school.

It comforted me to see the video. To hear that he eventually settled and had fun. Tears began to flow again. Mostly out of relief, I think.

+++++

This morning I was reminded of why I blog: to express, to share, to vent, to celebrate, to think, to cry and, sometimes, perhaps even to know that I am not alone in my experiences and thoughts. 

I know I haven't been a good blogger lately but would love to hear some advice/wisdom on handling separation issues with a two-year-old.

friday thoughts

On a typical day, I am dressed and having breakfast by the time the Good Man leaves for work. But not today.

This morning I corralled the Dudes into the upstairs playroom and showered with the bathroom door open. I laughed at myself while washing my hair, knowing that in a few minutes I will turn off the water and listen intently for signs of life from the boys.

This morning I heard total silence and fought the urge to race out in the buff to investigate what great misfortune occurred in the 5 minutes it took me to lather and rinse. Crap. Why aren't they fighting over toys now? Anything is better than silence!

I waited. Ahhh. Little Dude is talking. A few more seconds and there. The muffled giggles of LittleR Dude.

[Sigh.] I can dress in peace.

I'm now sitting at the kitchen table watching the boys play outside. Little Dude is trying to interest LittleR Dude in a dump truck. "Do you want this?" he offers while trying to sneak his other hand on the toy excavator that LitteR Dude is playing with. This negotiation technique worked like a charm not too long ago. LittleR Dude is not falling for it today. He turns his back on his older brother and quietly says, "No, thank you." This polite exchange will progress into the all too familiar whining, screaming and crying, no doubt. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug and hope for a much quieter outcome.

The boys are bundled up in their fall gear. The morning air has a sharp nip making summer feel long past. Some leaves have yellowed and are scattered on the lawn. The boys play with the fallen leaves only briefly before returning to their construction vehicles, running them through the rocks under the Japanese maple as they often do.

The leaves remind me of my blog ... ignored but not entirely forgotten. It seems that blogging has become one of my many passing past-times, like scrapbooking, sewing and running. I haven't done any of these activities in months or years. It's been weeks since my last blog entry. Longer since I've read the blogs on my fave list. LitteR Dude's 2nd and my 43rd birthday came and went without a single post. I feel a tinge of guilt.

No motivation. Lack of time. Absence of inspiration. Lots of procrastination. My excuses are lame.

Until next time, my dear blog.

Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

dear phone solicitor:

Perhaps, the two little screaming voices in the background did not make it apparent. But nope. You have not caught me in the mood to listen to you explain the benefits of purchasing insurance through my credit card company.

Click.

And you: Young lady who interrupted our nap time routine by ringing the doorbell and rapping on the door rather aggressively. The once-but-no-longer-sleepy little boy calling for me at the top of the stairs may not have provided you with a clue that perhaps you should get to the point of your visit. And, may I also suggest the you get your head out of your binder and make eye contact when relating to me how you were just speaking to my neighbour about great 'educational materials' for her son. What are you selling?! Your two minutes are up.

Slam.

As for you: Guy from our water heater supplier who called while we were preparing for dinner. You do NOT have the right to ask if I have air conditioning or gas heating in my home or about matters that do not pertain to the water heater unit that we purchased from you. When I asked why you were calling about exactly, you tried to avoid this question by repeating that you were from our water heater supplier and asked again if I had air conditioning or gas heating in my home, but this time with impatience in your voice that reminded me of my 3 1/2-year-old when I do not answer his questions fast enough. Well, this just utterly pissed me off. Don't use that tone with me. And, most of all, do NOT call again.

Slam. Click.

But you: Recently-out-of-your-teens girl, with a European accent that I can't place, selling pretty $10 bookmarks from Korea door-to-door so that you can fund your stay in Canada. You remind me of my husband's daughter from his first marriage who was your age only a few years ago. You did NOT wake the boys. Here's my $20. Keep the change.

And, sweetie. If you see some little girls selling Girl Guide cookies while in my neighbourhood, do point them in my direction. They can come anytime. I'll take 4 boxes.

Thank you.

+ + + + +

I'm staying at mom's with the boys while the Good Man is out of town. Today, I answered 2 phone solicitations and Little Dude answered 3, reminding me of the interruptions that happened at my own house this summer.

hello. goodbye. summer

Has it really been a month since my last post? A registration letter from the nursery school has reminded me that summer is soon coming to a close. How so very quickly it flew. And, so much to report.

hello, trying three's
Two weeks before nursery school classes ended, I was bracing myself for a long, torturous summer. Little Dude had morphed into a child I barely recognised then. His answer to every request or suggestion was "No, no, no!" He screamed. He ran away. He ignored. He pushed my buttons. And, then he seemed to cackle in delight at it all.

