tick tock...

So, for the first time since bumblebee was born, I’ve been really, truly thinking hard about a) if we’re going to have a #2, and b) when.

I think it’s because my big sis and me have such an amazing, close relationship. We have the relationship that I would hope bumblebee would have with a sibling, and we are 22 months apart. In order for bumblebee to have a sibling 22 months younger than her, I’d have to be up the stick. Now. Pronto. Of course, I have an awesome relationship with little sis as well, and she's 10 years younger - too much time?

For 13 months, I would say, when asked, ‘oh yeah, we want two.’ But it was easy to say that when bumblebee was so new and I hadn’t even gotten my period back. (another super-duper benefit of breastfeeding – nothing til bumblebee was 10 months old – that’s almost TWO YEARS without it gals!)

Now, if I say it, I’m supposed to, gulp, mean it.

And the prospect of a second is even scarier than the reality that I was pregnant with the first. It’s like that, everything is spinning, I can’t quite grab a handhold, and oh shit I really really have to do this, kind of scary.

And I loved being pregnant, during those romantic, soft-lighting moments, when baby would stir and I would lovingly rub my little bee and marvel at my womanly, capable body.

The rest of the time I was puking. Or nauseous. And I had heartburn. And I’m five-foot-nuthin and I put on 40 pounds. And I had round-ligament pain (we called it shaky-leg syndrome). And I was tired ALL the time. Or I couldn’t sleep at all. And I was bossy (ok, bossier). And my husband ran around the downtown core for 2 hours one night because it was really late and I had to, had to, had to have a subway rib sub (wtf?). And then I only ate half because I was nauseous again. And once I sat on the floor so that my little sis could play with my hair, and I couldn’t get up again! And when I called hubs to come help me, he said, ‘don’t call me, call greenpeace.’

Don’t worry, I was laughing. He’s a cute joker and I love him for it. And he helped me up and then went to get me a dairy queen skor blizzard, so maybe I put on 40 pounds for a reason.

Surprisingly, childbirth was ok. I had a great attitude going in, I don’t believe in the medicalization of birth (I’m not judging anybody. Every woman does what she has to. It’s the system I hate, man. Ok, I’ll just stop there and post on it another time), and I was lucky. Bumblebee was born at home, sans medication, and my labour was, when push came to shove (ha!) about 5 hours long. Don’t be hatin’.

So, I’d trade 40 weeks of the unknown for one day of tremendous pain. And then maybe bumblebee would have a sib.

But there are, of course, other unknowns that I am afraid of. Just a few:

· Health of the baby and me (I’m only 31, but I still think that you can’t take it for granted that everything will be fine).

· Temperament of the baby. Bee is so good. What if the next one is more than I can handle?

· My relationship with hubby. This year hasn’t been easy on us. We love each other, but there were lots of times that we did not treat each other so nicely. Our expectations of each other had to go through a major overhaul (for the better), and that’s not easy when you are delirious with new-parent stress.

· I love our childcare situation, and do not want to have to figure out what to do with 2 babies.

· That a formerly body-conscious, skinny girl will never recover from another pregnancy. (shallow, I know, but I’m not asking to be a size two. And you know you think it too.)

· That we can’t love two the same way we love one.

· That we won’t be able to afford to give two the things we want to be able to give them (education, a boost when they are ready to go out on their own, lessons that they might want, etc.).

· I am Jewish, but I don’t believe in circumcision. If we have a boy… that’s another post for sure.

So, now what. Do I have to put up or shut up? Bee still breastfeeds – isn’t it better to just go through it again now, knowing that I’ll have my body back in a few more years, or do I wait for her to wean, enjoy not having someone constantly attached to me and then give it up again? Would I be able to?

Hubs is open for anything. I think he wants one soon, more than I even do. Most likely he wants the baby-makin. The first time around, it took 6 months on the shit-happens plan. He likey.

I don’t know. I’m a yid. It was really hard to give up cream cheese and lox for 9 months. Is another baby really worth that?

happy car mitzvah, intrepid!

Did I mention that I have a teenager? Like most teenagers, this one can be rebellious, and is not always reliable, but is full of character and personality. My teenager is sometimes exasperating, but ultimately does what it is supposed to. Like most teenagers, mine has its off days, and finds itself in need of a boost every once in a while. I try not to push my teenager too hard, but I do expect certain things without having to ask. I suspect my teenager will want a permanent break from any and all responsibilities soon. And, as I suspect so many others dealing with teenagers grudgingly admit, I am both prepared for and dreading this inevitable moment.

