I suppose I can laugh at it all now. But let me tell you – 48 hours ago, I was highly stressed out.

It all started with my recent press trip to Visit Orlando. In exchange for a family vacation, my obligation was twofold: upon my return, I would be expected to provide (1) blog coverage on my site, and (2) media appearances for a specified time period.

Now you’re probably familiar with my blog coverage, as I’ve been churning out reviews of the places we visited and the wonderful things we did. But, you may not be familiar with some of my media appearances. I’ve chatted about Orlando and family travel on outlets such as Daytime Live, CH Morning Live, and this past Friday – CP24 Live at Noon.

And while all media appearances give me the opportunity to go LIVE in front of the camera (which I actually adore! Yes, I’m an attention-you-know-what) I was particularly excited for my CP24 appearance on Friday afternoon. After all, if you live in the Greater Toronto Area, who hasn’t tuned in to the all-news station? It’s like media royalty, if you will.

So, Friday arrived and I was super pumped. Because not only was I appearing on Live at Noon, but then I’d literally be walking over to the Canadian Council of Public Relations Firms PR Agency Boot Camp, where I was a speaker on the Social Media Blogger Panel. And so, I gushed accordingly -

I checked over the instructions once more. Chatting with Stephen Ledrew, segment to air live at 12:45pm. Check. Arrive at 12:00pm, as one of CP24′s professional makeup artists will get me camera-ready. Check. Need to get to the infamous 299 Queen Street West, where there is ample parking within a few blocks. Check.

Okay, I was ready. (more…)

Is there a product you use every day… multiple times per day… and have ever stopped to ask yourself, why??

Such is the case with Bath & Body Works Antibacterial Hand Soap. Before B&BW made their way north of the border, it was considered a luxury to own their sweetly-scented soaps. In fact, a trip to Niagara Falls, NY just wasn’t complete without stocking up on Kitchen Lemon, Sea Island Cotton and Sweet Pea Antibacterial Hand Soaps. At $3.75 per bottle, they were slightly more than the SoftSoap varieties found at Wal-Mart (okay, a lot more – often, SoftSoap could be purchased for $2.29) but I reckoned that my home was somehow homier with the addition of designer hand soap. Plus, B&BW frequently offered promotions, such as 5 soaps for $15, making it even more bang for my cross-border buck.

That was before Bath & Body Works expanded into Canada. And began charging $5.50 per soap. Huh.

The size hadn’t changed – still 236 ml – not even a cupful.

The quality of the product was still the same.

Even the scents were mostly carbon copies of one another – Sea Island Cotton was reinvented into Aqua Blossom which smelled curiously like Dancing Waters but was actually just a fabric softener-type scent repurposed into hand soap.

And those frequently offered promotions? Now we were offered a whopping 4 soaps for $20… increasing the cost per unit by $2 over the “5 soaps for $15″ deals of yesteryear.

Why the HELL am I paying so much for soap?

First of all, kudos to Bath & Body Works who coined the term “Antibacterial Hand Soap”. The word antibacterial preys on North American’s fear of germs and bacteria, hence, anything antibacterial is preferable over a product that is not, correct? The fact is, ALL soaps are antibacterial, even when the manufacturer chooses not to include the catchword in their product name. The very definition of soap is a product used to remove dirt and bacteria, so adding “Antibacterial” before your name is akin to creating new and improved “Snot Catching Tissues”, “Ink Dispersing Pens” or “Hydrating Water”. (more…)

It’s just been one of those weeks.

A thousand balls in the air, a million things to do. Wiping the boys’ runny noses while hacking up a storm thanks to a dry cough that has lingered on way too long.

Thinking about the holidays, houses (still on the lookout for my dream kitchen) and how the heck I’ll balance it all. Wondering if there is indeed a rewind button for life: can I skip back to 10 years ago, when I still lived at home and my biggest worry was if I could pull off a chain belt?

(Us hippy girls try not to draw attention to the general hip area…)

And to top it all off, my insomnia is back. Is there an “Off” button for one’s brain? Because at precisely 1:00am I generally awake from a restless slumber, thousands of thoughts going through my head.