Our confrontations came daily.

Admittedly, before summer began, he had his moments and drove me mad at times. But I had never been pushed to the point where I felt out of control. Where I felt like screaming out loud and tearing every strand of my hair out.

And then finally ... it happened.

The patience that I was able to muster in the past did not surface. My voice thundered and I scolded him like I never before. It frightened Little Dude to see me so angry. It scared me a little, too. But mostly I felt ashamed. This level of anger and frustration had escaped from my voice only once before and it had been directed at an adult. I felt awful for Little Dude.

A few days later, I felt my frustration heightening again. I grabbed the kitchen sink with both hands and let out a sheepish but long grunt, "Arggghhh!" The release felt good. I was still grasping the sink when I heard Little Dude run up behind me to ask, "Is it heavy, mommy??"

Giggles and laughter. Much better.

Little Dude's bout of extreme rebelliousness didn't last long. He still has his moments but I've been able to exhume sweet patience from its hiding place. Our days are much more enjoyable again.

so long, dummy
My boys, during one of their games of chase, proved an interesting thing. When the head of an almost 2-year-old collides with the teeth of a 3 1/2-year-old, the head will win.

The head gets a slight red mark with barely a complaint out of the almost 2-year-old.

The teeth, however, get an emergency visit to the dentist a week following the collision and the 3 1/2-year-old sports a blackened front tooth until his adult teeth come in.

The good news: The mommy (who is feeling brave/lucky at having survived the worst of the trying three's stage) takes this opportunity to rid the 3 1/2-year-old of his dummy while at the dentist's office. She offers the soother to her son and asks him to hand it to the dentist in a grand ceremony, declaring that he is now a big boy and doesn't need a dummy. The boy complies, possibly, because he hasn't been able to use his soother at night because of his sore gums and tooth. And, that is that.

the scoop on poop
Getting rid of the dummy was easy peasy. Toilet training? Not so much. Trying to ride on the wave of good fortune following our farewell-to-the-dummy milestone, we decided to give toilet training a go again. I'm happy to report that Little Dude is now using the toilet regularly. However, accidents still abound. Our boy will not sit on the throne unless he is invited, it seems.

Not yet completely toilet-trained but much progress has been had.

Life is good.

more on table manners

We were reminded of how important it is to enunciate when speaking to Little Dude about table manners the other evening. During dinner he demanded, "I want some corn. I WANT SOME CORN!"

"What happened to being polite? I'd like you to be polite," the Good Man insisted.

Little Dude looked puzzled for a moment and then said, "Here you go," handing his daddy a plate.

As for LittleR Dude, he seems to think that the dinner table is some sort of ballet bar. So far, enunciating my wishes for the table to remain foot-free has not helped.

forking around

"No, no, no. Stop forking me!" Little Dude screeched as he raced past me.

I looked up to find LittleR Dude in pursuit with a wooden toy knife in one hand and a fork in the other with his arm extended.

"Don't eat your brother!"
"Way to use a knife and fork, sweetie."

These responses came to mind but remained unsaid. To be honest, I don't remember what disciplinary words came out of my mouth. The knife and fork, however, were confiscated bringing an end to this game of I'm a cannibal.

For what it's worth, Little Dude is not always the victim in these torture tag games. Ping pong paddles were used as a prop not too long ago.

summer fun

I apologize for my recent absence. It seems that blogging is getting the big brush off this summer. We've been away a great deal visiting people and places. And when we are home, the allure of the great outdoors has been much too strong and night time activities have limited themselves to watching a little tv before collapsing into bed by 10 or 11 pm. Yes. I think I'll blame mostly the weather on this bout of truancy. Or, maybe even my kids.

About the boys, they've been busy inventing their own brand of fun. What kind of fun, you ask. Why the giggling, snorting kind brought on by sipping water while sitting on the kitchen floor mat ...


... or by dropping pebbles on their head.

Figuring out their left boot from their right ranks low on the to-do list ...

... when they've got a lush, cushiony (over-grown) lawn beckoning them.

Yep, the Dudes have their priorities straight. When the sun is beating down on the patio, they know that a hat and boots are a definite must.


Well ... at least the sun hat, anyway.


Bright, warm weather. Lunch served outdoors. And great conversation. What more can you ask for?

