50's Housewife 

 This morning Brendan came into my room and proudly told me, “Mommy, I went poopy last night!”  Now the kid has had some serious GI issues of late, and I’m pretty sure I’d remember getting up from a sound sleep to wipe his tush, so clearly, his happy declaration struck utter fear in my heart.

     Let it go on record that the boy’s toilet looked like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, just substitute “blood” for, well, you know…

     So, while my eyes still burned from not quite being awake, and without my first two cups of coffee, I scrubbed and sanitized while my kid splashed merrily in the tub.  And of course, as soon as I was done, he needed to use the newly sparkling toilet once again.

Back in 2001, while I was busy trying to get pregnant,  no one warned me about the possibility of days like this.  Well played, people. Well played.

 Husband told me that before he started puking a few days ago, he gorged on Nutella straight from the jar. So, of course, after seeing and smelling it come back to him for two days straight, the man who thought of chocolate as crack is off the stuff for life.

 About an hour ago, my stomach started lurching a little. So I know I’m next in line for this glorious virus. And while at first I was really upset,  the thought occured to me that if I take time now to wolf down all the things that I can’t get enough of, I too will never be able to eat them again, post puking. Think of all the weight I’ll lose!  Never again will I be able to look at Doritos, chocolate chip cookies or guacomole without retching!  And beer!  Bring on the beer!  After today, my love affair with these things will be over, and I’ll turn into a svelte size six! 

  I can’t believe I’ve never thought of this before.  Weight loss via aversion. Bring it on.

Poking My Head Out From Under the Covers

    I’ve had a lot of time— over a week— to think about what I’m going to do next year, once the twins start preschool.   Except for Alex and I, the whole family has been barfing, fevering, coughing or pooping, so having spent the bulk of my days chasing everyone around with Purell and Lysol wipes, I came to the realization that I really miss my job.  BUT, (and there always is a but, is there not?) there appears to be more occupational therapists in this Ontario town than there are rednecks at a  pig roast, so the chances of me getting a work visa are pretty darn slim. I thought about writing, but I’m not sure if I have the discipline to write every. damn. day.   So what else is there? If I can’t work for cash (although Canada DOES provide special visas for foreigners who are willing to jump naked on poles for pay), what can I do with myself?  My house will be sparkling in a week, and the gym only eats up a few hours a week.  I don’t want my kids to see me as I saw my mom, forever putting herself on hold, sacrificing and slaving for us at her expense. I want my kids to respect me as a person, not just as their mom.

It’s more than a little frustrating that I’m in this predicament after  spending all that time in grad school, busting my ass and racking up six figures in student loans, but I digress… 

On another note, I know Amy Winehouse has issues, but girlfriend can sing her ass off, and I love love LOVED watching her get her Grammy!


“Mommy, will you sleep with me all night?”

“I can’t, Alex. Be quiet for a minute— I’m listening to your heartbeat…..okay, now I’m crying.”


“Because I’m remembering the first time I heard it. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.” 

A few minutes later…



“I farted. Do you smell it?  It’s really stinky. Next time I’m going to make it even louder.”

     I admit it— I bought myself an expensive purse this summer.   There was a time in my life when I purposefully avoided status symbols, when I thought people who spent money on frivolity were consumerist idiots, unenlightened lemmings.   But things have changed this past year,and I can actually afford a Coach bag, so now I’m all over it, hypocrisy be damned.   I even convinced myself that every woman needs an investment piece as a right of passage into adulthood.   And hell, it was really, really cute. So there.

     Rights of passage were on my mind today as I headed out with the kids  to take my five year old to get his first library card.  The librarian made a huge deal out of it, bless her heart.  She gave him a little wallet to keep it safe, and reminded him of the awesome priveledge and responsibility that comes with being a library patron.  My five year old was all puffed up with pride as he picked out his books, and almost burst when he was able to check them out on his own card. 

     I figured this called for a celebration, so the kids and I made our long hand-holding chain and marched across the parking lot to the restaurant for a special lunch.  We picked out our food, and headed over to the seating area, which was packed with the lunch-break crowd. The kids always follow me like ducklings when my hands are full, so I assumed everyone was behind me as I walked to our table with a full tray of food.  Then I heard one of my 2 yr olds crying from across the room. I quickly put the food down and scooped him up from the floor.

  I didn’t see him fall, so I didn’t know what he hurt.  I checked him over for red spots, with no luck, feeling like everyone thought I was a terrible mom for letting my kid run wild in a busy restaurant.   I kept asking, “What hurts? Can you point to what hurts?”  He kept crying and pointed to his stomach,  which didn’t make sense to me.  So I started to carry him over to get silverware with me.  And then he went still.  And then he hiccuped.  And then he projectile vomited not once, not twice, but three times, all over him, all over me,  all over the restaurant and right into my open Coach purse*. 

  So much for status symbols.

* he’s fine, by the way, most important of all.


Hey!!! I’m Over Here!!!

You may know me from somewhere.  Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far, away, I had another blog— it’s title referenced a certain well-known tv mom with a son named The Beav.  I kvetched about the kids, post-partum depression (it’s gone! yipee!), and my whacked-out parents.   Then, my aforementioned parents found my blog and shared it with all of their friends.  Needless to say, I dumped that blog and prayed that I was still in a will somewhere.

I’m still working out the kinks of this new blog, but bear with me. I plan on posting a hell of a lot more than I did before, especially since I don’t have to edit my posts for People I Know.  

Knowing me, though, I’ll probably fuck up somewhere, and make myself outable via Google search.   

So here I am,  an American living in Canada, a mom to a five yr old and 2 1/2 yr old twins,  knee deep in potty training, resurrecting my former career, and diligently avoiding the use of the word, “eh.”