Work. Kids. Family. School. Home. Meals. Commitments. Money. Ideas. Christmas. Sleep.

Okay, so that’s only 11 thoughts, but it feels like thousands in the middle of the night. While co-sleeping with two horizontal toddlers. With a head cold. And a dry, hacking cough.

Yes, I will have some cheese with my whine, thank you very much.

Two nights ago, I did the one thing insomniacs shouldn’t do – I turned on the television. Fantastic Four just happened to be airing at the fantastic time slot of 1:00am, so I got sucked into watching the better part of two hours. And it got me thinking.

Remember that game you used to play when you were young (or two nights ago… don’t judge) – where you asked yourself, “If I could have ONE super power, what would it be?”

Would you have superhuman strength? Read minds à la Edward Cullen? Maybe you’d be like Susan Storm from the movie, with the ability to bend and manipulate light to render yourself invisible. What is the coolest super power to have?

I gave it much thought (which is another no-no for insomniacs at 2:56am) and just before drifting off to sleep, settled on the best super power ever.

Just call me The Great Metabolisma! I can eat whatever I want without gaining an ounce!

You knew this was coming… what would your super power be? 

The problem with writing posts when you’re angry is the risk you’ll sound like a ranting lunatic.

Disclosure: Please do not continue reading if you have an aversion to ranting lunatics.

For those who’ll allow me a few moments to let off steam, here’s my story.

Since Ryder first started talking, he – like practically every child – somehow came up with quirky approximations that loosely resembled the word he was trying to say. For example, “Eleven” was “E-leggy” and the “remote” was the “o-mote”.

It’s cute! Trying to decode Ryder, and now Reid, is one of my favourite pass times. I take pleasure in knowing that I am one of the few people who understands their secret toddler language, and realize that all too soon, they’ll be speaking like little English professors. Well, maybe not quite as eloquently, but certainly you see my point.

In fact, Ryder has pretty much grasped the correct pronunciation for almost every word now, save a few he still has trouble with. But you know what? Don’t care. Every time he pronounces a word incorrectly, I do my best to repeat the word back to him slowly – with emphasis on the correct way to say it. So, if he says: ”Mommy, can I have some See-yal?” I’ll respond with, “Yes, you can have some CE-RE-AL.”

And I leave it at that. No linguistic exercises, no penalties for poor language, no bug fuss.

Sounds reasonable?

I admit I’m being a little nostalgic, because both boys have lost so many of the funny words they once said, and I know that they’re minutes away from growing up too fast. So, if Reid wants to say “Frawberries” for a few more weeks, or a few more months, it’s all good.

Begin rant.  (more…)

Rarely do I get SO excited over a comeback. 

For the last few years, I’ve watched platform pumps get higher, chunkier, and uglier. Much to my chagrin; models, actresses, celebrities and average women everywhere seemed to lap up the trend, taking their legs to new heights (5.25″ and higher, to be exact). While I dabbled in the style-du-jour only slightly – a pair of peep toe pumps here, a pair of platform wedges there – I inwardly cringed every time I clonked around in them. To me, platform pumps are the antithesis of elegance; a boorish style that very few women can pull off with refinement and grace.

(Have you ever seen Kate Middleton galloping around in sky-high platforms? No, neither have I. #restmycase)

And so I’ve been waiting patiently… very patiently… for the return of my all-time favourite look: Pointy Toe Pumps.

Oh, how I’ve missed you! Nothing elongates the leg with sophistication and style more than a perfectly sculpted 4″ pump. They suit every height, frame and age. They dress up jeans and effortlessly go from boardroom to bar. They lend a sexy silhouette to practically every outfit imaginable.

And, they’re making a comeback. (more…)

So it occurred to me this morning that actually say “Don’t” to Ryder more often than I actually say his name.

