In case you missed it in the June edition of The Overcast…
Sugar doesn’t just look like crack. It is crack. Or, at least, it’s highly addictive and totally killing us, which is close enough. In fact, we might be better off putting crack on our corn flakes where we can see it, because almost everything we eat is laced with perfectly legal but totally deadly processed sugar.
The biggest junkies of all? Oh, nobody special, just OUR PRECIOUS OFFSPRING. They open their beaks and we throw in the gummy worms. Because every child needs a little love, tenderness, and diabetes.
The scariest part: sugar isn’t just in candy. It’s added to EV-REE-THING: bread, pasta, cereal, sauces, bagels, crackers, even peanut butter. Kids avoid vegetables like the plague and beg for sugar-jacked snacks, like junkies seeking their next hit. They’re not hungry, they’re hooked. And they’ve tricked us into being their dealers, doling out way more than the recommended 4-6 teaspoons of sugar a day.
Our kids naturally crave it, and the world freely caters to (and cashes in on) that craving. Look at yogurt. Max would rather eat turds than plain yogurt, because he has tasted the bliss that is vanilla yogurt, which is basically yogurt chock-full with sugar with a pretty flower on the label. Plain yogurt tastes like socks to him now. And so they stack the shelves with the flavoured stuff, because that’s what our sugar savages want, and that’s what their stupid parents buy.
It’s not hard to see how we got here. More and more packaged foods giving busy families convenient meal solutions – and enough sugar and salt to pickle our pets. Cereal ads during Saturday morning cartoons selling “whole grain oats” but failing to mention that everything else in the box will bury you. (It’s no coincidence Lucky Charms has the word “harm” in it.) The ongoing cupcake craze. The heaps of treats at Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, Halloween, and everybody’s damn birthday party every damn weekend. WTF GUYS. No wonder our poor kids have severe cases of gotta-get-me-glucose. We’ve been injecting it directly into their veins since they got here.
We’ve created monsters, and frankly we’re too weak to reverse the curse. After a long day, the last thing we want is to argue over some peas. We just want our kids to be happy, and you know what makes them happy? Fucking ice cream. We’re also too exhausted to decipher those nutrition labels. A few quick tips: Most cereals and yogurts should be in the candy aisle. Ketchup is a bottle of sugar, salt and red dye (nice try with the tomato pic, guys.) Juice is basically the bile of Satan. (Even Canada’s Food Guide will soon give juice the axe.) If sugar is in the first four ingredients, keep moving. And just because it’s in the tot food section does not mean it’s good for you.
Many experts agree this generation will not outlive their parents. Dudes, that’s our children’s lives they’re talking about. In case you didn’t quite get that: SUGAR IS KILLING OUR KIDS. So why aren’t we outraged? Why are we patiently waiting for Health Canada to enforce stronger regulations? Why are we still talking about the vaccine/autism bullshit when there’s a REAL crisis happening? My god, if people can get a Playboy bunny to create global panic on the theory that vaccines cause autism, surely we can get someone to start a war against sugar, a crisis that actually exists, based on actual science. Of course, the sugar industry would have us believe the science is flawed, which was also the tobacco industry’s response to lung cancer.
We must tell manufacturers to shag off with the sugar, especially in our kids’ snacks. And make the sugar content clearer and more visible. Frig off with the grams; tell us how many teaspoons of sugar are in there – a measurement we can visualize (FYI, 4 grams = 1 tsp). Tell us how much of that is natural sugar and how much is added, and what percentage of the recommended daily intake it constitutes. And enough with the fancy chemistry too – glucose fructose fucktose – it’s all sugar and you know it.
But c’mon, big brands care about their bottom lines more than our kids. Not even that cuddly old guy from the Quaker Oats ads will save us. We have to make sure our kids’ futures don’t go facedown in the Fruit Loops, even if nobody answers our calls for help. The same way we’d make damn sure our kids got off the crack if we were talking about that instead.
Sarah from Canadian band Walk Off the Earth made news this week when a United Airlines flight attendant kicked her pregnant ass off the plane because her toddler was acting like a total toddler.
There are a couple morals of this story:
Know your celebrities so you can save your discrimination for ordinary people who can’t create so much buzz.
And leave your kids at home.