Oh yeah, feeding my teenager costs way too much, and it eats like a pig. But when my teenager is no longer useful, we’re getting a new one.

That’s right folks, I drive a 13-year old car. An INTREPID no less! It’s my very first car; It’s big, it’s white and it’s old. It was also free, and we’re driving into the ground. We’ve had intrepid since september, 2001 and it truly owes us nothing.

It’s had it’s breakdowns, it’s dust-ups and it’s run-ins, but we’ve shown it our share of neglect as well – with well over 200,000 klicks on the old odometer, it probably could have used an additional oil change or two.

Oh, but we’ve had some adventures! We’ve driven it through city and country, across borders (both provincial and international) and into magical places!

A few memorable moments with intrepid:

• Driving my first car for the first time.
• Hubby, a foot taller than me, getting into the driver’s seat after I’ve been there, exclaiming ‘oh god, why!?’ or looking around for ‘midgets’. I giggle like a schoolgirl every bleedin’ time.
• Almost always taking the scenic route, thanks to our now-raggedy backroads map.
• Almost killing myself by swinging plugged-in jumper cables around.
• Getting rear-ended at a red light. My first accident. Bumper replaced.
• Getting hit by a deer on a country road at night. YES, the deer hit US. Deer was ok. Car needed work. Side door replaced.
• Crunching the mirror as I attempted to back into my parking spot at our old place. Mirror replaced.
• Sliding into a pole in a parking lot on an icy night. Might have been distracted by yapping with passenger/friend. Door a crunched-in mess. Never replaced. Ghetto.
• Installing the infant car seat.

Obviously, to be able to handle driving a 13-year old car with a huge dent in the side, I am no snob. It’s not a status symbol, a mark of my success or anybody’s damn business, anyway. It is, however, very often the rattiest car on the road, and we know that it is soon headed to the great gas pump in the sky. We’ve debated not replacing intrepid, but think that it will just be too hard to see our friends and families, grocery shop, lug unnecessary shit home from ikea, etc. we already don’t drive downtown; that won’t change, even if we do get a car that could now fit into city parking spaces. It’ll be something practical, but cute; affordable but reliable. Of course, it’ll never be like the first.

Happy car mitzvah, intrepid. Mazel tov on all of your accomplishments. Now go thank aunty ethel for the beautiful watch.

Nanny McAwesome

Once I had been back at work for about two weeks, most of the guilt I was feeling about leaving my not-quite-one-year-old had dissipated. Sure, there’s still a gamut of emotions that I confront on a daily basis, as well as so many that I embrace, enjoy and cherish, but guilt about working isn’t one of them.

The reason? Our nanny, S. First of all, she is a cool person. She watches two 1-year olds all day (see below for explanation) and remains chilled out in a way I will never be. She has a real name, but she goes by her ‘play name’. She flips bee upside-down, producing the best sound in the world – a baby’s laughter. She sometimes wears a do-rag. She is strong, like ox. She loves my kid, and my kid loves her.

Here’s the deal; a mommy friend (her son and my daughter are two days apart; our hubbys went to college together; we all hooked up again at pre-natal classes; we had the same midwives) and I started stressing out about going back to work when the babes were approx. 2 weeks old. I know there are some great daycares out there, but I really didn't want to go that route, and she didn’t either. We came up with the idea of sharing a nanny, worked out the logistics, started our search and eventually found the wonderful S. We knew right away that she was the one. It was child-care love at first sight.

I am lucky to be able to afford this situation. I know it. I appreciate it.

Things are going great. From what I’ve heard, even our ‘transition’ was great. As with bee’s first vaccine, I was way more upset than she was. I was worried, and I had cause to be – for the whole year I was home, I was pretty loosey-goosey with a schedule, and I cannot even tell you the number of hours that I’ve logged with bee asleep on my lap when most parents would have found a place to put their kid down long before. I thought my high-maintenance sleeper would be a challenge. I thought my lack of schedule (and crib sleeping) would be a problem. I thought my neuroses about what bee eats and my vehemence that she never be left to cry anything out would be a problem.

