tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377632678843099842024-03-14T02:26:52.128-04:00Shameless MommyMaking other parents feel better about themselves, one failure at a time.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-63735347824276337402012-07-25T21:43:00.000-04:002012-07-25T21:43:59.932-04:00Are You Fucking Serious?<br />
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I’ve decided to start a new segment entitled <i>Are You Fucking Serious?</i> wherein I will
periodically discuss things happening in the news or Hollywood.</div>
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Let’s not waste time.</div>
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Here’s my first issue: Kristen Stewart is cheating on Robert
Pattinson. Are you fucking serious? I’m expected to care about this? I don’t.
The only thing about it that remotely interests me is maybe the fact that she
was shacking up with one of her directors explains why this girl keeps getting
movie roles and has become the highest paid actress in Tinsel Town despite the
glaring fact that, um, she can’t fucking act. What’s that sound, you ask?
Sorry. It was me throwing up in my mouth.</div>
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Number two: One Million Moms has made headlines again. You
may remember them from such failed smear campaigns as the time they tried to
boycott JC Penny because they hired Ellen DeGeneres as their spokesperson. This
time, OMM is targeting TV producer Ryan Murphy and his upcoming sitcom <i>The New Normal</i>, which is all about a
homosexual couple trying to start a family together. Are you fucking serious?
Why do you insist on going after this same group of people who, by the way, are
just actively trying to love each other? I really don’t understand what gay and
lesbian people have done to make the rest of the world so angry. If being gay meant
that you ran around punching other people in the face or TP’ing houses and
egging cars, then yeah, I could see why gay people weren’t well-liked. But
literally, all they want to do is get married and have babies. I don’t see how
that’s a bad thing. Why don’t you go after someone who deserves to get shit on?
There are plenty of dirt bags in the world who rightfully deserve your scorn. I
mean, I could understand your outrage if JC Penny had chosen Tiger Woods as
their spokesperson, or some other asshole who has blown his load all over his
marriage vows. But Ellen? Really? A woman who ends every episode of her show by
encouraging viewers to be kind to each other? Whose motto is “Laugh, dance,
live?” Who quit <i>American Idol</i> because
she didn’t like crushing people’s dreams? Whose entire existence revolves
around being nice to <i>everyone</i>? I don’t
have any proof but I really wouldn’t be surprised if Ellen poops out rainbows
and cotton candy because <i>she is that
fucking awesome and genuinely nice</i> and this is the woman that you’ve gone
ape-shit over? And now you’re losing your bananas over a TV show about a couple
who loves each other and want to be parents because you think it is
contributing to “the decay of morals and values, and the sanctity of marriage.”
Again, if you’d like to go after people who truly make a mockery of love,
marriage, and parenting, may I suggest boycotting some of the following atrocities
that have been gracing our small screens for years: <i>The Bachelor/Bachelorette, Sixteen and Pregnant/Teen Mom, The Real
Housewives of I Don’t Give a Shit </i>or that new show Kate Gosselin is
pitching about her search for love. Actually, you know what? That deserves its
own paragraph.</div>
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Number Three: Kate Gosselin trying to hang on to her 15
minutes of fame by pitching yet another reality show about her life is not new,
it’s not news, and it’s not shocking. But I’m going to comment on it because
the irony and ridiculousness will smother me in my sleep if I didn’t say
something. So Kate, you’re tired of being single and your solution is to let a
camera crew follow you around the country while you look for someone to fall in
love with your crazy ass? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? Maybe a better question is,
did you hit your head and forget everything that happened to you in the last
five years? Didn’t your first marriage disintegrate before our very eyes? Didn’t
that happen because of the fact that you put your marriage on display for the
world to see? I’m not suggesting that that was sole reason you and Jon broke