Don’t jump.
Don’t touch that.
Don’t hit your brother.
Don’t eat that.
Don’t crawl behind there.
Don’t pull on that.
Don’t kick the back of my seat.
Don’t you dare give me that look.
Don’t say that.
Don’t scream like that.
Don’t stand there.
Don’t make a mess.
Don’t make that face.

Don’t DO that. (10x per hour, at least.)

Hence, I’ve decided to cease calling him Ryder, because he obviously responds more effectively to Don’t.

(Or maybe he doesn’t. But do I care at this moment? DON’ T think so!)

Friends, let’s all bow our heads and pray that I don’t decide to sell him for two Bon Jovi concert tickets.

(It’s not what you think. I’m still deliriously happy with my husband.)

But, I have been dumped. And sometimes, being tossed aside by a friend is just as hard to survive as a romantic break up. Often, it’s worse – because friendships can run the course of 10, 15, over 20 years… and the emotional investment is often just as deep.

Have you ever broken up with a friend? Has a friend ever turned his/back on you?

My former girlfriend and I were chums since high school. Although we ran in different circles, we were always kind and friendly to one another – recognizing that we had a lot in common, and our brief conversations were easy and lively. Our friendship strengthened when we attended university together – since we had many classes together and commuted in on the same GO Train, it’s no wonder we became closer; two people brought together by circumstance and proximity.

As the years passed, our friendship evolved – first, we continued to touch each other’s lives peripherally, with coffee dates, casual phone calls and a trip to the mall or two. Later, when I was married and had my children, she became a fixture in my life, serving not only as a confidant and supporter, but also a ticket to the “other side” – still single, I reveled in her carefree lifestyle.

But then, she met her husband-to-be. And that marked the beginning of the end of our friendship.

Now I’m totally cool with the fact that she met the man of her dreams – I fully endorse jumping into love recklessly and with your heart on your sleeve. In fact, I’d be worried if she didn’t cancel our plans in the beginning – complete and utter infatuation requires snubbing your friends at regular intervals :)

The thing is, the snubbing carried on, well after I felt comfortable turning a blind eye.

Phone calls not returned. Birthday parties missed. Special occasions forgotten. And when we did chat, she was constantly busy with her new love, her new life. In fact, I was quite concerned that her husband was controlling her social calendar. Or, maybe she is just one of those girls who completely loses her identity when she is in a relationship.

Either way, after a while, she just stopped calling – and stopped caring.

The truth is, I didn’t “fit” into her new life. I wasn’t part of her family soirees, I had no involvement in her community, and although I did my part to keep the lines of communication open, it’s hard to make someone work at a friendship. Plus, I like to say what’s on my mind, and if a friend does something to hurt me, yes I am comfortable enough to be honest with her.

So I did just that. And, she responded by breaking up with me.

And it hurt, it hurt a hell of a lot.

I spent the next few months wondering if I should have just kept my mouth shut – taken the friendship on her terms. I don’t have a lot of close friends, so why throw away years of closeness over a silly thing like love and respect?

Oh yeah, that’s why we’re not friends anymore. Because I do believe friends need to love each other enough to make time to keep the friendship strong, and respect one another’s needs – even if that means admitting you’ve been a bad friend.

So, I’ve been dumped. I’m one less friend.

But, I do have good friends. Friends who always have my back; friends who I can turn to when nursing a broken heart – even when it’s over another girl. And to those friends, I thank you.

Happy Monday! Tuesday!

For all my TO-based readers, chances are you’re coming off a splendid weekend spent outdoors. 17 degrees Celsius – Holy Hannah!

And while I had every intention of answering the backlog of about 147 e-mails I have rudely accrued, alas, the sun and warmer temps called… and my inbox remained ignored.

Hence, I’ve declared today Paperwork Monday Tuesday and will aim to tirelessly pare down my messages from 969 to about 600. Surely that’s a start, no?

(I’m not really that popular – I just have e-mails from October 2011 that I still have to action in some way. I hate myself.)

In the meantime, I’ve been listening to an adult contemporary station and was instantly taken down memory lane with this beautiful, haunting duet from Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey: Where You Are.

