The Happy Post

I’ve made a pact with myself that after all the complaining I’ve done so far, I am going to write at least one positive post. So here it is. Now, it’s a known fact that Wendy and I spend the majority of our days battling toddler temper tantrums and picky eating habits. Do we enjoy that part of mommyhood? Of course not. That would be like saying we enjoyed Artie and Brittany breaking up on Glee (Go Team Artittany!) But despite those trying moments and the fact that they seem to lurk in public places, this toddler age can be a lot of fun and here’s why:

They actually take an interest in things. While the first year is awesome because you can stay inside and never change out of your PJs if you want to (which I wanted to), it can be a little boring because the baby spends most of the time chewing on things, pooing and just staring back at you.  After the first 12 months, they really start to figure out who they are and what they like. It’s fun to watch Thumper pick out her clothes for the day or be excited for days after visiting the zoo because she got to see an elephant. It also helps that all the work I’ve done to push her into loving My Little Ponys is finally starting to pay off.

They will never love you more than they do right now. It’d be nice if you could backlog their love and hugs so that when they’re hating you and slamming doors in your face as teenagers it wouldn’t feel so bad. I guess for now we just have to enjoy it while it lasts. Because I’ve smothered her with hugs and kisses daily since she was born, Thumper now likes to randomly throw herself into my arms for a little snuggle. Obviously, it’s never when I’m asking for one, but I’m not one to pass up a little cuddle, even if it is while I’m changing her dirty diaper. Actually, I think I’ve turned her into a hugging monster. Not only does she hug her stuffed bunny, the cat and her favourite shoes, the other day I caught her hugging French fries at dinnertime.  

They want to help with chores. Things tend to take a lot longer when they help, but I’d say it’s worth it if eventually they will take over all the household chores for you. It turns out that Thumper likes to do the laundry. All she does is help me transfer clothes from the washer to the dryer and from the dryer to the basket, but still. She even gets angry if I do it without her. I’m hoping this will be a life-long love affair with laundry since I have a love-hate relationship with it. I hate it and it loves to pile up and taunt me. Now if only she could get over her fear of the vacuum and learn how to dust without eating the dust bunnies, we would be golden.

They actually become friends with each other. Gone are the days when the kids play near each other but basically ignore each other’s existence. Okay, so maybe most of what they do is chase each other around while squealing with delight or try not to hit one another while we force them to take turns on the slide but it’s a start. When everyone’s in a good mood and they’re the ones to initiate play, it’s fricken adorable. Wendy and I have trained Thumper and Prince to hug and kiss when saying hello and goodbye, and they like to hold hands when we’re walking to the park. The cuteness is enough to make your heart instantly explode into rainbows and lollipops.

Their vocabulary is much better. It’s amazing to hear your child say words, any words, for the first time. Hearing them say ‘mama’ is obviously the best and hearing ‘fuck’ is probably the worst. Once they start saying more casual words it’s pretty humorous. The other day, Thumper hopped into a baby pool in the backyard, smiled from ear to ear and said, for the first time, “Awesome.” She also sometimes starts her sentences with ‘sooooo...’ As in, she’ll be playing in her room, then look at me and say “Sooooo, mama go aside?” (Translation: mama, can we go outside?) I guess I use the word awesome and start my sentences with sooooo a lot more than I thought.  

They are the smartest people ever. In months 0-12, babies learn a lot, but it seems to be spaced out across the year. Sometime after their 1^st birthday, they turn into baby geniuses because they learn something new every day. Whether it’s how to go down a slide by themselves or counting to 10, it’s insane how quickly they can pick stuff up that they literally had no concept of before. Thumper has an amazing memory and it never ceases to surprise me. A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine paid us a visit and Thumper hadn’t seen her in probably four months or so. Normally a toddler’s short term memory isn’t much longer than a week, but as soon as Thumper saw her, she yelled out “Ason!” (Translation: Alison) I sat there wondering how she could remember my friend’s name when I have trouble remembering what day it is.

So ask me again, are the toddler meltdowns and power struggles fun? No, but they are worth it. Our kids may not give us a moment’s peace and might be the source of our occasional need for a glass of wine before 9 a.m. but they are smart, charming little creatures. I think all moms would agree that they’d gladly suffer through another epic outburst if it meant after it was over we could have a little cuddle and hear them say “sooooo...I lub bou!” (Translation: I love you.)

-Alice

Death by Time-Outs

I’m just going to say it. I think I’m doing time-outs wrong.

You probably didn’t know it was possible to fail time-outs, but there are ways. Oh, there are ways alright. Let’s start with the facts. I copy my time-out style from Supernanny, which means we do the following: use your serious voice, put them on the naughty spot, use a timer, intervals match the age of the child (i.e. Thumper is 1 ½ years old, therefore gets a 1 ½ minute time-out), don’t talk to them while on the naughty spot, and when it’s over make sure to tell them why they got a time out, have them apologize and then hug and kiss and say I love you. Now this all seems straightforward I know, but when your child gets not only back-to-back time-outs, but back-to-back-to-back-to-back-time-outs, well, someone is screwing something up and you better figure it out before one or both of you spontaneously combust for getting/giving too many time-outs.

