Notes from the Blue House

Last week, I was hit with a virus sent from Satan. This virus was crafted by the devil in the bowels of hell and then sent to render me a sniveling, useless twat. To say that it "hit" me is an understatement. It bludgeoned me. One minute I was sipping Merlot, engrossed in Piper Chapman's prison life and the next I was lying on the cool bathroom tiles wondering what the hell was happening. I went from 0 to 100 in seconds and, as a result, I confess that I panicked. The room was spinning and my chest felt tight, the walls seemed closer than they had a few minutes before. I hyperventilated and not in the cute way they do in the movies where a character gasps into a paper bag for a couple of minutes. Here's something they should teach you in grade 9 biology: when you hyperventilate severely enough, your body will shut down your limbs in an effort to protect your core. From the knees and elbows down, I felt a painful tingling sensation. Panicked, I put my hand on Tim and ...

I'm sure it wasn't like this for my mother. Mark Zuckerberg was merely a twinkle in Mr.Zuckerberg's eye when my mom was raising young kids. When she mingled with groups of other mothers, it was in the flesh. A book club, or the office lunch room. I imagine they made polite small talk about soccer fees and math tutors. They probably complimented each other on their cute kids and smiled politely. Fast forward 25 years. Social media exists and offers a venue for information sharing. Oh, and information shoving and information smearing and information induced gagging. We have a vehicle for people to judge others and congratulate themselves from the safety of their laptops or cellphones, not forced to stand in the palpable stench of awkwardness that these posts would emit if they happened face to face. Can you imagine someone walking up to you and saying "Gee, I'm so glad I'm doing THIS and not THAT! Here's a mediocre st...

My 6 year old has taken an interest in God. His mind is abuzz with questions and thoughts about this seemingly magical invisible man who made us. Some of these questions are funny ("Can he see me when I poop?") and others are insightful ("But if lots of people are talking to him at the same time, how can he hear me?!") He's asked me more than once if God is 'real'. Cue the sweaty palms and stuttering. Amazingly, I'm more comfortable talking to him about private parts than this. My son, my innocent and curious child, is causing me to do some soul searching. There was a time, about 15 years ago, that I would have been able to talk to him about this with confidence. At that time, I thought I knew where I stood. I would've called myself a Christian. I joined a youth-group led by a cool, young minister who played guitar and had a ponytail. Ok, the video quality is garbage but Tim and I were killing ourselves laughing when we saw this episode. It...

When Owen was a blob, just a slobbery, wriggly infant happy to lie on the floor and stare at a light fixture, I discovered that I was a terrible mother because I'd overlooked the 'must-have' toy for his age group. "He doesn't have a Sophie?!" a girlfriend gasped with concern. A glorified dog toy at a whopping $20, it even made a pathetic squeak not unlike Berkley's toy bone. Ah, but Sophie is crafted with love in some ramshackle French factory. A beautiful giraffe hand painted with healthy, non-toxic, vegetable based paints sure to nourish your growing blob while he gums sweet Sophie's face off. I knew I was a sucker for the hype as I placed it in my shopping cart. I knew I was a dork when I put it on the cashier's conveyor belt and handed her my debit card. I felt like a schmuck when I put it in the car and brought it home, but I couldn't have the rest of the mamas at our "mommy & music" playgroup see that poor Owen was going wit...

I've been reluctant to write about Maggie's birth for a couple of reasons. Mainly, I don't want to come across as a sanctimonious twat, looking for a big ole' pat on the back for birthing naturally. Let me reiterate my position on birth: to each their own. Every experience is unique and there are countless reasons for making one choice over another. What's best for me may not be best for you, let's agree to remove all judgement from this incredibly personal experience. How you birth doesn't make you a good or a bad mother. It's my hope that a pregnant woman might stumble upon this birth story while searching "home birth" in Google. We all know there's no shortage of terrifying, negative tales of surviving birth and I hope to toss one positive story into the blogosphere to counter them. Heads up, this post contains a photo of Maggie's birth. Don't worry, it's not a photo of my hoo-haw-I'm not insane in the membrane. However, ...

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...