How about some ski jumping fun on the Wii?

I hope you're enjoying this summer as much we are.

teamwork

For all the squabbling over toys that happens between the Dudes, I'm proud to say that teamwork is a concept that they understand and display with great regularity.

Like two days ago, I found myself in a house way too quiet not to take notice. I went to investigate what the boys were up to and discovered that Little Dude had figured out how to work the double locks on the sliding doors. He let not only himself out, but also his younger brother. I found my two little escapees happily playing in the backyard by the sandbox. I laughed out loud when I saw them because, even in their rush to get outside on the patio that was still very wet from a recent rainfall, they remembered to put their boots on. It is usually LittleR Dude who insists on wearing shoes before going out so he, no doubt, convinced his older brother to wear their boots, bringing them to him, as he often does.

Or, yesterday, the boys were working on a puzzle together. I watched quietly as Little Dude handed a puzzle piece, one at a time, to LittleR Dude who then put it in the correct spot. I did a double-take. Yes, in fact, it was my 21-month-old completing the 15-piece puzzle and my 3-year-old playing the assistant.

Folding the laundry was a family affair for awhile. Little Dude just loved it and got so great at folding the face and hand towels that ... well, he lost interest eventually. These days it's LittleR Dude who comes running when I announce it's folding time. He insists on taking the towels out of the basket, crumpling them up in a ball and handing them to me to be put in the 'folded' pile.

As for yard work, the boys are all over it. They are out there, mowing the lawn with the Good Man every time.

Teamwork is a lovely, lovely thing.

breathe

Even 3 years and 3 months after giving birth to my first child, I'm still overwhelmed by the intensity of the guilt I feel when things go amiss with the boys.

I remember feeling like the worst mommy in the world the first time Little Dude scratched his face. I flogged myself with accusing questions. How could I have allowed his nails to grow so long? How is it that I missed filing down that jagged nail? Looking at his face made me wince with guilt. His marred cheek and nose were evidence of my nail-clipping inadequacies.

Then the inevitable happened. The boys began to venture off the floor. As they tried to master walking, running and climbing the stairs, their previously unflawed bodies soon showed the scrapes and bruises suffered from their new-found mobility.

Later more permanent marks of their misadventures began to taunt me. Like the scar above Little Dude's eye. A reminder of a game of chase that went wrong and the 6 stitches it took to close up his wound. Or the much bigger scar on LittleR Dude's chest. A token of having to hold my then 10-month-old down while the hospital doctor attempted to cut an infected cyst away and, later, watching him succumb to the general anaesthesia before having the remainder of the cyst surgically removed.

No book or person could have prepared me for the overwhelming sense of guilt and inadequacy that I sometimes feel raising two active little boys through the bumps and hiccups of life. In a job where your main marker of success is the happiness and well-being of your child, these feelings seem an inescapable part of motherhood. It's unlike any other job I've held where less-than-pleasant situations can be controlled, managed or avoided. Jobs where I thrived and felt competent. Where the decisions I made did not impact the physical or mental heath of two young children.

Two nights ago as I sat on a hospital bed with my arms wrapped around Little Dude holding an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, I was reminded again of my inability to protect my children from all injury, sickness or harm. I stroked his hair watching his chest rise and fall far more deeply and rapidly than I had ever seen or would care to see again. He seemed to struggle with each breath and I struggled with my emotions and feelings of helplessness.

I recreated the events of the day trying to figure out what signs I missed that could have prevented this hospital visit. He had been coughing but was in great spirits. He begged me not to take him to nursery school. He wanted to play outside instead. I complied. It was too beautiful a day to spend inside. He had been pestering me to set up the blow-up pool for several days now. I gave in to that too.

That same night my 3-year-old was reduced to whimpering in his bed. I climbed in with him to give him comfort. He was wheezing, a sound that was foreign to me until then. It frightened me.

It's raining outside today. Little Dude is talking to himself, playing with his train set on the floor while his younger brother is pulling pieces of play-doh apart with his little fingers. All is back as they were. There are no battle scars to mark our latest trip to the hospital. Still, today, I am reminded of my young boys' fragility. And that sometimes, all I can do is watch them breathe and hope that it is not the last time I see this familiar heaving. The steady rise and fall signifying life.

+ + + + +

After returning from our two-week long family trip, I had intended to restart my blog on a happy note by celebrating our near-perfect vacation. I will have to save that for another day, I think. Here is one of my favourite photos of our trip just in case I don't get to writing that blog.

