WARNING: This post is all over the place. Kinda like my head these days.

One of my dear neighbour-foxes, Mrs. Jones, loaned me the book Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert a couple of years ago. I remember enjoying the story… that there were some absolutely delicious images and ideas swirling around within the pages. I remember that our heroine travelled to Italy, to India, and to Bali. There was heartache and heartbreak. There were some sexy men. There were sexy meals. Meditation. Balance.

I remember that I enjoyed the story.

Early last week, Mrs. Jones and I headed out to watch the flick. I won’t do any spoiling here, but I’ll say I enjoyed the story all over again, and I what I took from is was a) I would really like to re-read that novel, and 2) I really need to enjoy my life more. Really, I do. I don’t know what I’m waiting for…

Waiting for the house to be cleaner so I can entertain more often. Waiting for my children to be bigger so that it becomes easier to manage. Waiting for… I have no idea what. It’s silly. I know. This is how perfection permeates a normal life of simple wishes and turns it into something unattainable and crazy. What the hell? It’s something that happens over time, I think. It’s weird and crippling. I blame magazines.

Oh, and I blame Martha Stewart too.

. . .

Around the time of Martin’s birthday, we had dinner out with Mrs. Jones and her hunky superman-like husband, and we went to a new place called Jane. Man, that was a terrific evening. Our cook-friend Ryan Dixon (please don’t call him chef) is the man behind the scene. I adore him, simply because he’s an affable human with mischievous, twinkly eyes, who always seems happy to see me. He’s got a Ricky Gervais kinda thing going on in his looks, only he’s got facial hair. (And something about his scraggly beard and rusty-reddish hair makes me want to KISS HIM ON THE MOUTH, and he always lets me. What a lovely man.)

So we went to check out his new digs, and I was thrilled for him: the resto is smallish – maybe fifteen tables or so, with room for about six or eight more at the bar. The decor is minimal and homey – exposed red brick on one wall all the way up to the soaring, matte black ceiling, where reddish wood planks clad what I assume are pipes and ducts and things. Any smooth walls are painted the colour of French vanilla ice cream, and the accents, like the doors and trim, are also matte black. It’s both rustic and modern at the same time. Two excellent, massive canvases (painted by someone in-house, I believe) are up on the walls… I understand both pieces were sold within the first days of opening. Commonplace chalkboards have the specials and the wine list scrawled by someone’s hand, but there’s nothing common about the foods, which are both seasonal and delicious, and the wines have been chosen with care. An excellent selection of mouth-gasmy stuff in that place. Yes, indeed.

We dined on quail, and cod, white pizza with bechamel and mushrooms, duck something, steak… chantarelle mushrooms and asparagus are in season, so they were plentiful in the meals, tossed with pancetta and butter. Frickin’ delicious, I tell you. Copious amounts of really good wine. Holy crap! Um… yum. (Thank you so much, Ryan! And YES we will bring ladies night with the foxes to your place sometimes – absolutely!!)

I feel the need to remark on the high level of incestuousness within the food industry – especially within a city as small as Montreal is. Even more especially when you look west to the Anglo side of town. Everyone knows everyone. (Okay, perhaps this phenom exists everywhere) but as we entered this joint, still so new it has no name-sign on the outside, it was a bit amazing to see so many familiar faces: the owner from this place, a chef from that place… THE guy who does oysters for the island… the maitre’d from another favorite haunt (one that Ryan used to work at – everyone worked with everyone else once upon a time, you know?) and his excellent lady-friend sat next to us… all of us under one roof. Again. It’s a bit weird, really. Or maybe it isn’t. But oh, how I love the way the place feels.

I enjoyed a wonderful evening. It had been a while since we’d been out to eat, and I get such joy from eating scrumptious food with even more delicious people around me, with soft lighting and wicked music, giggling over aperitifs and the last of the wine… sharing glossy desserts. Sighing over coffee as we realise we must soon away, back home to the baby sitter anxiously waiting…

There is simple pleasure in things you can touch and taste, like foods and people. (And yes, sometimes in that order.) Sitting across from someone you enjoy and noticing what their hands do when they speak, or what they choose to wear on their bodies or on their feet, the way they smell, the way food is presented, the way dishes are arranged, a bud vase or a votive candle… sandals kicked off. Dangly earrings grazing collar bones. Chest hair in a open shirt neck. Wafts of cigarette smoke that makes it’s way indoors from outside (which doesn’t bother me in the slightest, by the way…) Red Stripe beer. Lick your fingers a little bit, even. It’s all good.

. . .

