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.