When we’re at home by ourselves, Thumper gets a time out here and there, but it’s usually not consecutive. Apparently she reserves her repeat offences for an audience, aka, during play dates. This tells me that one of two things is happening. Either I am not following through on discipline when we’re alone or the mere presence of other kids really pisses Thumper off. I’ve only just come to the realization that things are getting a tad out of hand, so today was Day One of Operation Stop Sucking at Time-Outs. I made sure to follow through on every warning I gave, but since we didn’t have any play dates today, it was hard to tell if it made a difference or if that was even the problem. There’s also this one other thing.

From what I gather, the part about your kid looking you in the eye while you explain why she got a time-out is really important. Um. Yeah. If there was a way to fail even more, than we are doing that. Because what we are not doing is making eye contact. I try hard, I swear I try so hard to make Thumper look me in the eye but I am fairly certain it’s impossible. Because even when I try to hold her face in front of mine she still has full control over where her eyes go, and they sure as hell are not going to look at mine, no matter how much I get up in her grill.

As for the reasons for the repeat offences during play dates, I’m sure some of you are rolling your eyes because you think maybe I don’t know about the golden rules of play dates (which, by the way, are don’t have too many children over at once and don’t schedule them for longer than two hours because that is the absolute maximum amount of time in which children are willing to share toys). Look, I may be dumb but I’m not stupid. I follow the rules. But so far, I can’t see the pattern in Thumper’s madness. For example, last week we had Simba over and Thumper was great with him. She even willingly gave him toys to play with. But the next day, both Simba and Prince were over and Thumper split her time between stealing things away from people and sitting in the naughty spot. It may seem like having two other children around is too much for Thumper to handle. However, we were recently on another one-on-one play date and Thumper slapped my friend’s daughter across the face. (Side note: I was so embarrassed I just about ran from the room and let Thumper fend for herself.) Sometimes the other kids aren’t even paying attention to her and she freaks out on them. Other than the regular triggers that all kids have, being hungry or tired, I just can’t understand why my child can sometimes be the picture of a perfect social butterfly and other times be the pesky fly buzzing around everyone’s heads and slapping everyone’s kids.

I don’t expect her to behave all the time. I also don’t expect her to want to share or to really remember how. I’m fully aware that I’ll be showing her how to share and take turns for the next several years. But when she’s been in the naughty spot eleven times and it’s not even 10 a.m., there must be some sort of explanation for it. Is it because I can’t get her to look me in eye? Does she just hate other kids? Well, even if it kills me, I am going to figure out why we’re failing and then we are going to pass this stupid test like some sort of super awesome time-out ninjas. Also, your suggestions are welcome because this whole my-kid-is-the-instigator thing is really embarrassing and I think we’re starting to get a reputation. I watch Supernanny for tips on how to avoid one day being on Supernanny. The last thing I need is for someone to send in a letter for me stating how desperately I need her help and would she kindly please hurry so that Thumper will stop assaulting every child we know.

I guess stay tuned for an update at some point and in the meantime, please don’t take bets on who Thumper will abuse next.

-Alice

Everybody's Got An Opinion

As I’ve mentioned before, being in public with a baby makes you a walking target for all sorts of random comments. Sometimes people will tell you your baby is adorable, other times they will think your daughter is a boy, even though she is covered in pink frilly things. Sometimes people will give you a knowing, sympathetic look while your child is throwing a tantrum on the floor, other times they will yell at you for giving your kid a soother. Strangers and their wild comments lurk everywhere you go, and as irritating as it can be, you sort of get used to it and come to expect it. What you never really get used to though are the comments that come from those closest to you. It’s often feels more like a slap in the face when a remark is made by your best friend or mother as opposed to someone you’ll never have to see again.

A close friend once scolded me for not giving Thumper enough “tummy time” when she was a couple of months old. This friend doesn’t even have kids. I nearly slapped her for it, and I can say this because we’ve since talked about it and are now at the point where we can laugh about it. It helps that she now realizes if she says something similar to me again she will actually get slapped. You only get a no-slap pass once. Unless you’re the grandparent, in which case you get a no-slap pass every time. Because despite the fact that grandparents give our kids chocolate cookies right before naptime, they do all kinds of awesome things for us like babysit for free and purchase pretty dresses and shoes for the baby.

Before I start this next bit, let me be clear: I love my mother. She is a serious bag of awesome-sauce. But it drives me up.the.freaking.wall when she passes French fries to Thumper after I’ve just finished saying that she can’t have any until she eats her veggies. And it happens every damn time we go there. I know that grandparents are supposed to have all the fun and spoil the baby with treats but don’t they remember the stress of trying to get your kids to eat anything that doesn’t contain sugar? And why can’t they just let the baby cry it out at night? I know it’s hard to hear them scream, and also annoying. Trust me. I know. I hear it every damn night. But if you go in and pick Thumper up one night and let her run around for an hour because you’re convinced she’s not tired enough, I’m going to be stuck doing it for the next five nights until I can get her to break the habit. I mean, our parents successfully raised children before, so I know we should trust them to watch ours, and for the most part I do, but seriously, ice cream is not an acceptable dinner and midnight is not an acceptable bedtime.

