Head Injury Mommy

Sorry i haven't been writing much...or much of anything...or really anything.

I have two concussions or post concussion syndromes and it makes being on the computer really hard.  And I have trouble spelling.  And typing.  And writing.  And remembering words.

What was I talking about?  Oh yes...concussions and their effect on my memory, balance, energy, and just general brain related stuff.

The baseballs on my noggin are gone...for the most part (bumps still remain 6 and 4 weeks after the fact) but the "fun" of concussions goes on.  I promise I'll write more again as soon as I can.

Please be patient while I work on getting better.

Rock-a-Bye-Baby

Bedtime used to be a pretty minimal affair.
Supper. Bath time. Bottle. Brush Teeth. Stories. Upstairs. 3 Songs. Bed.

The End.  Tah Dah.

Now?  Bedtime is Epic.

1. Supper usually served to a child who is either shoving food into her mouth double-fisted or attempting to swivel her head 180 degrees while screaming, "Nooooooooooooo."  Apparently, soup is a finger food.  Who knew?

2. Bathtime is still pretty good.  Provided you turn on the bubble machine and you have the water at just the right temperature.  If it deviates more than a half degree from the ideal, bathtime can degenerate quickly into something that makes even the most seasoned parent wonder why the hell they're putting themselves through this.

3. Milk is always good.  Well...99.9% of the time it is good but mostly this is a moment of calm in an otherwise crazy night.

4. Brushing teeth?  It is a crap shoot.  Some nights it is giggles and fun (Brynn's tooth brush plays "Party in my Tummy" from Yo Gabba Gabba) and other nights I'm sure someone from DCFS is going to bust into the house to take Brynn away from us.  Yes, she screams THAT loud.

5. Stories.  Sometimes we have the time and energy and sometimes...we don't.  Usually that depends on how 4 went.

6. Upstairs.  Surprisingly, this is the one part - other than her bottle - that Brynn NEVER fights.

7. 3 Songs...or 4 songs...or 5 songs...or...  Scott always ducks out after 3 but I'm often left dealing with a kid who opens her big blues as wide as they'll go and who lisps out "I loo you" just before asking "mo song?"  I usually end up singing myself out long before she runs out of cute but eventually I disengage, give her a kiss, tuck her in, and close the door while she still hopefully asks for "Mo Song." 

Then, I shuffle downstairs, fall onto the couch next to Scott and together we fall into a TV induced coma.

How Romaaaaaantic. 

The Queen of Lower West Banjoville

We did it!  We finally did it.  We bought a house.

And not just a house.

It is THE house.  A dream house.  My dream house...eeeexcept for the fact that it isn't in Vancouver.  Or Burnaby.  Or even Port Moody.
Nope.  Officially, it is in Coquitlam (the next burb out past Port Moody) but it is close enough to Port Moody that I'm going to call it "Coquoody".  I know that's stupid but it makes me feel marginally better about being out in the boonies.

Instead of the King of Kensington, I'm now the Queen of Lower West Banjoville.  (yes, "Banjoville" is actually a legit term.  Google it, I dare you.  Or better yet, follow my handydandy link to the urban dictionary for the definition.

Feast your eyes on my new digs.

Wait a minute...this isn't MY house.  This is a picture of Will Smith's living room from Architectural Digest.  What a dump!  He can now only dream of owning my new pad.  Bwahahahahahaa
Let us all now take a moment to feel sorry for the Fresh Prince of somewhere other than Lower West Banjoville.

The Louboutin Mommy or A Paperbag Princess?

I am most definitely NOT a Louboutin mommy.  (as much as I would dearly love to be)


I do not drive up to my daycare to drop off my little bundle of joy in my Mercedes SUV.

I do not slide off my Gucci sunglasses, tossing them carelessly on the passenger seat so I can see what I'm doing.

I do not unbuckled a child named "Buffy/Oprah/Ashleigh Devereaux the third" and sashay her into daycare with my flashy five inch Louboutins wearing a delightfully swingy Halston dress.





  

I do not.

Nope. 

This mommy drives up in her 2003 Mazda wearing pants I hope don't give me too much of a muffin top, topped by an oh so delightful tshirt procured from Costco.  When I sashay, it is more of a schlep since my Pumas have holes in both soles.

Ah yes, I know.  Ooh la la!  Je suis superbe, n'est pas?

Oh, and just in case you were wondering...yes, this post was inspired by a Louboutin mommy I saw at my daycare this morning. 

Wadda bitch!

The New Daycare...Sorta/Kinda

Well our fabulous, marvelous daycare provider Maria is now enjoying herself in idyllic Greece and we're back from vacation.  You know what that means...

No, it doesn't mean I'm going into baklava withdrawals (although I am), it means Brynn has started at her new daycare.

Kind of.

Sort of.

What she actually has done is started at "A" new daycare.  A pronounced like the letter of the alphabet, not the "aaaaah" we garble out for the dentist.  A new daycare.  Yup.  The saga continues.

As you know, we got a highly coveted spot in a brand new daycare.  (cue angels singing)

Then, we gave our notice and suffered through Maria's concerted campaign of guilt.  (cue the violins)

Then, we got a call from our new daycare.  They weren't going to be ready on June 1st as planned.  (cue horror movie soundtrack)

Then, we talked to Maria (aka grovelled) and she agreed to continue caring for Brynn until June 15. (cue relieved angels)

Then, our daycare called back and said no, they were going to be ready on time.  (cue slightly pissed off angels singing through clenched teeth)

Then, our daycare calls back and says, nope, they were right when they called us the first time...they aren't going to be ready for June 1st after all.  (cue some LOUD Nine Inch Nails - Mom, this is a band.  You would hate them so don't bother asking to hear some of their music.)