A moment's panic

A seasoned parent would recognize the different emotions you feel when you lose sight of your child even for only a couple of minutes, in my case, in an unfamiliar city, outside my country, without the Good Man by my side, on the 3rd floor of a mall at a kids play zone enclosed by a short wall. Mostly you remember your heart skipping a beat when you look up after strapping your younger child in the stroller and realizing that his brother is not where you expect him to be. You quickly scan the area where you last saw him. Not there. And then your eyes dart from play structure to play structure trying to penetrate them, hoping to see his laughing face pop out from behind them suddenly. Then you feel your heart rise up to your throat as you find yourself running madly through the play area, this time only looking for a blue and yellow striped shirt knowing that it is the most identifiable thing about him in a place full of smiling, giggling boys his age. You hear yourself calling his name, his first and last, like you often do when you're displeased with his behaviour. And your eyes begin to well up with tears because there is no sign of him but you fight back the urge to cry because you think it would only cloud your vision. Thoughts of abduction, pedophiles and other crazy scenarios race through your head. Then you remember your other child, the one that's securely fastened to the double stroller inside the play area, a no-stroller zone, in front of a group of moms that you deemed safe, a decision made in half a second in your moment of panic. Your eyes travel from the elevator to the tables surrounding the play area and back to the elevator but there is still no sign of him. Finally you begin to feel that your child is truly lost, out of reach, when you see his face appear among a crowd of bodies. He's walking towards you from outside the playzone and you hear a panicked voice, another mom, scolding her daughter for walking out of the playzone by herself. Your arms encircle your child. You feel relief and anger all at once. You hold back the tears and reach deep to find calmness so as not to frighten him and talk to him about never ever, ever leaving without you ever again. All the while you feel your bottom lip quivering and know that you failed to hide the terror that is still evident in your eyes because now your child is crying a little and he tells you that he only wanted to "go down the steps". So you pick him up and hug him tightly and you feel your shoulders beginning to relax. You tell him how scared you were when you couldn't find him and make him promise to never disappear like that again. Ever.

Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

priceless moment #1: beach in a box

Plastic box with lid ... $12.96

Two bags of sand ... $ 5.94

Mini steel dump truck & front-end loader ... $17.98

Beach in a box to keep two brothers occupied and happy while mommy (the non-gardener) does some much needed weeding and pruning in the garden for a few days ... PRICELESS

The first day I tried to garden the boys followed me around with their shovels. I thought they were playing very well until I realized that they had dug up a couple of pail loads of decorative stones/rocks (ground cover) from the garden and dumped them on our patio.

Time to get a sandbox to keep my shovel-happy boys occupied.

I went online and was mortified to find that I had to part with at least $50 to score a plastic animal-shaped sandbox with a lid. I also found a monster plastic construction sandbox that came complete with a plastic excavator arm, a plastic dump bucket and a plastic lid that doubled as a rugged play surface for plastic construction vehicles (shown online but not included with the monster price tag).

A small cheap box with a lid, some sand and a couple of well-made construction vehicles. Now that's more like it. Ahhhh. Weeds begone!

confessions of a potty pimp

"Just two squirts and plop and you can have Annie & Clarabel."

It's hard to believe it has come to this. I have truly reached a mommy low as I find myself pimping Thomas the tank engine & his friends in an attempt to get Little Dude to poop on the potty. Every night after bath, his potty chair gets filled with pee but it has yet to feel the warmth of his poo. During the day, his diaper would have to be hanging below his knees from the weight of his pee before he admits to needing his diaper changed. As for doing number 2, he prefers to squat under the breakfast table with his head down and both hands gripping his highchair.

The potty chart with its cute magnetic tokens that came with a book I bought months ago didn't so much as get an interested glance from Little Dude. Phhht. I get stickers when I grace Starbucks with my mere presence. Why go potty for silly magnets? his eyes seemed to challenge the chart.

So I modified the potty chart. Got Little Dude to pick out his favourite trains from a free catalogue. Cut the pictures out and glued them onto yellow paper. Drew circles for poops and squares for pee. Defined the terms for getting each train. Threw in a pee-only prize for encouragement. Got Little Dude to repeat the terms. And with an exuberant "Let's go potty!" from Little Dude, he was off to the washroom to make a rare daytime potty chair visit.

His pee hit the plastic with gusto, making a noise similar to that of a very localized torrential downpour. He even grunted a few times in an attempt to add poop to the slightly yellow pool already collected in the bowl. But no luck. He had already released his morning gift earlier.