No way, man. S. has it down.

Bumblebee took to a schedule like a pig to shit. No choice really; S. keeps the kids so busy and their days so full that bee is tired by 9:30 EVERY DAY and wants a nap. And she wants another one ALWAYS at 1:00. And then she wants me to put her to bed RIGHT AT 8. And she wants to sleep (almost) all night. Really, I have been put to shame. Put. To. Shame.

True, with two babies at my house all day and somebody else’s mother looking after them, I’ve had to let go of some of my control issues, but that’s a good thing. Most importantly, my baby is in very good, capable hands when I’m not there, and bee is fine with it.

And, tho I expected to, I have no jealousy issues. Even when I was holding bee and she held out her arms to go to S. I was relieved, actually. Imagine how awful I would feel if I was leaving her with someone that she DIDN’T want to go to. I was even more relieved to hear that, while I had company one day last week (I wasn’t home from work yet), bee wouldn’t go to anybody else but S. Now, I’m not trying to saddle my sisters or my mother with rejection issues, but I am really glad that S. is her safe person when confronted by a room full of people that doesn’t include me or her papa.

I feel like bee is really lucky to have two very different female influences. S. plays with bee way differently than I do. She has taught her things (besides how to sleep) that I’m not sure I would have, knows songs that I don’t, and takes her places that I never go. This not only exposes bee to so many additional, wonderful things, but it helps keep us separate; something that even the least jealous back-at-work mom needs.

In many ways I wish that I could stay home, or work part time, but with our circumstances the way that they are, we decided that the best choice was for me to go back to work. And don’t freak out at me, folks, I know it was a choice, and I know what some people think of that choice.

I’m not sure at times what I think of it, but one thing I know for sure – I could not have done it so painlessly without S.

And I want a play name. I think it should be Theodosia. Or Lady Fantastic.

home is where the mess is

Hubby and i used to pride ourselves on our design sense, knowledge of cutting edge architecture, and occasional splurge on awesome, design-savvy ‘investment pieces’ (like our custom-made gray wool low-profile sectional, modest russell spanner furniture collection and enthusiasm for colour on the walls). We frequented design museums, interior-design shows, high-end king street east showrooms and the mangiest thrift stores alike. We cancelled our membership to the ROM because we hate the crystalline tumor being added to it (although we admit that part of the purpose of design is to get people talking and thinking, so in that way I guess it works). In European cities, we have marvelled at both the historical and cutting edge architecture and have built and designed our dream house (in our dreams, of course), many times over. Hubby even takes into account my personal safety and privacy issues, as well as my midget-like stature when dreaming up our future abode.

Our first apartment together was so funky that it was even used as a set in a tv show. They needed a 1970s den of iniquity, and our moody basement pad, with it’s purple and blue walls swathed in very funky fabric panels (made by moi), and abundance of retro (ok, junk) furniture, fit the bill.

When we were buying our house, we were looking primarily for two things – original charm and future potential. We got it. Little did we know that a year and a half later, the original charm would be obscured by toys, scuffed by trucks, plugged with cheerios and splattered with rejected food projectiles. And that’s just from hubby. As far as future potential goes, well, we are thinking of getting the floors redone when bee turns five.

And what of our lovely things? Our custom-made gray wool sectional, russell spanner coffee table, antique chinese occasional, red-framed mirrors, my favorite decorative bowl with the gilded butterflies, and even the throw-your-coins-in-it record bowl/conversation piece handmade by my bff’s swedish ex? All of our things are either pushed up against a wall, so that the space is bigger for toddling babies to play in, or put upstairs, on high shelves, so that toddling babies can’t touch. And nobody can see.

This isn’t even about baby-proofing. It’s about preservation. I learned all too quickly what happens to nice things when they are left at the 3-feet or below mark.