I’m kidding. You can’t always travel kidless, especially when you’re going on a “family vacation.” Without the tiny humans, it’s just called a vacation, and feels way more like a vacation too since vacation entails a certain degree of relaxation, which children annihilate by their very presence.
But that’s how she goes. When the husband and I headed to Florida with the kids a few weeks ago, we knew shit was going to go down. Ironically, we left on Mother’s Day and this was my “card”:
Come on, you can barely get out the door with the kids at home. If you think being in a different location battling sweltering heat, long lineups, jet lag, and sugar overdoses is going to improve the shituation, you’re on drugs. We purposely packed all the things to prevent, catch, clean, and store the inevitable shit — both literal and metaphorical. We’re not idiots. We had done this before. Doing it again was like walking willingly into the monster’s lair with a giant “EAT ME” sign, fully aware that we were about to be limbed. Which does sound rather idiotic, come to think of it. But alas…At least it’d be warm there?
I started listing the mishaps as soon as we got on the plane, because by then a whole bunch of fuckery had already happened. It was barely 8am.
First, things got hairy at the airport. The website said to be there at least one hour early for our flight into the US. Good sense and trusted friends told us to double that time, to be safe. So of course we went by the website, because we are lazy, stupid hillbillies. Why lug around two kids and all that junk at the boring airport for two hours if we didn’t have to? BECAUSE THAT AIN’T HOW IT’LL GO DOWN AND YOU KNOW IT, BITCH SELF. The first half hour of our journey was major sucktown. At one point I actually looked down at my boarding pass and I swear it said destination: Hell.
My husband’s father drove us to the airport in our vehicle (it’s larger than his, with lots of room for luggage and my giant milk jugs). He dropped us off at Departures with all our crap and drove off… WITH THE CAR SEAT BASE STILL IN THE CAR GOD DAMN IT. The car seat base is like a permanent fixture in the backseat, so I knew it could be easily forgotten if I was on autopilot, which of course I was after spending the last 48 hours packing and doing laundry and buying last-minute necessities and shaving all the hair off my body while my husband worried about the Habs and whether they’d survive game 5 so he could go see game 6 in Tampa. If I had tattooed DON’T FORGET THE CAR SEAT BASE on the inside of my eyelids so I could see it every time I blinked, I’d still have forgotten it. We realized what we had done just a few minutes later but we couldn’t call the father-in-law to scoot back with the piece of shit because he didn’t have a cell phone with him. My FIL is all that and a bag of chips but OMFG who doesn’t carry a cell phone with them at all times nowadays? HOMELESS PEOPLE HAVE CELL PHONES. Our flight would soon be boarding so we’d just have to sell the baby at the airport in Orlando since we couldn’t drive anywhere without that mechanism in our rental car. But hold the phone, Andrew had an idea, and thankfully this time it wasn’t a baby spoon that makes choo-choo noises. He called our neighbor (at 7:30 on a Sunday morning – sorry, Rod!) to physically intercept his father on his way back to our house to get his car. It worked. He returned with the car seat base in the knick of time. Too late to check it as cargo though, so we lugged the bulky bugger around as a carryon. But at least we could keep the baby now. We need those spare body parts.
We forgot the GPS too. Damn it, Andrew, you had ONE JOB.
And we forgot the apples I had cut up and placed in the fridge so I could start feeding the snack savage (Max) as soon as the begging began. Why do I even bother?
AND we forgot the kids on the elevator. Let me explain before you call CPS. We grabbed the car seat base and bolted toward security. Max insisted on pushing Rae in the stroller, so Andrew and I lugged the carryon bags. We had to take the elevator, of course, so we piled in at the bottom. And piled off at the top. Except, when Andrew and I got off at the top and moved toward the lineup for security, we heard the elevator doors close behind us… with Max and Rae still on it! OH MY GOD WE HAD GOTTEN OFF WITHOUT OUR CHILDREN. And down the elevator went. Thank god there are only two floors. Andrew poured down the escalator to catch them at the bottom and shower Max with reassurance, but by the time he got there Brother Max and Sister on Wheels were already on their way back up, now with two elderly women on board with them (not social workers, I hoped.) As the doors opened, I saw the tears in Max’s eyes. Which makes sense since he was just TOTALLY ABANDONED by the people who claim to love him most. I wanted to repeatedly slam my head in the elevator doors but we had to get through security STAT, so instead I quickly told him how sorry we were, how stupid we were, and how proud we were that he took good care of his sister during this crisis. His hands were firmly planted on the stroller handlebar the whole time. But from thereon out, he decided to leave the stroller pushing to his responsible, attentive parents.
