Oh the insanity! Of me, of course

"Oh My God! The baby! I forgot the baby!"

I was halfway down the street when those words knocked against the inside of my head and then shot out of my mouth. An elderly lady at the lights nearby chuckled as I leaped into the air (circled her three times - if my movements were being narrated by Robert Munsch) and sprinted back to the community centre where Scarlett was in the drop-off babysitting service.

I left her there an hour earlier to workout and instead of fetching her when I finished, followed a pressing urge for caffeine to Second Cup. 

I bounded through the gym doors a free woman, breezed past security staff at the centre and ordered a chai latte.

"Would you like cinnamon on that?" the barrista asked.

"Oh yes," I said, noting the beautiful, sunny day I was about to set into. 

I checked for my purse, made sure my credit card was nestled in my wallet. "I've got everything," I said to myself as I left the centre.

Everything except my kid - oh, and my mind. I seem to have lost that, or misplaced it, or forgotten that I had one. 

No harm done. My daughter - whose blue eyes light up at the simplest pleasures, like when I show her a roll of toilet paper - was none the wiser and well cared for.

I wonder how long it will take her and Hudson to realize their mother has scrambled eggs for brains?

Hudson might be cluing in.

Many a time have we driven from a parking spot only to hear a "thuuuud, clunk, craaaack," before I remember I left one of his toys, a coffee mug, part of our stroller on the roof of the car instead of packing it IN the car.

"What did you do mummy?" he asks in a sweet voice.

But more than forgetfulness, my fuse is shorter than ever before. I've always had a "problem" controlling my tongue, but time was I had it on a shorter leash.

On our way back from a week-long family vacation to Florida a couple weeks ago

— a highlight of the trip was when Ted turned to me and said "what would I do without you?... Who would feed the kids? I mean, I would hire someone to take care of them and have to remind that person to feed the kids!") —

an entire floor of Miami airport went silent listening to me scream at the top of my lungs and curse in every language I know because we got locked off our flight.  

We had finally made it to the check-in line after returning our rental car and navigating our way - me pushing two strollers at once and Ted corralling five pieces of luggage, carry-ons and a car seat - across about 40 miles of airport, when a sleepy-looking American Airlines attendant told us "it's an hour before checkout, you can't get on your plane."

I ran over to one manager, who directed me to another who directed me back to the first guy. He looked at my panicked face and told me to screw off. "First of all," he said, when I begged him for help, mistakenly believing his name was Lewis, "My name's not Lewis..."

I lost it. 

"Why is mummy yelling?" I remember Hudson asking Ted. 

I'll bet Ted came up with a good answer. His brain totally works. Thank god for that!

 .... we had to park our caravan in rainy Florida one more night and do that whole 'getting to plane thing' one more time the next day...

 

 

 

Bag of smarties tucked into my sweatshirt pocket, I turn to Hudson: "Are you dry?" I ask.
"No," he says and smiles.
"You peed?" I ask.
"Yes ."
"Lets go to the potty!"
"No. I'm eating."
"Come on Hudson. Potty? Please?"
"I'm out of peepee. Could you change me?" he asks.
"Let's put on a new pair of underpants!" I suggest.
"No. I want a diaper," he says. Resolute.
"But, then no smarties," I remind him.
"Okay," he says, like he doesn't care at all.
"Look," I say in my most effusive voice, "These underpants have teeth on them."
"Oh!" my boy says. He appears excited "It's a dinosaur! Okay," he says. "Underpants!"
And my efforts continue this morning.

Potty Training is Crap

According to babycenter, my kid is so ready to potty train: 

Dry for two hour periods, like during naps: Yes!

Dislikes feeling of being in dirty diapers: Yes!

Demonstrates desire for independence: Yes! Yes! Yes!

So, why do I want to crawl under the rock of parental failure and rethink my entire existence as someone's mother?

In the week since we began our "elimination" odyssey we've crashed into the pee-soaked valley of potty despair too many times to count and Hudson, forlorn, is mostly back in diapers.

"Then he's not ready," a friend said, when I presented her with my dilemma.

The dilemma: I AM SO READY for him to potty train. I do not want to change one more sloppy, oozy man-poo seeping from my toddler's gauzy undergarments.

"He IS ready," I said. "He understands!! I AM READY."

I made the decision to toss the diapers last week when my boy, not one to suffer in silence (just like his mother), was in the bath, wailing and kicking and wincing from the pain of a diaper rash. 