The same can be said for great-grandparents. Some of the things my own grandmother has told me about babies and parenting are kind of funny, and other times I wonder how she managed to raise two fully functioning adults. Again, my grandmother is a wonderful lady whom I love dearly, but I found it hard to keep my cool when she’d tell me every 10 seconds to stop “shaking” the baby when Thumper was an infant. Sorry Grandma, but I really don’t think Thumper’s brains are going to get jumbled up or come out of her ears because I was bouncing her up and down on my knee so she would stop fussing. She also liked to lecture me on pacifiers, saying that her little boy (my dad) never needed one so therefore Thumper shouldn’t need one either. She stopped making that comment when I told her she was welcome to come over and put Thumper to bed each night without her soother.

Basically the moral of this story is that when you have kids, every single person you encounter will tell you how to raise them. You will want to smack a lot of these people and who knows, maybe you will get to hit a few of them. Just remember, the closer you are to someone, the more you will want to hit them but the less acceptable it is to do so. Well, at least if you do they won’t press charges. Probably. Just please do not reference this blog and say, ‘Alice told me it was okay to hit you if you said my stroller was inferior!’ I don’t need that kind of responsibility when I’ve got my own nay-sayers to deal with.

-Alice

Celebrities I Want to Be Friends With

Straight up. This post is going to have nothing to do with being a mom or having kids. The fact is that my brain has turned to mush after listing off the beers we have on tap at work non-stop for ten hours yesterday. In order to stop myself from habitually repeating, ‘Coors Light, Canadian, Rickards Red, Rickards White, Stella, Creemore, Molson M,’ I thought it would be wise to make a different list to recite instead.

In case you haven’t noticed, I like making lists. Except when the lists are meant for actually getting things done, in which case, I don’t like lists at all. Lucky for all of us, the following is not that kind of list. It’s just a wish-list of celebrities that I really, really want to be friends with.

Hilary Duff – I firmly believe that if Hilary and I ever met, we would be best friends. She is just such a nice girl and so pretty and down to earth and wholesome to the point that I just want to bake some cookies with her. Yeah, when she first came out she was totally bubble-gum pop, but even if that’s not your style (it was totally my style FYI), I think we can all agree we’d rather see our teenage daughters be like Hilary rather than Ke$ha. I’m pretty sure she’s one of the only pop princesses not to have a break down, sex tape, serious substance addiction or show us her vagina while getting out of a limo. She gets hella points in my book for that. Her scandal-free reputation might make her wary that my previous stint as a party girl could tarnish her image, but she would eventually see that I too have a heart of gold. I picture us laughing and bonding over martinis, talking about how awesome Lizzy McGuire was and how Joel Madden never appreciated her the way she deserved. And then I’d be like ‘Lindsay Lohan was such a bitch for stealing Aaron Carter from you,’ and she’d be like, ‘You are so awesome. Will you be the Godmother to my future children?’ And I’d say hell to the yes, and she would remind me that nice girls don’t swear.

Dennis Quaid –Okay, let’s put aside the fact that Dennis is one super hot older dude. I’ll admit that I haven’t actually seen a significant number of his movies. I guess if we were actually friends, this would make me a bad friend. But I have seen every episode of Ellen that he’s been on, and those appearances certainly show how good-natured and funny he is and that he doesn’t take himself too seriously – all wonderful qualities. Now put that aside too. Because I would be his friend solely to hear him say “Dennis Quaid is here!” every time he walked into a room.

Tina Fey – Tina is THE funniest woman ever in the history of the world. Seriously, it’s a fact. However, I feel like she wouldn’t be impressed with the fact that I can quote Mean Girls and Baby Mama word for word. She’d probably take one look at me and know that I’m a dumb girl who doesn’t know much about politics, world culture or women’s rights, and would shoo me away with her wittiness. See, Tina is intelligent and hilarious and oddly classy even though she created some very un-classy skits for SNL (Colonel Angus, anyone?)and as emphasized in Mean Girls, she doesn’t like when girls call other girls sluts, bitches and whores. Um. A friend recently told me that when I die, my tombstone will read ‘Here lies a pirate hooker.’ It’s because I’m constantly calling people hookers. I think you can see why Tina would beat me up with books about feminism.

Amy Poelher – Amy is the second funniest woman ever, coming in behind Tina only because she didn’t write the greatest movie ever Mean Girls. Now, Amy would also likely see that I’m not informed or intelligent enough to be considered an adult, but I feel like she is laid back enough to pat me on the head and say, ‘Poor dumb girl,’ and be my friend out of pity. Listen, I call people hookers. I’m not above having pity friends, especially if the pity friend is willing to exploit her pregnancy by doing a skit like this. And this. 