Then, we beg and cry and Maria agrees to take care of Brynn until July 1st.  (cue angels who are now too pissed off to sing and now can only manage a smile that looks more like a snarl)

Then, we get a call letting us know that our daycare won't be ready for July 1st, or even July 20th when we return from vacation and inquiring whether we have other options or if we would like to drive our daughter to Richmond every day to use their facility there.  Until. Further. Notice.  (OK.  Cue every fucking angry/ugly thing you can imagine here.  Kind of like the product of a Marilyn Manson meets Steve Buscemi having a baby with Freddy Kruger staring sullenly at you as though planning your imminent demise.  Yup.  That's how THAT whole phone call felt.)

aaaand so now every day I ask the universe "are you kiiiiiiding me?" as I load my sweet little baby into the car to schlep back and forth to Richmond.  Zippedy fricking do dah day.

GOGOGOGOGO!

Just a quick note 'cause I'm about to make my escape from downtown Vancouver (AKA: Crazytown Central)...

GoCanucksGo!

Oh Puh-frickin-leeeeez!

So Louis Vuitton is hawking ridiculously expensive bags (over ten thousand bucks by my guess) by sending Angie to Cambodia.

First of all I have to say that's offensive.  People in Cambodia could live on that much money for a ridiculous amount of time and they sent her there to take pretty pictures to flog their ridiculously overpriced crap to the rich and bored of the world?  Meh

Second: they are making much of the fact that Angie is supposedly au natuale.  No, not naked (obviously!), but supposedly not wearing any makeup.
ANY. 
Wow.  Genetics sure are on her side because she apparently has a natural smokey eye, unblemished and matte skin (in an extremely warm and humid country, no less!), and a highlighted lower lip.  Guess I crawled out of the shallow end of the gene pool because I NEED MAKEUP TO LOOK LIKE THAT JUST LIKE EVERY OTHER HUMAN BEING IN CREATION.

Dear Ange:

You don't look like this in real life so don't let those hucksters at LV say you do.

Love,

Everyone

pah!

No Really, I've had More than Enough

I'm sitting at my desk at work trying not to fall asleep.
I've been the only lawyer here for almost the last 3 weeks: I've submitted any number of votes, intervention letters, letters of comment, interrogatories,  final arguments, an epic human rights submission, and steered us through a computer upgrade and migration solo.

And I'm done.  Done like dinner.  Done like a roast stuck in the oven at breakfast and left to broil until bedtime.  Well done but not done well.

My mom and dad are on their way down for a visit and househunting trek.  I'm looking forward to seeing them but I feel bad because my house looks like a bomb went off because until last night my last three weeks have consisted of: I get up, get ready, go to work, get home, take care of Brynn, tuck her in and start working until I pass out from exhaustion.  Then, rince and repeat.

I need a vaaaaaacaaaation.

The Cold, Hard Truth: My Realty Check

Housing Market (HM): 7  versus  Sad Little Ole Me: 0

I love Vancouver.  I love living here.  I love that I can easily get to the water, the wilderness, the city and the mountains.  Other than the rain (look at my blog background...rainy mountains.  That isn't simply because it's a pretty picture, folks), I love this place.

What I don't like is that in order to get a bungalow - A BUNGALOW - within Vancouver city limits with a half decent basement suite for my parents, I'm looking at $900,000 at the very least.  Don't even get me started on how much I'd need to get a place on the west side because I just don't want to type that many zeros...my limit is five.

1.  I wanted to look at a house on Wall Street.  They just accepted an offer. HM 1 : Me 0
2.  I wanted to look at a house on East Georgia.  Whoops, they also just accepted an offer. HM 2 : Me 0
3.  I wanted to look at another house on Wall Street.  Guess what?  They accepted an offer. HM 3 : Me 0
4.  I asked to look at a house in Burnaby on Georgia.  Same frickin' deal. HM 4 : Me 0
5.  I begged to look at a house on 18th. No problem to look but it was awful. HM 5 : Me 0
6.  I cried to look at a place on Williams.  Oh, guess what?  They accepted an offer before even putting it up on MLS. WTF?? HM 6 : Me 0  
7.  I looked at another bungalow in Burnaby. We put in a bid - $22,000 over asking. And lost. Some schmuck bid $77,000 over asking with no conditions. Not even a bloody home inspection!!! HM 7 : Me 0 

Nooooooo!

This past weekend, I tentatively formed a thought that I might go look at a place at the top of our budget.  Until our real estate agent told us that they were expecting multiple offers.

OK Housing Market.  How's about I bid a Million Fricking Bucks and throw in my 2 cats for good measure?  No?  You want my left kidney too?  At this point, I'd almost consider that a good offer but rest assured, I will not allow a medical inspection before signing on the dotted line.

PS: I couldn't find a picture that was completely on point...strangely, Google is not littered with images of people punching each other and climbing over dead grannies and bleeding kittens to sign real estate contracts.  So this lovely picture will have to do.  Just imagine that daddy's nails are dirty because he just buried the last of the bodies of the other bidders in the back garden.  Sadly, he won't get a chance to clean them anytime soon because as soon as their little sweetheart goes to bed, mommy locks herself in the house's only bathroom while she scrubs and scrubs, trying to get the blood off her hands while crying softly so as to not wake their sweet little child.

The Last Post...

No, not my last post.  This is about another blogger's last post.

His name was Derek.  He was a Vancouverite with a wicked sense of humour.  He loved music, Diet Cherry Coke, and cheese in a can...apparently called Easy Cheese.

He had a wife.  He had 2 daughters.  And...he had cancer.

Derek is gone now.  He died the other day and the link I'm putting below will direct you to what he asked be posted after he passed away.  Although I didn't know him...I only knew him through his blogging voice...I am able to say with complete confidence that the world is now a poorer place.

Even if you don't read anything else in his blog, I highly recommend reading this.  I read it and I cried.  Lots.  If his Last Post motivates you to read more, then that's all the better because he was intelligent and funny and inspiring.

The Last Post

Chock Full'o'Crazy

I'm beginning to wonder if my kid has been switched out.

You know, the old "changeling" theory (no, not the movie).  I mean the "you-go-to-bed-one-night-after-tucking-in-your-sweet-little-baby-and-sometime-during-the-night-the-dark-sidhe-come-steal-your-baby-and-leave-a-cranky-crazy-little-doppelganger-in-their-place.

Yesterday, I began to wonder.