Coming back to the movie, there was something about our heroine’s friend keeping a box under her bed, wherein she stashed things for a baby, long before she had one. Like a hope chest, of sorts. The main character said that if she had such a box, it would likely be filled with the stuff of places she’d like to go and visit, like pictures and maps, I reckon. It made me wonder what my box of stuff might be…

I think mine would be filled with images of all the kinds of house things – but I mean in an interior design kind of way. A place for all the images I keep tearing out of magazines… but the thing is I already have a whole file system for these things (I know it’s a bit freakish but that’s just how I roll, yo!) and I pull them out sometimes to pour over them. I’m inspired by colour and food. And texture. It’s life-styley. Maybe I’m a lifestylist. If that’s true, then I am failing. I live in one of the best food cities in the country – NAY! IN THE WORLD!! And I hardly ever eat out. I hardly ever leave my neighbourhood! And I hardly ever entertain anymore either. Le sigh. Must rectify this and leave perfection to Martha. Oy.

An anagram of my full name spells “Ace Greater Style” you know. Yeah. I’m thinking that’s not so coincidental – I know how to do style. Totally.

My time in baby jail is still slowly shifting from maximum to minimum security. But still? I need to enjoy my life more. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. After all, there’s no prize for having the tidiest house, right? (And if there is, please don’t tell me about it because I’m crazy enough, thanks – but I would WIN the SHIT out of that motherfucker if there was one, son. For reals.)

Blah, blah, fucking blah… I’m thinking.

G.G.

Though I really can’t understand why the children don’t go back to school until AFTER the Labour Day long weekend, (I mean, really!) I must admit, I’m thrilled to get back to the school schedule.

I don’t love the 7:55 AM start time of the school day, which is ohmygodsofuckingearly, nor do I relish the opportunity to do French homework in the evenings while at the same time making dinner AND keeping the other Little entertained and out of harm’s way, all during the hungry/tired/cranky hour(s) of day. Plus there’s a shitload of karate lessons to schlep to and from… but I think it’s easier than the entertainment juggling mums (and dads) often have to do all summer long. Whether they’re in some sort of day-camp or not, they’re always bored. They’re always hungry. They’re always all up in your grill, telling you how you’re wrecking their young lives. Oy.

So!

I’m happy to report that the child went to school this time without a single tear (from either of us) since, after all, this is his second year at The Big School, and he was eager to see a lot of his friends after the long summer apart. He’s thrilled with all his back-to-school stuff in his new backpack. (That’s the best part of the back-to-school-ness of things, you know – all the cool new stuff. Even if it cost parents a small fortune every year.)

Oliver had been looking forward to entering the first grade since the end of the school year, so it was a surprise to me when a few weeks ago, while visiting family in Toronto, he suddenly burst into tears when asked if he was excited about school starting soon. His face crumpled, and he BURST into tears, sputtering and choking on his HUGE sobs.

“I… just… don’t… WANT… to… go… to… first… grade…” He hid his face in his arm and cried and cried.

His sister lay her head against him and patted his back with one hand. “You jus’ say no FANK-you, Ol’ver… jus’ say no FANK-you.”

(It was really the cutest thing ever.)

I chalked up that mysterious piece of drama to being completely and obscenely overtired from the six-hour drive, plus staying up until nearly 11 PM the day before. You can expect a pretty spectacular meltdown before noon the next day under such circumstances.

So, unlike last year, the child was perfectly fine today. He did ask on the way out the door if it was okay if he cried a little bit when we got there. I told him to shut his whiney cake-hole and to grow a pair already – be a man, and shit.

Just kidding.

I said it would be okay, and that there might be some other kids a bit tearful this morning too… but that really, there’s nothing to be sad about. This is a great day! Big Kid!! Practically a GROWN-UP!! (Enthusiasm is everything, yo.)

And it worked. Moments later, I took this pic:

My big, brave boy. I expect he will be tired and cranky for the next several days – getting back to the early sleep schedule after summer’s too-late bedtime hour of 9 PM is not going to be easy on me for any of us. Madame has hardly napped this summer at all due to her time spent at Camp No-Nap, and the 6:30 AM rise today will render everyone near useless by dinner time tonight, I just know.

Le sigh.

One down… one to go after Labour Day. (JOY!!)

G.G.

Okay, he’s not exactly my boyfriend… we’ve been married for almost ten years. But I’ve known him since he was about twenty-three, and let me tell you something: this man just gets better and better with time. It’s a fact.

Everyone knows that forty is one of those milestone birthdays… comes replete with at least a few “lordy-lordy” cards and gag gift coupons for Viagra and stuff. When I look at my pensive, exhausted boyfriend, I know exactly why he’s feeling as he is. Could he really be halfway through his life already? He watches his kids grow older, and he watches his parents grow older, and he watches more silver hair creeping into the temples and the beard. And other places.

But it’s not my birthday. I’m just here to spread the love and the wishes. And to remind him that we’re so very happy he was born. And to remind him that though sometimes one wonders if this is all there is, what it IS, is purely stellar… and there’s more and more and more of it.

Otherwise, Saturday mornings wouldn’t look like this:

So, it’s a good thing he’s here. And MY! But ain’t he a sexy rascal! Bonne Fête, mon beau.

My sweet, darling Martin, I must tell you these few things… you are super-duper old now. Really, you are. But it’s okay because a) you still look really, really hot and you don’t have any love-handles at all, and 2) you can still do ALL the heavy lifting, such as the couch when you do your EPIC vacuuming jobs, 3) you send me flowers when it totally counts the most, and d) we love you as much as we always did. Maybe more! (Maybe less…) But for certain, it would be an awful thing to live in this house with the children BY MYSELF so it’s really a good thing that you’re here for protection for decoration for my amusement. Because anyway, everything is always about ME.

Thanks for always agreeing with my home improvement ideas. And thanks for never complaining about the time and the costs associated with them. Your new TV is only the beginning… (Aren’t I the BEST mistake you ever made?!)

Je t’aime. I love August 15th. For reals.

G.G.

We were in Toronto a few weekends ago, and while hanging out with my sister one evening, being the asshats that we are, she told me about this youtube clip that’s had us in stitches ever since.

Now please understand me – the premise of this news clip is no laughing matter. Some poor woman was asleep in her bed, cuddled up with her tiny child, when some man came in through a window and tried to attack her. This is horrendous – I’m not making light of these facts at all.

However, her hero-brother’s interview with the news reporter is case-in-point precisely what happens to a generation of uneducated people who are raised on a steady diet of Jerry Springer and Maury Povich, and who are constantly looking to get a proverbial “amen.” It makes me rather sad for the future.

But not today!

Please enjoy.

Oh, Jesus lord, that shit never gets old for me. I could watch this thing ALL DAY LONG.

You can join his Facebook page, if you like. And I believe there’s a rap out in youtube land as well.

So run and tell THAT! Home. Boy.

I can’t help myself. It’s just that delicious. Oh, you’re welcome, internets…

G.G.

Last Friday I signed for a package. I love signing for packages, especially when I have no idea what it could POSSIBLY be! Surprises are fun. Not to mention the fact that it arrived on the heels of a baaaad week for me. Just days earlier, I realised I was not going to New York. I sold my ticket to BlogHer. I cried a lot.

I confess that I had a little heads up from one of my sistah-friends, the mighty @Bibliosaurus who mailed it all the way from Santa Cruz… and I nearly went crazy when I saw the tutu she made for our Grumble Baby…

Here’s where tutu lives, stacked atop two others when she’s not in all her glorious-girly-girl service:

Wow, right??! My life is so weird and at the same time awesome, it’s nuts.

And here’s how she looks when she’s on Ava Scarlett herself…

No shirt. No shoes. Just the tutu, thanks.

And ohmygod is she EVER loving the shit out of it. And why wouldn’t she – I mean, just look at her. I can’t stop smiling when I watch her prancing around in it. (That’s how one moves in a tutu, you know. One prances.) I never thought I’d like dressing a little girl this way, but I do. I really, really do. Tutus are just the lovliest things, especially when paired with funkier stuff… black boots and funky tights. Rock t-shirts. Or whispy blouses with butterflies…

My lovely, lovely sistah-friend also sent Spiderman stickers for Oliver, and a bag of salt water taffy for us to share just for me. Because she loves me. Isn’t that something?

I’m so, So, SO sad that I’ll be missing her and my other internets in New York next week for BlogHer. The travel gods hate me, so it is not to be this time. But watch out, kids – once my passport issues are solved, none of y’alls are safe. I’ll be everywhere…

But, to my darling Kat: there will be hand-holding and shit-disturbing in Central Park one of these days – it’s a fact. Just deal with it already. Thank you so very much for these splendid things!!

Spread the love, people. Happy Friday to all!

G.G.

NOTE: The kids are sharing the room that used to be just Oliver’s. The dressmaker Judy and aaaaaaall the tutus that live on it is in there with them. He’s dealing with it – I think he even thinks it looks kinda pretty. Yay for me.

The summer schedule with children and all their stuff… well, the downtime that comes in between is kinda restful. I mean “restful” in that we’re not starting our day at the ungodly hour of 6:45 AM and I’m rising for the day closer to 8 AM… I can hear the children in the corners of the house, like mice, scampering gaily, poking me firmly awake when their tummies are begging to be fed.

This totally works for me.

But it’s camp for one kid over here, and another for the other kid over there, and ALL the schlep time in between… makes me feel like I don’t have a moment in the day for myself. It feels like we’re constantly moving. And while they’re really delightful children (really, they are) they talk to me all the live-long day, and frankly, I’m sick of it.

And of course they talk to me – I’m their mother, and I’m the adult in the house, and they have questions, and interesting thoughts to share. And they cry sometimes because this puzzle is too frustrating, or SHE ripped my PICTURE and I’ve been colouring it ALL DAY, or HE took my WHATEVER and I had it FIRST!! Their voices are loud and constant. It’s draining.

Yesterday Martin insisted that I leave the house and go do something before I hacked and murdered everyone around me lost my mind completely. He took the Littles to the Train Museum around lunchtime, and I sat in the quiet house.

It was glorious, yo.

I took a long, long shower and relaxed since I didn’t have to have my ear cocked the entire time, listening for the children whining, crying, or killing each other somewhere else in the house. I didn’t have to get out mid-lather because of their asshattery or shenanigans. Yay for me.

I took a long time rubbing lotion into my skin, in front of the television even! We’re pro-nekkid in our house, but it’s still nice not having little fingers prodding you someplace (followed by copious amounts of giggling) or asking why this fat bit is there, or where that scar came from. It was quiet. And I had the whole house to myself. It’s been a seldom occurrence since the end of school.

I stayed in the house until after 3 PM – it was then that I realised I had less than two hours to peruse stores if I wanted to… and I wanted to. I got dressed and took a taxi downtown.

I perused. I bought a sweater and a tres cute pair of short shorts, scooped a few magazines, some markers for Oliver, some other small crap… I didn’t say a word to anyone, except for the salespeople in stores, and only to respond no thanks, I’m just looking whenever they asked to help.

I walked sauntered all the way home. My watch said 7ish, and I knew the children wouldn’t be in bed quite yet, so I stopped at my haunt in the ‘hood, and had a glass of pinot grigio at the bar. By myself.

Glorious, I tell you.

I went home at 8 PM, and after the hugs and the kisses and the did you have fun with daddy? snippets, I basically bid them a goodnight and let Martin put them away for the evening.

He and I sipped cold wine while I showed him the junk I bought. We grilled some steaks. Fries on the side. Perfect and delicious.

We watched TV for a while and afterward did all kinds of wayward adult stuff.

Lovely, quiet day.

It felt good to be just me if only for a wee bit of time.

G.G.

Last week I decided it was time to potty-train the girl-child. She’ll be two-and-a-half in a few weeks, though this doesn’t really have anything to do with her age. We’ve I’ve been half-assed about this whole deal since Christmastime, what with the wetting and the mess… Summer weather is ideal for this kind of thing – no snowsuits to contend with. (Can you imagine shit inside a snowsuit? Oh crap, indeed.) and I just thought it was time to get consistent. Time to shit or get off the pot, if you will. (Heh.)

I bought her big-girl panties months ago, and often times, I’d pull them out of the drawer to show her the lovely Easter-coloured things, trying to entice her with the “big-girlness” of it all. “Well, if you go to the potty every time, you can wear a big-girl panty like Fran! Or like Anna! Or like Nyla!” (All of these girls are years older than she is, and she adores each one of them – loves getting their attention too.) I’d ask her now and again if she’d like to try sitting on the big-girl potty, and then try wearing a big-girl panty after… she’d say, “No t’anks, mummy.”

I showed her the big bag of mini marshmallows I’d bought just for her. Even if she tried, just tried sitting on the potty for a few minutes, she would get one marshmallow, and she could stick a star sticker on her chart. Won’t that be nice? Would you like to try now?!

“No, t’anks.”

She had piddled in the plastic bowl a few times in the past. We made a huge hairy deal out of it, naturally, but it didn’t seem to do anything for her. If I asked, she flat out refused. I insisted that she sit for at least one whole minute before getting into the bath… she’d make a swishing sound with her mouth, and then cry, “Yay Ada Stah-dett! Now ha mar-maddow!!” And I’d shake my head and say, “Uh-uh, Miss… you have to have a pee-pee first. But you get one for sitting. That’s a good girl!” I’d hand it to her, and she’d snatch it out of my hand, and pop it into her mouth. Then I’d stand her in the bathtub, and within a nanosecond, she’d pee, standing right there, laughing her fool head off.

I’d turn my head and leave the bathroom, saying nothing. There was no question in my mind that that clever monkey was toying with me but I will not react.

Le sigh. It’s been like this for months.

To complicate things, she’s at a kinder-camp in the afternoons, and though they might have a rest period at some point, I know she’s not napping. And trying to be consistent with potty-training gets tricky when the trainee isn’t with you for part of the day.

But I was determined to try anyway. I thought, if we can get this thing licked over the next couple of months, we’ll be golden. Now is the time.

Monday, I put her in panties all morning before camp, and she wet about four pairs in the span of two hours, which is to be expected. I somehow managed to keep her off the couches – only the floors got wet. But she had a few successes too – including a couple of poops – which was more than I was hoping for! In the evening, she took off her diaper by herself, and peed three times successfully. Yay! Marshmallows and stickers abound.

Tuesday morning she woke up with a dry diaper (good sign!) and she went the the potty six times without any prompting from me… she’s just come squealing, “Mummy, lowt!! I ha a pee-pee!!” And I’d come running, and she’d open her eyes and her mouth WIDE in amazement, and leap into my arms… we’d run and get marshmallows and stickers. Great job! I’d put a pull-up on her for camp, and try panties again at home that evening. When I picked her up from camp that day, she was in a soaking wet swim-diaper (they went to the sprinklers) so I striped her, put her shorts back on, and said, “Please try not to pee-pee in the stroller. We’re going straight home now.”

Yeah, right.

Not only did she soak the stroller about mid-way home, when she needed to get out and run with her brother, she suddenly stopped and peed in the grass – in her already wet shorts, down her legs, and into her shoes. She laughed her fool head off. So did Oliver.

“Oliver! You’re totally not helping, man! Stop laughing.”

Which of course made him laugh harder. Any time I say the word “man” at the end of things, they start roaring. As in, Fuckballs, man.

So the moment we got home, I deconstructed the stroller enough to get the cushy-lining off of it, and put it to wash. With the shoes.

Wednesday morning went very well – she’d go by herself, and then tell me afterward. No accidents! After camp, we went to the pool for the first time this year, and though she came thisclose to drowning (a story for another time) she asked me for the potty twice – one pee, and one poop… the latter was a little bit “loose” and I was glad she asked to go. It was the sort that could have a pool shut down for cleaning, had anything escaped that swim-diaper. I was impressed that she asked me to go at all! After a good amount of swimming under that wicked sun, she fell asleep in the stroller on the way home… wearing a panty. I raced to get home before things could go foul, and I won! Still sleeping, I put her on the couch, vowing to move her the minute I had dinner going on the stove. Minutes, I tell you…

Of course, by then it was too late. She’d peed an enormous amount. And some of those loose stools made a second debut too. Holyshitwhatafuckingmess doesn’t quite cover it. Martin was home, and got her into the bath right away, and I stripped the couch and put it to wash. With the skirt and panties. (This is a perfect example of why Craigslist and Ikea make for ideal furniture shopping during these pee/poop/vomit years. I will not buy a $3000 couch right now. Will. Not. Under no circumstances.)

The rest of the evening was fine, though. She went as often as she needed to, and you’d be none the wiser, but for hearing her trying to empty the plastic vessel into the porcelain bowl on her own. NOOOOOOO!! Let mummy help you… A few splishy-splashes on the floor. The bleach and the rags and I have become well acquainted in recent days.

Thursday morning was another splendid day of doing. And doo-dooing. No problems except for wanting to wipe herself… that’s completely disastrous. And I’m trying to teach my thumb-sucker to please not touch the seat so much. And to not wear the vinyl seat around her neck, either. We’re just asking for a roaring case of gastro with a side of pink-eye this way.

We went to the pool after camp again, but this time she asked me to go to the washroom about 400 times. Okay, maybe it was only 8 times, but we did go EVERY time (because you have to go if they ask, you know?) And public pool washrooms? Um… nast. Besides always being leaky and damp on the floors, there’s wadded up paper in corners, pulpy puddles everywhere, and one toilet is always blocked and nearly overflowing… in short, they’re totally gross. They smell bad too. Feels like rain forest in there. You can practically hear the bacteria growing, not to mention feel it in the warm wetness of pool-yuck under your feet (whether you’re wearing flip-flops or not.) And the last thing I want is to be in there every 10 minutes with a small child, trying to squeak a wetsuit-like diaper off her chubby behind, so she can giggle and say,”Uh-oh… no pee-pee!” again and again and again.

And I’m trying keeping her thumb out of her mouth the whole time too. Because, ew. Super gross.

But we were successful! And we got home with a dry diaper (I remembered to pack one this time) so the clothes AND the stroller were intact. I put her on the potty when we got home, and she had a joyous pee right away. Oh my god, this is awesome!! She got marshmallows and stars, and went running away.

I forgot to get a fresh panty for her.

A few minutes later, I hear Oliver stammering at me, “Mummy! She… she’s not… mummy! She POOPED!!” I go flying, off to find them in the house somewhere. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. You could ruin everything…

I find her in her bed, sitting on the duvet (which had no cover on it today) in her Stella McCartney dress she wore for the first time ever, with a little brown schmutz everywhere – duvet, sheet, pillowcase – and a nugget of poop in one hand. She looked a little bit stunned. “Lowt, mummy! I ha poop!”

Everything needs washing. (This is a perfect example of how the baby Jesus hates me.)

“Oh, Ava Scarlett… what happened?! We have to go on the potty every time! Awwwwww…” I pick her up and survey the damage. Fuuuuuuuuck!!! I march her to the bathtub to put her in, but there are too many solids, so I have to put her on the big toilet first. She has poop on her hands. I put the dress in the sink. I run the bath water.

I burst into tears.

I was so tired, from the day, from the week. And PMS probably too. But this deal is exhausting, no matter how you slice it. The watchfulness… the mindfulness of it all is very fatiguing.

Oliver came into the bathroom and rubbed my back as I was hunched over the side of the tub. “It’s okay mummy. I’ll help you with the laundry. I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

Ava Scarlett said, “I sorry mummy.”

And I suddenly feel like a gigantic asshole.

“No, no. It’s okay, I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired. It’s so hot today… let’s just clean up.” I tried to smile at them. “Oliver, don’t touch anything, okay? Ava Scarlett, let me wipe your bum…”

And after that, she used the potty for the rest of the evening.

Friday, she wore a panty all morning, without incident. Apparently she used the toilet at day camp, and she came home with a dry pull-up at the end of the day. We skipped the pool that day – had a friend over to play instead. She wore a panty the whole time. No accidents.

This weekend has been much the same, I’m happy to say. I expect that there will be accidents sometimes. She may even regress once or twice – maybe months from now. It may be years before she’s dry at night, if her brother is any indication… but all told, I think we’re kinda done! She’s got the concept – now we just have to be consistent about it all.

Well done Ava Scarlett!! I’m very proud of you, poppet!! And my goodness, but your bum looks to teeny without a diaper on it… cheeky thing.

G.G.

I actually went live with this blog one year ago today.

It was Martin who said I should start writing a blog, from the beginning. I had all these snippets of writing floating around… musings, and angry rants, and stories about dumb things… He did all the background stuff, setting up the WordPress software and whatnot. (I’m such a loser when it comes to that part of things, he can never, EVER leave me, because I can hardly make the computer “go” when he’s not here.) There’d be no blog without him.

Oh, how I fretted – perfection is such a problem for me… but as my good friend Rachel pointed out in the beginning, “it’s a process. It will change as you change. Don’t worry about it.” As if a person such as myself wouldn’t worry about it. *shakes head, knowingly*

Still, she’s such a smarty, that Rachel.

I was all anxious and nervous about being able to write something every day. I was worried about having something useful to say. Or something insightful. Or funny. One year later, I realise that I really do worry too much, about many things. This blog is one of them.

I’m recognise that I love writing this thing, when I can steal away the time to do it. I’m trying not to get all hung up about whether or not people comment… I realise now that whether or not people have anything to say about it, there are many who read this thing with enjoyment. I know this because they give me all kinds of hell when I don’t post anything.

The leader of this pack is my sister, Nikola, who is probably my biggest supporter, and who also thinks I should write a book. (What the what?! I have no idea about such things…) But I love her for being a pillar. And for her less-than-gentle prodding.

My FB friend Arlene regularly pimps out my blog in her status updates, which is very cool thing to do… thank you, lady. And I’ve received support through FB and regular email, (from random strangers sometimes!) just to let me know I should keep on keeping on. Unsolicited love and support like that is the coolest kind of love there is. I can dig it.

And so, my family and friends, my peeps, my tweeps… I thank you for all the love this year. To the blogging community that has folded me in so wholely and lovingly? Oh my goodness… I blush. You inspire me in so many ways… how to write better, how to live better, and love better. My new friendships are wicked-amazing, and I can’t wait to pinch you all on your bums when we meet… one day.

Oh, hey!! Another bonus about this blog? It’s allowed me to get past my SHAME about not keeping baby books and other “good mum” logs of the like. I’ve got lots of their antics and shenanigans documented here. Sometimes with photos too. Yay for me.

So here’s a short list of my favorite posts from the last twelve months, in no particular order:

This is about ME in list form (Only, I don’t smoke cigarettes anymore – joy!)

About the time we were complete and total pizza hogs and won prizes for our efforts

About the time I cleaned my neighbour’s crapper with my own toilet brush

Oh, the joys of having babies puke a full stomach’s worth of milk on you in the wee hours

The one about Mrs. Doubtfire and the stupid games I play with my sibling

I’m having a blast, people. Thank you so much for reading… makes me all sniffly and stuff. *sniffs* And more importantly, thanks so much for not chastising me about my very liberal use of the F-word and phrases like “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH!” which never ceases to make me giggle my ass off. I hope you’re all rolling on the floor laughing in pools of your own pee too.

Today, I totally rock the hard jam.

G.G.

So, a couple of weeks ago I was engaged in a full-on five-alarm panic that my usually-like-clockwork period was two days late.

Two days. Holy fuckballs.

HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?! I shrieked inside my head, wandering around my house with my arms clamped to the sides of my face, my eyes wide and round.

It was a PED day for Oliver, and Madame had no school that day anyway… it was raining outside, heavily, and as we were indoors, they were already driving me mental. And now I was considering this fate we’d created… Oh. My. God. NO!!

I do not want another baby. No. No thank you.

No. No. No.

I come from a house of science-minded people. My father was a doctor. My mother was a life-sciences major. We watched the Discovery channel at home All. The. Time. There was no getting around knowing about the reproductive systems of practically anything, from a cobra to a kangaroo, least of all about one’s own human body.

In my early teens, as we studied all things fallopian, my mother turned to me and said quite clearly, “So, if you don’t want to have a baby, don’t get pregnant.”

That was the nugget of gold right there. You can’t un-know what you know. And so, where I come from, “falling pregnant” was deemed just a bit careless and/or stupid. (And please – save your for instances for someone else. I’m not being all Judgy McJudge about anyone else’s case – I’m talking about ME, here.)

I’m certain that little pearl kept me quite scared chaste for several years. (That, and the fact that in high school, I was about as sexy as twelve year old boy.) The point is, I was careful. Very careful. Always.

Martin and I agreed that after I got through the exponentially harder part of growing and having the babies, he would make a visit to Dr. Schnippy to ensure that we didn’t have any more of them. Seems fair, no? Yes.

I was on the pill for years and years. I was smoking cigarettes AND getting older – these ingredients make for the ideal recipe for stroking out, in case you didn’t know – and anyway, Martin and I had a deal… so I never went back on them after baby #2. Only that was about two and a half years ago. So.

Everyone knows the rhythm method doesn’t work well. It’s like roulette… it’s only a matter of time until a baby lands on you.

I understand how an I.U.D. works, but at the same time I don’t really see how one can play barrier enough to stop microscopic spermatozoa from getting to the magic egg. Oh people, I’m just kidding!! Of couse I understand it. I do. (Okay, I so totally don’t understand it at all…) So you can see why I’m just not going there.

And condoms are just so… nast. They’re awful. And they smell all weird and stuff. There’s no graceful way to remove of such a thing once it’s done it’s job either. Oh, ew. So often, we’d just abstain from the mid-cycle days altogether, and we’ve been super careful about “spillage” anywhere near the pleasure dome.

So HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?!

Well, I’ll tell you how. As we were busy renovating the apartment all winter, and into much of the spring, everything boudoir had been moved to the back burner. Like way, waaaaaaay back. But now that most of the work is completed, we’ve been making up for lost time. (Heh.)

Also, since I’m completely arrogant about my sieve-like memory, I haven’t been properly keeping track of thing by marking dates in the calendar and whatnot. I kept thinking, “Oh, I’ll write that down… I won’t forget when the last day was… it came the Tuesday after that playdate with those nice people we met at the park, blah, blah, fucking blah…” and just like that, I’d not made a proper note for months.

And though she can be a bitch to host, I’m ever so happy to see Aunt Flo each and every time. Like, Phew! Thank GOD you’re here!! For a minute I thought you weren’t coming… oh my goodness, what would HAPPEN to us if you hadn’t shown UP??!

So in my ultra-panicked state the other day, I can’t even describe my anxiety. I was nuts. I mean, stunned. Terrified. Petrified. I couldn’t even FB or tweet about it to anyone. Not. Funny.

I looked around at my two kids home from school that day who were already killingmeohmygod, and all I could think of was being a Bjorn-bouncing, lactating, sleep-deprived-and-crazy mother to a newborn again, and I almost started crying. Oh my god. OH MY GOD!!

And what would I say to Martin? And the man has practically become VEGETARIAN!! He will lift a drowning fruit fly, gingerly and delicately out of his wine glass and place nestle it onto a basil leaf in our herb window box. Fuck. FUCK! He will have changed his thinking about our arrangement, I just know it… and then what? Oh HOW will I CONVINCE HIM!! Oh lord. Oh God.

AND HOW THE HELL WILL I EXPLAIN THIS TO MY MOTHER!!! I tell you, I sweat bullets for a few hours while I was worked out how soon I could get to a pharmacy for a pee-stick.

And then!

I remembered that I recently wrote a post regarding a nasty bout of gastro, and I had my period during that time… I looked up the post, remembered the timing… counted the days.. and voila!! Oh, it’s due next week. NEXT week. NEXT WEEK!! Oh, sweet baby Jesus, THANK GOD!!

And I proceded to skip around and do the happy dance for about 20 minutes. Ava Scarlett joined in and thought it was just about the best fun she’d had all day (which it totally was, because up until then, I’d been frantically pacing and brooding, and telling everyone around me to SHHHHHHH! and Will you PLEASE just shut your mouth for a few minutes so mummy can THINK?!) Yeah. Sometimes I’m not very nice at all.

Which is yet another reason that I do not want another child. I only have two hands and two eyes. I am already over-extended. I adore them, but I’m all used up, thanks. And with Madame being thisclose to being out of diapers, we’re nearly out of the woods with the “baby” part. It was fun, and babies are gorgeous and delicious and wonderful and all that, but they’re also super bossy and bitchy and unreasonable and immature. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m ready to move on.

And I’m not going back to baby prison.

And though we’d decided in the past that if we fell pregnant again, we wouldn’t have another baby (don’t judge) I’m certain it has to be a much easier thing to say, than to do. I can’t imagine the choice is ever an easy one to make – not in any scenario – but I’m glad I have choice. And so, if you don’t want to have a baby, don’t get pregnant.

But I spent all my mental energy worrying about it. Seriously. It can really impede a lady’s sex life. Because you know what’s not sexy? Worrying about getting pregnant all the time. There’s nothing LESS sexy than lying on your back, touching fingers to thumb one after the other, whispering, “Thurs…day… Fri…day… twelve, thirteen, fourteen… is today Sunday?!” Yeah. That’s not sexy at all.

And with my luck, and at my peri-menopausal stage in the game, not only would I get completely and totally pregnant, but I’d get blessed saddled with triplets or something like that. And they’d all be blind and have hooks for hands. And clocks where their stomachs should be. Oh yes, it would happen to me. I’ll just try not to fuck up stick with the two I have. They are enough treasure for my lifetime.

So I’m happy to report that not only am I not pregnant, but Martin also made his appointment with Dr. Schnippy, and The Vas has been drawn and quartered. No more babies.

But we’re double-bagging it for the next 3 months, just in case.

G.G.

NOTE: C’mon, now. You KNOW I love these freaks, right?

So, I don’t really bake. I blame this on my mother.

What I mean is, I didn’t stand on a chair next to my mother watching her sift and stir, knead and fold, turning flour, sugar and eggs into magnificent confections. She wasn’t a baker. And she wasn’t that kind of mother – which is okay, because she taught me loads of other good things like how to deal with difficult people while smiling, and how to punctuate a good story, and how to make Chinese spareribs. A wealth of knowledge, my mother is.

But I lack the confidence for baking that often just comes from years of watching. About knowing what “well incorporated” feels like between one’s fingers. Or what “coarse meal” looks like as opposed to “fine meal” or what the stage of “stiff peaks” looks like exactly. (Okay, I know what all of these terms mean and I know what they look like… but baking from scratch often seems so scientific and cumbersome, I just head for mixes that say Betty Crocker or to boxes that have dudes in Quaker hats on them.)

Now here’s the thing: for me, baking anything for any reason almost always starts with the pretty.

Case in point: I recently bought a glass urn. It’s about fourteen inches tall with the glass lid on it, and about four inches in diameter. I needed to have it, so I bought it. It now sits on my kitchen counter with two other glass urns, all of which are differently shaped. The other two are smaller – in one, I keep a stash of toasted almonds just for snacking on, and in the other, I keep the last of the Halloween candy like Double Bubble gum and a handful of lollies. And Pez refills. (Ava Scarlett has a definite thing for cherry Pez. Out of the Heffalump dispenser. Who’d of thought?)

Anyway, this container in question is lovely, but a wee bit tall. So what, oh WHAT to fill it with?

Back when I bought it a few months ago, I was having a food-love afair with plain cake doughnuts. Oh my lord DELICIOUS!! And the bag of six I was buying almost daily fit in a very neat little tower that pleased me so very much and made me queeee with delight every time I walked past it, I even ingested the doughnuts at a slightly slower pace. (And by slower, I mean it took me more than one day to eat them all.) The trouble was, it never looked as charming with just 1.5 doughnuts inside, which only served to remind me that I needed to buy more doughnuts in the morning, which then felt rather like a chore instead of a joy. Not to mention that one really shouldn’t eat those fried-in-lard doughnuts every SINGLE day… so I had to find something else with which to fill it.

After the doughnut-love was lost, I turned onto crunchy, delicious little lady-finger cookies. They’re wonderful. A polite person might have four or five in one sitting. Maybe six. Okay, maybe eight. But I was eating about fourteen or fifteen in the evenings, with the open tray right in my lap. Delicious. Crunchy. Milk chocolate-covered. Oh! So instead, I’d empty the box of biscuits into the jar on the counter, and they’d look glorious. So glorious in fact, that I’d eat one or two each time I passed by them. Which was often.

And it was getting embarrassing buying them from the store every other day.

So imagine my delight in noticing a cookie mix with the man in the Quaker hat on the bag. I read the instructions on the side of the bag: Measure contents. Add water. Mix, spoon, bake. Voila!! Cookies. Oatmeal cookies. I vowed to try them.

And try them I did. I made some yesterday which were very good, but with a few tweaks, I knew instantly how to make them a wee bit smaller AND chewier-but-crispier for the next time… with chocolate chips added, and a sprinkle of fleur de sel.

I tell you, I just made the perfect cookie.

And? They fit inside my decanter in the ideal magazine-home kind of way (which is what I LIVE for, except the children keep fucking up my dream, what with their messes and all their noise…)

I like to make things pretty.

They’re awesome-in-your-mouth AND they’re eye-candy in my kitchen. Makes me feel on top of my life for the moment… it’s only bound to last for about about five minutes. Or until the cookies are gone. But they will be on the counter when Oliver gets home from school, and I will offer him some, with pink lemonade on ice in a short glass, and he will be delighted, and I will be the best mother in the world. At least for today.

Yay for me.

G.G.