Contested

There seems to be such a dichotomy going in the blogosphere lately. On one hand, you have the women who are posting about how blogging has empowered them, and on the other hand, you have the people who are considering whether or not to stop blogging altogether. I'm on an emotional rollercoaster these days as it is, but after reading posts on either end of the spectrum, I feel rather like the child sitting in the middle of the Chalk Circle, wondering if his two mothers are going to pull him apart at the seams.

When I read about the empowerment that blogging bestows, I am uplifted and certain that I am spending my time in a worthwhile pursuit. But everytime I read about a blogger who is quitting, or taking a vacation, my heart sinks just a little lower in my breast and my stomach turns to lead. While I don't look to other bloggers to tell me whether or not to continue, they are most certainly the reason that I do.

What makes me the saddest of all is that when someone decides to stop blogging, it's almost never seems to be because the reason that they started their blog is gone. People all have their own reasons for starting a blog, but when it comes to the momosphere, it does seem to almost always boil down to three basic reasons: they want to keep a record of their children's lives (virtual scrapbooking of a sort); they want to connect with other people for advice, support and mental stimulation; or they are working through issues of their own, and need the blog as a creative outlet. Sometimes all those reasons, and more, are present. But when they stop blogging, those reasons are all still there, but perhaps their private space has been violated, or they find that the virtual world takes too much time away from the real world.

It's sort of like watching a particularly painful divorce proceeding, where you know that the parties involved still love each other, but outside circumstances are forcing them to go ahead with the divorce anyway. And the readers are the children watching it happen, knowing that the place they went to for support, love, laughs will no longer be there. I've never been a proponent of the idea that parents should stay together "for the kids' sake", when they are miserable with each other. But it makes me sad all the same. For no reason other than that I will miss their voice.

I think that maybe - and maybe I'm being naive here, so bear with me - that we're all just suffering from the Snowball Effect. You start off blogging because you have something to say. It's fun, it's easy, it's accessible. It's an outlet. Then you start getting some comments, and you realize that people want to hear what you have to say. You write more often. And, of course, you have to visit the people who commented on your blog. And because everyone I've met so far is so interesting / witty / insightful / funny / down-to-earth / real that you have to read more, and write more. And you want to write more, and better yourself. And because this is such a wonderful caring community, there's all these amazing extras, outlets and outreaches like the Just Posts, raising money for good causes, awards. You become inextricably enmeshed. Who wouldn't want to be a part of such a community? You'd have to be crazy not to want to. But it can get to be too much sometimes, can't it? Like you're living more of your life online than in the flesh? This may not be everyone's experience, but I bet I'm not too far off target here. I'm a Type A personality myself, and I know firsthand how easy it is to get caught up in the need to do more, better.

So here's what I'm thinking - maybe we should just take the pressure off and realize that this blogging thing doesn't have to be so much of a ... big deal. I mean, does it? You don't have to post every day to make me want to read your blog. Each post doesn't have to better than the last. If I read your blog, it's because I've found in you a kindred spirit, not because I like an individual post. You don't need to get an award for me to think you're a good writer - frankly, I wouldn't be reading if I didn't already think you were. And I won't stop reading if you never comment on my blog either (eventhough I am a comment-whore). Just do what you do, and know that we'll be back because we like you. Just the way you are.

FitPreggo Friday

Pregnancy Weight Gained 8lbs, Alcohol Units 0 (sigh), Cigarettes 0 (yuck), Timbits 3 (but were bought for office mates so don't count), Skittles Too many to track, Chocolate Chips Several large handfuls, Fries Yes (but as are potatoes, counting them as vegetables), Other Forbidden Substances Tim Hortons French Vanilla Coffee, Total Calories Scared to hazard a guess.

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Am most upset because bravely worked out last night to Billy Blanks Ultimate Boot Camp video. Not feeling any fitter, but now have headache from tensing up while using resistance bands. Also noticed while doing girl push-ups that burgeoning stomach takes on a most distressingly Sigourney Weaver-esque Alien aspect. Not good if wanting to portray a chic mother-to-be. Colleague at work remarked that stomach did not look pregnant, but rather like it had recently given birth and was still sporting an afterbirth pooch. (Mental note: ply colleague with fattening foods so she gains a pooch too.)

Have been attempting to keep up with running schedule, but am finding it difficult between stomach viruses and Mr Earth's busy schedule. Run times distressingly low, and usually end up at Timothy's for a chai tea and chocolate chip muffin. Not sure if able to count runs followed by large chocolatey baked goods. Must remember that while eating for two, one of said two people is only 5 inches and probably doesn't need to eat a whole muffin alone.

Am seriously considering going on cross-country tour to promote idea of recognizing Toddler Lifting and Carrying as new official sport of Olympics. Am sure to win gold medal and gain international fame.