Taylor Swift – Feel free to roll your eyes because this is my second ultra-wholesome pick. Again, T-Swizzle may not be your cup of tea, but you can’t deny that this girl writes great break-up songs. She could definitely help me get the lyrical revenge on past boyfriends that I’ve been waiting for all these years. I’ll admit, sometimes she seems a bit awkward in interviews, but that is part of what I find endearing about her. She’s just a normal person trying to live a good life; it just so happens that her life is extra good, what with all the Grammys, world tours and so on, and she has to live it under the spotlight of the whole world. She also has an amazing wardrobe. And I want hand-me-downs.

So there it is. The five people I want to meet in heaven be BFF with. Hopefully when I fall asleep tonight, there won’t be any more nightmares of having to chug Creemore right from the taps while all the other beers stand around and laugh at me. Maybe instead I’ll dream of sharing a (non-beer) drink with my five besties while wearing something from Taylor’s closet and listening to Dennis talk about himself in the third person. And yes, in my dreams, I am on a first name basis with all of them.

- Yo, I'm Palin Alice, I'm out!

Riding in Cars with Toddlers

A helpful tip for those of you thinking about learning to drive standard: don’t bring your child. And if you do, bring some mother fucking milk.

This week, I had the lovely experience of doing just that—learning to drive stick shift with my toddler in the backseat and no.freaking.milk. to give her when she screamed and cried for it. For those of you who know how to drive standard, I’m sure you agree that it’s pretty nerve-wracking in the beginning. And I’m sure you would agree that your nerves will get a lot more wracked, strung out, fried and then shoot themselves when someone screeches in your ear for some milk. I have a hard enough time keeping my temper in check on a normal day in an automatic car. You can imagine how much harder it is to do when I’m also trying to figure out what gear I’m supposed to be in or concentrate on not stalling the car for the seventeenth time in ten seconds.

I have to say that Dawson was pretty amazing throughout all it. He managed to be a good teacher, stay calm while the baby flipped her sh*t and stay calm while I flipped my sh*t. That is talent, people. I guess I also need to give the baby credit for being smart enough to know what karma is and to use it against me. The first day we went out, she happily sat in the back bouncing her feet up and down with a dopey smile on her face. She definitely thought we were going on some big, fun family adventure. And we definitely played along. After half an hour, her smile faded into a confused but still hopeful frown until she eventually fell asleep. That’s where things got vengeful. I thought I was in clear, that all my worrying about bringing her along being the worst idea ever was for nothing. In reality, she was biding her time until I felt ready enough to leave the parking lot and drive on the road. Of course, that was the moment she chose to wake up and scream so loud that all the windows shattered and blood started to trickle out from my ears. Needless to say, that was the end of the driving lesson.

The three of us went out again today. Why did we take Thumper with us again? Because if we waited for a time when we wouldn't have to take her, it would never happen. We’ve already had a standard car for a year and a half and I’m only learning to drive it now (we also have an automatic, so it’s not like I’ve been car-less that whole time). Since we learned our lesson the first time, we decided to break the driving session up with some time at the park. Unfortunately, this did not deter Thumper from screaming and only increased her apparent need for milk. That made for a fun trip. Because I didn’t have enough to think about, what with the breaking and clutching and gear-shifting and it all needing to happen at the same time. Oh no, I also had to curse myself for not bringing milk and wonder how the hell to shut her up and also remind myself to rename her from Thumper to Shreeky, like that chick from The Care Bears. The following is an exact quote from the noise going on in my head:

What gear am I in? I think the car is about to fall apart because I keep riding the clutch. What does riding the clutch mean? Okay, third gear. Did I do it? I did it! That was the best gear shift ever! Okay fourth gear... Worst gear shift ever. Also, worst noise ever. THUMPER BE QUIET! No that screaming is the worst noise ever. Shit, shit, shit, stop stalling! No Thumper, Mommy can’t – shhh. SHHHHH! There is NO MILK! Mommy is trying to—Rolling, oh God, we’re rolling backwards and OHMYGOSHSTOPSCREAMINGORISWEARTOGOD—

And then my head exploded. And I died.

Alright that last part may have been exaggerated. The point is I couldn’t stop thinking about things when all I wanted, and needed, was to stop thinking about things and just drive, dammit. Luckily Dawson offered to take Thumper home for dinner so I could practise solo. Now that was amazing. Scary, yes, but more so amazing and wonderful and quiet and it allowed me to actually concentrate on what I was doing. It also let me concentrate on my other pet peeves for learning to drive standard: stop lights and cars that pull up too close behind you on a hill.

Stop lights are aggravating because you just can’t win. They are either going to turn green and then you stall ten times, or they take forever to turn green and all the while your heart is pounding so hard your whole body is throbbing. And the longer it takes to change, the more the turn signal feels like it’s mocking you and the more cars pull up around you to stare and judge and laugh like evil little clowns. The torture of it all almost makes you wish you were at home listening to your toddler scream about beverages. Almost. Speaking of evil little clowns, let’s talk about the people who pull up right behind you on a hill. I really enjoy how enraged they get when you start rolling back or stall or just generally take some time to get your shit together. Um, I’m the one who is learning to drive here. Aren’t you the one who has been driving FOREVER and should know not to park on top my back bumper? It makes me really angry when it’s an adult because I’m like, How long have you been driving? You should know better! And it makes me really angry when it’s a young person because I’m like, Didn’t you just finish driving lessons? You should know better! Don’t get mad at me for not knowing how to drive if you also do not know how to drive.