To complete the morning from Hades, Andrew had woken up in pain. He has degenerative disks in his back (so he is at least partly a degenerate?) and when it acts up it casts a gloom on everything, like living in the shadow of Oscar’s garbage can. Great timing. And totally spontaneous! It had nothing at all to do with the backflips he was doing on the couch when the Habs won game 5 the night before.
As we were going through security, we heard our names being paged at the gate. Panic is a lovely feeling, isn’t it? Oh, but first we had to submit to a random swab-down to see if we were carrying any anthrax in our sippy cups. What luck. Figures though. We had just left our kids on the elevator. We probably looked like those meth head parents from Breaking Bad.
We boarded the plane and spotted our friends, Dave and Steph, and their two boys, Owen and Grady, sitting quietly near the back. We sat directly behind them – for a kickass view of Owen’s epic meltdown when Steph tried to secure his seatbelt. Locked down to a chair? Oh hell no. Owen put ‘er up for a good 20 minutes until his mom’s arms became his seatbelt and the flight attendants turned a blind eye in favour of their ears which were glad the screaming had stopped. Luckily we did not have the same flight attendant who’s making headlines this week after telling the mama from Walk Off the Earth to WALK OFF THE PLANE. (Three-year-old Owen was scared of many things on our journey, especially things meant to keep him safe like seatbelts and sunblock. Somewhere he has most definitely written, with a jumbo, red crayon: TRUST NO ONE.)
And what fresh hell is this? There are NO TELEVISIONS ON THIS FUCKING METAL BIRD. It’s not a catastrophe for Max; he has his iPad. But what about us? Were Andrew and I supposed to TALK? Were we actually expected to LOOK AT EACH OTHER? Where’s that emergency exit?
We arrived in Orlando still married. Rae was a dream on the plane. And Max completed a whole bunch of levels in Angry Birds, the details of which I can’t share because I was nodding my head and smiling and making a shopping list in my head the whole time he was telling me about it.
In Orlando, the rental car place tried to fuck us, as always. But we were prepared for that and got out mostly unscathed. Dave took an extra $100 hit because he didn’t have his insurance policy number with him and obviously couldn’t call to get it (it was Mother’s Day, a Sunday.) Rental car companies are basically Satan.
When we arrived at the villa we had rented for the next nine days, we discovered the rental company hadn’t come through with a second crib for the second baby. Grady needed the crib more than Rae, being a 10-month-old orangutan boy they found in the jungle. So we could either create a fortress of pillows for Rae to sleep in and check on her every 45 seconds to make sure she was still alive which sounds truly relaxing, or we could get our hands on a second crib and a couple boxes of wine for Mommy. We went to Target and bought a playpen. (I returned it the day before we left. It just wasn’t suitable.)
On the way back to the villa from Target, Rae went ape shit. It was a long day for the kids and we were really pushing it now. She cried so hard in the car, we had to pull over so I could gag her with my tit (or breastfeed her, whatever). I have this awesome, beautiful, happy baby WHO HATES IT IN THE CAR. What in the actual fuck. Every baby loves the car. People have clocked thousands of miles driving their kids around in cars to lull them to sleep. The car is every baby’s #1 cradle of choice. Except our baby. She hates the car. There goes my dream of her being a bigshot class action lawyer being driven around in the back of a stretch limo like Glenn Close in Damages. I really wish someone would invent a way to breastfeed while the car is moving. (Andrew, perhaps you could get working on that one right after your choo-choo spoon prototype.)
We spent the first day hanging out by the pool. And I mean HANGING OUT. I breastfed Rae every three minutes. I was worried she’d get dehydrated so every time she fussed for half a second, I slapped a boob in her gob. With the sun and the daughter sucking all the moisture out of me for the next nine days, I slowly transformed into a leatherback turtle. Here’s a pic of me and Max taking a walk:
The next day, Andrew and Dave drove to Tampa to watch the Habs get destroyed by the Lightning. They washed away their sorrows with beer, stayed overnight in a hotel, and drove back the next morning, genuinely excited to go to the outlet mall for the day — if by outlet mall you mean a mall with an outlet where men can escape without their wives noticing. But hey, maybe they’d see the Habs shopping for golf shoes.