So, our house looks pretty barren nowadays; the only things on display are sippy cups, board books, dirty onesies and whatever forgotten craft project I am currently neglecting. There’s not even a family photo around, family photos being particularly tasty to a curious 13-month old. Of course, pretty soon our décor will consist of a good amount of first scribbled pictures (hopefully on paper and not gumwood trim), play-doh sculptures and finger-painted masterpieces. And we definitely can’t wait to become a loyal patron of the featured artist.

lies my mother told me

• don't turn the lights on and off or someone will think there's a fire
• turning the tv on and off wastes electricity
• ketchup goes on everything
• sex kills
• eating cookies (or cake or cupcakes or muffins or bread) right out of the oven will give you a stomach ache
• socks go to jesus
• you can't put defrosted chicken back into the freezer or it’ll make you sick
• if you play with matches, you’ll pee in bed

I swear, one day this will be a book. For now, I wonder what bizarro things I will say to my own daughter that she will one day make available for the whole world to read.

she's crafty

My mother is a champion knitter. Scarves, hats, mitts, afghans, slippers, shawls, bags, socks, doll clothes, bear clothes, baby clothes, pet clothes and sweaters, sweaters, sweaters. She does it all, and she does it all beautifully. Trust me, none of us kids have ever complained that we are cold. She used to do ceramics. Plates, mugs, platters, vases, figures, Judaica, christmas stuff, you name it, she painted it. Many of my favorite family heirlooms began by being cooked by my mum.

My big sis is an unbelievable artist. She can draw, she can paint, she can pot, she can sew, she can felt, she can crochet, she can quilt, she can make gorgeous picture frames out of bits of paper, and she can do fine bead work that’ll make your head spin. Truly gifted, she eekes out a living doing something she loves and something that makes other people very happy. She is the macgyver of the craft world, and she is generous with her wares. I am very lucky to have been on the receiving end of some of her finest work, and bumblebee is already amassing an impressive, irreplaceable collection of aunty art.

Surely some of that artful instinct has rubbed off on me, right?

Not a bleedin’ chance in hades.

Oh, don’t get me wrong; I have the appreciation, the enthusiasm, the dreams, the hopes and the desire to be crafty. I lack only two things – talent and vision. Oh, and patience. And staying power. And concentration. But I wish, oh, how I wish I were crafty.

I do enjoy jolts of craftiness every now and then. I come across something that inspires me, spend $30 on a needlepoint kit, or $20 on fancy wool, or $15 on seed beads, or $25 on iron-on transfers, or $45 on mosaic tiles, and then I get down to it. Here I go! Look at me! I’m stitching! I’m crocheting! I’m beading! I’m getting distracted! I’m checking my email! I’m watching OC reruns!

It’s quite sad, but the collection of half-finished, abandoned craft projects piling up in the closet in the basement (where they can’t mock me) far outweighs the crafts that actually turned into finished product, and are actually being used.

A short history of some of my half-baked ideas:

- 2 and a half out of 6 beaded napkin holders, mother-in-law’s birthday, 2004
- half a hula girl needlepointed onto a tie, hubby’s christmukkah present, 2005
- 1 red crocheted baby bootie, birth of friend’s child, June 2005
- yarmulke-sized toque of knit organic wool, my b-day present, Jan 2004
- doll-sized crocheted baby blanket, started right after my big sis announced her pregnancy – 1997!

Even the projects I do finish turn out woeful and sad. Like the mugs I made at the clay room for my mum and mother-in-law for the holidays this year. Oh, they started out nice enough; painted them a jaunty lime green, inside and out. The trouble started when I decided to put bumblebee’s handprints on them. At the time she was almost 7 months. Ever try to get a 7-month old to stretch out her little hand and hold it on a wet, round, delicate surface, palm down, and then, lift! For a beautiful, sentimental hand-print present? Well, I can tell you from experience – don’t bother.
The purple smudges on the mugs look more like insane monkey paws or random rorschach blotches, I got purple paint all over the both of us, and I have never seen my mother or mother-in-law take one little sip out of the mugs.

Crafting. Hrmph.

The problem really, is that I always have more bitch than stitch; more yawn than yarn.

Then again, my mum and my sister can’t spell for shit. But how much fun is spelling with your daughter on a rainy day? Anyway, I gotta go; I bought a corker the other day, and I’m going to start on the rug I want to make for bumblebee’s room. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

word nerd

So, if I haven’t already mentioned it, I am a copywriter/proofreader by trade. That means that a large part of my job description is to be anal. I wish to offend no one, however, who may be as anal as I, that may notice the little inconsistencies (or even big mistakes) in grammar, punctuation, etc. in these posts. The reason for the inconsistencies is two-fold:

1. I work on a mac at home and the blog formatting is different. There are no italics, bolds, hyperlinks, etc. available when you post from a mac (or, I am such a no-tech-moronic that these things do exist, but I can’t figure out where). If you see such embellishments, you know that I am not doing what I should be at work. Although, I might just post at home and embellish at the office, wasting a minimal amount of time.