So children, what did we learn today in Mommyland? Whether it’s full of milk, juice or something stronger to knock the kids out, always bring a sippy cup with you in the car. And stop lights are bad for your health. And if you see me on the road, you had better keep a safe distance away or I will roll back on purpose to teach you a lesson.  

-Alice

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, It's Off to Work I Go

Yesterday was my first day back at work. It went alright, though I was a bit jittery at first and it definitely showed. I also realized my Mommybrain is not as charming as it was when I was pregnant. Because at least when I was 100 lbs heavier with what was clearly a child in my belly, people could tell that I was forgetful for a reason. Now I just look dumb. Yesterday made me realize just how disillusioned I’d become about what my line of work is actually like for normal, non-pregnant people. You’re probably wondering what kind of job I am talking about. Let me give you a hint: I have to take orders from people; some are regulars and others I’ve never met before. I have to smile and be nice even if people are not smiling at or being nice to me. I tend to get a lot of exercise, though that’s not something typically associated with this occupation.

No, I’m not a hooker. Get your mind out of the gutter! I’m a waitress. Oh. Wait. Now I see the similarities. Anyway. I’ve been working on and off at the same restaurant as a server and bartender for the last five years. Despite some of the negative connotations that come with being a server, I actually love it. This is mostly because I love my bosses, I love my co-workers and I even love some of our regulars. Yeah, some of them are weird, but for the most part, they are sweet, well-meaning people who just want to go where everybody knows their name. One even gave me a crib when I was pregnant with Thumper. Another man gave me a $20 bill to start Thumper’s college fund. These examples, both of which left me speechless and teary-eyed, are only a few of the reasons why it pays to be a pregnant waitress. The following is a list of all the other reasons of why it was so awesome and why I might start parading around with one of those fake pregnancy pillows under my shirt.

Everyone loves a preggo: There is an unspoken rule that servers generally always start on the guest’s bad side. You must work to prove that you are both nice and competent. You can do several things to achieve this, like smile, make recommendations, be knowledgeable, remember their order, be friendly and seem like you care. If you do these things, most guests will not hold it against you if something goes wrong with their meal. However, if you are pregnant, guests automatically love you. This may be because they think anyone who is creating life in their stomach cannot possibly be a bad person or perhaps they are just scared of your hormonal, pregnant temper. Either way, you get a free pass to pretty much do whatever you want. You could screw up their entire dining experience and they won’t yell at you or demand you be fired. I once messed up an order for a man’s burger three times in one sitting and he still tipped me. Even I knew I didn’t deserve his money. I firmly believe that even if I had poisoned someone, all anyone would have done was shrug their shoulders and avert eye contact until everyone else forgot about it.

People bring you food: My co-workers figured out pretty quickly how to alter my mood for the better – by giving me treats. One Friday, a friend brought in a box of Timbits for everyone to share. I was feeling especially hungry and totally chipmunk-ed the box by eating half of them and storing the rest in my cheeks. Every Friday after that, there was always a box of Timbits sitting in the kitchen. On days when the store was really busy, another bartender and I would share a section while both pouring drinks for the entire store. These extra busy days always made me extra stressed, forgetful and prone to stabbing people, so the other bartender always made sure to bring me a chocolate doughnut and an Iced Cap to curb the homicidal tendencies, or at least make sure she wasn’t on the receiving end of them. The moral of the story is that you can buy both everlasting love and mercy from a pregnant chick by giving her yummy food.

People give you stuff to make you leave: My bosses sometimes forced me to take a day off. And not in the, you-are-suspended-because-you-keep-losing-all-of-your-credit-card-slips-kind of way. It was more like, ‘Here is a gift certificate for a pregnancy massage, please go away and don’t come back until there’s no longer smoke coming out of your head.’

Male bosses: Five out of my seven bosses were male. Shortly after I got pregnant, four out of those five managers’ wives also found out they were expecting. So basically, they were all terrified of pregnant women and desperate to not have their heads ripped off. This meant that they were all eager to help with the day-to-day tasks I could no longer do, like filling the ice bin, re-stocking beer or taking down chairs in the morning. This also meant they were eager to do things that I was still perfectly capable of, like running food for my tables, taking out the recycling, ripping up empty boxes, pouring beer, counting inventory and so on. Basically, they would have been happy if all I had done for nine months was show up, try not to cry and take peoples’ orders.