The next day, Andrew got his revenge when I started to lose my voice. I think it was caused by the A/C. Or maybe a tiny lizard crawled down my throat while I slept and bit me in the larynx. It hurt to speak. And it pained me big time when I had to repeat myself again and again because my husband and son weren’t listening to me. Which made me want to yell even more. It was a vicious cycle that made me feel stabby.
We spent day three in a vegetative state, except for all the times where we had to tend to our kids which was all the time so forget what I said about the vegetation back there. And then to really nudge Steph into a state of total nirvana, Owen went facedown in the pool. Yup, stumbled over himself and went splat. Apparently lifejackets do NOT keep you face-up in the water. He must have only been facedown for about two and a half seconds, but time seemed to standstill as Steph leaned in and plucked him out while simultaneously having a cardiac arrest. Oddly, while Owen is terrified of seatbelts and sunscreen, almost drowning did not seem to faze him. He wiped the water from his eyes and carried on. Which, to a mother, is actually WAY MORE FUCKING TERRIFYING. At least if he was afraid of the water now, he might avoid falling into again. But nope, Owen was right back at the water’s edge within seconds. And Steph was on edge for the rest of the trip. Great stuff!
Day four was our first Disney excursion. Magic Kingdom. We had all been to Disney before but had never seen the lights and fireworks spectacle they put off every night at Magic Kingdom with the money they make from those giant turkey legs. It was nighttime, so I decided to swap the baby stroller for my new Lenny Lamb carrier so I could keep a close eye on Rae. Or a cheek, whatever.
When it’s dark and crowded and you’re in the busiest tourist destination in the world, there’s something unsettling about having your baby in an outward-facing stroller where someone could quite easily toss a half-eaten candy apple or a cigarette butt or A BOMB into your baby’s lap. Um no. This kid is the bomb and I’ll wear her like one. Only sucky part was, when I went to snap the carrier around my waist, I couldn’t get it done up. Not without adjusting it first to make room for my juicy muffin top. Jesus, I had only been here four days and I was already puffed up like a Yorkshire pudding. Friggin’ Olive Garden.
By day five, it was about time someone got injured. I mean, it’s not a real vacation until you break out the first aid kid, am I right? Owen had managed to defy death for 48 hours now so it was Max’s turn to bust up his moneymaker. He stumbled on the steps and knocked his face off the side of the pool, puncturing the corner of his mouth with his tooth. Steph and I had been out shopping and she got this text while I was driving us back to the villa: “How can you break it to Vicki that Max might need stitches in his mouth?” Ugh. If I had known this was going to happen, I would have swung by The Face Store to pick up a new one for Max.
When we arrived back to the villa, Max was sitting on the couch holding a facecloth to his mouth, his eyes wet with tears. I think there’s this moment when a child sees his mom after a dramatic incident and the floodgates fully open, like he had been holding back till she arrived, the one who would understand. I put Rae down and went to Max and he started to tell me, without moving his mouth too much, what had happened. I wanted to flip out and blame everybody and hold him and cry a river, but I had to play this smart. I didn’t want him to think it was the end of the world, because it really wasn’t. His brain was intact. His eyes could see. His legs were working. By god, we’d be going to Disney again tomorrow. We decided not to take him for stitches because scars are cool. Max would just have to NOT SMILE the next day. Which shouldn’t be a problem. I mean, we were only going to THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH.