We celebrated his daytime potty squirt. Little Dude took a moment to decide where he wanted to put the magnet which eventually found a home on one of the Annie & Clarabel squares. Then off he went to play with his train set, day-dreaming of the coming of new train friends.

That was about a week ago. Little Dude now (and not unlike pre-revised-potty-chart days) greets the suggestion of potty time with a firm "no". When I remind him about the potty chart, he may or may not be convinced to go. When he does sit on the P chair, it is only to pee. He also moved the first pee magnet out of the Annie & Clarabel section in order to reach the piddle quota for Henry (the pee-only prize). Little Dude is clearly disgruntled with each day's absence of his beloved Annie & Clarabel and, perhaps, the realization that he now has to poop at least once on the potty to be rewarded with more trains.

Last night after the Good Man put Little Dude to bed, I heard repeated screams of "I have to poop on the potty!" He sat. He grunted. He peed. And, I tucked him back into bed praising him for telling me that he had to go. I'm still undecided whether that was a bedtime stall tactic or a genuine attempt in letting lose that elusive plop on the potty.

I know I should be happy ... count my blessings, that sort of thing. Little Dude has made some progress. Total success doesn't happen overnight. Yada yada yada. But I can't seem to shake the thought of having turned my son into a potty whore. And if he is that, then I am his pimp driving him to exchange his bodily excretions for little wooden trains with hideous faces.

I still believe that he will get there when he is ready. I'm just cursing myself for starting something that I don't want to finish. Presenting Little Dude with Annie & Clarabel in the absence of a poop-filled potty seems like a step backwards. So I plod forward.

What compelled me to engage in potty bribery in the first place? I did it because changing messy poopy diapers is tedious, boring, stinky, disgusting, nauseating and, after 3 years, I've simply had enough of it. And, because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

a mom's morning

At around 5:30 this morning, I heard the Good Man get up to settle LittleR Dude back to sleep. Ahhh. Thank you, I thought. I had already been up an hour earlier. I closed my eyes again only to be startled by shrieks of protest and the sound of soothers (his most precious possessions) being thrown out of the crib, hitting the wall and hardwood floor, the moment the Good Man walked in his room. Hmmm ... LittleR Dude is still not himself. I fumbled for my eyeglasses and pulled myself out of bed.

LittleR Dude and I spent the next couple of hours in the guest bedroom. I laid down with him in my arms hoping that he would grace me with another hour of sleep before fully waking up.

I dozed in and out of slumber. I don't sleep well with a child next to me. I was always afraid of crushing both my boys when they were infants. And the sputtering, squeaking and other baby noises they made kept me awake and annoyed. Now, it's the snoring and little elbows in the face that drive me crazy. And I'm still scared to death of crushing them.

Later, I was awakened by a semi-hard object hitting my head. LittleR Dude was handing me the remote. We don't have cable in the guest room. I hit "play" hoping that the train video was in the all-in-one tv/vcr so I didn't have to get up. It was. I hoped for a few more minutes of sleep. But by this time LittleR Dude was making running commentaries of what he was seeing on the video.

"Train, mommy, train. Choo, choo. Red train. Red train. Light, mommy, light"

[Sigh]

From outside the room, I heard the plodding of little feet. The door burst open. Little Dude climbed up on the bed beside me.

"Happy Mother's Day," the Good Man grinned.

Little Dude also wished me, "Happy Mother's Day!" Then he handed me his blue car, smiled and repeated, "Happy Mother's Day, mommy."

I accepted his gift, thanked and kissed him. Life is sweet.

Seconds later, the blue car was back in Little Dude's hands. It was a temporary gift. The Good Man and I smiled at each other and we all piled out of the room.

And that was the beginning and end of Mother's Day for me this year. Not Hallmark material but sweet, nonetheless.

shifting

Dear Blog: It's been 6 days since my last entry. I'm typing quickly as my moments of lucidity have been coming in 5 min waves lately. My babes haven't been sleeping well and neither have I. This is normal for Little Dude but for LittleR Dude it is far from it.

LittleR Dude seems to be going through a shift. The nights where I can plop him in his crib awake and not hear from him until the next morning feel long gone. Replacing my awesome sleeper is a toddler who morphs into cling-wrap the moment I take him near his crib. When I've finally coaxed him into releasing his vise-like grip around my neck and have laid him down, he allows me to sit on the rocking chair while he relaxes himself into deep sleep. Any attempts to sneak out of the room before he is fully asleep will be met with ear-splitting, heart-wrenching cries. We repeat this process 2-3 times a night and by 6:30 he is ready to start his day.