In the past, have been compared most flatteringly to Buffy star Alyson Hannigan. Or, as gents in bars point out "that Band Camp girl". Have been centre of amused attention at parties after perfecting Band Camp impression:



Am concerned that with second pregnancy, am on my way to a less delectable star comparison:

Graduated

Picked up my diploma at lunch today. Sort of anticlimactic after all the work I've done. Just went to a desk, paid my fifteen dollars and they handed me the document. All said and done, though, a lot easier than going through the whole graduation ceremony. I couldn't have made it anyways - I had a Big Meeting, the Boy was sick, and we had to go see the otolaryngologist for a followup to his surgery. It was a big day for me as well, just not ceremonial kind.

You know what? They didn't even ask me for ID. Anyone could have picked it up, and gone on to pretend they're me. (Although, really, who would do this? It's not like it's a medical degree, just a Bachelor of Fine Arts.) Looking at the diploma, though, it is kind of like I'm pretending. It's made out in my maiden name, and I'm not really that person anymore. I mean, she is still very much a part of who I am, it's just that I'm so different now. And yet, I'm still completely her.

Does anyone else have this identity crisis, or is it just me? I decided to take Mr Earth's last name because I knew we would have children, and I didn't want to have a different last name than my kids. It's just so labour-intensive, and I'm not into explaining myself all the time. Personally, it's also a thing I have about unity. We all play for the same hockey team here, we should be wearing the same jersey. After all, if we had different names - how would the fans know who to cheer for? I know that there are manymanymanymany reasons for keeping your name when you get married, and I strongly support them all, but at heart I'm a traditional girl.

The one compromise I did make, though, in favour of feminism, is that I use my maiden name when I act. And apparently, also when I apply for graduation. I did have the choice, you know. I could have used my married name on the degree. I decided to keep this little piece just for me. Acting is the same. Strange to say that though, because graduating is something I could not have done without Mr Earth, period. I actually can't do shows anymore either, without Mr Earth to watch the Boy. So it's intricately woven, and yet I keep it separate. Funny, huh? I like to make things complicated. But I'd be interested to know whether you all kept your name, hyphenated-it, changed it when you got married. Or didn't. This doesn't only apply to married people, if you're living together and don't want to be married, I'd love to know why too. Man, I'm nosy.

But back to my original point: I graduated! [insert fanfare here] As to what I'm going to do with this piece of paper, who knows? The only place to go is up, though.

Of Harry Potters and Puff Mommys..

I was talking with a colleague of mine at work about Harry Potter, and she said that she wasn't interested in reading it because she thinks that magic is silly. I was floored. I had to bite my tongue to keep in the million things that I wanted to say in response to this flabbergasting revelation. What do you have against magic? Did you have a bad experience as a child? Magic is supposed to be a bit silly, that's kind of part and parcel with the fantastic. In the end, I told her that she should just try reading the books because they are really quite good, and that although magic obviously plays a big part, that's not really what they are all about.

Since then I've mulled this over in my head, trying to figure out what I could have said differently to convince her to give the books a try...

Read more from Mama Drama at MBT


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Okay, so I'm just over 16 weeks pregnant and all my pants still fit but my shirts don't. I'm busting at the seams here, folks. I had to cross my arms at my meeting this morning, because I was afraid that a button would pop off my blouse and hit a colleague in the eye. It's embarrassing. Should I be at all concerned that I'm only gaining weight on the top half of my body?? I seem to remember last time that I was putting elastic bands in my waistbands of my pants to relax the fit, but that shirts were no problem. Am I a freak, or what? Ack.

Let's talk about sex, baby.

Other than pressing me for names, the number one thing that people have asked me about since learning I am pregnant is whether or not I am going to find out the sex of the baby. And going on to offer me opinions on which sex baby they would prefer that I have. (I'm not entirely sure, but I don't think that their preference will do anything to persuade the Powers That Be..could be wrong, though).

With my anatomical ultrasound coming up on July 3rd, I have to say that I am torn. Right down the middle. With leanage to one side. Clear as mud? I thought so. We very specifically did not find out the sex of The Boy before he was born. With three (!) sets of grandparents eager to buy us Baby Stuff, we didn't want them going overboard on pink frilly dresses or blue sports-themed paraphernalia. I am very much against pre-emptive gender-typing. I figure that they will get enough of that crap growing up and they don't need us to enforce while they're still babes in arms. But - more importantly - we didn't want to ruin The Moment. I don't think that there are many moments more dramatic in an ordinary person's life than the moment when, sweaty and exhausted from labour, someone announces triumphantly "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl!". That's drama, baby, and I am all about the drama. People have told me that it's just as dramatic to find out on the day of the ultrasound, but I remain unconvinced. Moments, to me, are about setting the stage, and waiting for the precise second when your words or actions will have the most impact. It's about keeping yourself and your audience in the most excitingly tense state of suspense possible.

