Notes from the Blue House

An article titled "The Truth about Epidurals" just made the rounds on Facebook and, of course, like any opinionated gal I just couldn't resist the temptation to throw my two cents in. It's easy to see the epidural issue as a divisive one. One where you must pick a side. Either you're a sane, modern, reasonable woman who will definitely be open to the use of an epidural OR you're an insane, archaic, tree-hugging hippie who will be pushing your baby out while biting down on a leather belt. This topic is sure to rile women up and get us talking. We may not admit it, but we love talking about our birth stories and most people make for great audiences. Hell, our fascination with labour and delivery has given way to a bunch of successful t.v. programs. Of course, you'll need a hearty dose of drama and suspense to set an audience on the edge of their seats, so these shows take the typical birth and ramp it up a notch. There's the ominous male voice-over as th

Spending money on the boring crap that I need to keep this household running each week is not my idea of fun. I'd rather blow it on throw cushions or beautiful scented candles-not toilet paper and granola bars. In an effort to trim some of the spending from the boring stuff, I sit down with my flyers, my sharpie and a cup of coffee each week. About 20 minutes later, my flyers look like this: Next comes the list. Here's where I can get a bit neurotic, It's got to be well-organized and neatly printed. Voila. Step 3, I go to Walmart-where I take full advantage of their "price match" guarantee. I'm sure when the staff see me breeze through those automatic double doors, with my flyers neatly stacked in my cart, they think "Oh, her again." After loading my cart with the mundane items I need, I roll into the check-out line and prepare my haul. The items I'm not price matching get tossed up onto the belt first. Then, I group the items remaining acco

Dear Obnoxious Parent at Owen's soccer class, Nine times out of ten, I try my very best not to judge other parents. I realize that none of us really know what we're doing and we're trying to give our kids the best we can offer. Except you. Well, either you're not trying or you're just lost at the moment. Your constant exasperated and hostile whining led me to believe that you don't enjoy your kids. It seemed that your young kids were so accustomed to your barked commands and critical comments, that they didn't even appear very bothered by it. I was bothered by it, though. If you were aware of your surroundings, you'd have seen by the pained facial expressions of every other parent on the bleachers that they were bothered by your harsh and joyless parenting too. I wanted to hug your son. I wanted to tell him that I understand that it's tough to pay attention to the coach when you're four. I could see that he was trying, but the neighbouring clas

FYI-The following post was influenced by the nostalgia that comes from a generous glass of merlot. As I typed the last few sentences, the theme song to the Golden Girls was running through my head. Thank you for being a friend, traveled down the road and back again! I'd like to be Blanche, because she's the hot one. In all honesty though, I'm a total Dorothy. Oh, lighten up Dorothy! Well, here goes. For a thousand different reasons, I'm grateful to have been born a girl. I've paused many times to give thanks to...well, to whoever's in charge of this stuff...for having opted to give me another X chromosome instead of the Y. Of course, there's also been times when it would've been undeniably easier to have been a boy. The convenience of the male's urinary system is an obvious example, I challenge one woman to tell me that she's never, not once, wished that she could pee standing up. The amount of times that I've cursed the woman who used

I'm struggling with my weight. Only not in the way most people do. Since Simon's arrival, and a bout with the flu, I've been wasting away. When Owen cuddles with me, he complains that my sharp angles aren't very comfy. What do you mean you don't want to snuggle into my pointy clavicle??!  I've always been teeny weeny, but had hoped turning 30 might bring a bit more junk to my trunk. My mom had always assured me that it was a metabolism thing and that 30 would be the magic number. Well, here I am-I'm thirty and still skinny minny. I think most of us can appreciate all the reasons it's not ideal to be overweight. There's no shortage of T.V. doctors warning us against the health hazaards, and plenty of women feel crappy about themselves once they're north of a size 4. It's plain to see that 'battling the bulge' is a very real concern for a great number of people in North America. Well, being underweight is a very real concern to me and