It feels like all the makings of separation anxiety but why now after months of being the most perfect sleeper imaginable?

Yesterday, he woke up from his nap in full tantrum mode. He was utterly inconsolable. He did not want to be picked up nor did he seem to want to be in his crib. I held him in my arms because it made me feel better. Because I didn't know what else to do. It felt like an eternity before he finally stopped screaming and was hiccupping and sobbing more quietly in my lap.

It wasn't that long ago when the sight of me would make him stop crying. I don't understand this shift. I feel helpless.

photos for grandma & grandpa

A Facebook friend slammed my last post and made this wall comment, "Loved the pics, but the text was too damn sappy. Keep it real baby." To which, I laughed and hope that he finds the text attached to this second (and final) series of photos oozing with sappiness.

* * * * * *

Dear Grandma & Grandpa,

Yesterday, we played outside with water and this plastic tube thing that you fill up and then drops of water come out of the bottom. LittleR Dude played with it for like forever.

Then he heard a plane go by and started looking around for it and got all wet. Good thing mommy put him in a splashsuit today.

I wanted to play with the awning but my mommy kept nagging me not to touch the twirly thing coz it could come off the hinge and land on my head. Whatever. I did this for like forever.

LittleR Dude finally dropped the plastic tube thing and started drawing stuff on the ground with wet chalk and kept complaining that his fingers were "ditty". He did this over and over again for like forever.

I played with the boats in my brand new super huge waterway system that took mommy and daddy like forever to build. LittleR Dude and I learned some new words that night but we're not allowed to say them.

Then it was time to go in to have lunch and LittleR Dude started putting all the stuff away in the bucket, singing "clean up, clean up". He's such a neat freak.

Today, I got to twirl LittleR Dude around and around on daddy's office chair.

Then LittleR Dude got hurt somehow. I didn't do it. Anyway, I kissed him better.

Then, I got to sit on the chair too while mommy spun us around and around for like forever.

We love you & miss you,

Little Dude & LittleR Dude

P.S. I can't wait to play with your trains when we come to visit this summer Grandpa.

P.S.S. Mommy says to tell you that, "Yup. That's me standing under the awning next to a very dead Christmas tree shaped rosemary plant." She has all kinds of Christmas stuff all over the house still and it hasn't been Christmas for like forever.

snapshots of early spring

I was reminded the other day that it's been awhile since I've taken any album-worthy snapshots of the boys. The camera on my blackberry is convenient. I've been using it a lot lately since starting this blog. But, it often doesn't capture the emotions of two little brothers at play.

So on this sunny but chilly morning, I bundled up the boys, released them into the backyard, pulled out my D70 and clicked away. This is for you, grandma and grandpa.

A kitchen with a view
A true sign of a family-friendly house is being able to send your 3 and 1 1/2-year-old boys outside and finding comfort in the fact that you have a clear view of their activities while preparing lunch or sitting at the breakfast table enjoying your tea.

It's a jungle out there
A true sign of a perfect garden for a non-gardener is discovering signs of life in early spring even after 1 1/2 years of neglect.

Bliss

Bliss is ...

hearing the sounds of laughter from two young brothers,
chasing each other or their own shadows.

The older sometimes teaching the younger

on the finer points of hockey.

The younger often studying the older,
following his every move.

And then, in a sudden burst of energy,

the younger leads the older into another game of chase,
until he is distracted by his own shadow.

about an eyeball

If you're a parent, you can relate to how it pleases me to the Nth degree to get to the stage where my boys are able to express their wants and needs, as well as their aches and pains. When LittleR Dude points to his finger and says "hurt" and it isn't bleeding, I know without a doubt that all he needs is a little kiss to make it all better. When I'm awakened by a cry that could wake the dead (never mind the sleeping) at 3 in the morning, I no longer have to play a guessing game with Little Dude whose language skills are way more sophisticated than his younger brother's. He's able to tell me that it's the outside part of his ear that hurts (from bumping it on the bookshelf) and not the inside (i.e., he has an earache). Hearing "it hurts only a little" is very reassuring to me and keeps my worry-wart tendencies at bay.

Life is ... no ... was good.

Maybe I'm still sulking from being woken up at 5:49 am by Little Dude today. Or, perhaps, I'm just in a funk because LittleR Dude thought that it was "funny, mommy" ... yes, he actually said that ... to dump his milk all over his poopy self while we were at the mall on the day that I didn't pack a change of clothes.