BUT - now we have the Boy. He can barely understand the concept of "brother" or "sister", and it just makes it more confusing to tell him that he may have one or the other, but we're not sure which. Also, if Baby Earth turns out to be a boy, well, we're all set for clothes and toys. If Baby Earth is a girl, I'm sure I will find something girlie to buy. I'm totally jealous of the cute girlie clothes out there. Plus, I kind of want to know. You know? This is it for the family and I want to know how it's all going to turn out. I'm impatient. Plus, eventhough we didn't find out the sex of the Boy, we knew - without a shadow of a doubt - that he was going to be a boy. Finding out would only confirm what we already knew to be true. This time, I'm not so sure. Well, I still think it will be a boy, but that's mainly because I don't know what it's like to have a baby who isn't a boy. What on earth would I do with a baby girl?? That may sound odd, seeing as I am, myself, a girl. But then, I wasn't looking after myself as a baby, now was I?

Since all that really matters to us is that we have a healthy babe, it shouldn't really matter to us what sex the baby turns out to be. And it doesn't. I also have a hard time passing up a truly dramatic moment, just because I'm impatient. I'm going to have to mull this over something fierce before my next ultrasound. It would help if you told me whether or not you found out. If you did, what made you decide to find out? Was it still a Big Moment?? Oh, and go over to the sidebar and vote on what sex you think it will be, will you? Look at me creating a poll - I'm a techno-wiz! (Mr Earth wanted me to create a gambling pool where people would send us money, but I vetoed that. Although, if you want to send us money, feel free..)

June is Bustin' Out All Over

I've had this little post burning a hole in my pocket for several months, but now that I'm finally ready to write about it, I'm feeling kind of shy all of sudden. Sort of like that first dinner at my parents' house after my honeymoon. They were both extrememly happy and welcomed Mr Earth into the family whole-heartedly, but you couldn't deny the subtle undercurrent of awkwardness. My father could no longer pretend to himself that his only daughter had never had sex. No denial would save face, no "oh but daddy, we just hold hands and pray all night" would cut it this time. It was patently obvious. And my father didn't quite know what to do with the knowledge. As is my usual style, I just ignored the awkwardness and hoped it would go away.

That won't cut it this time. This is something you can't ignore. It's simply too big. But since I can't bring myself to say it outright, let me beat around the bush for a bit. Can you guess where I'm going with this:

I cried when Jaslene was made America's Next Top Model. (underdogs get to me every time)

I rage over the least little thing. (poor Mr Earth)

I have a newfound love of spicy foods. (chilies - your time is nigh)

My drink of choice these days is a Shirley Temple. (shut up, they're good...!)

I fall asleep about 9:30pm. (wild girl)

I can't do an hour-long run without hitting the bushes. (so classy)

I'm scared and happy at the same time. I'm happy to be scared and scared to be happy. (in short, I'm a mess).

Still no clue? Take a look at this amazing photo:

Yup, it's true. Come American Thanksgiving, the Earth trio turns quartet. So, I'm going to retire the ole diet for awhile and just let it all hang out. Hopefully, not TOO far. Good times.

What's that?

Well, here we are almost two weeks after the Boy's surgery, and Mr Earth asked me last night if I thought that the Boy was hearing better or speaking more. Our immediate response was: "Uh, no, not really". (We're very in sync - you might say we're in love, or something..) But then I got to thinking..

He may be talking a bit more. It's hard to tell. I've mentioned before that he narrates his life like a running commentary exercise from Young Driver's of Canada. When he's quiet, I usually jump right into the mom-freak stance of What'swrong?Areyouok?Areyoutired?Areyousick?Areyouhungry?Whyaren'tyouspeaking?? Hot damn, life with me must be fun.. But then, it's true that when he's quiet, there is quite often something wrong. So if he talks more than, say, all the time would you be able to tell??

He seems to have more of a reaction to music. He'll start bopping in his seat when a song he hears a song he likes. He's inherited my unique dance ability. Man, it's funny to watch. I wish I had it on video. His chubby little arm will bounce up and down. If his hands were clasped when the music came on, then both arms will bounce. He's also started to sing in discernible notes, and tunes. But is this a result of the surgery, or is it simply a developmental thing?

I do think that he is hearing more of the sounds at low auditory levels. He's always been one to point out things and say "What's that, mummy, what's that?". Now, this happens all the time. To almost every sound. It even happens when I don't hear anything. That can be a little freaky - especially when we're home alone at night. Most of the time I think it's pretty funny, but sometimes it gets a bit much. Especially if I don't know what he's pointing to, or what he's heard. Sometimes I ask, in the nicest way possible, "What do you think it is?" or "What does it look like?" (Very Seinfeld-esque, for anyone who saw the episode where Kramer pretends to be the Moviephone voice: "Why don't you just tell me the name of the movie you want to see?"). Sometimes I think he knows very well and is simply testing me. It's most amusing, though, to see his little finger point straight up in the air like he's about to say "Eureka!" -- you know another "What's that, mummy?" is going to come at any second.