"Sweetheart, love," I said in my tenderest tone, "it's time to wear big boy underwear so the bad bacterias in your stinky poo don't eat away at your small tushy."

He looked up at me with pain in his blue eyes and said, "okay, mommy, no more diapers."

Score! I thought to myself.

The two of us were almost giddy - me because mission "stink-be-gone" was about to commence and he because the "bigboyunderwear" had a crane on it! And for five minutes, my boy was almost cooperative. He only ran away from me four times while I put on his new underpants!

The euphoria didn't last long. 

Whereas Hudson usually has dry diapers overnight, he had soaked his pants twice before falling asleep and (he did actually wake up dry) let a stream of yellow spray wild and free onto my marital bed when he greeted Ted and me in the morning.

By noon, he had wet himself twice and refused to pee in the teeny toilet at school while also refusing to wear a diaper.

"Mommy said there are no diapers for three year olds," he told the teacher, when she tried to put one on for naptime. "Your mommy said you could wear one for nap," she told him. His answer: "Daddy told me there are no diapers for three year olds."

Clever and true.

In the days since, there have been fits and starts. More fits than starts. And, I've twice broken the cardinal rule: don't yell or get angry at your kid during this process.

That is almost impossible. 

On Saturday, at my parents' house, after lots of talk about putting his pee in the potty when he feels it coming, of how staying dry is the better way, of how he'll get smarties if he goes, a toy if he does it a couple of times, a pony if he wants one, I tried to take him to the bathroom.

He hadn't peed for a whole 30 minutes and I knew we were tempting fate. "Let's run to the potty quick!" I said.

"No," he whined. "I don't want to."

"Why? Come on!" I begged.

"NOOOOO."

Grrrr. "Hudson stop it! You have to!" He went limp when I tried to lift him and threw a tantrum. "Why are you doing this to ME?" I shouted.

Perhaps this isn't about me? It is, however, a milestone: the first of many power struggles to come, I'll bet.

Now it's Thursday. Since last week I have spent about $100 on big boy underpants (seems we need 600 pairs to train in), laundry detergent, extra pants he can pull up and down all by himself, socks and an additional pair of shoes (because pee goes down that far, the teachers tell me). 

And, I walk around with a giant plastic bag filled with smarties (one for him, two for me).  For now, we only wear big boy underpants at home and he gets a treat every 10 or 15 minutes if he's dry.

"I'm dry!" he gleefully shouts. 

"It's only been 30 seconds since your last chocolate," I say dryly. 

"I'm dry!"

Our journey continues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quick...

So, I don't really sleep, can't remember what I did two hours ago and feel like I'm going nuts most of the time!

That said, these posts are bound to have lots of speeeeling misteaks. I'll probably use the wrong words to describe familiar and easy things and I'm sure I'll sound really dumb a lot of the time.

Thanks for putting up with me!

Oh, please friend me on facebook (I'm under Michele Henry) and follow me on twitter (michelehenry)! 

Thanks!

 

It's hard being under house arrest

"It's 3 p.m. where are you?"

My husband sounded like he was holding back anger. 

"I'm on my way. I'll be home in five minutes. I was just walking around. There's traffic," my voice was strained. "I was just being alone! LEAVE ME ALONE."

After nearly seven months of having at least one child stuck to me - on the boob, around my leg, on my back if I'm lying in bed, on my shoulders, in my arms, picking at my hair - close to 24 hours a day, seven days a week.... I need a break. 

I am to blame for rarely being able to set off on my own:  Scarlett, even though she's eating food now, is exclusively breastfed and refuses to take a bottle. I never really introduced her to the synthetic nipple because breastfeeding was so easy. It let me sleep etc etc, blah blah.

But now, I can only leave the house for two, maybe three hours, before Scarlett turns on her O'Hara attitude and Ted wants to permanently banish me from Tara.

When the girl was newborn I could shlep her with me. Over the last few months that has become impossible - I mean, I'll breastfeed anywhere, but it's not fun to eat pho with an exhausted, wiggly andscreamy kid under your shirt. Ya know?

And, since she's decided to only nap in her crib - seriously, why did I do?! - I am confined to my home, sort of like a white collar criminal.

My den is nice and the kitchen's great too, but it's so pretty outside. And different. And there are things out there that don't look like my laundry basket or a frying pan. I want to see those things!!!

AND I want to NOT see any toys.

"Hudson, love, mommy wants you to turn off your monkey toy. It's annoying mommy."

"Screeeeeeeeeech," the monkey screeches. 