2. This is where I get to leave my analness behind (ha ha!). As a lover and user of the english language, I am part purist, part evolutionist. I believe language, its use and its rules can and should evolve. I look at lots of things that way – language, religion, relationships, growing up. Know the rules and then you can break them.

Just wanted to clear that up.

So, on a different note, I just wanted to say that as difficult, complicated and emotional as going back to work has been at times, one thing that I have absolutely loved is the time spent reading on the subway journey to/from work. I am an absolutely voracious reader, always have been, but did very little of it during the first year of bumbebee’s life (unless of course, there were rhymes, flaps, fuzzy paws, things that beeped, things that honked, things that said moo, happy mooses or grumpy gooses involved). I was too busy, too tired, too distracted, too dumb, and too mothered-up to do much reading. But I am back, baby!

Here’s the list of books that I have read in the last seven weeks (yes, I keep track. Something an anal person would do):


· Julie & Julia – Julie Powell (a fellow blogger – represent)

· The Birth House – Ami McKay (so, so, so good. Made me love my midwife even more)

· Swing Low: A Life – Miriam Toews (so, so, so good. Made me love my dad even more)

· Alligator – Lisa Moore (also the moniker of a great friend that I love. Book’s great too)

· White Teeth – Zadie Smith (finally, someone who rambles more than I do.)

· Fall On Your Knees – Ann-Marie MacDonald (my favorite book of all time; reading it again)

I absolutely recommend all of these books. As you can see, I read mostly contemporary Canadian women authors, but that is by no means exclusive. I just seem to go in waves when it comes to authors. Also, I was lucky to get all the books on my list as presents this holiday/birthday season, so I am catching up.

Let me know what you are reading.

p.s. – nice air conditioning guy came this morning. It is fixed – filter needed to be changed. We are chumps.

it's getting hot in here

As luck (or karma or coincidence or whatever you want to believe in) would have it, our air-conditioning broke on the hottest weekend of the year thus far. Awesome. We have been unable to sleep, sticky, smelly, sluggish and sick of it. On top of that, we have company – my big sis and her lovely 8-year old daughter, visiting us (er, let’s face it, visiting bumblebee) from the languid, moderately-temped left coast. We are melting. We are also trying to make the very best of it and not complain, spending our days mostly outdoors, where the temperature rivals that in the house, but at least the air is circulating. Kinda. Anyway, the point is, even tho I am semitic, have spent a year in the middle east and generally can’t get enough of summer, I have not been loving this. Really, it’s that I do not want my sis, my neice, and most of all, my babe, to be uncomfortable. Bumblebee has had a hard time sleeping, which means that we’ve had a hard time sleeping, but really I just care that she has had a hard time sleeping.

It’s not as bad as the first summer that me and my man were together. I was living in a third-floor apartment in the heart of chinatown, and he was pretty much living with me (he had his own place but was seriously there so little that he didn’t even know one of his roommate’s name). It was stinky at the best of times (chinatown basically being one huge, rotting produce market), but that summer was beyond the pale. We would lay in bed at night, window open at the head, fan blasting at the foot, praying for death to take us so that we could finally get some sleep. Our weekend was not that bad. But something had to be done.

So, I finally find someone who says that he can be there Sunday morning. Awesome, I say, see you then. Sunday morning comes and goes. Sunday afternoon goes by – whole family arrives for a bbq – we spend all of our time on our shady back porch. Lovely, but where’s the guy? Sunday night comes and goes. Monday comes, I do a bunch of stuff, and goes. Tuesday morning shithead calls and says he can be there at 11. cool. Since he seems to be the only ac tech in the whole city available, I sit in my sweltering pad and wait. 11 comes and – wait! I think he’s here, my knight in a wrap-around tool belt! It’s him! He’s coming up the front stairs! I open the screen door –

And just as he shoves a business card in my hand, bar his entrance.