Sorry Chris Brown and Rihanna – you can keep your tacky, foul-mouthed collaboration to yourself. Sigh, my heart belongs to this song circa 1999.

Definition of Imperfect: Not Perfect.

{Also see: Defective}

I am an imperfect mom.

At least twice per week, I wonder if I can get away with feeding the boys strawberries for breakfast and popcorn for lunch. It’s all they’ll eat and dammit, I am TIRED of trying to force feed them the perfectly crimped sandwiches, heart-shaped cheese slices and stategically portioned celery stalks (complete with dipping sauce) that we’re told perfect moms put in their child’s lunchbox. In my house, sometimes lunch comes from a cracker box that may or may not contain my sons’ entire recommended daily intake of sodium.

I can never remember to brush the boys’ teeth. Yeah okay, I do pretty well in the morning, but before bed? Fail. Their toothbrushes are on the vanity right beside the bathtub, and all I have to do is reach over and brush them while they’re bathing. Problem is, when they’re in the bath I’m usually sitting on the toilet (seat down) drinking a glass of wine and staring into space.

I scream at my kids – often louder, and nastier, than I’ve screamed at anyone in my life. Sometimes I don’t even recognize my voice; it’s a mix of anger, disgust, and most of all, desperation. A deep desperation that is etched in every syllable because I am rendered insignificant and helpless with every cup of spilled milk, every overturned laundry basket, every crayon scribbled across the wall. They just don’t care – and don’t seem to get that I do. When it’s really bad, screaming turns into sobbing.

I spank/hit/smack my kids – in appropriate places and with appropriate force – as a form of discipline. You don’t have to agree with me – I really don’t care if you do, because I’m not here to judge your parenting methods. But I’ll tell you this: last year, Ryder reached for a pot of boiling water in jest. Me shouting (sorry – calmly instructing him) “Go stand in the corner” would not have saved him from 2nd degree burns. I swiped at his arm so hard it knocked him over – and prevented him from knocking over the pot. So maybe I am barbaric. But I love my children and when safety is involved, I do not worry about hurt feelings or egos.

I have no idea how to engage with other children. I don’t know how to kneel down and sip tea from a tea set or feign interest in some silly zombie video game. I work hard at relating to my own kids, and that’s where I draw the line. At this very moment, I can talk about Cars 2 and Thomas and Friends and Courdoroy the Bear and Toopee and Binoo and Hot Wheels and Iggle Piggle and Lego Duplo. And that’s it. And when my kids move on to something else, that’s what I’ll be interested in. I may like your kids, and I may love your company, but please don’t ask me to like the company of your kids. You go ahead and amuse them, please. (Somehow I don’t think I’ll be volunteering on class field trips.)

At least once per day, I wonder what a perfect mom would do. What a perfect mom would say. How a perfect mom would handle a situation. And then I do what my instincts tell me, perfection be damned. Sometimes, that involves letting Reid have a sip of pop at a party (I breastfed him for 20 months, so spare me the bugged eyes and death stare – true story), keeping the boys in pjs all day, or letting Ryder stay up way past his bedtime. Sometimes, I pull marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box, and divvy them up – one for Ryder, one for Reid, one for mommy. They never keep a close count, so sometimes it’s two for mommy.

I don’t spend a lot of time trying to be perfect. I’m a pretty girl, a good cook, a doting wife and regardless of my prior confessions, I think I’m a great mom. My kids are well fed and well loved. They have average intelligence and above average contentment (though that could be the sugar, which yes, they do receive as a treat).

I’m not quite certain what motivated me to write this post. Perhaps it’s this February blahs thing, festering until the last possible moment. Or maybe I’m just outing myself – behind the shiny pictures, must-try recipes and brand spanking new products (which I’m not gonna lie, arrive by the truckload every day) life goes on and life is hard. Parenting is hard.

I also won’t go on record saying I’m a “real” mom. WTH? Every mom is a real mom, regardless if they fit your definition or drink your brand of Kool Aid. There is no such thing as an “unreal” mom, unless you count those chicks on soap operas who fake a pregnancy and then steal someone’s baby by performing a c-section in a living room/dive bar/side of the road. They’re fake moms.