"Hudson, sweetheart, turn it off."

"Screeeeeeeeeech."

Hudson TURN IT OFF NOW AND YOU ARE GETTING A TIME OUT."

"Screeeeeeeeeech."

Also, I want to enjoy the time I spend with my children. Instead of selfishly pining for time off and dreaming up activities for them that allow me to just sit, I want to feel good about having to pretend to be a crane or a dump truck or a human mountain my kids can scale.  

So anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I need a break. 

After I dragged Hudson to a toddler dance party Saturday morning (very cute, but my son didn't want to dance) and gave Ted some time to workout (he needs to be healthy, because I am clearly going nuts), I left the house.

Freedom!

I breezed past a rack of dresses in a Queen Street West store without having to take Scarlett's sock out of her mouth. I tried on a pair of pants without having to keep my screaming daughter from banging her head on the change room floor. I was wearing a shirt that stayed baby food free the whole time!

I ordered a coffee and stood in line without pushing a stroller back and forth frantically willing Scarlett to stop fussing.

I got carried away. Instead of two hours - I promised I'd be home so we could all do something as a family - I was gone for three. 

Luckily, Ted understood.

"It's okay," he said, when I finally arrived home. "It's hard being under house arrest."

 

 

Who dresses better: a mom or a fugitive?

 "Hi" and "How are you?" are fine greetings, but I prefer salutations to be informative:

"I have barf on my shirt!" I said, welcoming three non-mom friends into my home Friday night. 

They smiled at me. I also had mustard in my hair and a film of baby saliva clinging to my neck like a barfly hoping to get lucky. 

I didn't have a minute to change before they arrived.  No Matter. I didn't have anything to change into. 

Scarlett's meals du jour are splotched over every article of clothing I own. There's mashed avocado on the tush of my yoga pants, crusty peach puree on the sleeves of my t-shirts and tiny yogurt handprints on everything else.  

My only spring jacket - the one I just had dry cleaned - looks like it was mauled by a rabid squirrel monkey. Small nail nicks and teeth marks descend from the shoulders like a troupe of ants marching down a sand hill.

Typically, I notice these things when it's too late, like just after I've left home and the kids are buckled into the car. Or, I'm in the presence of people who should think I'm fit to parent, like Hudson's nursery school teachers. Or, I'm with people who might be embarrassed to be seen with a freak.

"What they hell is that?" I spat, after catching a glimpse of the squirrel-monkey mauled jacket. I was in Yorkville with a stylish friend who, unlike me, could not feed a football team with the food crusted onto her sleeves.

"I didn't want to tell you," she said.  

A couple months ago, when I felt particularly dirty, hideous and vulnerable, I did something stupid: I visited a make-up counter at Holt Renfrew. 

The salesman was suave. He sidled up to me as I was fingering the mascaras. 

"Come, sit down," he said. I think he had a Spanish accent because what he said next didn't sound so bad. "You need moisturizer and something to make you look younger."

Did I mention he was also dark and tall?

It was his lucky day. My credit card magically appeared on the table.

Anywho...

When my sisters and I were small (they were babies when I was a preteen), I was mortified by my mom's appearance because she always had a big white burp stain down the fronts of her shirts. 

I have become my mother. 

I actually heard her voice coming out of my mouth when I dropped Hudson off at nursery school last week and apologized to a fellow mom about my slovenliness. 

"I look like a fugitive," I said. 

"You look like a mom," she countered. "I'm not sure which is worse."

Me neither!

When they say "couples massage" they don't mean bring your baby

Ever have one of those times when you think you might go nuts?

I have. 

Scarlett was wriggling out of her high chair yesterday morning, arching her back, flapping her small head against the unyielding plastic tray while her shrill screams permeated my temples and Hudson wouldn't stop talking.

"Mom, shall I go on your back?" he asked. 

"Hudson, my love," I said, through gritted teeth, "Mommy's busy feeding Scarlett for a few minutes."

"Okay, mom," he said. "Shall I be the pilot and you be the plane that lands on the couch?"

"Not now sweetheart," I said.

"I don't want mango," he retorted, apropos of nothing. "I want a peanut butter sandwich. I HATE MANGO. I WANT PEANUT BUTTER."

Here love, I said, placing my still shrieking Scarlett on her playmat then spreading peanut butter between two slices of raisin bread with shaking hands. 

"There's a spider in this bread," Hudson said. "I don't want it. I DON"T WANT IT."

Enter Ted. 

