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…)

With Thanksgiving just a few days away, I’ve started chatting with Ryder about the holiday and what it represents.

(Believe it or not, 4-year-olds grasp the concept of Thanksgiving very easily if we simply substitute “thankful” for “likes a lot”. Of course, coming from Ryder, one can expect cars, vacuums and gummy bears to be on that list.)

I decided that I too wanted to make a list of the things I am thankful for; but let’s be honest, you can likely guess the contents: my beautiful boys, my wonderful extended family, health, happiness… yes, it’s all terribly predictable.

And so I began thinking about the little things I’m thankful for. You know, the small stuff that in the end, somehow made a huge difference. Sometimes I laughed; often, I cried; but for the most part, I am thankful.

Inner Beauty.

I am thankful that I was never a conventionally pretty or popular girl. Being ignored for most of my high school life was likely the greatest gift ever. For when other 15-year-old girls simply had to toss their hair or flirtatiously giggle, I had to be funny, witty and interesting. Yes, I was the forgettable girl with the great personality – the one the boys didn’t want to be set up with. At the time, I spent countless nights wondering how I could make myself more popular, more trendy and definitely more pretty. But in the end, the fact that I had to depend on my wit and charm – not my looks – allowed me to develop my inner beauty. Later, when I finally blossomed, not only was I a looker – I was charismatic and likable, too.

A Charitable Cause.

I am thankful for my first boyfriend. He was a cute, popular boy and for some reason, decided to pluck me out of social obscurity. One day, huddled behind the high school portables, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I thought I’d combust with happiness! We ended up “dating” for 2 months – a lifetime when you’re 16 years old. To this day, I still don’t know if I was a “She’s All That”-esque charitable cause (certainly no on else could figure out the attraction – not even my friends!) but I’ll forever be thankful that he spent a small portion of his life making me feel so special. The confidence that ensued helped me keep my head held high when other boys rejected me (sadly, my social life did not pick up after that brief stint – see Inner Beauty). (more…)

Sometimes, shopping for a new outfit makes me do a happy dance.

And other times, I break out in hives.

If you are a woman, chances are there’s been at least one time (read: many times) in your life that you’ve dreaded trying on clothes. Whether it be because you’re not at your ideal weight, have struggled with an unruly body part (sadly, my hips don’t lie) or are prone to Cameron Diaz syndrome (flat chest and butt), changing rooms can be your enemy.

(Of course, one could avoid changing room wars with diet and fitness, but… do you know how delicious a Chipotle Burrito Bowl is? Seriously, it’s life defining.)

Before having children, I had about 10 years in what I now call my Changing Room Champion phase. Yup; I could try on any outfit with some assurance that it would fit – as long as it came in “XS” (oh, to be skinny again!). However, after producing a couple of boys in a couple of years, I’m now firmly in the “M” zone and have clothing considerations I previously didn’t have to worry about:

1) Remember those unruly hips? Out of control now. I need a good pair of Spanx to get them back in line.
2) Where on earth did this boobage come from? Forget strapless numbers – these knockers need the full support of two very sturdy bra straps. Pushing them up is like trying to lift the rock of Gibraltar.
3) It’s no coincidence that I’ve been nicknamed Kiki Kardashian. Yes, my butt makes its own entrance.
4) Mummy Tummy. You know; that little bit of excess skin that just didn’t tighten up after your belly stretched out about 30 inches during pregnancy. Gah.

Now, I’m not here to counsel you on diet and exercise; I hear Jenny Craig knows a little about that. What I do want to share with you today are my tips for owning the changing the room - how to feel better about yourself when trying on clothes, and those tips and tricks that make the process less painful. (more…)

Last year, I wrote a post to communicate my belief that women have a duty to change their hairstyles. Frequently.

Think about it: the mighty Lord gave us menstrual cycles, unwanted leg hair and varicose veins. But He also bestowed us with lovely locks – and for most of us, we’re blessed with the choice of how to wear our hair… short or long, layered or blunt, blonde or brunette, straight or curly… the list goes on. So, to be stuck in a hair rut is simply unforgivable!

You May Be Stuck in a Hair Rut If…

1. Your husband knows the brand and number of your boxed hair colour.
2. Four out of five friends would describe your ‘do as “The Rachel.”
3. Your hair salon is a barber shop. With a spinning pole outside.
4. Your hair styling routine includes wash, air dry, ponytail, repeat.
5. You wear your hair long because you believe men like long hair.
6. Your stylist uses a rubber cap and knitting needle for your highlights.
7. You never make an appointment to cut your hair – walk-ins welcome.
8. The labels on your styling products say “Aqua Net” or “Dippidy Do”.
9. You truly believe that there is such a thing as wash-and-go hair.
10. You own a banana clip… and use it.