Scott had to stay late at work (again) so I went to pick her up solo (again).  I walked in Maria's back yard and within 1 minute, Brynn morphed from a happy-go-lucky toddler to an air raid siren.  A siren that wailed while I grabbed her stuff; talked to Maria about how Brynn's day was, walked to the car; strapped her in; drove her home; lugged her, her lunch bag, my work bag, and her diaper bag from the car, through the car park, into the elevator, through the courtyard, and up the stairs into our place.  She aaaaaoooooogaaaa'd as I took off her coat.  She caterwauled as I took off her shoes.  She bellowed as I put away her stuff.  She roared until I sat down on the floor in the kitchen, completely at a loss. 

She walked up to me, still shrieking...put her hands out to cup my face...and stopped!

I got a kiss and she sat on my lap to cuddle right there on the kitchen floor for the next 20 minutes as though absolutely nothing had just happened.

Yup.  We're chock full'o'crazy.

My Family is Not Perfect

Phew!

There.  I’ve said it.

I was surfing the blogosphere and noticed a ridiculously large group of yammerings that were written by women purporting to be the matriarch of "The Perfect Family."  

They love absolutely everything about being a mom.  

They are married to the perfect man.  

Their kids are genetic freaks of nature with absolutely no faults.
These women apparently get up each morning to sunshine beaming in the window and the chirping of birds while their husband brings them breakfast in bed and their children play quietly after penning a scathing critique of Gerardus 't Hooft's Nobel Prize winning thesis "For Elucidating the Quantum Structure of Electroweak Interactions."

I know you were probably all labouring under the misconception that I’m a Sofía Vergara look-a-like, married to Brad Pitt meets Gerard Butler with a smidge of Daniel Craig, with a daughter whose beauty and good nature are only outdone by her supernova intelligence and dazzling social skills.

I hate to burst your bubble but that just isn’t true.

Scott isn’t Brad Pitt, Gerard Butler, or Daniel Craig.  He’s Scott.  He burps. He farts and blames it on the cat or (gasp) on our daughter.  He doesn’t rinse the sink properly when he shaves.  He has hockey gear that should be designated a bio hazard and burned in a sealed compartment for the safety of all mankind.  He tunes me out.

He tunes me out.  Me.  MEEEEE? 

Cripes.  How is that even possible?  I’m not the strong, silent type and I’m loud.  I’m assertive.  I’m brash and pushy more often than not I’m saying some pretty interesting shiiiit…or at least mildly amusing shiiiiit…or something that is really just shit to fill the silence.  Well, I can see why he might want to tune me out some of the time but it boggles the mind that he can actually achieve this...and achieve it he does.  On a regular basis.  Whether what I’m saying is important or not. 

Scott: How was I supposed to know that? You never told me…No, you didn’t… No, you didn’t.

Scott: You never mentioned you needed THAT.

Scott: What? When the hell did I agree to your going to Palm Springs for 5 days with your sister? (oops, I haven't mentioned that yet)

Scott: I don't remember agreeing to put our house on the market and why are those movers taking away my stuff?

Sigh.

No.  I’ve got a belching, farting, messy, toxic mess of a husband who tunes me out but I love him.  Apparently, that's my type.

I, however, am Sofía Vergara’s long lost twin and Brynn is perfection incarnate so hopefully that will help restore at least a smidgen of your faith in the blogosphere.
 

 Me or my slightly less attractive sister, Sofía?

Me, of course!

Where is my...Where is my...Where is my Internet?

My internet router decided to take a much needed vacation late last week.

It apparently hopped a plane to Mexico, got lost, wandered around Guadalajara after dark (never a good idea) and got scooped up in an after dark kidnapping raid.  Its whereabouts are unknown but as we have yet to receive proof of life, it is presumed dead.

I mourned for a few minutes and then the anger began.  I wanted to check my email. (mild annoyance)  I wanted to look at properties online. (getting pissed)  I had work to do and rather than lugging all those binders home I planned on using the online versions filed with our regulatory body.  


AH NIDDED MAH DAHMN EHNTARNEHT.

Obviously, this also cramped my bliggedy bloggin' style.  Horrors!

My internet provider compassionately assured us that we'd receive a fancy shmancy new router sometime this week.  Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, perhaps Thursday, a chance of Friday...

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Aaaaugh.  It's my theme today.  Live it.  Feel it.  Taste it. 

Daycare is my other theme. Yes, I'm blabbering about daycare.  Aaaaagain.

Recap: Brynn's caregiver is jetting off to Greece for 2 months on July 1st and returns to a four day work week.  Nice for her but a massive can'o'worms for us.  I can't even tell you how many places I called - including the ones Brynn's already wait listed for - and we were S.O.L. unless we were willing to split her week between 2 different daycares.  Obviously, NOT ideal.

Present day: we just received confirmation that Brynn has a FULL TIME place in a wonderful new daycare opening up here in Vancouver: Kids and Co. Cue the angels, heavenly spotlight, and blissful harp music.  To say this was a miracle is just shy of hyperbole...just. 

Time Warp: We're driving along a road we don't normally drive along.  I just happen to look up and see the sign saying Kids and Co are opening up soon and that they are having an open house (that Scott completely missed).  During their open house hours.  Before the hoards realized what was going on and gobbled up all the available spots.  Ohmanohmanohman. After a scream, a cartoon style screech and highly illegal u-turn, we high tailed it back to fill out an application.

Aaand back to present day: they told us we had a spot for June and I tried my best to sound sane on the phone while dancing around my living room like a coked-up ballerina. Could we defer to July?  Nope.  Full to the gills after June 1st.  Still dancing but I did feel sad about pulling Brynn from Maria's place early.  What to do?  Well, hell, I took the spot and agreed to move Brynn up to the toddler room, making room in the infant room for another lucky mom...I mean child.

So yesterday we had to tell our beloved caregiver that we're going to have to pull Brynn as of June 1st and not July 1st as originally planned.

It didn't go well.  Not well at all.

