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.