"Ted," I said. "I can't take it anymore," and proceeded to rant for a minute or so.

Then Ted, smiling slyly (because my falling apart-ness may have been read as an invitation to joke, I guess), said something stupid, which I shall not repeat here. I countered with "well, you're not capable of feeding yourself breakfast when you have to watch one child, you useless piece of bleep." 

"Here," I said, shoving Scarlett into his arms. "Just try to get them both ready to leave the house. I'm going to shower! I never get to shower!!"

Moments later, carrying a disgruntled Scarlett and looking a little disgruntled himself, Ted came to apologize. I accepted and said I was sorry for swearing (this is part of our twice weekly routine. We laugh it off), yet I continue to unravel. 

My ever looser ball of yarn is affecting the way I carry myself in public.

Because the pneumonia and strep throat weren't enough for my body to work through this past five weeks, my hip decided it wanted to seize up too. 

I hobbled into a massage clinic on Monday, Scarlett in tow (because I couldn't find anyone to watch her), looking like Max Headroom meets Amelia Bedelia meets Andrew Dice Clay. My newly dyed too-blonde hair covering my eyes, I stumbled past the door, knocking Scarlett's bucket, hanging in the crook of my elbow like an evening bag, into my bad hip. Her large plush caterpillar fell from my jacket pocket onto the floor and I started cursing. 

The massage therapist stared like he was watching a circus freak: part shock, part pity.

"What the hell did I do to myself?!" I said, catching his gaze. "Can you fix this?"

Silence. 

I sensed he figured there was too much to fix.

I lay down under on the massage table anyway and placed Scarlett on a blanket on the ground near my head. I surrounded her with toys to no avail. She wailed, bawled, shrieked and did everything she could to express her displeasure with the situation for 20 minutes.

"That's it! I said, jumping off the table, almost knocking out the massage therapist with my elbow or one of my flying boobs (her crying made me so uneasy, I forgot I wasn't wearing a bra). "This is over! I can't take it!"

"I'm going to go outside," the massage therapist said, averting his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized to the therapist, after packing Scarlett into her bucket and getting dressed (Imagine that, she stopped crying the moment I picked her up). "I should not have brought my daughter. This was all my fault and very wrong of me."

I whipped out my credit card to pay.

The therapist smiled. 

"Put your credit card away," he said. 

"No, really, I insist. I wasted your time," I said.

"I'm a dad," he said. "I get it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is my "100" collection. Okay, it's hudson's collection.... Why did I do this?!

I NEED to do something

On Wednesday I met an old friend - who has a daughter precisely the same age as Scarlett (two days apart) - for lunch and after we let our little girls claw and poke at one another over a sandwich and pasta she asked me a curious question:

"So, what are you doing with your time; how do you spend your days?"

"Well," I said, pausing,"I... run errands, feed Hudson, cook. I do A LOT of cooking..."

"Oh," she said, and smiled. I detected mocking so I smiled back with a slight sneer (I really like this friend particularly for her subtle commentary).

As we parted ways I started thinking (in general, not a good state for me): I feel very busy, harried and always pressed for time. But really, what the hell AM I doing?

I mentally walked myself through a typical day:

5 a.m. wake up to Scarlett's cute - but not so cute at that time of day - yowling. 

6:15 to 7: 30 a.m. workout (because that is my ONE hour without having a child stuck to me the entire day)

7:45 a.m. nurse Scarlett, change her, change Hudson for school, cook and feed him breakfast

8:30 a.m. pack both kids into the stroller, walk Hudson to school

Get the girl to nap, run errands, eat

4:30 p.m. pick up the boy, feed him dinner, try not to let the TV babysit him too much

6:30 p.m. bathe Scarlett, put her to sleep, 

7:30 p.m. do same with Hudson.

11 p.m. wipe drool from the corner of my mouth and Hudson's pillow, realize I've been sleeping in Hudson's bed since I put him to sleep.

Lather, rinse, repeat

In between those activities I do some other things too, such as:

1) MY KID'S HOMEWORK:
This past week I made a 100 collection! After getting a strange, inexplicable e mail assignment from one of Hudson's nursery school teachers, I set off on a task to make the coolest collection of 100 things ever to celebrate my kids' 100th day of school! Yes. I misunderstood the directions, which were to, like, count out 100 popcorn kernels and stick 'em in a bag. Instead, I made 100 popsicle stick people wearing small white t-shirts. 