Strangely though, kids who have ear surgery are supposed to talk very loudly before the surgery, but the Boy speaks louder than ever now. I kind of feel like I'm living in an episode of Dora the Explorer. Why do they shout so on that program. Can anyone answer that?

All I can say, is that it's never boring at Casa Earth. And I've learned a lot. You don't spend your whole day naming things without learning a little something along the way.

Little Miss Sunshine

I was reading a post over at Metro Mama's and realized that she is absolutely right. We moms are all really good at sharing our angst and shortcomings, but it's not often - or, more importantly, not often enough - that we share the good things. She was talking specifically about laughs and poems in this instance, but since I'm fresh outta laughs, I thought the least that I could do is share with you some of the ways that I AM a good parent, despite all my protests to the contrary:

1. When I'm with the Boy, I am WITH him. Present. I don't blog, watch tv, talk on the phone (except when absolutely unavoidable), or read. I may not be there all day, but the time I have with him is quality time.
2. I stick to a firm-but-flexible schedule. The Boy knows what to expect of his day, and we avoid a lot of tantrums by keeping naps and bedtimes predictable.
3. I always look for opportunities to give the Boy a choice. I keep it to choices he can make: a choice of two dinners, a choice of two shirts. I think it gives him a sense of independence.
4. I rarely leave the house without everything we could ever need for every possible scenario. I'm an ultra-planner that way.
5. The Boy's comfort and happiness is foremost in my thoughts. I actually sit at my desk at work and worry whether I've dressed him properly for the day, and plan days together to make sure that he gets a nice mix of indoor and outdoor time.
6. I can make the Boy smile or laugh just by looking at him funny.
7. I've managed to raise a generally sunny and upbeat Boy who narrates his life like a Young Driver's of Canada running commentary, but set to music. You'll often hear little songs floating around our house like: "I sitting on a chair now! I sitting on a chai-air!"

I think seven is a good number, so I'm going to stop there. What I would like to know, though, is how do you think you're a good mother?? I know you all are, or I wouldn't be reading your blogs every day. As with Metro, I like to surround myself by stronger players.

And, since it's against my nature to be a total Little-Miss-Sunshine without any clouds whatsoever, why don't you skip over to Mommy Blogs Toronto and read my latest post on a rather embarassing failure from my theatre school days? It's a doozy. Fun times.

Weekend Pictorial

As I type this, the air outside is redolent with the smell of sulphur from the fireworks. All night long - for the past three nights, actually - we've gone to bed with the intermittent popping noises of Victoria Day celebrations. The weekend was not all I hoped it would be. Mr Earth was in rehearsal two out of the three days - his show opens this week. Poor service at our anniversary dinner on Friday, coupled with a touch of food poisoning, cast a pall on the holiday. Between the tired and the sick, I am left with few words. We did have a few good moments though:

We played in the park.

We stopped and smelled the flowers.

We checked out the fountain.

We learned to catch a frisbee. (Ok, not really, but we did throw it around a bit.)

Back to my crackers and gingerale. Goodnight.

This is not a love song

This is not a love song because..

..most love songs are written by unhappy people on illegal drugs. I am most happy, and I have never used illegal drugs (except for that one time in BC - but I didn't inhale.)

..it doesn't contain "achy breaky" hearts or cheatin' men. I trust you completely - with my heart and my life

..love songs are rarely written by people in mismatched pyjamas that smell like Vicks VapoRub.

..it doesn't rhyme (I just didn't have time. Oops.)

..people just don't go around spontaneously singing about their feelings. At least, that's what the musical theatre haters would have us believe.

..most love songs don't get beyond the "happily ever after" part. We gone so much further. Since getting married 5 years ago, we've: bought a house, bought a car, had a baby, lost a dear family member and experienced countless comedies and tragedies that are too numerous to list here, but I haven't forgotten a single moment. And I can't wait for the moments still to come.

Nope, this is not a love song. It's a tribute to a wonderful man who met me when I thought it was cool to wear oversized t-shirts, stretch pants and Fluevog boots, and fell in love with me anyways. The grunge look of 1998 was not kind to me. I consider myself lucky to have found you.

Maybe this is a love song after all.

Second Guessing

It's ironic that the times that I feel most like a parent is when I am doing the worst job of it. At the best of times, I am a terrible decision-maker. That's the problem with seeing the world in shades of gray. Generally, it's a very inclusive world view, but it sucks when you are called on to have an opinion or make a decision.

Tomorrow, the Boy goes to the hospital to get ear tubes put in. In some ways, I am relieved. On one hand, it will (hopefully) be an end to the non-stop ear infections that render the Boy miserable. On the other hand, it's been some time since he's had an ear infection, so I'm starting to wonder if the whole ordeal is really necessary? Theoretically, the Boy would have more earaches in the winter, because they are caused by non-stop congestion that turn into infection. I would kick myself if I turned down the surgery and the poor Boy went through another winter like the one that we just had. If we had to "well days" in a row, I was jumping for joy. That's not a way to live life when you're two.