I’m an imperfect mom. And I’m okay with it. And when I’m not, there’s wine.

I’m not usually driven to tears when I hit the shops. I must be getting old/sentimental/foolish.

It started out as a normal Saturday morning – there were things to buy, chores to split up, sticky handprints to erase. Except this morning, I had the pleasure of running a few errands ALL BY MYSELF. For a mom, running errands by yourself is akin to finding a $20 bill in an old pocket. Oh yeah, the good life.

My excellent adventure had only a few stops; the gas station, the bank, and Toys R Us. In that order. Since you don’t read my blog to hear about me pumping gas or handling my finances, I’ll skip forward to Toys R Us.

Although this (obviously) needs no disclaimer, shopping at TRU without your whiny, obnoxious kids totally freakin’ rocks. It’s actually a well known fact that even if you’ve raised the most well behaved children on the planet, they will turn into whiny, obnoxious, toy-grabbing-face-smacking mutants the second you cross the store’s threshold. Trust me, it’s science. And it is a truly euphoric feeling to acknowledge the background screams and caterwauling belongs to someone else’s offspring. Ha ha!

And just what was I doing at Toys R Us on a Saturday morning? I’d rather not say. (Okay, twist my arm.) Sigh… I was picking up two plush, talking Iggle Piggles. Yes, THE Iggle Piggle from the seizure-inducing, suicide-pondering, freakishly cultish “In the Night Garden”. My boys LOVE the show. Conveniently on at 8:00pm (just before the boy’s bedtime), we’ve been allowing them to cuddle up on our bed to watch the nightly episodes. Often, by the time the credits roll, they’re both sweetly sound asleep. So for Christmas, I reckoned I’d surprise them both with a soft sleeping buddy.

I should have grabbed the damn dolls and left.

Instead, I decided to plod around, enjoying my child-free excursion (frankly, reveling in it). And as I passed the opening to TRU’s sister store, Babies R Us, I paused for a moment before wandering in. After all, I didn’t actually need anything – with Reid being over 18 months old, my BRU days are likely behind me – but I decided to pop in for old time’s sake. And then it happened.

The SMELL of the store. The familiar COLOURS. The wall of BOTTLES and PACIFIERS. The exquisitely beautiful PREGNANT customers, joy and bewilderment etched plainly on their faces.

It was like a punch to the gut – or perhaps, a punch to the ovaries. It was a trip down memory lane that I was not prepared to take. It was a funeral – saying goodbye to the thrill of expecting, anticipating, organizing, expanding. It was the stark realization that my baby is actually a toddler, and my toddler is now a little boy… and I had no damn business loitering in Babies R Us.

So, I cried.

There was no rationale or reason for it; I know that my family is complete and we have no plans to have more children. I know that I have two beautiful boys whom I adore wholly and unconditionally. I know that I can finally, finally enjoy moments of freedom – the very reason I laugh off suggestions to expand our brood. And yet, there I stood, cowering behind the high chairs, wiping my tear-stained face with the back of my hand.

(On a related note, high chairs today are so ridiculously stylish. Like black leather and contemporary patterns. Seriously? The kid is going to dump pureed crap all over the thing. Just stick to animals and neon bubbles and get over yourselves.)

Hours later, I still can’t pinpoint exactly what drove me over the edge. Perhaps I’ll never know; perhaps every time I venture into Babies R Us I’ll turn into a nostalgic, blubbering fool.

Note to self: apparently shopping makes me cry. bring tissues.

Before having children, I often took offense at the way mothers handled their whiny, annoying kids in public.

For Christ’s sake, shut them up! I’d silently pray. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

I often theorized that if I had a kid, there was no way in HELL I’d let him carry on like that, caterwauling like a demented lunatic. My offspring would be polite, well-mannered and conscious of their environment and those around them.

I believe the term is to “eat crow?”