The next day we got up super early and headed to Hollywood Studios. It was the first Star Wars Weekend of the year, and if Max didn’t get in line for Jedi Training when the park opened, he might not get a time slot and I’d have to throw myself on a cactus. DO OR DO NOT, THERE IS NO TRY? In this case, Master Yoda, there was only DO. We stood in line for 40 minutes and got a 1pm time slot, when Max would meet Darth Vader on the stage. Sweet action. At least this had gone right. We had already forgotten all our Star Wars gear back home: my “Don’t Call Me Princess” Leia shirt, Andrew’s Vader shirt, and Max’s light saber. The park was swarming with kids and parents dressed in fancy Jedi robes, traditional Naboo dresses, and humble Tatooine peasant garb. Every black guy was Mace Windu. Every female with long hair had wound it into side buns. LIKE YA WOULD. Except I wouldn’t, because I’m too busy packing the goddamn diaper bag to think about doing something this cool. At least Max was wearing his storm trooper t-shirt – with his Justice League hat and Batman sunglasses. He had a lot going on. Too much. Like maybe he had taken a wrong turn on his way to Sci-Fi On the Rock. But he was content so I didn’t really give an Ewok’s ass. After the previous day’s mishap, I would have let him wear my nursing bra on his head as a hood. Rae had been wearing her “Storm Pooper” onesie but lived up to her name and shat herself in the car, so we stripped her down in the Disney parking lot. Despite my best efforts, she attended Star Wars Weekend in a pink onesie that said “I love summer.” We also left a bag of poop-stained clothes fermenting in the hot car for the next ten hours.
1pm came and Max was ready for his big moment. He stood on the stage with a dozen other kids, all in brown Padawan robes, to receive lightsaber instruction from one of Master Yoda’s Jedi apprentices. As far as Max was concerned, it was Luke Skywalker so let’s just go with that. Max could have called me Dick Smack for the entire day and I would have approved. My heart ached for my little Padawan, his face swollen on one side and looking somber all over, probably because we told him not to smile too widely on account of his mashed-up mouth. LET NOTHING GO WRONG NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. No thunderstorms, please. No falling off the stage or peeing in your pants, pray Jesus. AND NO FAULTY LIGHT SABRE FOR FUCK SAKE. Annnnnnnnd he got handed a faulty light saber. Bloody hell. Maybe it was the user who was faulty (the Neosporin may have penetrated his brain), but either way – Max couldn’t get the damn thing to extend or retract on cue. Andrew and I looked at each other and cringed when we saw that he was struggling. I prayed to the great Jedi master: “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” When Max’s turn came to face Darth Vader, he whipped the light sabre out to extend it – nothing. He tried again, and again – still nothing. Luke Skywalker said, “Here, take my lucky one!” But Max kept trying and trying, and eventually – sweet miracle of life – out it came. A mother has never been so happy to see her son holding a weapon. He fought Vader as instructed and took his spot among the other Padawans. EPIC PHEW.
He searched for us in the crowd and we gave him a big smile and thumbs-up. He got his Jedi certificate from Luke and skipped down off the stage to meet us, with one-third of a smile which, today, was the same as a full smile.
On the way back to the villa, I got us lost while looking for a Little Caesars where we could get that bacon-wrapped pizza we had seen on the ads back home. Andrew looked like he might wrap me in bacon and toss me off the Tower of Terror. Rae went bonkers in the car again, which really improved the overall stress level in the vehicle. Max was in dreamland in the backseat, his mouth gaping open and threatening to tear open his cut. I took a scarf and wrapped it around his head and jaw like the ghost of Jacob Marley. No I didn’t, but that would have been funny.
The next day, Owen came down with leprosy. Poor little guy has eczema and the sun and the sunscreen and the chlorine in the pool were making matters worse. His tiny frame was covered in red spots from neck to ankles. On the bright side, it would help us spot him in the pool if he went facedown again.
The following day was our last before flying back home. I returned the playpen to Target (it was so very unsuitable), so Rae had to sleep between Andrew and I for our final night, which made our last chance for romance dry up like Betty White’s lady garden, or my lady garden for that matter.
We heard the fog back home in St. John’s was delaying flights all over the place. We could very well get stuck in Newark. Ugh. As close as it is to NYC, there’s an EW in Newark for good reason. But the fog was lifting. Our flight was on time. We headed to the airport bright and early.
On the way, Rae turned on the waterworks. Again. She’s fabulous, but should never be taken on road trips ever in life.
When we arrived at the Orlando airport to check-in, one of our suitcases was overweight so I had to buy a 12-dollar Mickey Mouse bag at the gift shop to stuff with all the heavy stuff: books I didn’t read, formula I didn’t use, hair rollers I brought stupidly thinking I might have five minutes to primp, and shoes that SHUT UP I NEEDED EVERY SINGLE PAIR. The gift shop guy said he sees this every day. That 12-dollar Mickey bag is a top seller among flustered travellers who bought too many hats with ears on them. Idiots.