We left her place feeling as though we were scum.  She's somehow convinced that we made a point of finding something for June 1st and the rest of the conversation essentially boiled down to an extended guilt trip.  She's been so good to us.  Yup.  She's loved our baby.  Yup.  Brynn loves her.  Yup.  If she had known we were going to leave June 1st she would have booked her ticket to Greece for June.  Well we didn't choose June...it was chosen for us.  She worries that Brynn won't be well cared for at this new place and that she won't like it there.

Ummm...WTF!

To me, that just crossed a line that shouldn't be crossed.  We're stuck between a rock and a hard place because of her. We have to make sure our baby is well taken care of and we're not willing to give up a placement so highly prized moms literally cried when they were told their kid had a spot (No, I didn't cry.  Too busy dancing to cry) just to make our current caregiver a bit happier for one more month.  I like Maria, but not THAT much.  Hell, I'm not even sure I like Scott THAT much.

Well maybe I do.

Love you, honey.

Father Knows Best

So last week was a bit of a mess.  Oooooobviously.

I spent more time on the phone last week than I would have liked, passing along the rather sparse medical updates my father gave only via email except to those pushy enough, persistent enough, and lucky enough to catch him on the phone and make him talk about what the hell was going on with my mom (me, me and me).  This post is about what happened during just one of my zillions of telephone conversations.

Tuesday night, my sister BJ called for an update while Scott and I were bathing Brynn. Not 3 minutes after I call my sister back, my baby runs down the hallway into the den naked as a jaybird, laughing as though she's just heard the best joke in the world.

She stops.
She smiles slyly.
She looks me in the eye and then slaps her hands onto her thighs just before she squats down to pee on our rug while laughing hysterically.

The next five minutes played out like this: I yelled.  Scott squawked.  Scott ran.  Brynn ran. Brynn escaped. Scott triumphed. Diaper deployed. Scott puttered. Brynn escaped.  Brynn ran.  Brynn grabbed. Diaper cream smeared. Brynn laughed. Hands covered. Wall covered. Stuffed bear covered.  I yelled.  Scott squawked.  Scott ran.  Brynn ran. Scott wiped.  Bear washed.  Brynn escaped.  Brynn tookeverypapertoweloffarollandranawaywithittrailingoutbehindher.

Everyone yelled.  Everyone squawked.  BJ scoffed.

I laughed.  I laughed so hard it hurt and I suddenly knew everything was going to be ok.

It was awesome.

Embolisms of the Pulmonary Persuation

I woke up on last Saturday morning to a totally unexpected news flash: my mom is mortal.

My dad had to take my mom to the hospital the night before for what turned out to be a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot in her lung).

Whaaaaat?

How is this possible?

I grew up thinking my mother was a cross between Dirty Harry and Charles Bronson.  I always figured that if someone was ever stupid enough to shoot her, she'd pick the bullet out with her bare fingers and it would end up on the mantle as a reminder to everyone not to fuck with her.  She's not a violent person but she's got nerves of steel.  This whole experience sure has shown me I'm not so lucky.  My nerves are shot!

Daddy's Little Girl

I carried her for longer than the required 9 months.

I got fat for her...for awhile.

Every day I pack, chop, cook, sort, fold, scrub, tidy, wipe, sing, read, change, cuddle, comfort, carry, shop, brush, chase, feed, plan, clean, and play for her.


So, of course, I'm her fave, right?

Nope. Lately she most definitely daddy's little girl. He's the shiz and I'm most definitely shiz-less.

For example, when we all walk to and from the car we ask, "Do you want to hold Mommy's hand, Brynn?"  Her eyes get as big as dinner plates while her little eyebrows pull together. Her little feet stomp and she looks me right in the eye as she wags her finger frowningly and says, "Noooooooo" as though I've got razor blades glued to my palm.

I sound bitter.

Yup. Bitter.

Blogs Away!

I’ve been working on a project lately that made me realize I’ve been at this awhile.  Blogging, I mean.  I’m currently taking my blog and slurping it into book form so I can horrify my daughter once she’s old enough to read my rather colourful vocabulary and subject matter without either asking what “^%!@” means or staring horrified at the page.  Of course, if she’s anything like her mother and her Auntie Heather, I’ve got to get a move on because she’s overdue to begin swearing like a drunken sailor.  (She’s already repeated a few gems she’s overheard when the "Dinglie Danglie Doodle rule" was being ignored but those were isolated incidents.  Really.  They were.  Just isolated incidents and not part of a larger pattern that should cause anyone any concern, ok?  Ahem.)

For this book project, I went back to the beginning of my blogging “career” and it made me realize how much I’m enjoying this.  Yup.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I like writing.  In a perfect world, it is what I would do for a living.  Writing, I mean, not blogging.  Well, to be honest, if some benevolent stranger were to come to me and promise that I could make a living blogging I wouldn’t say no so I guess technically anything that involves creative writing is “ma thang.”

Sooo…anyone willing to pay me to do this? 

Any takers? 

…Anyone?

Aaaaaaaanyoooooone?

Sigh

Alrighty then.  Well, I honestly thought I would make my way in life as a writer once I came to the painful realization that Hollywood wasn't comin'a' knockin'.  Yup.  At one time, it was me or  some pouty chick named Angelina but because I wasn’t willing to make a complete idiot of myself by faking – badly – a bored British accent in every second film while wearing next to nothing and pretending to act, she got the big break.  Since I’m not willing to abandon what little dignity I have left or my love affair with Sir Mars of Bar, you can bet I’m not holding my breath for a late break into film stardom either. 

Anyway, I haven't exactly been burning up the pages with my creative stylings lately either...other than my bliggedy blogging...and I want to try to change that.  So what I want you all to do is tell people about my blog.  NOW.  Of course, what I really mean is that I want you to tell people GOOD things about my blog (I'm a big believer that specificity is important – careful what you ask for and all that).  That way, when I eventually pound out my Great Work of English Language Fiction, my huge fan base will read about it in my blog and they'll be so excited they'll all rush to the bookstore to buy it en masse.  