The thing is… I get it now. I really do. As moms, it’s not that we think it’s reasonable to let our children go off on a tangent, audibly torturing everyone within a four-block radius. The simple truth is, we just don’t hear them anymore. Seriously, we are immune.

I call it the fuss filter.

And it comes from long hours of being subjected to whining, temper tantrums, crying fits, hissy fits, outbursts, “he touched me!”, shrieking, ranting, biting, repetitive insanity and the like. After a while, it takes us progressively longer to realize that someone is speaking, let alone screaming his head off. Fuss filter in full effect.

Last Saturday, I was at Wal-Mart with the kiddos.

Let’s see, I’ve gotta grab lotion, toothpaste, check for that silly DVD, get a surge protector, I think we’re out of paper towels, are Pampers on sale this week? Hmm… no, I hate paying full price (Want red car.) but I don’t want to put the little guy in the cheap diapers either, maybe I’ll check Loblaws and come back tomorrow if I need to… (Want red car.) … even though I rather not, should I just buy now?… (WANT RED CAR!) … I can’t believe there’s no freaking Tide Free laundry detergent. Does everyone use it or do they just refuse to keep it in stock? (WANT RED CARRR!!!!) And why do they have 12 different Febreze-scented… (WANT RED CARRR!!!! WANT RED CARRR!!!!! WANT! WANT! WANT!) …thingies. I can’t tell the difference. They all smell the same (WANT RED CAR) but I don’t think I want my house smelling of apples (WANT RED CAR) although…

“Huh? What?”
“WANT RED CAR!”
“Um no, you cannot have a red car. Now pipe down before you make a spectacle of yourself.”

Mmm…. crow.

Readers, I have a problem.

Now I suppose I should toss out a quick disclaimer: I have my health, my kids are well fed, and for the moment, we do have a roof over our heads. So in the grand scheme of things, perhaps it isn’t a “problem”.

An inconvenience? A concern? Regardless.

Ryder calls me “Lena”. And I can’t get him to stop.

I know, I know, I know it shouldn’t bother me so much. Many friends and family members actually think it’s kind of cute. And for a while, even I thought it was rather enduring. Ha ha, my son calls me by my first name.

Now, it drives me crazy.

I’m not exactly sure why he prefers addressing me as “Lena” – after all, it hardly has an interesting ring to it, eh? Let’s be real, it’s not “Desirée” or “Katerina” and furthermore, I spend the equivalent of 6 hours per day rambling off phrases such as “Give it to Mommy,” “Mommy said NO!” and “Come hold Mommy’s hand”… so… what the hell? And I AM his Mommy, right? I pick out his clothes, kiss his boo boos, cut his grapes in half and jump on Google for every symptom he’s ever had (or I thought he had, which includes, but is not limited to, shingles, bee stings and leprosy).

So… what the hell?

It’s been getting worse, friends. Last week, while taking a Popsicle out of the freezer for him, he looked at me pointedly and said, “Don’t lick it, Lena. That’s MY Popsicle.” Sure, I can deal.

Later that day, I accidentally spilled milk all over the counter due to a milk bag malfunction.

“What the hell, Lena?” he observed. (Yes, it’s indeed horrible that those exact words came out his mouth, but I will be the first to admit that I burst out laughing when he said it. I think this Mommy needs to watch her own potty mouth.)

But my absolute breaking point was while we were in Gymboree last week. Sorting through some of their cute fall merchandise, a salesperson sidled up to me.

“He’s so cute!” she gushed.
“Thank you,” I crooned. “Do you like this top, Ryder?”
“I don’t like it Lena,” he replied. ”Lena, let’s go home. Want to play cars.”
“Oh!” the salesperson gushed. “Are you his nanny? Or an aunt?”

Great.

“No, I’m his mother,” I retorted pleasantly.

“Ah, a stepmom. I thought so…
I didn’t want to say, but I was trying to find the resemblance.”

B*tch.

“Actually, believe it or not, I gave birth to this little charmer.”
“But… he calls you by your first name?”

Ugh. Yes, lady, he does.