up; obviously there was a build up problems going back long before your series
began, and your “fame” was merely a
speck of dust that landed on the straw that broke the camel’s back. But the
bottom line is this: your TV show did not help your marriage. What makes you
think a TV show will help you in a new relationship? And also, what makes you
think the rest of the world wants to watch that shit anyway?!</div>
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And now for something a little, well, a lot more serious. </div>
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I considered not including this last topic because there’s
absolutely no way I can (or would want to) make light of it, which of course,
is the exact opposite of what I’ve done with the subjects I discussed in the
above paragraphs. But, although what I’m about to say is drastically different
in tone, I have just as much of burning desire to talk about it as I did with all
that Hollywood crap. If anything, the following subject’s severity makes me
want to discuss it more because it would somehow feel like a disservice if I
said nothing at all. So, I’m sorry to suddenly switch gears on you, but
consider this your official warning.</div>
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Finally, number four: this last one is about a comment I heard
on the news from an angry Penn State fan (or possible alumni) about the taking
down of the Joe Paterno statue earlier this week. Obviously this man, probably
in his sixties or so, wasn’t happy about the removal of the statue and was
trying to defend the late coach’s legacy. I don’t have the exact quote but it
was something to the effect of “...we love Joe Paterno for giving us 60 years
of integrity...” I’m not even going to swear for this one, because I’m so
heartbroken and appalled. Of course I can understand why Penn State alumni felt
this way about Paterno <i>before</i> finding
out that he helped cover up the horrendous crimes of his fellow coach Jerry
Sandusky. But <i>after</i> finding out about
his part in the cover up? How in the world could you not feel as though every
ounce of Paterno’s supposed integrity exploded into tiny shards of glass that
deserve to be stomped on until they’re nothing more than tarnish on the ground?
Sure, he was (the keyword now is “was”) college football’s most winningest
coach, but he achieved that title at the expense of ten little boys who were
robbed of their innocence. He may have led his school and team to football greatness,
but he did it while lying about the presence of a sexual predator and he did so
for <i>twelve years</i>. I understand that by
stripping Penn State of every win they achieved during those twelve years not
only punishes Paterno’s legacy, but punishes the innocent athletes who worked
hard for those wins and have, unfortunately, lost them through no fault of
their own. But losing those wins is nothing compared to what those ten boys
lost by the actions and inactions of those in charge at Penn State. </div>
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I also heard that Paterno’s family was upset that they were
not consulted about the removal of the statue. To that I say, it is possible to
stand behind the man you knew him to be while not standing behind his inexcusable
behaviour. Just because you were closest to him doesn’t automatically give you
any say in how his “legacy” is handled. That would be like asking Jerry
Sandusky’s family for their opinion in his sentencing. To his family, I’m sure Paterno
was a loving person; to them, he’s not and wasn’t an aide to a monster – he was
a husband, a father, a grandfather. But knowing the best side of someone doesn’t
erase the worst side of them, and it doesn’t give you the right to dictate how
the rest of the world feels or acts toward them, especially given such appalling
and horrific choices made in the name of winning some football games. </div>
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I don’t know what topic I could properly move on to now, so
I just won’t try. I think that’s enough ranting for today anyway. Sorry to have
switched gears so suddenly and drastically, but I guess it’s just like the
world we live in. Sometimes we hear about things so awful they slice our hearts
in half and other times, there are stories so silly it makes you wonder if you
woke up in some alternate universe where people might actually still want to watch
Kate Gosselin on TV. </div>
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For the record, it doesn’t matter what universe we’re in.
