Notes from the Blue House

I thought it was kind of cute. Albeit a strange place for a dimple, but dimples are cute no matter where they're found. Am I right?! Tim was the first to notice the small dimple on her lower back. It's possible that his family's history with spina bifida and pilonidal disease made him hyper aware, his keen eyes were the first to spot that cute little dimple just minutes after her birth. I was just snuggling into my bed and praising the universe for the miracle of my daughter's safe, speedy, wonderful arrival on the planet. I was in a state of euphoria when I heard Tim mention the dimple casually to our midwife. She assured us that it was nothing. It's shallow so it's nothing more that a cute lil butt dimple and with that good news, we settled into what would be days of endless cuddling. Two months later, I took our girl to her first visit with our family doctor. In the waiting room, I met another mom and her lovely, happy, bouncing baby girl. This woman told...

To whoever compiled this slideshow of crap, I don't like you. We wouldn't be friends. http://www.parentdish.ca/2013/09/02/10-parents-we-all-recognize-and-might-want-to-avoid/#!slide=992036 I assume you don't have kids because if you did, you'd get that parenting opens you up to the quiet judgement and side-ways glances of others. Thanks for this mean-spirited, judgmental slideshow. By trying to pigeon hole us into these categories, you've displayed both nastiness and a false sense of persecution in just 10 juvenile slides. Congratulations, I guess. I'm a mixture of these parents that you suggest others should avoid. I'm the "Earth Mother" because I rocked a drug-free homebirth and I don't feel I need to justify that choice to anyone. I'm the "Pop-Psychologist" because I love me some Barbara Colorosso. You're suggesting that we shouldn't even try to educate and improve ourselves by reading parenting books because it...

It's been awhile, eh? In all honesty, life's been busy and I couldn't bear to open up a startlingly white blank page without having an idea of what I wanted to say. Then I read this article...and I had shit to say. Check it out, otherwise my ramblings won't make a lick of sense. Go ahead, click on the link. I'll wait here. http://nymag.com/news/features/retro-wife-2013-3/ Done? Great. Here goes. Firstly, there's nothing wrong with a woman choosing to leave her career to stay at home with her children. Just as there's nothing wrong with eagerly handing your wiggly, poop soiled child off to a daycare provider so that you can return to what feels good to you-work. When will we stop judging each other for choices that are personal and unique to each family? Being in a position to opt-out of working is very fortunate, not all families can swing that. The subject of this article, Kelly, makes some pretty broad assumptions about men and women. I say "bro...

With baby number three only a couple of months away, I've been reflecting on what I've learned after spending five years in the muthahood. Admittedly, I'm no expert and I don't doubt that there are countless discoveries waiting for me as I start from scratch with another babe. I'm excited to see which moments have me thinking 'well, that's different' or 'I didn't see that coming.' That's what keeps life interesting. Here's what I've figured out so far. 1. You may very well poop while you push. No, it doesn't happen on T.V. sitcoms or Hollywood movies. Those coiffed and spray-tanned women are the picture of dignity and serenity as their babies are handed to them but it happens in real life. Here's the best part, you won't even care so don't worry about it. You'll be disheveled, delirious and triumphant despite having pooped yourself only moments earlier. 2. A baby's umbilical cord will make you wince. It...

"Wow. Yep, this is happening", I thought as I stared squinty-eyed at that faint second line on the dollar store pregnancy test. With each passing day, that second line got darker and the realization that we would be a family of 5 in 40 short weeks began to sink in. What an amazingly joyous little secret an embryo makes. What a tough secret it is to keep though, Mother Nature is one twisted chickita. You're supposed to keep your fertilized blob under wraps until at least 12 weeks, that seems to be the generally agreed-upon rule. Ah, but it's during those early weeks that you're most likely to fall victim to public barfing-I've been there. 5 years ago, I had to casually stroll away from a splatter of vomit I left on a subway platform during rush hour. It's when you need the understanding and support of those around you the most that you're least likely to get it because you're keeping your trap shut. How many times can a girl claim to be stricken by ...

Months before Tim and I tied the knot, we took a pre-marital course. We spent a few of our Saturdays sitting in a circle with a half dozen couples who would soon be married. We participated in a bunch of activities and discussions about making our marriage work, led by..ahem..a  divorced  social worker but I digress. We soon discovered that we were the only couple who'd voluntarily forked over the money to give up our Saturdays, every one else was there because their clergyman said so. What a pair of keeners we were!  I confess that it wasn't long before Tim and I were placing bets on which couples may not even make it to the altar, which ones would last a year, which ones would end up in the headlines for killing each other. We're mean like that. There's one activity I remember in particular. We filled out these questionnaires, individually, about how we envisioned the day to day workings of our family. I consider...

I'm ashamed to admit this: I had a fight with a Walmartian. If you haven't wasted 15 minutes laughing at  http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/photos/ , you should. You really should. I confess that Walmart is my one-stop spot for groceries and kids clothes. That said, I refuse to qualify for a photo on that website. I DO NOT, under any circumstances, wear pajamas to Walmart. I do not wear crocs. I do not wear t-shirts that make reference to bombs, farts or trailer park boys. I may shop there but I am not a Walmartian. The monster who hooked me into a verbal altercation in check-out lane #14 was a bonefide Walmartian. Her stringy, straw like, bleach blonde hair hung limply from her worn out baseball cap. She wore ripped yoga pants and a pink rain poncho. Her rough looks weren't the issue, her bat-shit crazy behaviour was. Here's what went down. I pulled my cart loaded with a weeks worth of groceries into the check-out lane. There she stood, ahead of me, with one, single ite...