I suppose the real question is why it bothers me so much. I mean, who cares, right? I’m his mother: I know it, he knows it, and that should be all that matters.

But it does matter. 

On one level, it challenges my cultural notion of respecting your parents. By addressing me by name, it undermines my maternal authority and puts me on a level playing field (even though I do not believe this is his malicious intent). Still, the outcome is the same; I am reduced to a peer… and you do not have to take instructions from a peer.

On another level, it can be untimely and embarrassing, as witnessed in the Gymboree incident last week. I don’t want people to assume that I’m the hired help – not that there’s anything wrong with that – but let’s be real, I spent 26 hours labouring with him, I’m damn well going to claim him as my own.

And finally, if there’s one thing that defines my daily existence, it is that I AM a Mommy. I relish in it. I love it. And there are exactly two people in this world who have the right to call me that… and one of them doesn’t speak coherently yet.

(Oh Lord, please let Reid call me Ma, Mama, Mom or Mommy. Amen.)

We do our best to calmly and consistently correct Ryder, and am quite certain he will grow out of this phase, just as surely as he grew out of the whole sniffing-the-top-of-kid’s-heads thing.

For now… I am Lena; hear me rant.

I’ve been wanting to write this post for quite some time, and since I’m currently “unplugged” due to my Reno-cation, I figured it’s an opportunity to power up the emergency laptop and begin typing away.

Today I’d like to recognize, salute and celebrate every review blogger out there who has ever been labelled “that lucky b*tch who gets all the free stuff.” Now although I’m not a full-time reviewer, I do count myself in this category, and yes, we’re pretty lucky.

(Did you know that my favourite Canadian reviewer is Tammi over at My Organized Chaos? I’m addicted to her blog, and her well-researched, thoughtfully written reviews.)

But it’s a terrible misconception that we receive items for free. On the contrary, we work very hard for the items. And the majority of us are also balancing kids and a household to boot. Still skeptical? Let me break it down for you, speaking personally from my own experience:

1. Before I receive an item to review, I can exchange up to 10 e-mails, phone messages or a combination of the two with a company. There’s a lot that goes on behind the scenes! I wish the products could just magically appear on my doorstep, but alas, they don’t. (Most of the time; I must admit I’ve received a pleasant surprise once or twice.)

2. Once I receive the item, I have the responsibility of testing it in a timely fashion, noting interesting user facts, and writing a fair and impartial review. The feature can include pictures, videos, and sometimes requires much time leafing through press info. Yes, it can be fun, but it’s also my reputation (and the reputation of the sponsoring company) on the line, and that’s an awesome responsibility.

3. Then, most often, I coordinate a reader giveaway, which necessitates promotion, follow up and further exchanges with the company and readers.

And the thing is, I’ll go through the exact same steps when reviewing a $20 hat or a $200 high chair. I think I can speak for most review bloggers when I say that sometimes the time spent on reviewing and writing about a product far outweighs the retail value… but we still do it, especially if we believe in the product or know our readers will love it.

So do we receive stuff for free? Nope. We work for it, just like everyone else. If I returned to the workforce I could conceivably just buy all the items I currently receive and skip all the steps above. But I enjoy blogging so much that it seems like a fair trade-off, and am fortunate in that tons of awesome folks take the time to read my blog every day. (LOVE my readers! xo)

And while on the subject, I’d like to extend a very special thank you to all the companies who believe in bloggers – who value our opinion, appreciate our influence and reach, and allow us to formulate our own conclusions without coercion.

So to all my fellow reviewers out there… here’s to all the hard work you put in to earn that stroller! Or set of labels! Or bottle of shower gel! Whatever it is… HIGH FIVE Y’ALL!

Last week, I did the unthinkable: I visited Square One, Canada’s most trafficked mall – on a Friday night.

Now normally I wouldn’t undertake such a perilous mission, but I had a Fisher-Price photo shoot on Saturday (I’m one of their newest bloggers! More about that later) and the instructions were to bring a variety of outfits that reflected “me”. So, of course I went out to buy several outfits that reflected a much more fabulous version of me (I didn’t think they’d be impressed with yoga pants and graphic tees).