It will - of course – then end up on the NY Times Bestseller list and I'll be whisked off on a whirlwind book signing tour where I'll be showered with gifts of expensive shoes and designer clothing so I can look fabulous when I meet all my screaming fans.  Aaaah yes.  Truth be told, I’m a sad, shallow little artist trapped in a white collar day job who, yes, has indeed read that blogging with readership-building in mind is a no-no but TO HELL WITH THAT.  I WANT READERS.  I WANT TO KNOW I’VE GOT REGULAR READERS.  I like the thought of people enjoy reading mah dahm scribblin' so sprehd the gud wurd, fulks.  

I'll just sit here and try to feel the love in the meantime.  Oh, and I’ll even throw in a bit of work once in awhile 'cause that's just how I roll.

Blood, Sweat and Yogurt

Last night, we hit hit yet another "developmental milestone." (And yes, that's still code for crap Brynn does or learns that makes my hair go gray) My child is a daredevil. She climbs like a monkey (like a drunk, slightly suicidal monkey) and loves to throw herself down stairs, ladders and slides, hang off of safety gates (ironically, NOT very safe), cribs, and shelves, and throws herself head first off of couches, laps, car seats, and change tables.

In other words, my child has no fear.
None. Zero. Zip. Nada. Squat. Bupkis. Squadouche.
She stares fear in the face, rips off its nose and eats it as a snack while humming a happy tune.
That's just how badass she is.

Last night, I'm in the kitchen cleaning up from supper. There was yogurt EVERYWHERE. Brynn was feeding herself and by the end we both looked like some kind of epicurean experiment gone horribly wrong. Imagine some food scientist asking, "What do you mean the yogurt exploded?" and you get the idea.

Then, I hear her titter. hee hee And in my head I'm thinking: eh, no big deal.
I hear her giggle. tee heeheehee But then I begin to wonder: hmmm.
I hear her laugh. hahaha Then I get that sinking feeling in my stomach: uh oh.
I hear her bust a gut at the top of her lungs. Bwahahahahahahaha And BAM! I know, whatever is going on is going to age me at least 10 years.
I look up from the sink to see what is so funny and my 15 month old is standing - no, RUNNING - like that drunk, slightly suicidal monkey from one end of our sectional couch to the other laughing so hard she can't breathe, let alone keep her balance.
When did you learn to climb our couch??????? Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen?
The next few seconds played out like a slow motion "nooooo" from just about any cheesy movie you've ever seen.
Happily, she didn't fall...or rather I broke her fall...with my face...which bled while she laughed and poked at the blood. Yup. It was awesome.

Jazz Hands for Fitness?

Ok. I know I already posted today but I gotta share this RIGHT NOW.

I went to the gym after I finished my post earlier today because it was quite literally the only way I could avoid actually ordering a pizza for delivery right here at work. Of course, the fact that I followed up my workout with Corn Nuts was probably counterproductive, but that is beside the point.

So...I'm at the gym. Jogging away on my treadmill dreaming about melty cheesy and pepperoni goodness while waiting for some random chica to get off MY machine. (My gym has this machine called The Wave that is kind of like a cross between an elliptical, a stair climber and speed skating and it is AWESOME. I lovelovelove that machine but they only have one and I can't tell you how bitter I am when I arrive and someone else has dared to profane it with their presence.) So back on topic...I'm on the treadmill, trying not to give this dumb broad the stink eye for being on MY machine when she busts into this slowmo jazz hands/mreow kind of movement like she's a refugee from Cats who can't quite remember how to act like a cat or a woman trying out for the part of a senile cat doing a rain impersonation.

She did it for 10 minutes straight.

I deserve a prize for not falling off my treadmill 'cause there just isn't comedy anywhere as good as that, my friends, nosiree.

Gym? Who The Hell is He?

I'm trying to lose weight.
Try-ing. sigh
I weigh less now than when I got pregnant buuuuut I set a goal for myself and I'm stalled about 10 pounds above that magic number. Sadly, every time I get myself motivated - eating right, going to the gym, feeling good - I get sick. I get the flu, I get food poisoning, I catch a cold, I get lazy. I know that "lazy" doesn't technically count as sick but it is rather addictive and given our society's tendency to label addictions as illnesses, I think it might slide in as an illness one of these days.

Maybe one of these days, we'll all be watching Dr. Drew's "Sluggishness Rehab" or "Celebrity Goof-Off Club." I know I'd tune in. Sitting on my couch. Wearing my fat pants, eating a bag of chips with a diet coke in hand and calling over Brynn to pick the crumbs off my shirt because I'M TOO LAZY TO DO IT MYSELF.

I went to the gym on Monday. I went to the gym yesterday. I'm sitting here right now trying to talk myself into going again today but it is soooo hard. I just keep coming up with excuses.
1. I'm tired.
2. I'm tired.
3. I'm tired.
Then, I enter my workout results into my online fitness diary and it tells me I should take today off. Is this a conspiracy? I'm doing my best to look good and the universe keeps throwing Mars Bars and Licorice Goodies at me. I'm trying to dodge pizza slices and chocolate Rosebuds and my workout program says "take it easy today." Oh and guess what? I just got a damn email from Dominos Pizza. "Dear Leigha: we know you're overdue for some grease. Here's something to make it just that much harder to say no when you get that craving for pizza tonight." AAAAAUGH

I can't take it anymore. I'm heading to the gym to work off some of my pizza-induced stress.

Road Trip 2011: Highway to Hell

Needless to say, things didn't quite go according to plan on this trip.

Because we waited until the last minute, getting ready was an exercise in chaos. I couldn't find half of what I was looking for and (horror of horrors!) I didn't have the time or energy to scrub/tidy/dust/organize everything we own! Since I'm no June Cleaver, I don't quite understand where that impulse came from but thankfully it has passed and we're happily ankle deep in dust bunnies again.
Brynn was congested and her persistent, hacking cough kept her awake and - to be honest - kinda cranky.
By the time we hit Squamish, I was feeling like hell and by bedtime, I wanted to die. Helloooo, food poisoning!
For the entire weekend, Brynn would not sleep (or even stop screaming) unless her arms were wrapped around my throat or her foot was jammed up my nose. There's nothing like laying yourself down at night suffering from food poisoning and trying to breathe through it while your toddler pins you to the bed with a perfect Kimura submission hold.
It rained the entire bloody weekend *except on Sunday when we left* and Brynn and I sat around our hotel room getting cabin fever until there was a break in the clouds. By the time I got her bundled up and out the door, it was pissing rain again.
Oh and did I mention our stupid dishwasher leaked all over the place?