2) TEACHING MYSELF AND MY KID USEFUL LIFE SKILLS:

I decided it would be fun for Huds and I to bake cookies. A "cooker" rather than a "baker" I understand how to prepare salty foods, such as sardines, lamb chops, Hoisin noodles, coq au vin, for heaven's sake. I don't know which end of a baking sheet is up. "But what are you DOING with the ingredients mum," Hudson asked after I let him rake patterns in the sugar, which he spilled all over the counter and floor. 

"I'm using them to make the cookies, my love," I said.

"Oh, I see mum," he said.

"Would you like to stir?" I asked.

"No," he said, looking at the yellowish mash in the bowl with suspicion. His weariness grew deeper with each step. He peered into the oven to watch the cookies finally bake and looked at me as if I was doing witchcraft. 

"Look," I finally said, showing him the recipe book (a very cute book that depicts recipes in adorable drawings with only some words), we made the ingredients into cookies! Would you like to eat one?"

"No thanks mum," he said. And he didn't have one. 

3) HAVE MEANINGFUL CONVERSATIONS WITH MY SON:

"Shall we press this big BIG button, mum?" Hudson asked recently, his finger poised to set off the alarm in an elevator. 

"Oh, sweetheart, no," I said. "That button is for emergencies. Like if you get stuck or you can't find mum. Or you feel scared because you are stuck.. or can't find mum."

"Oh, okay mum, I will press it and the big BIG firemen will come!" he said. 

"Yes, NO. Yes and No!" I said, feeling tired. It had been a busy day. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please don't tell Ted...

Just before Christmas Ted sat me down and we had "the talk."

"You're top up is over, Michele," my husband said with a serious, even stern look on his face, referring to the salary The Star had been paying for the first few months of my leave. "That means you are not making any money right now. So, we are NOT earning a lot of money right now. Please bear that in mind when you spend money."

"Yes," I said, channeling women's libby-type ideas about male and female roles in society, gender stereotypes, how my man doesn't own me, how he sort of owns me, what it means to be an independent woman completely dependent on my man while on mat leave blah blah blah, before adding:

"I'll try my best."

I have been trying my best.

But when I go for a walk I always walk past cute shops with goods that beckon to me from the windows. When grocery shopping I always walk down the fancy olive oil aisle and one of the bottles usually calls out my name. Imagine that! The olive oils know my name!

If I happen to be in a bookstore one book always leaps off the shelf and hits me in the leg. Ow! I say, surprised. But then I feel bad for yelling and take the book home so it won't get upset.

Now, in my attempts NOT to spend any money I almost completely forgo buying anything material for myself - I haven't spent much money on clothing for myself since Scarlett was born (mainly because my post partum body isn't ready yet) and I steer clear of big ticket items, like electronics and furniture, of course. It would just be dumb to spend that kind of money right now.

But it's things in the kids' stores and ridiculous-items-vendors that have the loudest voices and practically yell "take me home!" whenever they see me. I have a very hard time walking away.

I met a friend on West Queen West last week and we walked into Magic Pony, a cool gallery/store I love to visit. Shockingly, they had an entire set of Barbapapa plates and cups etc, including a small plate (around $15) depicting one of the globular characters holding a telescope. So cute.

"OMG! I love Barbapapa! I had all this stuff when I was a kid," I enthused and the consumer gods winked at one another from their market research meeting in the sky. The plate jumped into my purse! (I paid for it, of course. We're not talking about shoplifting here).

When my friend left I strolled into Kol Kid, my favourite store to peruse (I make up reasons to go there, such as "Hudson NEEDS a hat!" Or, one of their puzzles would make a great birthday present for so and so).

The hairband with wild felt flowers ($13.95) was just chillin' in a basket when suddenly it jumped up as I passed by and bit me on the nose. I could not leave the store without it. I have a girl! I must dress her in things that look like this! I CAN dress her in things that look like this - at least, until she objects.

A few days later I went searching for a nice piece of trout and ended up at a store I really should never walk into again: Advice From A Caterpillar, a beautiful haven of soft woolen baby sweaters, tiny booties in muted tones like eggshell and burnt sienna. The place is studded with baby Panton chairs. They were having a "sale."

I could not stop myself from buying a dress - a striped number that tugged at my nostalgic love of all things orange and blue (?!?!). My mother dressed me fugly as a child.

Since those purchases I've hunkered down and - with great effort - have developed a quasi/somewhat/sorta nap schedule for the girl. She sleeps in her crib for enough time each afternoon that I can't really get that far away... like to the stores I really shouldn't go to.