Well, it goes without saying that the mall was PACKED. We circled around the parking lot at least three times before we found a suitable parking spot for those travelling with two babes and a double stroller. As we walked to the entrance, I sighed in frustration – crowded along the doors were about 6 teens, all shouting unintelligible phrases save for the word ” F–K” which I counted at least 10 times in 20 seconds.

Teenagers scare me.

Now I’m not exactly sure when I turned from a 30-something into a finger-waving, disapproving-frown-wearing crotchety old woman, but I think it happened around the same time I traded “being seen” at the mall for “shopping” there instead.

Anyhoo, I made the following observations of teenage-ism while popping in and out of stores:

1. As mentioned before, the overuse (and misuse) of the word “F—K”. Here is a snippet of one of the conversations I overheard:

“F, man, it’s F’in hot in here (prononced “herr”, of course) and I F’in ain’t F’in waiting no more cause I’m F’in gonna be a F’in puddle before she F’in gets here (again, pronounced “herr”). F’it, let’s F’in go.”

I’m sure Ryder’s eyes lit up in delight with the free exchange of profanities sans repercussions, but I was absolutely mortified (and made a show of covering Ryder’s ears as we walked by). Note to the chick who was stood up: it’s a good thing he left, honey. He ain’t no catch, trust me.

2. One out of every three brown teenagers was rockin’ the Sanjaya ‘do – I mean, come on, the last thing I want to encounter when I go shopping is a legion of Sanjaya wannabes. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Sanjaya – or the look – but it was just so tiresome to see the same hairstyle on different heads, and I’m quite certain none of the doppelgängers downloaded his single from iTunes.

(On a related note, other boys were enthusiastically channeling Justin Bieber, Drake and selected indie artists with varying degrees of success.)

3. Now if there’s one universal truth, its that there are two types of teenage girls: ones who dress trashy, and ones who want to dress trashy. To the latter group – parents, I commend you for holding your ground. But the sad reality is that over 80% of the teens I encountered were decked out in outfits designed to promote the optimal amount of T&A. At one point, my husband declared: “I hate shopping because I spend the whole time averting my eyes so I don’t feel like a pedophile. Its just so wrong.” I know how he feels – even I copped a look at a few tight Lululemon bottoms. Ugh.

4. Teenagers are rude. At least, the ones I encountered were. They shout at each other from across the mall, loiter around while blocking entrances and exits, intimidate elderly customers by using profanity and aggressive gestures, set a poor example for younger children by making out in stairwells and on benches, and use up valuable space at the Apple Store. Oh yeah, speaking of -

5. How many Apples can you buy with your allowance? Seriously, the Apple Store is constantly crammed with teenagers. When I was young, it took me months to save up for a pair of Aldo shoes… never mind an iPad! It boggles my mind that teens have this sort of spending power – but hey, that’s for their parents to worry about. I just wanna be able to check out a MacBook without being bumped aside by Justin Bieber and Sanjaya.

6. Tattoos. I kid you not – as a teen, I didn’t know anyone with a tattoo. I think it was a coming of age thing when we turned around 20 – some gals got pierced, and then inked. Today, its more and more common to get a tattoo for your 16th birthday (complete with forged permission slip, of course) and the tattoos are becoming progressively risqué in both location and design. Sigh. The picture on the left made e-mail rounds last year – an 8 year old with a Tramp Stamp. I’m pretty sure its a fake tattoo, but the message is still the same: Look At Me. For what its worth, my personal opinion is that tattoos are an outward plea from the insecure.

I could go on and on, but that would only be a disservice to the respectable, intelligent and highly talented teens who choose not to moonlight as mall rats. And I know they exist – sadly, their numbers are few. But the more I think about it, the more I hope my boys stay young forever. Because frankly, teenagers scare me.

Any tips for keeping teens in check? I’d love to hear from moms who are in the thick of it – I like to be well prepared :)

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