I have fine, frizzy hair… decidedly the most unsexy texture known to womankind. But I battle Mother Nature with a gusto normally reserved for fighting world wars and banishing whale poachers. Because let’s face it – I can’t change my face (for less than $10,000), my skin colour (unless I try out a new age bleaching cream) or the fact that I’ll always be 4 inches too short to reach supermodel status (and 20 pounds too heavy) – but I can change my hair. (more…)

At first, it was kind of cute.

After tucking Ryder into his toddler bed, he would fall asleep for an obligatory three hours… then lightly pad across the hallway, enter our room and crawl into our bed. At the time I was pregnant with Reid, and knew that my alone time with my little buddy was drawing to a close. Hence, I turned a blind eye (literally, I didn’t even bother to get up) and let him stay the night.

Then Reid came along, and I soon discovered that breastfeeding in the middle of the night was vastly easier when I could just roll over and relinquish a boob. So, he too found a home for the night on our bed – but only after we kicked Ryder to the curb (I wasn’t willing to chance Reid being crushed by a toddler who has a penchant for sleeping sideways). And with a brand new big boy’s bed and bedroom, for at least 6 months Ryder stayed away, reveling in the novelty of his new room (actually I think he just cottoned onto the fact that Reid woke up crying exactly every three hours – and couldn’t deal with those sleep conditions).

For a while, there was balance in the force.

Reid slept between hubby and I, letting us know when he wanted a midnight snack. Ryder bounced on our bed at 6:00am, willing us all awake as only 2-year-olds can.

But then, Ryder decided that perhaps he didn’t love his new room after all, and he wanted to sleep with mommy and daddy. After all, why should only Reid have access to the prime real estate? Reid was now over a year old, and having never been introduced to alternate sleeping arrangements, literally thought our bed was HIS own.

One night, late last June, I came to bed after a late night of blogging to find this:

“Past 1:00am, finally done blogging, drag myself to bed… only to find the real estate occupied by the 3 stooges.”

I sighed in defeat and made my way to Ryder’s room, where he has a big, comfy, EMPTY double bed.

But my slumberous ways were short-lived; realizing that his drink ticket didn’t come to bed, Reid lightly padded across the hallway, entered Ryder’s room and crawled into his bed. And lifted my top for some boobage.

GAH! Was it so unrealistic to want a solid 6 hours of sleep? Hell-o! (more…)

For my boys:

One day, you will fight over whose turn it is on the Xbox (or whatever futuristic game station is relevant).
You will argue over who “needs” to borrow dad’s car immediately.
You will poke fun at each other, keeping the insults just above the belt until someone gets really peeved and will go there. (Though he will apologize later because it’s the right thing to do.)

Someday, you will borrow each other’s clothes.
However, well before that happens, you will put a stop to me dressing you both in matchy-matchy outfits.
You will accuse me of favouring one over the other, and believe it until you’re 35.
You will scream “He’s hitting me!” exactly 4,348 times over the course of the next 10 years.

One day, you will be embarrassed to be related to one another. (Thankfully, it will pass quickly.)
You will hide toys, steal crayons and take the last treat for yourself.
You will be an honest and enthusiastic snitch – pointing out your brother’s shortcomings and faults.
And, when asked to borrow 5 bucks, you may opt to keep it for yourself.

Someday, you may take each other for granted.
You will intend to call, but the days will stretch into weeks.
You will be busy with your own family and your own priorities.
Maybe, you just won’t feel a connection to each other.
You will forget about your best friend.

And, on that day, I will forward this link – and these impromptu pictures that I took on a cold winter afternoon in February 2011.

Yes, you were in matchy-matchy outfits.
Yes, you were very young.

But you only had eyes for each other.
Unadulterated affection written all over your faces.
You took care of each other in way that makes my heart explode.

Boys, meet your first true love: your brother.

(more…)

PAGING: Mulder and Scully. 

Okay, so while this is situation does not exactly qualify as paranormal activity, something NOT normal is definitely going on here. (Insert squinted eyes and a thoughtful stroking of the chin.)

It all started last month. As a blogger who conducts product reviews, I’m often given a free product coupon (FPC) as an enticement to try a product (or as an alternative to shipping a perishable good to my door). And so, coupons in hand, I visited my local market to do my usual grocery run – which included trying two new products by way of FPCs. Once checked out, I glanced down at my receipt and noticed that the “Total Manufacturer Coupon Savings” were $3.49, when it should have been $6.98 as I had redeemed two coupons. This had happened once before – recently, actually – so I informed the cashier, she apologized and handed the coupon over, and instructed me to go to customer service to have it sorted out.

No harm done, right? Right.

Yesterday, I once again had a few FPCs to redeem – three, to be exact. I also had a $3 off coupon for a well-known yogurt manufacturer, and a 10¢ coupon for PC Canned Crab. (Don’t ask. It’s delish, though.)