But after the surgery, he will have to wear earplugs every time he takes a bath, and a special ear band or cap whenever he goes swimming because he can't get water in his ears while he has the tubes in. That's no fun, either. Since the Boy won't wear sunglasses for longer than a second at a time (and he asks to wear them!) - I'm thinking that ear plugs will not go over very well. And I'm a little freaked out because just as things have finally started to get "easier" and "routine", they are suddenly complicated again.

I know it's not the end of the world, and that many people would think that there are far more serious things to worry about. I agree. What's causing this second-guessing is the simple fact that, in the end, the decision came down to us. I don't want to be doing this surgery for unnecessarily. It is our decision to do the surgery. But surely the specialist would not recommend the surgery if it was not needed..?

I belong to the camp of people who trust doctors (most of the time), and take their recommendations at face value. If a hearing specialist tells me that the Boy's hearing has been comprimised because he constantly has fluid in his ears that never drains completely, then what should I really say to that? I'm no hearing specialist, after all. I haven't noticed a hearing problem. He speaks well. He's got a great vocabulary, and 99% of his words are understood by people outside the family. Apparently, though, kids are supposed to have super-sonic hearing or something, and he doesn't hear things at super low levels. He hears like he's underwater. How could I not have noticed something like that? It makes me question my instincts. And I am already second-guessing them.

I hate creaky floorboards..

Lately, the Boy's bedtime routine has taken a rather um, interesting turn. Normally, after bath and story, we cuddle him, put him in the crib, rub his back, say goodnight and walk away. Now, we do exactly the same thing, but within a couple minutes of walking away, the Boy is up, tears running down his face, and screaming at the the top of his lungs "I want my mommy and daddy! AAHHHH!!" The only thing that calms him down is if I sit in the rocking chair while he falls deeply asleep. This can take some time.

The first night, I tried to leave too early, stepped on a creaky floorboard, and the Boy was up screaming in an instant. I had to lie him down and sit in the chair again. This has made bedtime rather challenging, to say the least. And drawn out. I've stared at the alphabet cards bordering his room for much longer than I care to. Several are falling off the wall from the humidity, and it annoys me to no end that I just have to sit and watch them fall slowly off the wall, instead of fixing them. Now I just sit in the chair, think about how hungry I am, and hope that the Boy will turn his head and face the wall. That's the only way to escape without him waking up. I feel a little bit like I'm trying to exit a room that is laced with deadly laser beams. If I wasn't so tired, it would seem like an adventure.

Nothing has changed in the Boy's routine lately, so I can't imagine what has prompted this turn of events. I love that he needs me, I do, but I would like my evenings back please.
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If you want to check out how Nomo is defeated by book, hop on over to Mommy Blogs Toronto for my latest post. I'm going to have a nap now.

Careers I've Considered

In the hopes of finding something that I love to do as much as acting, I've spent a lot of time (mainly at work) thinking up careers that I might find fun and fulfilling. I thought it would be neat to share them with you, so that you don't think that I spend all my time whining about how much I dislike my job. Look! I think, too!!

Also, since these are creative ideas, I thought publishing them on my site would have the same effect as copywriting, so nobody could claim that they had the idea first (Did you read about the whole "Muggle" fiasco that JK Rowling had a few years back? No fun.) So, without the benefit of any law experience, I am declaring these ideas/images below to be the sole property of the author of this blog, and any use of these ideas/images without my knowledge or consent is prohibited by law. (Fancy words, those - n'est-ce pas? Not that anyone would really want to steal MY ideas.) Here goes.

1. CHILDREN'S BOOK AUTHOR/ILLUSTRATOR:

This is Henrietta. She's a little horse who is always in a hurry. Things are never done fast enough to suit her. And when things aren't done quickly enough, she is most displeased.

I was going to call the book Hold on, Henrietta!, and dedicate it to the Boy - who always wants things done right away, or not at all. Unfortunately, I can't seem to develop the story more than this. I don't consider myself an author, and I'm a little daunted by the task.

2. PORTRAIT ARTIST

This was actually my original "career choice" back in Grade 9. I was going to be an art teacher who did portraits on the side. I eventually decided against it because although I love to draw, it's really a very solitary career. You spend ages alone in a studio, and rarely become famous until you're dead. I kind of like hanging out with people. Also, I don't really know anyone who wants portraits done anymore. It's really a dying art. Who needs a portrait when you can just take a picture? I should have been born in the 1800's. I would have rocked the world.

Please keep in mind that I haven't done any portraits in years. I did this sketch on a 10-minute break at work. I used a mechanical pencil, instead of my preferred medium of chalk pastels, or acrylic paints. All told, though, it doesn't look unlike the Boy. I could do better if I spent more time on it.