Yup. NOT a good road trip, to say the least.

FYI: I'm invoking the famous Worth "Let us never speak of it again" clause because I'll lose my shit if I've got to talk about this weekend EVER again.

Ahahahaha

Since the last two books I've read were Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and World War Z, this picture really made me laugh my butt off.

Wish I had managed to get a picture of Brynn doing this to one of our cats...now THAT would a picture to treasure forever.

File This Under: "What Are You On?"

We're heading out on another road trip tomorrow - to Whistler this time. This is how I envision the weekend going...cue the squiggly lines and beebley music to show this is all taking place in my imagination:

As we ready ourselves for our trip, we are a virtual ballet of graceful organization. It is as beautiful to watch as it is to experience.
We find everything we need exactly where it should be, clean and ready to go.
Brynn is a bundle of excited (yet quiet and cooperative) energy until we get on the road, when she drifts into a nap of epic proportions.
I catch up on sleep while we drive up and feel like a million dollars when we arrive.
The weather is mild and sunny so Brynn and I spend time happily wandering the town while her father snowboards with friends.
At night, Scott and I spend romantic evenings snuggling on the couch while our baby snoozes away peacefully in the next room.

In summary, the plan is that we're going to spend an idyllic weekend away, leaving on Sunday with smiles on our faces and happy memories all around.

Yeah, I'd be searching my pockets for a bit o' whatever Raffi was on too 'cause I just don't see this happening either. Wish me luck!

Stick This Under Your Bus, Raffi!

The Wheels on the Bus go round and round,
round and round,
round and round,
the wheels on the bus go round and round
all around the...

Oh to hell with this, y'all!

Did you know that Raffi was high on coke when he wrote and/or sang most of his most popular songs? Yup. According to the Great and Powerful Google, he was amped up, chasing the dragon, neck deep in da gutter glitter.

This certainly explains a lot. Look at him, I mean REALLY look at him. The man is using a banana as a phone and I seriously doubt he's being ironic. No, he's probably hiiiiiiiiiiiigh after munching on some California cornflakes and calling the mother ship to report that his effort to subvert Earth's children is proceeding apace.

Well here's my answer to you, Raffi:















"Raffi, I know you're out there. I can feel you now. I know that you're afraid... you're afraid of us. You're afraid of change. I don't know the future. I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell you how it's going to begin. I'm going to hang up this banana, and then I'm going to show these people what you don't want them to see. I'm going to show them a world without you. A world without your brainwashing music and intelligence suppressing lyrics, without wheels on buses or baby belugas. A world where anything is possible. Where we go from there is a choice I leave to you."

The Devil's Boon 2 - The Devil's Kitty

I can't even tell you how freaked out I am right now...well, actually I am going to tell you how freaked out I am so brace yourselves.

As I mentioned before, the other day we bought Brynn another balloon (see exhibit A to the right).

Obviously, this wasn't my idea after my last experience but since this balloon seemed free of demonic influences I thought I would just go with the flow. As the days passed I even began to believe it was just an offensively pink piece of Mylar filled with helium. I still didn't exactly relax around it...it is, after all, still a balloon...but at least I didn't think it was planning my imminent demise the way the last one obviously was.

Yesterday, when Scott left for hockey and Brynn went down for her afternoon nap, I went up to our bedroom to do some cleaning. Something got into my eye and I stumbled down the hall to our master bath.

Aaaaand there it was.

Brynn's Hello Kitty balloon was floating in our shower stall and I can guarantee that no one moved it after it was left downstairs for Brynn to kick/punch/squash/love. WTBFH OMFG!?!

Oh...it gets worse. Then, this damn (or should I say damned) balloon lifted itself back over the glass shower enclosure, floated across the room and lowered itself down until I was eye to eye with Lucifer's feline...and then it just stopped.
Yup. I just threw up a little in my mouth thinking about it.
And no, I'm not even remotely kidding about this.

After realizing my tweezers were nowhere to be found, I threw the balloon over the pony wall where it should have floated downstairs. Should have, but didn't. Noooo, Brynn's balloon - AKA the Devil's Kitty - floated back up to the ceiling, across the pony wall, pulled its string out from a tight spot that should have kept it anchored, down low enough to pass under the lintel and back into the bathroom.

For the love of God, send pointy things c/o ME right now.

And no, I'm not kidding.

Want Ads

Wanted: Supernanny willing to work full time for what really isn't nearly enough money taking loving care of delightful young toddler. Must have previous experience, the patience of Job, a doctorate in early childhood education, be willing to scrub toilets and able to leap small buildings in a single bound. Candidates with magic flying umbrellas and connections to musically inclined chimney sweeps will be given priority.

Hmmm...perhaps the beer should have waited until AFTER drafting the want ad...especially since we can't afford a nanny anyway.

Noooooooo!

I'm stressed out.

Yesterday, I learned that our amazing caregiver is taking July off to go to Greece for her son's wedding. From our perspective this is regrettable, but completely understandable.
Then, she's taking August off too because she always takes August off. Ummm...normally falls under the 'regrettable but understandable' category but she'll have just taken July. I know I'm horrible, but I have to say it anyway: WTF?
THEN, starting in September she's working a shorter week - four days only. My response: pretty much exactly what you see right here but with more fingers and lots more hair.

I know it isn't like she just dropped this bomb on June 15th or something but you have to understand, getting a place for a kid Brynn's age in a good daycare here in the 'Couver is like winning the bloody lotto. I would have had to register her the day I conceived for some of these places (you can't actually do that, I checked into it) and that's provided they're actually willing to take your name. One place we'd love to take Brynn to has a 400+ long wait list and hasn't accepted new names in over a year. Provided I ever get them to take her name, I'm sure there will be a spot just in time for my first grandchild. 400+ names? Really?