The value of each of the free products was $5.29. So, redeeming 3 x $5.29 FPCs, 1 x $3.00 off yogurt and 10¢ off canned crab, one would expect my total manufacturer coupon savings to total $18.97. With me so far?

It was a crazy Saturday afternoon, the kids were whining, and I was struggling to pack up a huge grocery run while my husband lugged the bags into the cart. I wasn’t exactly paying attention to what the cashier was doing, so it was only as we were walking out of the store that I glanced down at the receipt and noticed the total coupon savings were $5.29. Say what???

My Spidey Sense started tingling. (more…)

It is 9:13am on Friday morning. The boys are enjoying a late breakfast of Cheerios and a sliced banana, and I am typing away from my kitchen office.

(Yes, I have a kitchen office. Where else do “working moms” handle their biz?)

The sun is shining through an open window; the sound of giggling and Treehouse in the background. And I am wondering why – after four long years – I am finally ready to tell the story of Ryder’s birth.

Perhaps it’s to reach out to fellow “Androids”. Perhaps it’s because my sweet little boy will be 4 years old in less than two weeks. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because of a video I watched this morning, which included three key phrases:

Pediatric Neurosurgeon.
Sick Kids Hospital.
Miracle Story.

And it is undoubtedly the way I felt in November 2008 when I left the neurosurgeon’s office for the final time, with a spring in my step and a profound wish to never see the hospital again, that I am riddled with equal doses of guilt and thankfulness Ryder is one of the “lucky” ones. Because not every parent exits Sick Kids with a spring in their step; and certainly they do not have the option of “never again”.

The Story Of Ryder

It is shortly after 11:00pm on Thursday, May 8th and I am experiencing tummy cramps that ebb and flow. Our little baby is not due for another three weeks, so I am confused as to why the cramps are taking on a predictable pattern – every 10 minutes or so – with equally predictable intensity. I decide to call Telehealth Ontario, my go-to resource for everything from a paper cut to a raging migraine. After I explain the symptoms and how far along in the pregnancy I am, the nurse (who to this day I picture to look like Aunt Jemima) chuckles and says, “You’re in labour, honey!” (more…)

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.

It’s old news that my boys are currently addicted to In The Night Garden. From my “Apparently Shopping Makes Me Cry” post:

“Yes, it’s 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.”

Tragically, the “night” garden also airs in the morning. 

And that’s exactly how I found myself introduced to the foul-mouthed rantings of a Tombliboo. Earlier today, I was at my breaking point with the boys. After taking turns dragging each other across the floor by the hems of their pants (thanks for polishing the hardwood hun), poking eyes, stealing cars and screaming like banshees, I decided an early lunch was in order. I dumped Reid in his booster seat, ordered Ryder to sit at the kitchen table, and proceeded to heat up my mom’s famous chicken stew.

I also turned on the television, praying my home could be whine-free for the whole 5 minutes it took to get lunch on the table. I was surprised to see that In the Night Garden was on at 11:00am, but since both boys instantly fell into a Ninky Nonk trance, I decided to count my blessings and turn up the volume.

Moments later, as I was about to place Ryder’s lunch in front of him, my arm froze in mid air.

I heard something.
Coming from the television.
It sounded like a Tombliboo.

And it appeared that he had said… “Shut The F*ck Up”.

It couldn’t be.
No way.
Of course not.

So I proceeded to deposit Ryder’s lunch on the table… and then, I heard it again:

“Shut The F*ck Up!”

Wha-wha-whaaaaaaat???? Thankfully, due to the magic of YouTube, I was able to find the episode and attempt to confirm if I had indeed heard a Tombliboo drop the F-Bomb.

YOU be the judge. Listen at 1:53 and 2:01. Or watch the whole thing, if you’re feeling particularly self-loathing.

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.

I never thought of myself as the type of woman to have a BFF. 

It’s quite obvious, actually; I covet my personal space, don’t mind being by myself for long periods of time and would much rather dance to the beat of my own drum. So the fact that I’ve been attached to the hip of my BFF for the last 18 months is somewhat puzzling to me – especially since it’s out of character for me to share so much with one individual.

Meet my BFF… my Breast Feeding Fanatic.

Reid will be 18 months old next week, and he’s still firmly attached to my boobies.

(That’s 1.5 years for those who don’t speak mom-ish; I know, we’re insufferable with our measurement of baby’s age by months, no?)

Please don’t assume I’m one of those women who believes exclusive breast milk is best until the child is 4 years old, because Reid does eat table food (he loves fruit and pasta) and drinks homo milk, juice and water. But, he also loves a good cuddle with mommy, and asks for breast milk about 10 times per day.