3. CHILDREN'S DRAMA/ARTS INSTRUCTOR

This is still a possibility. I love working with kids, especially doing art and drama. I'm just plum scared at opening my own business. Plus, I'm really not sure how much interest there is for this kind of thing. People don't have that much money for extras, and when they do, they generally spend it on name brand classes like Gymboree. Still here's my company name, and a quick rendering of the type of logo that I would use. I love designing logos. I even reserved a website address for this name, just in case. Who knows what could happen in the future, right?

A Tree Falls in the Forest

Here's the question of the week: If a post is written in the blogosphere, and nobody reads it, was it written? Was it worth it to write it in the first place? The immediate answer to this question is most enthusiastically - yes! Writing can be many things to different people: cathartic, soothing, creative. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. But when you sit down and really think about it, the blogosphere is a public forum. If people really wanted to write just for the sake of writing, they would keep a personal journal. Blogging initiates interaction with the outside world. It asks for feedback. That is part of it's very nature. If you have a blog, and nobody reads it, is it actually a journal that just happens to be online?

Intrigued? Read the rest of the post in my little corner of Mommy Blogs Toronto: Mama Drama. I plan to post here on a weekly basis - usually on Thursdays. Hope you'll join me!

White Bread

I love this time of year because it promises so much. The hope of spring and rebirth is all around me. It's so wonderful to lose the mittens, scarves and hats. It's so rejuvenating to feel the sun on my face, and know that summer is coming soon. I like a lot of things about winter, but what I like best is leaving it behind. But this time of years also brings with it some old, bad feelings. It was around this time about thirteen years ago (omigod has it been that long? crap I'm old), when I was sitting in a small room in the theatre school across from my first year acting prof, being evaluated. It was actually my second year out of high school. I spent a year at another university, before deciding that I needed a program that was less academic and more studio-oriented, if I really wanted to become an actor. Anyways, for those that think acting is an easy program, try sitting in a room with a prof who tells you exactly what's wrong with you. You're not being judged on your writing skills, or how much you studied for exam, or whether you had original ideas - you are being judged on YOU. Whether or not you're interesting, talented, significant. According to my first year prof, I was not. I was "too pink" (WTF?), too "middle-of-the-road", too "white bread".

White bread. I can't tell you how this innocuous phrase has gotten stuck in my head and stayed there. Sure, lots of people eat white bread. Some kids will only eat white bread, in fact. But nobody loves it. If a prisoner had to choose their final meal on death row, I'm pretty sure it would not be white bread. If you could only have one food with you on a desert island, I'm guessing it's not going to be white bread. Even if you had to name your top five favourite foods, I doubt that white bread would make the cut. So this is what I'm compared with? A food that, while tasty enough, is completely forgettable?? Thanks. Way to break a girl's spirit. I had a rather "delicate" self-image up to that point, and that pretty much shattered it.

Most years I can just coast by and forget, but this year, as some of you know, I was actually back in school. April brought with it papers, exams and much stress. Along with it came the inevitable reminder that I am not an actor (or why would I be back in school), so maybe the prof was right after all. It's not news to me that the professional actor thing isn't going to happen, of course. I've accepted, albeit grudgingly, the fact for some time now. But the question is - what do I do now? I'm stuck in a job that I don't like, that doesn't challenge me, and where I am all but invisible. I would quit, but it just doesn't make sense financially to do that right now. Even if it did make sense to quit, though, it wouldn't make me happy.

The truth is, I like to work. I think that I've been a better mother since I've been back to work. That doesn't make sense to most people, but it does to me. But I look at my beautiful Boy's face every day that I leave him in the hands of others and think what have I done - what am I doing?? It must be the epitome of selfishness to leave him every day for a job that I don't love. How bad a person must I be to think that I wouldn't be satisfied staying home all the time with this amazing little man who is so very lovely (except when he's not). Then I think - do other people feel this way? Does every mom who goes back to work love her job? Does her job make a difference in the world?

So the solution, you might think, is to find another job - one that I do love. There the rub, no? For every job other than acting would be a Royal Gardner to my Gilbert Blythe. But what do you do when Gilbert Blythe is off the market, but you still want to get married? Would you settle for Royal? It seems that I have no choice, but it does make a decision - any kind of decision - difficult. What I have to do is find another job altogether, something out of the norm. Easier said than done. What I can't do anymore is remain invisible. I can't do a job where I'm not using all of myself, and making a definite contribution to something worthwhile. Even if I was a good employee right now (and I'm not, because I don't care), I wouldn't be doing something valuable. I'd still be white bread. And that's not good enough.

Not all Urban Babies wear black.

Top ten reasons the Boy is an "urban baby" eventhough he rarely wears black:

10. He is a burgeoning food critic. He won't eat chicken and peas, but he will eat sauteed scallops and steamed asparagus.

9. He loves the workings of daily city life. He gets really excited about garbage day. Really, really excited.

8. He is familiar with the delicate art of negotiating. When I say we have to get dressed and go, he says "No. Two minutes".