We boarded the plane. Heading down the aisle, I held Rae in the crook of my right arm and the boarding passes in my left hand. 36D… 36D… I scanned the seat numbers looking for our row, not realizing that my baby goat was chewing on the boarding passes. Shit, the paper was wet and a small piece was missing. I swept her mouth with my finger but found nothing. Yet she continued to chew! This was her first time chewing on anything besides toys, nipples, or her own fist. Her first food was not oatmeal or carrots or peas. It was boarding pass. Excellent. I found our seats and whipped out the chesticles to wash down her first meal. I’m not much of a cook, so I guess it’s just as well she got used to food tasting like cardboard.
Oh look, no TVs on the plane again fuck me in the eye. And my seat didn’t recline. Tremendous. The recline button was actually broken off. Gone. How the hell does that even happen? With no movie, I spent most of the flight thinking about the bag of cookies in Max’s backpack and how I wanted to stog all of them in my face at the same time and pick the crumbs out of Rae’s hair later and maybe eat those too and lick her scalp for any trace of chocolate chips I may have missed. By noon the next day I had eaten all the cookies along with my feelings. Returning to our single-digit weather in St. John’s can be difficult.
On the last leg of our journey home, we weren’t long up in the air when Shits McGee let ‘er rip. The poop started to ooze through her sleepers on the back, threatening to soil our clothes as well. But the seatbelt sign was still on, so we had to stand her up on our laps and wait. The plane levelled off nicely, they started serving refreshments, and a few thimble-bladdered passengers started heading to the bathroom. WTF MAN. I asked the flight attendant if I could take my poop machine to be changed. She smiled and said, “I have to inform you that the seatbelt sign is still on…” YOU’RE SERVING HOT TEA, BITCH. We waited. Another gaggle of incontinent assholes lined up outside the lavatory. We asked the flight attendant again. “I have to inform you that the seatbelt sign…” I HAVE TO INFORM YOU THAT I HAVE BEEN HOLDING A HUMAN SHITSICLE FOR THE LAST 20 MINUTES. Rae was crying now. Like ya would after 20 minutes of stewing in your own feces and dangling by your armpits. The pilot finally flicked off the seatbelt sign and I beelined for the magical shitter in the sky.
When we pitched down in St. John’s at 8pm, the flight attendant said “Welcome to NEW BRUNSWICK.” I swear to fucking god, it happened. IT ALL HAPPENED. And it was all good, because it was exactly the shit we expected.
My husband thinks I pulled the ol’ bait and switch on him. Maybe I did, but it wasn’t on purpose, so I think better terms than bait ‘n switch would be “growing up” and “evolving.”
I admit, I used to be way more fun: scuba diving, riding rollercoasters, public boinking, etc. Now my idea of a good time is farting in the bathtub. THE KIDS CHANGED ME, OKAY. There’s at least a slight chance I might die when I do something ballsy, and frankly, now that I have two rad childers I’d really rather not take that chance, however small.
But I’m not a total snoozefest, dog gone it. I still live on the edge in lots of way. I make funny videos for CBC, for example. And according to the comments at CBC.ca/NL, I’m a foul-mouthed dirt woman. That sounds like fun, right? Check out my sixth video commentary to discover even more ways that this baby-maker is a risk-taker.
The question this week: Can you live on the edge after you have kids?
Mother’s Day is to the mommy blogger as the fourth of July is to Americans, or as Christmas is to the people with a picture of Jesus over their bed watching them masturbate. I’m supposed to say something infinitely profound on this sacred day of the life-giving vagina invented by Hallmark to sell cards and those horrendous Pandora charms, and to make women with no children and dead mothers feel really shitty. But I said masturbate in my very first sentence, so the chances of me being all inspirational is unlikely now, isn’t it? The truth is — I’m tired. I got nuthin’. Except hemorrhoids. I got hemorrhoids. Bum grapes. A direct result of becoming a mother, ironically. But guess what? I have the cure. And as a Mother’s Day gift to all ye mothers who suffer from assteroids, I will now kindly share it with you.
FINGER YOUR ASSHOLE.