Maybe I'm just in a really bad mood today ... because I really don't find it funny to hear Little Dude complain and screech out, "I've got an eyeball, mommy! Mommy, I've got an eyeball in my eye!"

It seems that his father ... yes, today, he is not the Good Man but the father ... his father has responded to Little Dude's complaints of having something in his eye with "Yeah, you've got an eyeball" one too many times. So now Little Dude is going around screaming bloody murder about having an eyeball in his eye.

This morning, Little Dude's nursery school called to say that he threw up after eating a cheerio. After determining that (1) he didn't have a fever, (2) he didn't throw up his entire breakfast along with the cheerio and (3) he is now fine and participating in the activities, I hung up the phone relieved. Then I wondered, OMG. Has Little Dude ever screamed out "There's an eyeball in my eye" at nursery school?

We've been trying for some time now to correct Little Dude and failing miserably. Today, he took it another step further and actually rubbed sleep from his eye, held a crusty bit up to me and said, "Look at the yellow eyeball on my finger, mommy."

His father could be heard snickering quietly in the background.

a small window

In an effort to channel Little Dude's boundless energy, we signed him up for a multi-sports class. Parents were not allowed in the gym but could watch their kids through a window ... a window that was no more than a couple of feet wide. Naturally, I hogged a prime spot near this window on his first day of class.

Little Dude looked smaller than the rest of the kids. This was not surprising since the class was offered to kids aged 3-5 and he just turned 3 this past March. It was interesting to see him interact with the 4 and 4 1/2-year-olds. He looked and acted so much younger ... slightly impish even. We missed the first session because he was sick, but he was holding his own. He giggled and talked through most of the activities. He followed one of the girls around for a bit. He has a thing for older girls already.

Half way through, the kids began to gather around a table full of drink bottles. Little Dude was looking for his. It was still in his backpack. By the time I reached the table, one of the instructors was giving Little Dude another child's bottle. My heart skipped a beat.

I handed Little Dude his bottle which was labelled with his first and last name and had a picture of a stroked out peanut. Then, in the calmest voice I could gather, I reminded the instructor to be mindful of my son's peanut allergy and to never give him any drink that isn't clearly labelled his .

I'm sure nothing would have happened if Little Dude had taken a sip from the other child's bottle. The chance of the spout coming in contact with someone who had just eaten a peanut butter sandwich before class is microscopic. But, that's not the point. These days, with the number of children with food allergies around, instructors, teachers and caregivers should never offer anything with suspect origins to a child.

I'm grateful that I have a year and a half before Little Dude starts J-K. I'm grateful I have time to seek out flashcards, early reader books and other learning aids to help me make him understand that he should NEVER accept a drink or food that is not his from anyone. The concept of having a life-threatening allergy is too abstract for my 3-year-old. He turns away when we have these discussions.

It's futile to wish for a little port-hole into my children's every move. The Good Man and I are in our 40s and have come to accept that the natural order of life will likely play out for us. We will not always be around for our boys. Our job is not to constantly keep tabs on them but to raise them to become independent, resourceful adults.

But, last week, I couldn't help but feel grateful for that little window.

shut up inner voice

Lately, I've been having little arguments in my head.

A very huge part of me loves what blogging represents ... an incredibly supportive social medium where I can share my opinions, observations and thoughts about my life as a mom to anyone willing to read my blurts and rants. The Good Man has his online game. Blogging is my way of decompressing at the end of the day. End of story. Right?

Not so. Because, besides doing crazy stuff like arguing with myself, I sometimes let the little cynical voice inside my head get to me. Yes, once in awhile, self-doubt creeps in and I wonder why I bother to blog at all. Why not just keep a personal journal? Wouldn't that serve the same purpose? Isn't blogging a bit self-indulgent and narcissistic? Like public displays of self-love.

Today, I feel an urge to quiet the inner voice that is questioning my motives for blogging.

The "social" in social medium
I didn't truly appreciate the social component of blogging until I received my first comment from a fellow blogger. It was a thoughtful and honest comment. It made me feel great to realize that I’m not typing in a vacuum. It stroked my ego. There, I said it.

Today, I find myself part of a couple of mom blog networks, a community rich in intelligent, funny mommies sharing (and, celebrating) their lives, as well as confessing their brain-farts and other mishaps. I think I spend more time reading and commenting on posts as I do writing my own. As one of my favourite parent bloggers (Momplex) put it so eloquently, "I feel like I have a free subscription to a great literary mag for creative moms with big funny bones and interesting brains." I feel privileged to engage in (internet) conversation with such women. Although I would never be presumptuous to think I come close to being in the same league as them, I feel a sense of belonging. And, isn't this part of what makes us tick?