Nobody wants to watch, Kate. Nobody. </div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-35608931431389587532012-07-17T23:54:00.000-04:002012-07-18T10:25:01.812-04:00Letter to My Future Son<br />
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Dear bun in the oven:</div>
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As any expectant mother would, I have so much I want to tell
you. Where to start? Well, how about with the important things.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_95885817"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LVd0sHwG02Y/UAYiGRi0OkI/AAAAAAAAAD0/tCz2r5g82cY/s200/lmfao.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least this would explain the baby's <br />
excessive movements. Every day<br />
he's shufflin'. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I’ve been experiencing
a lot of heartburn during this pregnancy and it seems that no item of food is
safe for me to eat anymore. People say this means you will have a lot of hair. I
don’t know if there’s any truth to that, but I guess I’ll find out if you’re
born looking like the dudes from LMFAO. <span style="background-color: white;">Mostly what I want to know is why do you
hate food so much? Are you going to hate food this much when you arrive? Specifically,
what is it that you have against chocolate? Is there a particular brand of
chocolate you’ve been holding out for? Do you think it’s possible you just got
off on the wrong foot with chocolate and how do you feel about starting over
with it? These are really important questions and I’d like you to seriously
give them some thought before answering. Thank you. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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Your dad thinks that you’re going to be our quiet child. The
way you’ve been kicking me for the last few months makes me suspect otherwise. I
think he mostly just assumes that you won’t be able to get a word in because
you sister talks all the time, but honestly, it’s pretty hard to ignore someone
who repeats questions or sentences until she gets a) an answer or b) the
particular answer she is looking for so I think you’ll learn to talk very
quickly, if only to <s>shut her up</s> keep her happy and quiet. Although, I
should warn you that even though she’ll motivate you into talking, she’ll
probably do so while making you wear dresses and make up and nail polish. I
should also warn you that I have no problem with her doing so and am probably
not going to do much to deter her from this. If you want some backup on this
subject, you’ll have to talk to your dad. But even he won’t be much help
because he usually gets roped into dress up too. </div>
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I’d also like to talk to you about when you plan to arrive
in the real world. I know you’re tentatively scheduled to show up on August 9<sup>th</sup>,
but I’m supposed to attend a wedding the next day so if you could help a mother
out and come a little early, that would be great. You’re probably thinking that
a silly little wedding is nothing compared to your birth, and though I technically
agree with you, I really, really want to see Alison get married. Partially
because she’s one of my best friends, and partially because she’s always been
the anti-bride and I need to see it with my own eyes to make sure this thing
goes down, ya know? You’re probably wondering who the hell Alison is (she is
the person that calls every day to make sure Mommy gets at least a few minutes
to talk to an adult and doesn’t totally lose her shit, BTW), but I promise that
in the future, you will come to know her well and if you make me miss this
wedding, we’ll both be sorry. That might sound like I’m threatening you, but I’m
not (maybe just sort of?). It’s just that she is one of those adults who’ll
sneak you candy when I’m not looking - actually she’ll have no problem doing it
while I’m looking right at you guys- and will teach you how to do all kinds of mischievous
things that will drive me nuts and then you’ll feel guilty that I had to miss
the wedding of someone so fun because I was giving birth/had just given birth and
had a really sore vagina/was too afraid to leave the house for fear of having you
in my car on the side of the highway. For pete’s sake, there is going to be a
bouncy castle at the reception. A FREAKING BOUNCY CASTLE! Do you really want me
to miss that? Do YOU want to miss that? I promise that if you pop out early
enough- let’s say no later than the 6<sup>th</sup>, just to be safe- I will
take you inside the bouncy castle. Obviously I will have to do so after the
children (read: your sister) have passed out under their parents’ chairs from a
sugar high and before the drunken adults (read: your father) start passing out
inside the castle, but trust me when I say I can make this happen for you. Do
we have a deal? Kick once for no and start hiccupping for yes.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_kQRonGpCek/UAYjr6hLT1I/AAAAAAAAAD8/sO7zcPhsTfg/s1600/panic+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_kQRonGpCek/UAYjr6hLT1I/AAAAAAAAAD8/sO7zcPhsTfg/s200/panic+face.jpg" width="140" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2a3333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">©iStockphoto.com/juanljones</span>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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If I’m being totally honest, and I think it’s really
important to be honest with your unborn children, thinking about your arrival both
excites and panics me. I cannot wait to hold you (after you’ve been cleaned up
and I’ve been given a stiff drink of course) and see what you look like (mostly
because I really wanna know if I’m going to have an LMFAO-baby or not).
However, I’m only just getting used to the idea of being one person’s mother
and it’s now dawning on me that I’m going to be a mother to two human beings
and that’s freaking scary. So I’m going to apologize now for all the times you’ll
look up at me in all your infant glory and cuteness and see this face staring back
at you. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I think you’ll learn
quickly, like your sister has, that I have no clue what I’m doing and I’m
mostly making everything up as I go along. But I also hope you’ll see how
much I love you. I swear to you that although I’m nowhere near perfect, I will
always try to be the best version of myself in order to give you the life you
deserve. No matter </span><s style="background-color: white;">how many times I lose my shit</s><span style="background-color: white;"> what happens, I promise
to end every day by making sure you feel safe and loved.</span></div>
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In conclusion, just remember that food and bouncy castles
are your friends. (Don’t forget, <i>before</i>
August 6<sup>th</sup>.) Oh and a few more things just for future reference – tattoos
and piercings are okay but you need to at least be 18, the original three <i>Star Wars </i>films are the only ones worth
watching, and don’t bother ever asking your dad and I for a dog. It’s not happening.
</div>
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Love Mommy</div>
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P.S. Seriously. No later than the 6<sup>th</sup>, do you
hear me mister?!</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-64528895041052941882012-06-25T21:46:00.000-04:002012-06-25T21:46:30.194-04:00My Six Favourite TV Dads<span style="background-color: white;">I remember once during a media class in college, my teacher was trying to make the argument that Homer Simpson had introduced an era of "dim-witted fathers" on television and since Homer's arrival, almost every father depicted on a TV show was either a jerk, an idiot, or a well-meaning but still clueless imbecile. Being a TV-fanatic, I was appalled at the suggestion. I instantly thought of at least 10 upstanding dads from shows I watched growing up, and I have to say, I absolutely loved the stumped look on my teacher's face when I raised my hand and named them one by one.</span><br />
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The landscape of television is home to all kinds of dads (and moms, for that matter). Yes, some are stupid, like the Homers and the Peter Griffins. Yes, some are hopeless but still loveable, like Tim the "Toolman" Taylor or Ray Barone. Some are dicks who are funny but we wouldn't exactly wish they were our dads, like Red Foreman or Hank Moody. And some are just fucking scary - seriously, nobody should have to suffer through being the child of Benjamin Linus or Dan Scott<i>. </i>One stole a baby for 18 years and then basically dared a mad-man to shoot her at point-blank range (which he did), and the other knocked up and abandoned his high school sweetheart, knocked up his college flame less than six months later and chose to raise that son, like, <i>down the fucking street</i> from the other son he refused to acknowledge, and then some 18 years later, shot the father of his original baby mama's infant daughter (who also happened to be his own brother).<br />
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But just like in real life, you can't let the crazy mofo's distract you from the fact that there are a ton of amazing dads out there who do right by their kids all the time. So I made a list of some of my all-time favourite TV dads to remind all of us, and our smug media professors, of that very fact. No, this is not a comprehensive list of every awesome TV dad out there; that would mean I had to do some actual research. Yes, this list would have been more relevant a week ago when it was Father's Day. But whatever. This is my blog. And I'm pregnant. I can do what I want!<br />
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So here we go:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">6. Danny Tanner</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><i style="background-color: white;">(Full House) – </i><span style="background-color: white;">So what if most of his lines sounded like an after school special? Who cares if he is arguably one of the nerdiest characters ever? That’s exactly why I love him. His wholesome, squeaky-and-geeky-clean image was his charm, and you’re a liar if you say it didn’t have you rooting for him. Quite frankly, Vicky was an idiot not to marry Danny. Not only was he a great father, but he willingly and regularly cleaned the house. What more do you need? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">5. Jim Walsh</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><i style="background-color: white;">(Beverly Hills 90210) </i><span style="background-color: white;">– Okay, you might be wondering why a dad who would move to Hong Kong and leave his posh Bev Hills home in the hands of his college-age kid and his friends could make this list. Jim is on this list because, well, because he’s cool enough to move to Hong Kong and leave his posh Bev Hills home in the hands of his college-aged kid and his friends. What? It’s not like he left Brenda in charge.</span><br />
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4. Sa<span style="background-color: white;">ndy Cohen </span><i style="background-color: white;">(The O.C.)