7. He's fashion forward. He owns more designer clothing than I do.

6. He's been immersed in culture. In fact, he's been to the ROM more times in his two years of life, than I have since I moved to Toronto 15 years ago.

5. He's already networking. He says "Hi!" to random people and offers them snippets of small talk to get the conversation going, like "I ate a cracker!"

4. He's a useful shopping companion. He can direct you to the bank machine, the LCBO and all coffee shops in the Village.

3. He's already working on the bohemian lifestyle. He frequently "goes to rehearsal", carrying his gourmet food bag from Rustico.

2. He knows all the catch phrases of urban life. He rarely says "Thank you", but he constantly suggests that we go for a "coffee and a muffin".

1. He already knows his Starbucks order. When we get to the cashier, he shouts "Grande! Grande! Grande!"

That wasn't ketchup on his shirt..

I knew I shouldn't have gone to work today from the moment I got up. I was more tired than I should be considering that it's been almost a week since I finished exams. I wasn't feeling sick, exactly, but I was experiencing a general malaise. I seem to have contracted the Boy's goopy eye syndrome, too.

My day started at 6am by going outside in my pyjamas and picking up the trash can that our aggressive neighbourhood raccoons had knocked over. In the middle of my shower, I was seized with the fear that I had thrown out the government tax return check, so I showered quickly and went on a frantic dripping search through the piles of mail on our dining room table. I hadn't thrown it out, of course. I never throw out money. When I woke the Boy, he asked to go back to bed. I should have listened. I wanted to go back to bed too.

I spent a long, frustrating trip on the subway because someone had pulled the personal assistance alarm. I finally got to work and had no sooner sat down then I got a call from Mr Earth. The Boy fell at daycare and had cut his head rather badly. A mother who was a doctor saw it and thought it would need stitches. They wanted me to meet him at the hospital emergency room. They tried calling me, but when they couldn't reach me (I was stuck on the subway), they called Mr Earth. Mr Earth is out of town on business.

We spent a long time waiting to see a pediatrician, eventhough there didn't seem to be anyone there. The Boy was being very good and cooperative, but his bandage fell off at one point. The cut had been described to me as "deep, but small". It actually extended almost the length of his eyebrow, and when I saw it my stomach lurched. I'm not queasy at all with cuts and scrapes, but there's something innately wrong about seeing perfect two-year-old flesh sliced open. I knew the first real accident that requires medical attention could happen any day, but it's quite another thing entirely to be sitting and looking at it. I was shocked that the Boy was so calm. My poor brave, bandaged baby. The only time he cried at the hospital was when the doctor glued the cut together. Glue for flesh is weird. Better than stitches, though, all told. Not sure I could watch my baby's flesh being sewn together. Although, I'm sure I will someday.. .knock on wood. At least today eased me into it a bit.

The Boy was fantastic throughout - a real trouper. Other than not taking a nap. At all. The whole day. My tired old bones weren't happy.

Anyone know of a good way to get blood stains out of shirt?

The (elusive) Red Shoes

**Update below!

Mr Earth offered to buy the shoes for me! I went shopping Friday night, expecting to come home with my shiny new shoes. Apparently, they don't make pretty shoes for someone with my elephantine feet. When I told the saleslady that I wanted a size 9, she said:

"Oh. We only order one or two pairs in that size, and they usually sell out right away."

Well, thanks. What does that tell you lady? Do you think that it might be a good idea to order more shoes for these, according-to-her-non-existent, large women with unfeminine feet? I tried other shoe stores and other shoes, but nothing fit right, or were quite sexy - or red - enough to suit me. You just cannot buy black shoes when what you really want is red. You cannot settle for pretty and practical, when what you want is sexy and frivolous.

Is this just one more part of the Great Fashion Conspiracy?? Don't know if you've encountered it, but I sure have. It's part of why I don't like shopping for clothes for myself:

1. Girls with small breasts always want to wear heavily padded bras. (Didn't you know that?)
2. Girls with large hips must necessarily also have large waists. (I can't leave the house without a belt or risk unsightly exposure..)
3. Girls who are large on the bottom must also be large on the top (this is especially embarrassing in swimsuit season)

...and just when I thought I found my safe haven with shoes:

4. Girls with large, wide feet should stick to clunky, formless shoes. Sexy high heels are for people with delicate feetsies.

Grr. And Grr again! Undaunted, I will continue my search. I am nothing if not tenacious. The saleslady threw down the gauntlet, and by god I am going to smack her in face with it! (Wow, that sounds very confrontational, and very unlike me. See what good shoe can do for a girl? I've never had a shoe fetish before, but if anything will make me have one, this will..)