That’s right. The cure for hemorrhoids is not an ointment. It’s not a magic pill or drink. It’s your very own digit (not your ring finger, preferably.) Just push those fuckers back from whence they dangle. In a nice hot bath where nothing really counts including peeing, finger your own bunghole. Stuff those unwanted underwear guests where the sun don’t shine. And then pleasantly relish the activity we moms so seldom get to: sitting.
Happy Mother’s Day to you and your asshole. I’m sorry. I’m tired.
From the moment you hold that baby in your arms, she holds you hostage. That’s not a metaphor for her stealing your heart. She actually holds you captive inside your home. There’s just so much shit to do and pack and prep and feed with your boobs, it’s impossible to get out the door. To improve your chances of getting further than the driveway before sundown, buy a kickass diaper bag and pack that bad boy like a boss. Here’s a video I made about it for CBC.
This week’s question: Any advice for getting out the door with the kids faster?
Click HEREfor my answer. (Warning: It may involve a pipe wrench.)
My mom always told me to try new things no she didn’t. She said new things can kill you. I think she was talking about drugs but whatever, all I heard was stick to the usual, which is why I spent 25 years thinking orange cheddar was the only kind of cheese. Last night I tried something new anyway. A threeway with my husband and a ghost. But before that, I went to my first hot yoga class.
When I told Mom I was going to hot yoga, she replied, “What is a hot yoga?” I was too lazy to tell her the truth, so I told her it was a kind of warm yogurt. Which sounds kind of dirty. The thing is, I kind of expected hot yoga to be kind of dirty! Come on, you gotta admit “hot yoga” sounds pretty porno. In fact, you probably only clicked on this post because HOT YOGA was in the title and you were hoping to see some downward facing doggy style action, you big giant pedo.
But instead of grinding around on a mat and doing crazy crotch aerobics to Shakira, I got a chance to lay in my own pool of sweat that streamed endlessly from my big, stupid face.
Maybe it’s a ginger thing, but I only sweat from my face. It’s very attractive, obviously. I especially love the sweatstache, and the beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks like hot tears. Here’s a picture of me from about halfway through class.
My whole body was wet with perspiration, but not because all my body parts were sweating. It was that whore called gravity, channelling south my river of salty face juice, which collected, conveniently, at Lake Vagina. I left home with 47 freckles and came back with 39, swear to god. And a pond in my panties. It was closest I have ever gotten to touching my lady taco with my tongue. Believe me, I have tried.
There may have also been some lactating going on. I really couldn’t be sure in the soupy mess. At one point, while bent over at the waist doing the human suitcase, I thought I tasted something sweet trickling into my mouth, but I’m told my sweat tastes like strawberries, so maybe it was just more sweat.
So let’s back this baby up for a sec. See, I was a hot mess even before hot yoga started. I WAS ILL-PREPARED OKAY? I can pack a diaper bag like a Hollywood nanny, but apparently I cannot handle a list of basic supplies: yoga mat, water bottle, towel.
I couldn’t find my yoga mat. I mean it’s huge and bright pink, how am I supposed to find that?
On the way downtown in the car, water spilled out of my water bottle and completely soaked my towel. I dried the towel with the vents in the car, continually steamed up the windows, and almost drove through Coffee Matters which is absolutely not a drive-thru.
And when I got to class, everybody whipped out their ginormous beach towels to cover their entire yoga mats TO KEEP FROM SLIPPING ON THEIR SWEAT, while I plucked out my lovely wee facecloth. It was a hand towel at best. A hand towel for someone with midget hands. No, midget hands are chunky. This towel was for mouse hands. Fidel goes to hot yoga.
My sister-in-law and niece snickered at my teeny towel. Bitches be neglectin’ to specify the size the towel should be when they invited me to this class and gave me THE LIST FROM HELL. But I dished it back by laughing at my niece who was totally unchallenged by these yoga poses, being all bendy and 18 years old and shit. Bah, sucks to be her. Bet she can’t wait to blossom into an old, rickety-ass fence and actually challenged by things.
Class started with everyone lying down like murder victims – body relaxed, eyes closed. I guess we were supposed to be releasing all our tensions. I was trying to remember what else I needed to buy on the way home, besides toilet paper. The sweat started pouring out of my mugshot right away, without even moving a single muscle. Clearly, I was in for some fresh hell. But it went okay, to my pleasant surprise. I held my own. I also held my own feet and widened my crotch an extra four inches. As if I needed a more gaping groin. (Insert pic of baby girl’s giant melon.)