Of course, I don’t actually give in to his demands – allotting him only about 5 minutes at the breast a handful of times. But that doesn’t stop him from trying his luck; he normally gropes at my top whenever I’m too close for too long, and although Reid hasn’t mastered speech just yet, he can clearly articulate his desire for “Neh-Neh”. And sometimes I cave; it’s just the best way to calm him down from a tantrum, get him drowsy for a nap or keep him shushed while I talk on the telephone.

Trouble is, I’m not quite sure how to wean him. And I’m not quite certain I want to.

Truthfully, I’d love for him to sleep through the night without the expectation of a warm quickie to lull him back to sleep. And, I’d be even happier if I could be away for a day and not have rock-hard boobs by the end of it. But the simple fact is, I can’t imagine not pulling him onto my lap and bringing him in close; having his warm hand on my heart as he settles in to feed. I rather enjoy the one-on-one time with him, and feel the need to protect a bonding experience I’m not willing to give up just yet.

My continued relationship with my BFF is met with mixed reactions.

“Good for you. I breastfed my little one until she was two.”
“You know you need to stop, right? He’s old enough.”
“Are you still f%#king breast feeding???”
“That’s awesome. I plan on breast feeding for as long as possible.”

I’m not too concerned with what others say. Depending on my mood, I’ll wholeheartedly agree with them (“I know! I’m sick of it already! He needs to be weaned…”) or just shrug my shoulders and go about my day. I know that the decisions I make will be best for Reid and me, and it’s sometimes hard for onlookers – even friends and family – to appreciate that. But it’s not a big deal -

After all, nobody comes between a girl and her BFF.

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.

A few nights ago, while lying in bed, I whispered to my husband, “They wouldn’t remember me. They wouldn’t know me.”

Having being aroused from his slumber, he blinked his eyes and asked ”Huh?”

“If something happened to me tomorrow,” I clarified. “Ryder is only 3; he would perhaps have selected memories of me, if any. Reid would remember nothing.”

“Go to sleep,” my husband ordered.

But I couldn’t let it go. I became obsessed with the idea of writing a letter to my boys. A letter that speaks to them today – but one I’d want them to read much, much later in life. Perhaps even after I’ve passed. Just a little note that gives them insight into my feelings, at this exact moment, while they’re still babies and will likely have no recollection of this time.

I also wanted to write a letter that tells it like it is. Because I’m not perfect. And they’re not perfect. But for better or worse, this is a snapshot of our time together. It goes something like this:

“Dear Ryder & Reid,

I’ll start this letter by addressing you both at the same time, because when writing about how much I love you, my feelings apply both equally and unconditionally. You are my LIFE. I have vague memories of a time before you, but at this very moment, every waking moment is consumed with thoughts of how fiercely I love you. Having children has both defined and justified my existence.

For Ryder:

Oh, where to begin. Dude, you cry waaay too much. It’s almost insufferable. Just shut up and calm down already; no, you can’t have jujubes for breakfast and yes, when I say stop jumping on the couch, I mean it. There are times when I really think you will break me; that I will throw my arms up in defeat and check into the hotel for bad mothers.

But at other times, I see this light shining in your eyes which reveals a beautiful, kind spirit. I see a playfulness and naughtiness that every child should hold onto for as long as humanly possible, before rules are established and routines are kept. Your smile is like warm sunlight on my face; it dazzles me and makes me incredibly aware of the quirky little man before me. I fantasize about the man you’ll become, and the lucky people who will bask in your glow. You are my first true love.

For Reid:

Just give up the boob already. What you’re doing is purely for show now. And I get it; it’s nice to have a warm, soft booby nearby. Remind me to mention this to your future girlfriends. But enough already; demanding “ne-ne” twenty times a day and then latching on for 2 minutes before you walk away does neither of us any good. You suck (literally) and it’s time to stop.

But I can never say no. I’ve got this unhealthy obsession with you. Perhaps it’s because I see so much of me in you, or because by nature, you’re just the sweetest little thing. But from the moment I held you in my arms, I realized that I could fall in love a second time – and just as hard. From your uncanny intelligence to your ever-ready smile, you pull at my heart and bring me to life. I’m not sure what I did to deserve you, but I will spend the rest of my life giving thanks.”

As you can see, it’s not all roses and lollipops. But it never is, is it? Still wouldn’t trade them for all the tea in China.

Have you recorded your thoughts & feelings in a journal – or post-dated a letter to your child? If you take the good and take the bad, what would it say?

Last night, it took me a good two hours to fall asleep. In between staying up with Ryder (his tummy has been funny lately and therefore he’s been a bit clingy), trying to finally wean Reid (today is his 15-month birthday, translation: get off my freakin’ boob) and sorting through all the posts and commitments I have coming up, I was literally staring straight ahead for what felt like an eternity.

So I began to play the simple game I always play – a little time-filler I invented years ago while coping with a broken heart. It’s called “Someone, Somewhere…” and I begin by defining my feelings at that exact moment in time. For example, I may think: