What Are We Doing Here? – A Stream of Consciousness Piece

Posted on November 14, 2013

Right about when the clinic physician helped me up off the floor, after she confirmed I was pregnant, so began the nine months of these unforgettable comments:

“You will sacrifice more than you ever thought was possible.”

“This will not only change your life but your perspective more so.”

“Get ready to make decisions you never thought you’d make.”

All of these side comments left me defiant.  Me? Change? Right. I will find a way to stay me, stay the course of my dreams; this is not going to change me. I won’t let this define me. That was the mantra playing in my head while everyone else around me spouted off endless repetitious renditions of the above comments. You see, for me change had always been a bad thing. Ever since I was old enough to realize that life was change, my mind was made up to fight against it – always. And so, this is who I became and at the time of my new pregnancy it was difficult, to say the least, to emotionally handle the fact that not only was change imminent but it was change that was taking place inside of me – a place I was supposed to have full control and the final say. I was smart enough to not let myself think negatively because I knew I had the power to affect my pregnancy for the worse. I had limitless evidence that my best talent was self-sabotage but this was the first time I had no choice but to embrace change and positivity. I did, and now I have a beautiful and perfect fifteen-month-old son.  But I digress … I am getting off track, which feels odd because I didn’t think I knew where this post was going. Let’s follow this silver fox of mental calamity, shall we?!

Anyway, who would have thought that all those pesky comments that used to go in one of my ears and – by way of a hard kick to the arse – out the other.  Who knew they would actually come to pass as some of the most profound and applicable pieces of advice. I don’t need to pontificate on these points here because the majority of my readers are parents themselves. Of course our perspectives shift, of course there is sacrifice, and of course we change … I am here to tell you the simple truth. The more you fight the change taking place within you, the more pain you are subjecting yourself to in the long run.

I think my parents’ style of parenting was ingenious. I have very rarely been told “No.” No, you can’t do that, or even I don’t think that is a good idea. Both my mom and dad tolerated all my naiveté on every level in order to allow me to find my own way or learn lessons in my own time, many of which are only now coming to fruition. Apparently life is change and life-long learning is actually a thing.

I can’t really appreciate the amount of patience it took on their part when they were faced with my harrowing childhood crusade: my perceived misery that I blamed on the move from Vancouver to Kelowna when I was seven years old. I was not yet old enough to understand why we moved but old enough to figure out that blaming and hating change was easier than simply adjusting to it.

So, from seven years old through elementary school, high school and my entire adolescence, I told myself my parents were to blame for my lot in life and I would have been better off in Vancouver and that I would have turned out better if we had never moved. It was easy; it was convenient, and in the end it was a survival tactic … but it was just wrong. Dead wrong; however, it remained a lesson I would learn not then but in time. And maybe that is how my parents tolerated me all those years, because they knew it was just my way. I can’t be told. I have to learn all on my own.

I grew up never proud to say my hometown was Kelowna. I saw no value in it. Even worse, I thought If you were “small town”, you were nobody at all. But somehow amongst all the poisonous negativity I lived on I managed to have a fulfilling and happy childhood though I never could admit it. I couldn’t admit it because I didn’t know it.

Now I am twenty-seven living in my dream location of North Vancouver. I live by the sea, near downtown and near to where I believed my happiness resided when I was young and missing it. I finally achieved it all – everything childhood Kelsey ever wanted – I was a West Coaster, a wannabe career woman, going to give my future kids what I never got the chance to have and for a while I was happy.

When I had my little man, cliché as it is to say, everything had changed.

In Vancouver I was trying so hard to “be me” I wasn’t being me at all. The birth of my son didn’t just change me, he made me honest. He stripped me of all my bullshit and pretense and I was just myself again. Turns out? I am a little less West Coast than is needed to live out here. I am not sushi and yoga – I am apple orchards and BBQ’s. I am not big city symphony and power suits – I am community musical theatre and sweatshirts.  I don’t care about Kombucha, or the latest Lululemon gear or whatever else is apparently inherently Vancouver essential.

It is difficult to come to the realization that everything you thought you wanted all your life turns out to be a place you don’t actually belong.

In Kelowna, I have more things that I think would enrich my son’s life than all Vancouver’s culture could ever hope to extend. Vancouver swallows up our little life, it’s too easy to get lost in the shuffle out here … and if Kelowna could give a child like me – so hell bent on being miserable – happiness and memories like the ones I keep then I have to ask myself, what am I doing here?

For too long I’ve always felt torn between two places. And maybe I’ll always be. Vancouver has humbled me and beaten me down emotionally both from idolizing it and from finally living in it. It’s enough already. To build a life out here would mean struggle and sacrifice far beyond the kind of sacrifice you endure to have children. I am no longer that little girl wondering who I would have been if we never moved away. I am the person I was meant to be. Just like my mother and fucking proud to be.  I think my parents made the braver choice when they started over and there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t wish I hadn’t punished them by blaming them for the misery I made myself believe surrounded me. It is not until now I realize that maybe I wasn’t the only one possibly missing or mourning an old life … my parents had what we have now. They had family, friends and jobs … beloved attachments that wouldn’t be easy to lose or just become less important when they choose to migrate to Kelowna. That decision to move our family wasn’t easy and I made it even more difficult for my parents in dealing with it the way I chose. In truth, what they gave me was two homes to love. Then, they gave me the freedom to experience both of them and now I have the same responsibility to choose what is best for my family. I feel like now I know where I belong and it isn’t here. And it never was.

Home is where the heart is and my torn-between-two-places-heart perhaps realizes it was always in the Okanagan.  So, this is the pitch I’ll use when I am finally home and trying to get a gig writing for Okanagan Life magazine. A column called, “Lived it and learned it – Just love where you’re from, knucklehead”.

It was Either Blog or Find a Real Job

Posted on October 22, 2013

Well, if reminding myself was not sufficient then my email was going to start helping. I recently received mail berating me for paying for a service I was not actively using … Hello Blog! I’ve missed you, you quietly ass-pummeling emotionally-tolling-if-left-un-updated thing, you!

I don’t exactly know where writer-me went, but I’ll break it down for you – it is like when Jonah started crawling someone mixed his sweet personality with vile piss and vinegar, filled him to the brim with sugar laced with LSD, while giving me no new tools to tackle motherhood now that I was technically the mother of a toddler. Fuck me “Toddlers” do a lot more than toddle.

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The last few months have not just “flown by” … they’ve screamed into the past so fast their journey has not only melted my face off but given me Tourette’s and made my precious boobs sag further than I would hope twenty-seven year old fun-bags would ever sag. I’m serious people, there is no bloody hyperbole here. Jonah’s development just caught on fire. So much to update on, so little time and energy to actually do so … I know, such an excuse – sure, I admit it! When I said it before it was exactly that. Now I am simply pleading with you to just see it my way. I swear it is the truth this time!

I am sacrificing sleep right now to write this blog, ok? I am sacrificing sex, and late-night snacking for Christ sake! This is an emergency!

But to hell with the perks of marriage! To the lighted keyboard I go!

Ah, Blogosphere. When you and I are apart who fills you with redundant nonsense, hmm? I supposed it has to be said that since my phone and email box remain empty of job offers – fruits of my labors in the job search – I am using you to make people think I am still contributing to society and not just hiding in my hobbit hole raising Frodo.

Our close to fifteen month old is a full time job … I don’t need to type that to make it true but as our government still refuses to help middle-income families live successfully with little ones at home on one income … the time draws nearer where I will be thrown back into the workforce. That is if anyone answers my countless calls, emails, gives me an interview or even offers me eye contact when I beg them face-to-face for employment.

At first the thought of going back to work sounded all right. You know, a little freedom, maybe some adult conversation, a little money in the pocket … yeah because two months ago when Jonah was adjusting to his new abilities it came with an ass ton of attitude. I found myself hitting my limit more often than was healthy, so hell yes, I’ll take a ticket out of the house by way of gainful employment! But then the changes and discoveries really did start to come hard and fast …  Jonah was walking, talking and starting to look like his Dad … I didn’t want to be away for any of it. Especially not for a job I hated and escaped from by using an unexpected pregnancy in the first place!

Then my son, said “Mommy” for the first time. The real “Mommy”. When he looks at you and you see the connection in his eyes and you know, finally, that he knows you as the definition of Mommy: defender of the weak, pancake-maker extraordinaire, and the endless tickle machine, best tucker-in-er and boo-boo fixer. This stupid motherhood thing just keeps getting better and better and that’s no fault of mine! Who am I to give it up? I’m selfish. I’m greedy. I made him. I get to be the only one to raise him. Please just send me a small paycheque in the mail, Mr. Harper. I’m living the dream here, you conservative bastard! Hey Christy Clark, any monetary love for the stay-at-home-mom?

Well, my cries and manic wailing won’t do any good when the bills start piling more than they already tend to pile. This is my new reality. It is just going to be a whole other way of life when I’m no longer at home all day everyday. And yes, I know it’s natural and yes I know it is the way most of the world does it … and yes, mother. I hear you: Get off your ass, Missy. I’m going to all right?

But hey Monkey, my full-time position as your mama is still my number one, and kid, I’ll be thinking of you every minute. I’ll be telling people about you all damn day because you are the best damn money-pit I could have asked for. I can’t wait to screw up taking my pills again, get fat with baby goodness once more because Jo, there is nothing better than the financial strain that comes with such a beautiful spirit.

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You’re really small yet, all things considered but you have to know by now that you’ve got two parents that can weather any storm. Grandparents that write cheques first and worry about where the money will come from later, and two pets that can easily be dinner if things get really tough.

We love you, dollar-succubus.

Restaurant Wars

Posted on July 7, 2013

It strikes me as funny that every time I walk into a restaurant with hubby, baby, diaper bag and wet naps, I always feel like I’m walking into a great battle. My aim toward the enemy line with my arsenal of weapons in hand only too aware that I am one of many that will likely be the first to fall.

You will have to excuse me, I just watched “The Patriot” on television with the Hubby the other day, and being Canadian we did the only thing we know how to do: politely mock the American-way of retelling supposed “American History” you know, in our own way, over a cup and saucer with a few biscuits and a serviette.

But the truth is, between the scenes of ravaging and murderous plotting and outright bloody slaughter I caught myself thinking, “Hey, this is how it feels with Jonah at the dinner table!” It is always a battle I know I am going to lose from the outset, because after all he is Mel Gibson and I am only a silly little Red Coat. Every. Time. This battle rages on time after time no different from the last. It’s very emotionally defeating.

In the past, Jonah was a joy to feed at home or take out on the town in his best dressed because he was so very well behaved. Well, I don’t know what the flipping hell happened in the last two months but now my little meatloaf is very picky about what goes into his mix.

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It seems when the summer hit his appetite just tanked and so did his attitude. He has become overly picky about food. All food, except toast. It started with him refusing the organic baby food (mush) that we bought for him against the will of our pocket book. Too much of it went down our drain after half an hour of trying to remind Jo that he used to love that stuff. It was heart wrenching. He wanted texture and the food we were eating.

Well, all right Jo. I’ll give you what I am eating. But then you throw it, drop it, feed it to the dog, spread it on the couch or drag it around the floor so long it soon looks like a dust bunny and not a piece of chicken breast.

Now, you may be wondering why at mealtime my kid is rummaging around the floor anyway. I’ll tell you straight up. Jonah is no longer “having” his feeding chair. Every time we even approach it with him in arm he screams bloody murder and contorts himself into every shape imaginable so it is impossible to place him in the chair without him flipping out of it and breaking his noggin. It is infuriating in a way I cannot explain. And, when a “writer” can’t explain something in a sufficient way you know that means serious business. You can’t trick, wrestle or force this kid into that chair. So we end up feeding him wherever he has plopped himself because at least that way I have a shot in hell in getting some nutrition into him. Which is a whole other problem by the way.

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The heat, I think the heat, yes. It has done its usual work of robbing everyone of their appetites. Jo especially. It worried me at first because I feel like he’s been stuck around 21 pounds for a long time now but everyone that sees him seems to think he’s undergone a rapid growth spurt. I see the little bugger daily so obviously I am not a good barometer. He’s slowed down on how much he can pack away in a sitting and I don’t know if that is a natural evolution that happens when he moved on to more adult food, or if it’s the heat of our apartment or if I am not providing enough or even the right foods! BAM confusion ninja!

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See, it has been a long enough period now where I have been calm about the parenting biz and comfortable with his rate of development so this is the universe throwing a curveball to keep me on my toes.

Lastly there is the fight that we have on our hands when we frequent restaurants. Now this is a sticky wicket this one, because often times Jonah is a little respectful, gossamer winged cherub in his high chair, snacking on toast and charming the tables next to us and servers alike. But I am afraid this is all part of the little bastard’s plan. It is put in place this way so we don’t see the cherub sprout its little horns and become a reality of his truer nature: a tiny devil in an angel Halloween costume. Diabolical. And, damn easy to miss.

We get sucked in thinking to ourselves that he’s been so good in public recently, why should anything be different? Cut to us sitting at a table staring at one another in un-amused shock while Jonah is throwing toast up against other patron’s heads, screaming so loudly your socks curl up and try to escape your feet. Then he starts squirming in his chair, so much so that he practically falls out, all so we will pick him up. But once he’s picked up there is not a way in hell we are getting him back in his seat quietly. By the end of our meal the food is cold, Jonah’s meal is on the floor and I am singing and bouncing him up and down, changing the words from “Paddy cake paddy cake,” to “Shut your face up or I’ll stuff you into a cake … baker’s man. Bake me a baby in a cake as fast as you can.”

It is quite the display.

Honestly, some times I’ll fade out of the situation at hand while dad wrestles the thing single-handedly and start thinking back to the old battlefield watching the bullets whiz past me. Which is worse? Dying for King and Country or being ruled by a pint sized horned devil that loves to see you covered in toast bits and baby drool in a public forum.

… I think I hear him cackling from his crib. Whoa, creepy.

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Me and my Friend Jack the Ripper

Posted on July 3, 2013

Well, we are officially four days into this goddamn heat wave and I have miraculously managed to not hog-tie the kid or worse, maim him. After all I can’t blame global warming, the sun, or the position of our apartment – which receives no air or breeze at all, ever – on the mini Huygh. Therefore, I can’t in good conscience do anything to him as he wails in this 30 degree weather because he and I are two peas in one seriously boiling pod. At the very least I understand his frustration and that quells my rage – lucky for him.

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Now, I know complaining about 30 degree heat waves isn’t going to sit well with all my readers because many of you live under hotter conditions I am sure. But let me address this by saying I am not a summer girl, I don’t even appreciate the niceties of summer that supposedly go along with this season in particular. I was born in the dead of winter and ever since it has been my personal goal to blot out the sun so I can live in eternal night and cold … God this is like something I would have written at 16 when I was riddled with angst and depression, in other words, the good old days.

Point being, I hate this weather. I am not equipped for this weather. I am currently suffering with my period too so that combined with this heat made me almost kill my husband last night. Reason? Because he walked through the bloody door. Right. This apartment gave Jonah and I cabin fever and when J arrived home, I tore into him like Jack the Ripper on a salty wench. Of course now, apologies have been rendered, however; I am sure the damage is already done. Just like slicing up an innocent civilian, I can’t just put back together Hubby’s feelings after pulverizing them with my word daggers.

In the end though, I managed to keep the kid together and not lose it on him, the same couldn’t be said for the Hubby. I’m not exactly sure which would be worse – and I say this in jest – considering I can always make another baby but there is no one else in the world like my J. Attacking someone irreplaceable doesn’t seem like my best laid plan, does it … Ah hindsight. You malicious bitch.

This all brings to light what one issue I have to work on immediately. Not letting my frustrations get the best of me. This is something my mother is always telling me to do – which ticks me right the hell off – because obviously she’s right. I am far too quick to lose patience with Jonah, Hubby or anyone else for that matter and the problematic thing is, I think it is my own doing which drives me to that point of utter exhaustion, frustration and quickly following rage. It is my own personal issues, ones that remain unsolved that keep me one level below “losing it” and so when a small bump in the road comes along I am zero to sixty in less than a second and no one sees it coming. Ensuring maximum damage.

My problem these days is that this beautiful weather is lost on someone like me because I am still stubbornly not doing simple things to improve my situation. Since having Jonah I haven’t lost the weight I gained with him. I’ve just watched the scale bounce up and down with that extra 15 pounds – and this is 15 pounds on top of already too much weight – and obviously it’s making me miserable. Especially now in the season of sleeveless shirts and mini skirts, sun-drenched days and warmly lit nights.

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I should be enjoying this, says my brain, not anticipating its demise.

Hence, yesterday I joined a gym but I am still sitting in that pit of feeling completely hopeless. Why? Because I’ve done this all before and failed miserably. I don’t know how many summers have to go by before I fix this. Fix myself. I worry that it will escalate passed just losing summer after summer too. What if I lose my husband or a best friend or worse … though I can’t imagine something worse.

I go back for “day two” at the gym tonight with Bestie in tow for support. She’s definitely not right about skim milk being a decent substitute for cream in coffee but she was more than right when she said each time we hit the gym I’ll feel better.

Even after gory fight and having to sign up at yet another gym, by the time I stepped off the elliptical last night I like to think I felt a little spark of change. Change for the better.

You know I am always blogging about parenting a child … about how I am managing to keep my son on track and raising him to be the best that he can be … Well maybe it’s time I turn a little of that effort inward and parent myself. I just hope I am listening this time. Here’s to the first step. Are you listening? That means put your goddamn gym pants on, girl.

It was an experiment? It went awry?

Posted on June 28, 2013

To give you an accurate idea of what state my house is in, I’ll tell you that as I write this I can detect the smell of baby poop wafting around. I have neglected to throw out a dirty diaper and left it to warm in the summer sun on our dining room table. Yes, this is the dedication I have to the craft of writing. I knew it was now or never, so poop and its potent nostril attack strategy be damed. It is time to blog!

I’ve just put our son down to nap and it brought to mind a story for your enjoyment. It is an account on our recent battles with sleep and getting our son to stop disrespecting this, the most precious of slumber.

I’ve entitled this piece, “It was an experiment? It went awry?” and you’re about to see why.

Jonah’s ability to “sleep through the night” has been suspect from birth. He’s now almost eleven months old and he hasn’t so much completed this milestone as he has teased us with a few spans of time where he started acting like a grown up and did sleep fairly soundly from night to night. However, all these moments in time always came to an end. After he was three months old I was quick to blame teething for his spotty record but his teeth didn’t spring up until just a couple months ago. After his teeth were in and they sat upon his gums all pearly and perfectly white, it was the battle of taking the bottle away that kept us all from sleep. Yes, he was long past feeding throughout the night but I had a terrible habit of letting shireling go to bed with a bottle. The truth was by the time he was going to sleep, whether it was nap time or bed time, I was already at my wits end and I just wanted to stuff his cake hole. And, I knew a bottle would send him off to the land of nod better than anything else. Before his teeth were in I just didn’t see the harm in it – Jonah never fell asleep with it in his mouth anyway, and once he was asleep I removed the bottle from his reach. So, for a little while we slept again. But that was over quickly because like I said our little man had popped the teeth so that tactic had to go. It took some time because I am not the best at having endless patience as is well documented here in this blog by my own admission. However, we got there.

So, cut to a couple of weeks ago. Jonah would have his last bottle before bed and then he would gladly take his soother (Yes, he still has it, it has got to be one damn thing at a time, people.) and off he’d pop to sleep. Life was good. And, perhaps I stupidly thought that once “Oh, aren’t I not the luckiest sod?” and so upon hearing this, the universe says, “fuck, no” and decides to smite us.

One night, Jonah wakes up and is immediately writhing and screaming like a cat being skinned. After attempt after attempt to calm him, soothe him, check him, pacifier his ass, offer him a bottle of water, change him, everything short of shaking him quiet – there is Jeff and I in bed next to Satan’s crib. Hubby is huffing and puffing and I’m having lucid dreams about meat grinders going on sale. Yes, 99.9% of the time I would take thirty bullets to the head in order to save my kid, but there is always that one tenth of a percent … where it is three in the morning and your kid is screaming in the octave only a banshee could reach and you give in and think “If your dad doesn’t take you out. I will.” Maybe other parents don’t have the balls to say it but I do. And this was just one of those times.

I roll over to Hubby and I say almost on the verge of an ocean of tears, “What do we do?”

Jonah is standing at the side of his crib calling out for us, his voice raspy and he’s breathless – I’m telling you this night took years off my life. Jeff gets up, takes the bedding and pillows and stands at the door and says, “Goodnight Jonah, we love you. Come on, babe.” And beckons me to follow him out of the bedroom.

Jonah was restless and cried for another thirty minutes or so while Hubby and I found a way to share the couch comfortably (myself owning 65 percent of the couch and him only getting 35.) We all slept until the morning.

Unwilling and weaponless to fight another night with our son who is stronger willed than I could ever had imagined, Hubby and I spend the next week and a half sleeping on the couch, leaving Jonah to have jurisdiction over our one bedroom and can you guess what happened? Each night, Jo slept soundly from 730pm till 8 am the next day – one or two times he even snoozed straight through till 10 am. One night he woke and whined but it lasted less than three minutes before he was back to sleep.

It was an experiment and it went awry. Why? Because now Hubby and I live on the couch and our 11 month old has his own master suite. We tried once to go back and reclaim the territory but sure as shit my little shireling (now, deemed Orc from Mordor) stood in his crib wailing at two am. Turns out I gave birth to something as manipulative as I am. How the hell is that fair? I write this as a warning to other parents of nocturnal creatures. Don’t give up your bedrooms! Little bastards will take you up on it!

Needless to say, the search for a new home has shifted into high gear. I am putting an ad in the paper tomorrow that reads: Family in need of home with many bedrooms immediately. Parents of Fighting Uruk-hai need to sleep beside Mount Doom for no longer than necessary. Imminent death is probable. Contact us via Lost Seeing Stone. Much haste must be taken.

Father’s Day – Day of Tub Floaties and More

Posted on June 17, 2013

In truth it has been difficult to blog recently. I’d love to use my usual excuse, the every-popular, “How can I write, I have a screaming, pooping ankle biter running around!” But, the truth is, I could find time during the baby’s naps or on the (few and far between) evenings when Hubby is home. There is nothing I enjoy more than sticking him with the baby as I say “Your sperm and stupidity made this, now parent damn you.” He never complains, in fact he usually smiles and says to a wriggling Jo in his arms, “Ah, hello my son, your mom is crazy. Let’s continue your education, say … Yo-da. Yo-Daaaa.” At this point once Jeff is distracted with trying to get our son’s first real words to be death star, or warp drive, I’m headed straight for the tub. Or the coffee shop. Whichever. Frankly, even the tub isn’t safe these days because one, it’s full of nasty, butt-poking baby bath toys … blasted things have lodged themselves up my butt several times … or two, I am in the tub two minutes before the door is busted open and a grinning Jonah is being dumped on my lap before I can launch into “Nooooooo!” And then, to top that treat off, I get tub “floaties” – whatever it was he had for dinner – I’ve bathed with everything from macaroni to green peas. Sometimes it feels more like a tub o’ soup rather than bath water. Honestly it’s a trial. It is all a trial. So there you have my problem. What to blog about? Macaroni and pea bath time or just the old standby, the incoherent my kid is a ridiculously cute little imp update? Neither of these sound appealing to me, I would worry about how you would feel on the receiving end of either one of those no doubt horrendously uncomfortable entries. So? I’ve retreated into the blogosphere, silently stalking other blogs and contributing nothing new to my own. But for a writer not to write is little bit like being forced not to breathe. It doesn’t feel good and sooner or later I’ll probably pass out under duress.

In any case, turns out you’re not off the hook because I am back blogging and already have written 350 words of absolute crap. Ah, classic me.

It is Father’s Day today. I didn’t do one single thing for my Hubby. I feel like having his kid is the gift I will give to him every year. Cut to a few years down the road: “Wake up, Hubby. Happy Father’s day. See that kid wearing the storm trooper costume? Yeah. I made that for you. It’s your gift. Again. Now, may the Force be with you while you get me a huge fucking coffee.” Ah love. Isn’t it beautiful?

That’s about all I’ll say about that, this Father’s day. My Hubby is pretty stellar and he knows this. It’s the reason why I stick around, give him free sex and take care of him post wisdom teeth surgery.  To give him a card on Father’s Day would be overkill. And, who wants that? I am the queen of subtle, after all.

I am sounding like a bitter old crone but other than the bits of random ground beef mingling with my expensive bath soap during bath time, I have no real reason to be such a stick in the mud. I continue to be the mother of one beautiful, intoxicatingly happy little boy. My Hubby was home for the past four days resting up from his dental procedure and the number of times he or I said, “Oh I love him. So smiley!” in regards to our son was damn near unprecedented. Another sick display in a myriad of sick displays of the last ten and a half months. Soon, he will be a year old and I personally am so in love I can already see it coming. What’s that, I hear all of you lovely readers ask. Well, that would be serious discussions of baby number two. Jonah’s cuteness, this I know, is totally manipulating me. But god help us, Hubby and I are already discussing names for little baby girls. So? Who is in camp “Trillian” and who is in camp “Luna”? Opinions?

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Happy House

Posted on May 29, 2013

Our son Jonah started crawling at the beginning of month nine. He was tentative about it for thirty seconds, cried two or three times when he fell or bumped his head, however; cut to a week later he was this motoring, crawling, climbing mini shit storm. And, here I thought it would be a slow development taking months and months – ah no. No, no no no. No. He is no longer a blissfully stationary infant. He is a toddler who thinks he’s a man destined to be an explorer. My son does what he wants, when he wants to and he will crawl over you to get to the dog food any day of the week. Feet in your face? Yes. Uses your breasts as steadying devices? Yes. Thinks your belly is a trampoline? Yes. I’m writing to you readers, as a bruised and abused mother. If I had known this at the time of his birth, I would have de-limbed him.

Oh, I miss the potato stage. The I-am-going-to-put-you-down-here-lumpy-so-I-can-do-one-bloody-task-uninterrupted stage of his life. So does the cat, the amount of groaning I’ve heard from the feline sector of our home has escalated at an alarming rate. At night Minion will climb on to me, look me square in the eye and ask, “What the hell did you do, teaching that lump to move? I am afraid I must end you.” At this point I push her off my lap and head to her food dish and overfill it with kitty kibble, because honestly, I am afraid she will end us all. So? I keep her nice and fat. Fat and slow. It’s the only survival tactic I have.

The dog is a different story. She is flat out depressed. She can’t find a hiding spot for her chew toys that Jonah has not found. And, after buying Jo a crapload of new fancy toys we still can’t convince him that dog toys are for dogs. Jonah also eats her food, thinks her water dish is his personal pool and yesterday crawled into her doggy bed and took a nap. Callie feels ousted and I have yet to convince her that out of all our pets, Jo included, she’s still numero uno.

All I can say is that once again Jonah’s cute factor is saving his life, because everyone in the Huyghebaert household is gunning for him. He’s completely oblivious and is still all smiles all day everyday. June 4th he will be ten months old. That is ten months old with nary a sniffle, ache nor accident. Daily accidental boob, vagina and face blows aside, I’ve made out like a bandit in this first year with Jonah. He’s not just an amazing kid, he’s a beautiful spirit and a pleasure to watch develop. The day he crawled across the floor to me, pulled himself up, stood between my knees and gave me a quick snuggle I remember thinking “Stay, stay just like this. Don’t grow up anymore.” And, I wish he had listened to my hope because the next day he took his four teeth and bit me. Accidental or on purpose I have yet to sort out. But it was the last thing I needed as I fished several pieces of dog food out of his mouth for the second time that day. Both Callie and Minion sat a few feet away, watching intently, shaking their heads. Callie crumpled into a sad ball on the floor and Minion looked at me and then to Jo with an expression that seemed to say, “If you move on to my food next, kid, I will cut you.”