You must think that I’m loco or that the heat has melted the few post-natal brain cells that I have left. But, I had good reason. ‘ I forgot to ask how much you charge.’
He replies, ‘$90 and hour.’ Cool, a good rate. ‘ok,’ I say, ‘starting now, right?’ I’ve done my homework, been told the deets by more than one sweaty ac guy that couldn’t make it out until two months from Tuesday.
‘nope,’ this joker tells me, ‘starting half an hour ago when I left my last job. And it took me 15 minutes to find parking. I had to park one street over.’

shock and awe, people, shock and awe.

‘do you expect me to pay for you to find parking?’ I am bewildered by the suggestion.

I am more bewildered by what happens next: dude grabs his business right out of my hand, turns and marches off, presumably back to his car, a street over, with a growl.

I cannot believe it. Can you believe it? Sis, who saw the whole thing, could not believe it. Friend, who recommended the jackass, could not believe it. Hubby, mother, mother-in-law, several friends, a couple of neighbours and the guy at my local convenience store couldn’t believe it, either. Now, I can be bitchy, but trust me, this was unprovoked. My tone of voice had been surprised, but not unfriendly. Balls, as my friend would say.

So anyway, the big corporate gas distribution company has now won out over the independent, and our ac problem will be, at the very least, diagnosed on Thursday. I will continue to be bitter about this episode for a while longer. If you are ever in need of an ac tech, let me know. I have a guy that you should absolutely never call over pain of rudeness, and I would be happy not to give you his number.

Nighty-night.

What comes after two straight days of rain in Toronto?
Monday.

Blog is the New Black

First of all, my apologies to the tens of you who must have already used that titlage. It can’t possibly be original. But if it is, then hey, I should be pretty good at this thing.

So, do we really need another blogger mucking up the cyber-waves? Probably not. But, as my very good friend, and fellow blog-mama put it, I need words to work stuff out. I kept journals in my early teens, and then I discovered weed. Now I'm back to journaling, and this (I'm learning), is how it's done in 2006. One day I hope to rediscover weed, in the same way that I one day hope to rediscover my pre-baby body. Might just be a sweet memory.

So, who the heck's blog are you reading anyway?

I'll call myself Penelope, because that's what my husband calls me. I'm not sure what I'll call him yet. It won't be DH, because most of the chatroom vernacular and acronyms make me kind of want to puke. Don't get me wrong, he's great, he's sweet, he's selfless (more often than not), he's a hot number and I love him. But Darling? Doesn't do it. He'd be the first to agree. So, I have a man, and I have a kid. I'll call her Bumblebee, because that's what she looked like in utero (at least to us). Sometimes I think Crazy Muffin or Your Majesty or Heir Dictator (benevolent, of course) would be more apt. Bumblebee is 13 months old. She is wicked cool, funny as all get-out, so smart that it is scary, the cutest thing on wheels, and truly a super-good, super-mellow baby. A way better baby than I deserve. I could go on and on about my bumblebee. And I will, later. This is often going to be a forum to work out my feelings about being a mom, a good mom, come what may. But I don't really want to be defined solely as being a mom. I'm also a wife, a writer (by trade, even – very lucky me), a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a mouthy environmentally friendly-capitalist-lactivist-peacenik-exdeadhead.

A little bit about me:
• I have a tendency to ramble. I will try to control that for your sake.
• I am a word-nerd. Self confessed.
• I have a big family. You'll no doubt read more about that later.
• I have a big nose. You'll no doubt read more about that later.
• I have a soapbox and I know how to use it, but that is something that I'm also trying to control.
• I secretly love 'lord of the dance'
• After this first post, capital letters, other than the ones that word automatically inserts, might go the way of the dodo. Bear with me on this one. It's sheer laziness.
• I love hockey. Darcy Tucker is an object of my desire.

I'm still exploring who I am as a mom, but so far I know a few things:
• I am more 'Mothering' than 'Parents'
• I am more Big Carrot than Big Mac (understatement)
• If you like Ferber, than you won't like me
• Bumblebee was born in our bed, where she still sleeps
• I did go back to work and don't think that it impedes raising a whole family or practising attachment parenting
• Being a mom came really naturally, and for that I am thankful. I hope I can continue to say that as my bumblebee and our family grows.
• The best thing I can do as a mom is to trust myself

What else can I say that you might care about? I guess just that I hope that I am able to discover some things that I might not have known (or been able to see) through this blog. I hope I can make y'all smile every now and then.