Hot yoga might just be my jam. My hot, sweaty, strawberry jam. The place smelled like a spa in Switzerland. The floor was a cool, grey texture and I wanted to lie down on it immediately — like, in the porch, where people would trip over me, that’s how much I loved the floor. Instructor Tiffany was friendly and funny and didn’t say a word when I handed her my health form waiver thingy that said I had scurvy. And I managed the poses pretty well for someone who spent most of 2014 eating candy from the Bulk Barn to combat morning sickness. (Gummy worms make pretty babies so shut your hole.) I’m pretty sure I broke my ass doing the “prepare your anus” pose, like ya would, but I’ll be fine. I have a couple extra asses to fall back on, at least.
Nope. No way. You are not six. I don’t believe it. You fudged the numbers with your new kindergarten math skills. Just admit it now, evil genius, and spare everyone my ugly cry.
You totally adjusted the pencil marks on the wall too, didn’t you? ‘Cause you can’t be four feet tall. Although the Longer Pants Fund does support your claim. As payback, when you’re six feet tall with sideburns, I’m still going to cuddle the shit out of you. You owe me.
Your face looks a little different to me every morning. Less round, more chiseled. Less baby, more boy. I count 28 freckles on your nose and cheeks. But you’ve probably counted more. Figures.
You’re a big brother now! I’ll never forget the epic smile on your face when they put Rae in your arms at the hospital. And it wasn’t because you were up past your bedtime.
“Brother is here,” you say when she’s crying. I guess you’re cool with her name now. You wanted so badly to name her Diana (because Wonder Woman) or Barbara (because Batgirl).
You were a good fella when I was pregnant. You’d shovel the snow off the deck when you got home from school.
And at bedtime, you’d place your hand on my belly and we’d laugh at Rae’s roundhouse kicks. “Cool,” you’d say. Then, “You can go now, Mom. You’re taking up all the room in my bed.”
You are articulate and polite, with no bad words in your vocabulary. None that you use anyway. Yesterday you started laughing in the car because you were “thinking of a word that rhymed with duck.”
You coordinate your outfits to look like your favourite superheroes. You insisted on wearing your shiny black “Batman pants” when they were an inch too short. Last week, they up and vanished into the night. Weird.
It’s been a hard year on the health front. Lots of doctor appointments and unpleasant procedures. I realized how brave you are, and how fiercely I love you. And I was so proud when the pediatrician asked you your favourite food and you said, “Kraft Dinner.”
You caught a big trout in the spring.
You love to swim. And you’re a scoring machine at hockey. One day you netted 23 goals, according to your highly questionable tally. Dad has successfully molded you into a Habs fan. The morning after a game, you can’t wait to ask him who won and “what was it to?” I suppose you’d manipulate those scores too if you could.
Your favourite pastime is video games. But frankly, I’m a little tired of hearing about “Angry Birds Epic” and fighting about “screen time,” so now that you’re six (supposedly!) how about you pick up bonsai or soap carving or collecting belly button lint.
Your teachers say you’re very mature. Perhaps you could employ this attribute when you discover a new vegetable on your dinner plate, or when I kick your butt at Chutes and Ladders. And maybe you can stop asking “What’s for dessert?” after every meal, even breakfast. Once and for all, the answer is: banana.
You want to be a Master Builder when you grow up. I’m looking forward to my new house.
You lost your first tooth in February. You went to school with an apple and came home with an incisor in a baggie and a note from the teacher.
I’ve watched your artwork go from colourless stick men to detailed rainbow people. You bring home a new family portrait almost every day. I hang them all over the house, even though I look like Predator. Rae looks like an upside-down beetle. In last week’s portrait, you had drawn her on top of the dog’s head.
I love making you laugh at bedtime, when your body is floppy with giggles and your eyes sparkle in the glow of your Star Wars lamp. You can fudge the numbers as much as you want, mister – get older, taller, bigger, frecklier – I plan on making you giggle and sparkle to infinity. Deal with it.
You are always asking questions. How many days till the weekend? How many minutes is an hour? You’re trying to understand this whole Time thing. So am I. And listen, birthday boy sneaky pants number fudger – if you figure out a way to slow it down, let me know.