I've checked our top three preferred options (of the ones that would actually take our names for their wait lists) and all three are a no go.

Next Stop? Tantrumtown. According to The Great and Powerful Google, this may actually work.

The Devil's Boon!

Brynn's first word was Kitty.

Her next word was Balloon (although it actually comes out as "Boon!").

She loooves balloons. Loves to hold them. Loves to hug them. Loves to bite, kick, drag, punch, throw and body slam them.

Me? I'm not a fan. I hate balloons. I actually qualify as globophobic and yes, that is actually the correct term. I know it sounds stupid but I find balloons scary and stressful.

I'll just wait while you laugh it out.

....

....

...

Ok are you done? All out of your system? No?

...

Moving on. Brynn loves these horrible globes of death. We've had to dress her while she clutched her latest balloon. We've had to read to her, feed her, brush her teeth and bathe her while she held her balloon. I've had her smack me in the face with one repeatedly while I changed her diaper. (Strangely, she laughs just a little too hard while doing that...it is almost like she knows it freaks me out and she's enjoying it) She got one for her birthday and I was insanely happy when it disappeared...and by 'disappeared' I mean it no longer floated out of reach so I quietly cut it up one night when Brynn was sleeping. Yaay!

Unfortunately, when we came back from Thailand, my daughter had a brand new one, courtesy of her grandparents. Thanks, mom.

Since then, I've become convinced this particular balloon was possessed. One day while I was home sick, it was left floating in the kitchen and no one touched it after Brynn left for daycare. Later, I walked the length of the house, went up a flight of stairs, down the entire length of the house, up another flight of stairs and into our bedroom to have a nap. This is only important because when I woke up and rolled over I was literally face to face with Brynn's balloon. My first thought was that it was a good thing I woke up when I did because the damned thing was probably going to smother me in my sleep. The second was to wonder how the hell it followed me up there.

Sadly, this balloon also soon took a turn for the worse and is now a pile of limp Mylar. Yaay!

Whaaat? Oh please. Surely I'm not the only parent out there who secretly sabotages her child's most offensive possessions. I know for a fact that there are people out there that throw out their kid's favorite stuff when it gets too dirty, holey, small or smelly so if I maybe (and I'm not admitting to anything here, folks) happened to accidentally poke Brynn's possessed balloon with my tweezers hard enough to cause a very small hole then what can be done? Yes, Brynn was sad but it was on its last legs anyway and she soon got over it.

Yesterday, we went to Safeway to get a few groceries after picking Brynn up from daycare. It was like somebody took every bloody balloon in creation, brought them to the grocery store, and then strategically placed them everywhere a young child might look. She nearly lost her mind. Just picture a toddler spinning and pointing in every direction while chanting "BOON!" at the top of her lungs and grinning like a maniac and you have an idea what it was like. Needless to say, we left with a brand spanking new Hello Kitty balloon and I'm back to only shopping at Superstore...and sleeping with one eye open.

Beware the Devil's Boon!

Dinglie Danglie Doodle!

These days, I constantly make Rolie Polie Olie references in conversation...sadly often to people who don't know what the hell I'm talking about. For those of you who have avoided being dragged kicking and screaming into the cult of the Treehouse Kids TV channel, it's about a 6 year old robot boy named Olie and his "charming" adventures growing up on the planet Polie. Charming is in quotes because the charm part is debatable.

We find this one of the more palatable cartoons for young kids so we use it for distraction purposes whenever necessary (and yes, I know some people out there are freeeeeaking out that we're purposefully exposing our young child to TV. Blah blah blah yadda yadda). I was pretty surprised the other night when I realized this show actually got me thinking about a fairly serious parenting issue: bad language at home. The episode I was watching...I mean Brynn was watching...was called Dinglie Danglie Doodle (apparently quite a swear word on the planet Polie - called "the 3D word"). Olie's 2 year old sister Zowie overheard her father say it when he hurt himself and she wandered around repeating it until finally her mother heard her and nearly popped a gasket.

This is an issue for us now because Brynn is talking. Well...more accurately, she gabbles a lot but she also actually says a few words. 'Kitty' was her first one but now she also says baby, cracker, bye bye, balloon, Claire (her daycare friend's name), and - awesomely - Mommy and Daddy. The last thing I want to have to do is to try to get her to STOP saying something, even something rude, when she's got such a limited vocabulary but a ridiculously large percentage of my vocabulary is not particularly polite and unless some serious changes happen at home, it is inevitable. I have horrible visions of sending her to daycare, only to have her blithely babble out a string of swear words I unwittingly taught her that will make everyone think I'm the most horrible mother in creation.

Yup, there's an awkward conversation to have with your child's caregiver, to be sure.

So now we have a swear jar. Well actually it is a "swear piggy" 'cause it is her piggy bank and we're charging $1 per swear. What? You think that's expensive???? Well now I'm just going to mumble something vague about inflation and the expense of sending a kid to university in a decade and a half while I slink off into the sunset.

I know she'll eventually learn something rude.
I know she'll look up at me one day, smile charmingly and chirp out something that would make a pirate blush and I know I'll have to work really hard not to laugh BUT that time should not be now. For now, our house is a Dinglie Danglie Doodle-free zone, at least between 7am and 8pm.

After that, all bets are off, dammit!

And The Nineth Ring of Hell is....

Jetlag! Beelzebub, the Prince of Darkness' worst punishment has GOT to be jetlag. I'm so tired my eyelashes hurt. I'm so wrecked my cuticles have bags. I'm so...well, I can't think of any more ways to describe how tired I am because I'M TOO FRAKKING TIRED!

I've begun to believe Thailand is Heaven and apparently Heaven is a warm, relaxing and tropical 15 hours ahead of Vancouver's cold, drab and dreary Rainfest of a timezone (boo rain!).

There were times I (semi)seriously thought about running away from Rainfest and staying in Heaven but then I remembered my real reason to come back to Rainfest. She's 14 months old, likes cats, balloons and long walks down our hallway. Her pet peeves are baby food, the word "No" and naptimes. No matter where I was or what I was doing, her little blue eyes and devilish smile would always call me back.