Now I don’t want you to think I was lazy and just sat around reaping all the benefits of having nice co-workers and guests. Well, I did totally reap the benefits but I didn’t sit around and do nothing. I worked as hard as I could without getting yelled at by managers or guests for carrying one too many glasses. And I really did try to not screw up peoples’ orders. I may have had trouble remembering if a random person ordered a Pepsi or iced tea and generally always forgot to ask if people wanted multi-grain or original pizza dough, but I have always remembered, pregnant or not, the names of all my regulars and what they like to drink and eat. I guess it doesn’t negate the fact that I had to call the restaurant after every shift to see if I punched out or not. But it does prove that even if you’re kind of scatterbrained it pays to be nice to people, but it pays even better to be pregnant, scatterbrained and nice. And if that doesn’t work, you can scare them into submission or knock them out of your way with one fell swoop of the belly. Either way, it works in your favour. You might get a good tip or pretty, white crib out of the deal. Or a phone number and a few months later, a pregnancy test, and then a few months after that, a baby.

I’ll repeat it for emphasis: Waitress. Not a hooker.

-Alice

These Times, They are a-Changin'

One might think that having a child automatically makes you feel like an adult. One would be wrong. It is very easy to still feel clueless and amateur and little after the birth of your own child.

As you may have read, a lot of major changes occurred in my life during the last couple of years. Though there were rough times for Dawson and I, we sort of sailed through the storm unharmed, more often than not because of the generosity and graciousness of our families and friends. While they may not have ‘bailed us out’ in the plainest of terms, they most certainly always made things as easy as possible for us. And that makes them the very best people in the whole world. It also inadvertently allowed me to continue living in my little bubble where things are easy and I don’t have to wear my big girl pants. There are also pretty unicorns and an endless supply of cotton candy in this bubble of mine. Anyway.

Lately, a lot of expensive things started to happen to us. Most of them aren’t really that bad, except that they are all happening at the same time and since Dawson and I weren’t planning on starting a family when we did, we don’t have the best savings plan in place. Or any savings. I have the sinking feeling that this time things are going to get worse before they get better.  Let me give you some of the details. We have a wedding to attend in October – our own wedding, as in the pricey kind that we are paying for. Then we finally bought life insurance, which is good except that we don’t really have the money for it. We only bought it because Dawson’s brother got a job selling it and did a really good job of selling it to us. Then our cat disappeared for twelve days and when he decided to grace us with his presence again, we had a $300 vet bill. Then the furnace broke. As in, broke and we need a new one. Not only has our bank account taken a serious beating but my eye has started to twitch when signing my name to anything resembling a cheque or credit card bill.

This is normally where I start hoping and praying that something magically happens at the eleventh hour to save us. But the weird part is that I don’t really want anyone else to cover our butts this time. I figure that if I don’t want to feel like a child than I have to stop acting like one. I think this means I’m starting to grow up. A little. Maybe. I can’t promise that I’ll stop having crying fits and stomping around my bedroom when things don’t go my way, but I do promise to try and find solutions to my own problems that don’t involve bailouts from my parents. It’s time for me to start making the tough decisions and be the one to make sure my family is safe and happy and healthy. These times, they are a-changin’.

To start, Dawson and I made a pact to not have any fun unless it’s free. It’s called the No-Fun Pact. We also got rid of some non-essential privileges, like cable and caller ID. Getting rid of the caller ID hurt a little –screening phone calls is a favourite pastime of mine – but the cable is what really broke my heart. It was my idea to cancel it but that didn’t lessen the sting. Me without cable is like Mary-Kate without Ashley or Pinky without The Brain; it’s just unfathomable. And then I decided to go back to work part-time. I got my old job back, one that I swore I’d never go back to. It’s not that it’s a bad job, it just has nothing to do with my non-existent career. Am I nervous about people looking at me like I failed at life because I came back after I said I wouldn’t? Hells to Y-E-S. Am I scared that I’ll get sucked into the familiarity of it and never be able to quit? So much that it’s sometimes paralyzing. But this job will help keep chicken nuggets on the table for Thumper and allow me to look like a princess on my wedding day in the budget-breaking gown I purchased. This job is what it’s going to take for my family to be safe and happy and healthy and that is worth it to me. Anyone who thinks otherwise can suck it.

What scares me the most these days is enormity. The enormity of being a parent and more so, I think, of being an adult. Making the decisions and planning and saving for the future, being the one to kiss away the boo-boos instead of having them kissed away for me, it’s all terrifying and overwhelming and exasperating. Because I don’t know how to do any of it. And every decision, whether big or small, feels like it could be the end of the world. But I guess knowing that you have to do it and deciding you kind of even want to do it are good signs. Right? That’s probably what it feels like to be an adult. Right? I don’t know if saying any of this out loud will make a difference. But who knows, maybe some of you will tell me you feel the same way. Then instead of feeling scared and crazy, I’ll just feel scared and I think I could live with that.

-Alice

Alice's Horrible, No Good, Very Bad FAIL

I will preface this story by saying that I am unbearably embarrassed and ashamed of what I’m about to share with you. Originally, I didn’t even want to write about it. But then I realized that by telling this story, I have the potential to open up someone’s eyes to how serious an issue this is. All I can say is that I didn’t mean to be so stupid and I swear that it will never ever happen again.