To blog, perchance to be reminded I have a brain
I have mom friends that I have playdates or visit with but our conversations are interrupted, at best. And, who can really discuss anything profound when you've had less than 5 hours of interrupted sleep the night before, anyway? Not me. I can’t speak coherently to save my life on a regular day, but put me in front of a computer and thoughts spill out almost effortlessly.

When I worked at the Services for Students with Disabilities office in university, students were allowed to use a computer to formulate their answers for exams because it didn't require the same complex brain connections needed for hand-writing (and, I think, speech). This then begs the question: Is having mommy-brain a type of learning disability? But, I digress.

So there you have it, my skeptical, nagging inner voice. Yes, it is a little self-indulgent of me to blog. But why not allow me this one moment of ego-stroking to show myself (here and in my virtual interaction with other mommy bloggers) that not all my brain cells have died from 3 years of sleep-deprivation? Perhaps, one day they might even resurface in a face-to-face conversation with my adult friends.

So, shut up already!

For a truly intelligent discussion on the narcissistic tendencies (or not) of blogging, you should hear what Amy, from Milk Breath and Margaritas, has to say about it and read the comments that ensued.

boobies and gorillas

Little Dude and I are sitting against propped up pillows and cuddling on the guest room bed. We're watching his favourite train video before naptime. I look down and see him poking at his stomach folds. He hasn't lost all his baby fat yet, I think to myself. His brows are slightly knotted. I wait for a question.

LD: Are these boobies, mommy?

Me: No, they're not boobies. That's your tummy. You don't have boobies.

LD: Do you have boobies?

Me: Yes, I do.

LD: Does daddy have boobies?

Me: No, he doesn't. Only girls have boobies.

LD: Only gorillas have boobies?

Me: Only girls have boobies. Mommy has boobies. Nina has boobies. And, grandma has boobies.

LD: Does grandpa have boobies?

Me: No, he's not a girl.

LD: Are you a gorilla, mommy?

Me: Yes, I'm a GIRL.

LD: And, only gorillas have boobies.

lost in bagland

I've been inspired by the handbag chronicles of Momplex who was inspired by Bad Mommy Moments who begged the question "What’s in your purse?" . Go find yourself.

Meet my companion. This chocolate brown 11" x 12" beauty wraps around me when I'm graced with 'alone time'. It is my bag.


It's small. It's light. It doesn't remind me of walking around with a baby strapped to my chest. It's soft. It smells like coffee because I often find myself at Starbucks/Chapters during my 'alone time'. Did I say it was light? I think it's gorgeous though not as nice as the other two mommies' purses. It costs more than my microwave. It's my bag. I'm confident that I'll have no problem finding me in here.


Whaaaat?! It looks like I just opened an emergency kit ... and a very useless one at that. I have nothing resembling me in it!

Two bandaids. Just in case I cut myself accidentally twice while I'm out for an hour or two.

A toothbrush. Still in its package. A freebie from the dental office. Who knows? I might just meet Brad Pitt in the Age 0-3 readers section of Chapters and... Oh, wait. Angie would kick my ass. Gotta find a fantasy guy who isn't married to a Lara Kroft type ... Who knows? I might just meet Sean Connery ... Shut up. It's my fantasy.

A quarter. My mom used to keep at least one coin in her empty purses to fend off those evil purse-fiends. Okay, I'm making this up ... but not about my mom keeping a coin in all her purses. I don't know why she does it. I keep a quarter in case I need to make a phone call ... and, someone happens to pinch my blackberry ... and Starbucks/Chapters won't let me use their phone.

A maxipad. Not a little tampon or a discreet pantyliner. But a f**cking maxipad ... otherwise known as "mommy's diaper" to my 3-year-old. A maxipad because even though it's been 1 1/2 years since my last baby who is now a walking, talking toddler was born, I still don't have any issues with wearing the same baggy trackpants I wore throughout my pregnancy. My 'mommy diaper' couldn't possibly make me any less alluring. This can't be me.

Two pens. But nothing to write on except on the back of ...

A receipt. Oh, yeah. I forgot. I also use the bag to go grocery shopping solo.

Sigh. Perhaps, I too am in the diaper bag. Will have to check it some other time.