I have to say, this time I wish she had called me back on a different airline.

Scott and I flew Korean Airlines from Bangkok to Vancouver via Inchon, Korea. Well, actually we flew Asia Airlines from Phuket to Bangkok with a layover and transfer to Korean Airlines but that's details without much relevance to my true complaint. Oh, and did I mention I spent more than 32 hours in transit. Ohhhh yes...32 uncomfortable hours.

We hopped in a cab at 7:45 PM Thailand time (4:45 AM Vancouver Time) and didn't arrive back in BC until after well after 12 PM Vancouver time two days later. At the best of times, this is a long trip but we spent a ridiculous 9 hours in the second most beautiful, but absolutely most boring airport in creation before being forced to sit on a jam-packed airplane toddling around the tarmac for 2 hours past its scheduled take-off before finally taking off on its 11 hour flight, only then realizing that the chairs in the emergency exit row don't even come close to reclining the (puny) standard 33 degrees. OH MAH GAWD.

I loved Thailand. Looovedlovedloved it. I luuuuuurve Thailand but I detested the trip to and from more than usual this time. The Inchon airport in Korea, while lovely and clean, is a shopper's paradise...but only if you are Paris Hilton: Gucci, Prada, Cartier or, for the truly poor, Coach (shudder). It was one of the most repetitive places I have ever seen in my life: there were endless stores but they were quite literally all the same. I felt like I was being stalked when I kept looking around and seeing Gucci signs, Cartier stores, and Prada purses no matter where I walked. It was a bit like Groundhog Day meets Clueless.

Of course, if I were rich, I would probably be babbling on about how great Inchon was and how much I enjoyed my layover there. My 9 hour layover.

Sadly, in the absence of my Lotto Max win, it's still on my list of most boring.

Road Trip 2010

Over the Christmas break Scott and I loaded up the car, cinched our baby into her car seat, and headed out for what I now call "Road Trip 2010."

We were on our way to spend Christmas with my parents who live about 5 hours away. Of course, that 5 hour trip time does not take into account bathroom/diaper breaks, meal breaks, snack breaks, freak out breaks, or the now infamous " 'Hey, look at all that fluffy snow' while mommy cries into her pillow" break. In other words, this trip doesn't exactly take 5 hours now that we've got a baby on board.

This trip was tough but I know it could have been much, much worse. My poor sister BJ had to deal with my niece Jordyn screaming until she literally puked every time she got in the car when she was a baby - No, I'm not kidding. LITERALLY. That kid actually yakked every time they went farther than the corner store after screeeeeeaming her lungs (and her mom's eardrums) out. I have to admit, even though it wasn't a walk in the park, I'm a damn lucky woman 'cause even though my child is stubborn and vocal, you put her in a car and she's pretty chill.

Anyway...please note that I said Brynn is "PRETTY" chill. Not chillin' and definitely not mad chill, shorty. She was pretty chill for an active 1 year old hogtied to a plastic chair covered by a thin layer of padding in the backseat of our car for what we'll euphemistically call a "5" hour drive. Let's just say I'm encouraging my parents to seriously consider moving back to Vancouver - or at least the Lower Mainland - because that drive was...interesting. And by "interesting" I mean something I don't want to repeat in the foreseeable future.

It certainly wasn't all butterflies, smiles and Disneyesque musical numbers, but...we survived. Merry Friggin' Christmas Everyone!

Thailand Calling...

We're going to Thailand!

FYI: when I say "we" - I mean Scott and I, NOT Brynn, Scott and I. Now don't judge me but I have to admit that I can't help but to say "we're going to Thailand" in a singsong and I swear I hear birds chirping and angels plucking their harps as I do.

Oh. Niiiice! There you go...all judgey judgey.

Sadly, this is the portion of the blog dedicated to my defense of myself for doing something I think is normal and healthy. Sigh. Here goes...

I love my child.
I love that kid so much I spend a laughable (or rather pathetic) amount of time obsessing over whether she likes me or not.
I love that kid so much I do the most ridiculous things just to make her smile...in public...in front of strangers and people who know me, no less!
I love that kid so much I've actually (gasp!) gone to the grocery store without makeup to buy something she needed when it wasn't a 3 alarm emergency. I KNOW. Without makeup? Not even lip gloss or eye liner? "Good God," you must be thinking, "this woman sure looooooooves her baby." And believe me, anyone reading this who knows me, knows that this is something I would never do under normal circumstances, so yes, I love my child.

I do, however, think you can love your child and still go away on vacations without them. I've seen what happens to a person when her whole life is her kids and it ain't pretty. Women need to have more in their lives than diapers, scraped chins, and feeding schedules. So, my life in less than 2 weeks will revolve around beaches and bevvies. And curries. Lots of curries. (Shlurp) .

Of course, this unbridled hedonism will all be scheduled around my daily Skype conversations with my child, but that's beside the point. (disclaimer: This is NOT a picture of my child looking studiously at a computer screen. Mine would be pounding the shit out of the keyboard while laughing maniacally. No Google images photo corresponding to that, strangely enough)

zzzzzzzzzzzzzz - huh?

I'm beginning to wonder if the stories I've heard about children sleeping through the night are a societal boondoggle - a nice, tidy little flotable ring of a fable everyone quietly agrees must be thrown out there to help drowning parents stay afloat until their kids do finally sleep like babies supposedly do...and apparently don't.

When Brynn slept in the bed with us for the first couple of months, she often did sleep through the night but since then????

Not so bloody much.

Given the chance, she sleeps in but instead of our old "roll out of bed, fumble around looking for a bathrobe, stumble down the stairs and feed her a bottle once a night" routine, we're now getting up to do it twice! Ummm...how is that a step towards the mythical night of uninterrupted sleep, dammit!

The hard truth: it isn't.

I don't know if she's getting up more often because she's growing.
I don't know if she's getting up more often because she's teething.
I don't know if she's getting up more often because the wind is changing direction outside her bedroom window or because the temperature/dew point spread is not to her liking.

I don't know and I don't care. I'm too tired to care. I'm too tired to do much of anything except say, "Sleeeeep, baby sleeeeep."