During the winter months, I took Thumper to an indoor playground once a week. For awhile, every trip seemed to pose a major dilemma as to what I should pack for lunch. As you know, Thumper is ridiculously picky and often she wants to eat things that I feel are not adequate. Well, on the day in question, Thumper had just started her addiction to peanut butter, so I happily packed a PB sammy, overjoyed that it was simple and not overly messy. I was so delirious with the knowledge that she’d gobble it up without a fight that it didn’t cross my mind that bringing PB into playground is a big, major, absolute no-no.

So we got to the playground, played a bit and then sat down for lunch. It took five minutes of watching Thumper munch away before it dawned on me how completely stupid I was for bringing a peanut product into a room full of kids, probably half of whom were allergic to said product. A sinking feeling appeared in my stomach as I looked around to see if anyone else has noticed my awful mistake. Luckily, there was no one else eating lunch at that time. Since Thumper was too little to understand why I would suddenly steal her sandwich away, and I very desperately wanted to avoid a freak-out and keep a low profile, I decided to let her finish eating the half of the sandwich she already had, pack the rest away, and then scrub her hands and face clean. As I quietly berated myself, I looked to my left and there staring me square in the face was a sign clearly stating that the playground is a peanut-free zone. The worst part is that I’ve read that sign a million times. Even if the sign wasn’t there, it’s something I would have known. You do not bring nut products anywhere there will be kids. End of story.  Obviously I don’t have a peanut allergy but that doesn’t mean I’m ignorant to the fact that a lot of other people do and that it's very serious.

Before Thumper was finished, a mother and her four year old daughter sat down at our table for a snack. Out of fear, I kept my eyes on Thumper but I could tell out of my peripherals that the woman was staring us down hard. Just as I was working up the nerve to say something to her, she asked if we were eating peanut butter. Busted. I wanted to cry and throw myself on the floor begging for mercy, but I maintained my composure. When I replied that it was, she told me her daughter was allergic and that was the moment I wanted to punch myself in the face. Thumper was finished at this point, so as I scrubbed her hands and face dangerously close to the point of peeling off skin, I apologized profusely to the other mom. She matter-of-factly pointed to the sign and even her daughter piped up and told me that “peanut butter is NOT allowed.” I was honest with her and told her I wasn’t trying to be rude or inconsiderate but that it was a horrible, absent-minded mistake. Lucky for me, the woman turned out to be very nice. She accepted my apologies, all eighty thousand of them, and she didn’t hurl me through the window, which I thought was pretty decent of her. 

The honest truth is that because my daughter is not allergic to nuts, it’s not something I have to think about on a daily basis. So even though I knew in the back of my mind that I wasn’t allowed to bring in a PB sandwich, I did it anyway because in my life, nut allergies are still somewhat of an abstract idea; I know they exist, but they aren’t present in my everyday life. I just wasn’t used to thinking about it.  This is in no way an acceptable excuse and you’d better believe that now it IS something I think about. That day seriously haunts me. It makes me ill to think I could be so irresponsible and could have seriously harmed an innocent little girl.

I’ve read several articles and editorials written from both sides of the spectrum. While I understand how challenging it can be to get your child to eat anything other than PB, when you read the stories of moms whose kids have severe nut allergies and hear all of the awful near-misses and, too often, fatalities, it is simply baffling to think anyone, let alone another mother, could continue to be so unaware of the subject’s severity. If you happen to be one of those people, then please, for a moment put yourself in the shoes of that other mother. What if that was your child? You sit down for a simple snack when you suddenly notice the family next to you, mere inches from your daughter, is eating a product that could LITERALLY prove to be fatal for your child. What do you do? Would you be gracious enough to politely ask them to get rid of the sandwich? Or would your anger get the best of you knowing how easy it is to comply in keeping a peanut-free zone?

I’m sorry for getting all preachy on you guys but I think this is such a serious issue. I know there are people who might think it inconvenient not to be able to send a PB&J to school with your kid who will eat nothing but. Trust me, I get how picky they can be. But when you compare the inconvenience of having to find an alternative lunch for a few days a week to the inconvenience of having to avoid nuts – and all products that don’t come with a guarantee of not having been in contact nuts – all day every day for your whole life, I think it’s a pretty obvious answer as to which is worse. At the end of the day, we are all moms and we, as cliché as it sounds, are all in this together. The real question is why wouldn’t you choose to make life easier for your fellow mommies and their babies?

-Alice

My Superbad Morning Reprise

Last week, I briefly mentioned my experience with the sucky-pants, worst doctor in the history of ever. You may have wondered what I was talking about. Or maybe you didn’t, but either way, I am going to tell you more about that whack-job. The following is a rant I posted to Facebook back in January after coming home from Thumper’s sixteen month check up. I apologize in advance for all the run-on sentences, comma splices and caps lock but I was very angry at the time. You might find that picturing me telling this story while gesturing madly and talking extremely fast without taking any breaths will help you to have a better understanding of how I was feeling.