**Well I did find a size 9 in another store - yahoo! Take that you killjoy-sniffy-salesdemon-who-made-me-feel-like-a-large-footed-freak!! The size 9's fit just fine, although I must admit that I am really (really!) bad at deciding what is going to be a wearable fancy shoe. They all feel somewhat abnormal. Usually I wear flat mary-janes, running shoes or sandals. But I'm dying to try something new and be sexy for a change. I'm sure Mr Earth appreciates the effort. Quite frankly, even if these shoes didn't fit - and I think they do - I would probably buy them and make them fit anyway, à la Ugly Stepsister. I'm just obstinate that way...

I can't believe I own a pair of stylish, high-heeled shoes that didn't come from Payless! Very exciting.

Balm in Gilead

There seems to be so much evil, hatred in the world these days that I am simply left speechless. I'm fairly certain that this is not a new thing, but I guess I'm finally old enough now to look outside my own small little universe and see what's really going on. But I don't. Not really. When faced with the horror of something like Virginia Tech, I shut down. I put my head in the sand and hide. I don't think about it, because to think about it is to feel it, and to feel it is unthinkable. Add to that months of hard work, long hours of study, and pushing myself till I'm too tired to form comprehensible thoughts and punctuate it with a disappointing performance on an exam that should have been easier than it was. Add to that a toddler who has taken the crazy pill and decided that screaming "No Mummy!", pushing and kicking, and emptying out every cupboard/drawer/desk available are the funniest things in the world...and I'm done.

When things get bad, I start to obsess about something completely unrelated. Mr Earth calls it "glomming on to something", but it's really keeping my sanity in by finding something - anything - that makes me happy. Here is my new obsession:

I saw these while on my lunch break the other day, and my heart started racing. They're sexy. They're red. They have 3.5 inch heels! I feel excited just thinking about buying them. But would you? First off, they're just over $100. Secondly, I don't wear heels all that often. Okay, I don't wear heels at all, really. I only wear them when we go out somewhere fancy, and we really don't go fancy places all that much anymore. I could wear them to work, I guess, but I doubt I would. I'm one of those people on What Not to Wear that think wearing Skechers to work is acceptable. (I do, and I have.) They seem rather excessive and impractical - two things I am not.

So can I justify buying heels simply to assuage my broken spirit? And that's how I feel. Broken. Tired. I've been driving the car for what seems like forever, and I want someone else to take the wheel for a bit. I want to sit in the passenger seat and soak up the sun. I want to be driven somewhere where it's sunny and warm all the time, not just days that I'm stuck indoors working. And my, those red shoes would look really nice lounging around on the end of my feet as we drive off into the sunset.

Wouldn't they?

Fear

If you were going crazy, would you know it?

The thing is, I've been thinking about fear a lot lately. I could claim that it's a result of studying Gothic Horror fiction for the past few months, but I really don't think that's it. You see, a while back - I don't know how long, but it's less than a year, I witnessed something horrifying. Mr Earth, the Boy and I were taking the subway downtown, although I can't recall why. I was on the pay phone getting information about a book I had on hold, and Mr Earth was off to the side entertaining the Boy in his stroller. I was facing the escalator that we would be going down as soon as I got off the phone. I watched as a frail little old lady stepped onto the escalator. I watched as the lady went head first down the escalator. I listened to the descending cry of "ahhhhh!" as she fell to the bottom. If it had been a cartoon, I would have laughed, but it wasn't. It was real. It was surreal. I didn't know what to do and I froze. I sent Mr Earth down the stairs to see if she was okay, while I stayed with the Boy. I would have called an ambulance, but the TTC workers had already done it. Turns out that she got up and actually walked to a bench to wait for the ambulance. I was shocked because I was sure that result would have been different. It's been a long time since this happened, and I can still hear the sound of her scream.

Now, I see accidents everywhere. I'm afraid to walk down the stairs with the Boy in my arms because I think I'm going to fall. I'm afraid to drive with the Boy in the car, in case I get into an accident. I'm afraid to let the Boy anywhere near stairs, or ramps, or especially uneven ground. My heart clenches whenever we have to take the stroller on the subway. If the Boy is standing on the couch, I want him to get down so he won't fall and hit the coffee table. If he jumps on the bed, I think he's going to land on the floor. I could go on, but why? It's awful.

I don't stop him from doing anything. I still carry him down the stairs. We've driven on the highway to see my parents. We go places on the subway all the time. I do let him run and jump and climb. But there I am in the background: hovering, warning, cringing. I get so tense that I give myself headaches and my heart races. I don't want to be that kind of over-protective mum - the one that never lets their kids do anything fun. It's funny too, because I'm incredibly lenient about things that other moms are horrified at. The Boy has eaten whole grapes since he started on solids (I tried cutting them up, but he would have none of it). He has eaten food that has fallen on the floor. He spent the majority of his first year sleeping in strollers or mini-matinée theatres. We don't stay home every time I think he has a cold.

I guess what I'm most worried about is the possibility that this fear has nothing do with what happened on the subway that day. If it was, it would go away in time. I worry that the fear was always in me, and that day at the subway was just the catalyst. What I don't want is to raise a Boy who afraid. He doesn't deserve that.