My Super Bad Morning and How I Really Feel About It

So this morning, I’m running late for Thumper’s doctor’s appointment. In order to keep her happy during the car ride over, in hopes of her good mood carrying on while we visit the doctor, I give her a soother. As I breathlessly run toward the office door with Thumper hanging on my hip, an older gentlemen holds it open for me. I think to myself, ‘Wow, what a nice gesture.’ Then the old man ruins our nice little moment by looking at the soother in Thumper’s mouth and saying, “Get that thing out of her mouth!” I’m in such a rush that I don’t fully comprehend what he says until after I’m in the door, and I was already smiling because he was smiling and when he started talking, I thought he was going to say something nice like ‘Aren’t you cute?’ or some other stupid, nice thing people say when they see babies. But no, he says, “Get that thing out of her mouth.” It took all of my energy not to turn and run after him to beat him with the soother and tell him that unless he is going to be the one to calm my kid down while she’s LOSING HER FREAKING MIND while the doctor checks her out, then he doesn’t get to have an opinion and should shut. the. eff. UP. And the only reason I didn’t do that is because I was late. And the possible assault charges that would follow. And I don’t need another reason for my doctor to think that I am crazy and that’s why my child acts like a demon every time we are in her office.  So let’s recap: I’m late, man insults my parenting skills, I fantasize about beating him but manage to restrain myself.

Okay, so we get called in quite quickly, which is odd, but since I’m a stupid eternal optimist, I think, ‘Awesome. This will be quick and easy and finished before Thumper has time to freak out.’ Little did I know. Forty-five, FORTY-FIVE EFFING MINUTES later, the doctor comes in. We chit-chat, Thumper is still sane. The doctor starts to examine Thumper, cue absolute chaos. The scene of us both trying to hold my screaming child down might be funny if this didn’t happen every time and if the doctor would stop judging me based on all of this. Then the doctor turns to me and says, “Is she always like this?” And I say no and calmly explain that Thumper is normally a happy kid and pretty friendly, probably overly-friendly, when in my mind I’m thinking ‘Do you have kids? Have you ever had a toddler patient before? What kid likes doctors? Or dentists? Or ANYONE who makes them stop playing and running freely to lie down on a table and get poked and have shiny lights flashed in their eyes and that stupid little thing stuck in their mouths and say “aaahhhhhhhhh?” NO ONE. NO ONE LIKES THAT YOU DUMB DOUCHEBAG.’ Then she says, “Do you think she’s hungry?” Let’s see. It’s past noon at this point. That’s not only normally Thumper’s lunchtime, but everybody else in the country’s lunchtime too. YES. YES MY KID IS HUNGRY. And let’s remember, my appointment was at 11:00, and you didn’t even come in the room until 11:45, which makes you 45 minutes late. But I was ten minutes late, so I’ll give you a ten minute credit. So you were 35 minutes late. So not only is my kid hungry but she is BORED OUT OF HER MIND. And she’s exhausted from screaming in our faces for the last 30 minutes since you actually did get here. STOP JUDGING ME, LADY. And let’s be honest. I know doctors are busy and always late. Cool, I can deal with that. Unfortunately, my toddler cannot. I also know that you are just trying to do your job and make sure that my child is the right height and weight and has no mysterious bruises or ailments and all that kiddie jazz. But again, unfortunately, my sixteen-month old does not understand who you are, let alone what you are doing to her. And I know the image of her kicking at both our faces and rolling off the table and tears streaming down her beat-red face is burned into your mind, as it is in mine, however, my kid is too young to remember the last time this happened. Or the time before that.

When we finally leave, Thumper’s still crying on my shoulder and hugging me tightly—my super-ultra independent child hugging me tightly....this almost never happens—and she falls asleep almost immediately in the car, which also rarely happens anymore. And the whole ride home, the.whole.ride.home, she is still heaving and sobbing WHILE SLEEPING. My kid is so traumatized by you, stupid doctor lady, that she is crying in her sleep. What’s that sound? Can you hear it? It’s the sound of female hearts breaking EVERYWHERE. Even the ones who hate kids.

All I am asking, stupid doctor lady, is for you to please cut my sick, teething, crying, scared sixteen month old some freaking slack, and stop judging me for having a perfectly normal baby. BITCH. Also, old man, I repeat: unless you are going to be the one to calm my kid down while she’s LOSING HER FREAKING MIND while the doctor checks her out, then you don’t get to have an opinion and should shut. the. eff. UP. BITCH.

So there you have it. My hatred for this doctor is not limited to this particular incident, as there were several similar events that happened prior to this one. Like the time she yelled at me for not giving Thumper her 18 month vaccinations even though Thumper was only 12 months old at the time. I had to remind her that she had just given Thumper her 12 month shots mere moments earlier. I could go on but I think you understand why I changed doctors the day after I wrote this rant. The silver lining in all of this is that I ended up finding a doctor I trust and love to death. And I discovered the awesomeness of a website called ratemd.com. Muhaha.

-Alice