</i><span style="background-color: white;">– Sandy was the Jim Walsh of a new generation, but cooler. Was it because of Sandy's luscious eyebrows?</span><span style="background-color: white;"> Maybe. Probably. Yes. But also, he was lucky enough to show up on television af</span><span style="background-color: white;">ter the phase of cheesy dads had ended (see numbers 5 and 6). Sandy was sharp, funny, and sarcastic, and was given as many good lines as his sons were. He also never moved to Hong Kong, which meant he got more screen time to bail his family out of sticky situations. </span><br />
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3. Nathan Scott <i>(One Tree Hill) </i>– If you only ever watched the first season of <i>OTH</i>, you will surely not u<span style="background-color: white;">nderstand how Nathan could end up on this list. He was selfish, mean, and careless. But that’s what makes his evolution into one of the best dads ever so much sweeter. Nathan eventually managed to step out of his father's raging psycho shadow (see aforementioned Dan Scott) and grow into a loving husband and father, proving that you’re not destined to be a shitty parent just because you come from shitty parents. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">2. Phillip Banks</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><i style="background-color: white;">(The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air)</i><span style="background-color: white;"> - Uncle Phil may not have been "freshest" of them all, but he was still pretty fly. The most obvious reason being that he took in his wise-cracking nephew and raised him like his own, despite Will constantly insulting </span><span style="background-color: white;">Phillip's weight. But let's not forget about the fact that he always kept a straight face while Carlton made a fool of himself, never slapped Hilary for being a spoiled brat, actually let Ashley out of the house despite the fact that never wore a shirt that covered her navel, and could toss Jazz out of the house with one hand. Plus, he didn't even bat an eye when his wife suddenly showed up as a totally different person. </span><br />
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1. Burt Hummel <i>(Glee)</i> – How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love Burt because he is fully accepting and supportive of his gay son, Kurt. I love him because he turned out to be Kurt’s biggest champion even though at first glance, he looked the part of a “No-son-of-mine-will-be-gay” type of character. I love him for dancing so goofily up the aisle at his wedding to Finn’s mom, Carol. I love him for stepping into the father figure role for Finn. I love him for always maintaining the balance between loving and being there for your children, and standing your ground with them. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could make me love Burt Hummel more than <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jCDgSc5BwEg">this</a>. Pure. Magic.<br />
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And just in case you're wondering, Cliff Huxtable is not included here not only because it would be a no-brainer but because I didn't think it was fair to the other dads since Cliff has pretty much topped every single other "best" or "favourite" TV dad list in the history of life. Also, as much as I love Ted Mosbey and the fact that the older version of him is voiced by Danny Tanner, you do not get to be on my list if you take seven seasons and counting to TELL ME WHO THE FUCKING MOTHER IS! Oh, and Marshall's not on here because he's only been a dad for five minutes and he was drunk for the majority of that time.<br />
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And anyway, there are many other TV dads who could've or should've made this list. But like I said, Alice's blog = Alice's rules. Feel free to discuss your favourites though!<br />
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-5681592103871489632012-06-19T21:05:00.000-04:002012-06-19T21:30:52.922-04:00All Aboard the Potty TrainPotty training sucks. Even when it's going well, it still sucks.<br />
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It's mentally exhausting trying to stay one step ahead of a toddler's many mind games, and it's doubly exhausting to also have to try and stay ahead of their bowel movements. Truthfully, I would have been happy to have left Thumper in diapers well past her third birthday, but the impending arrival of her baby brother meant that I had to undertake the project earlier. Because if there's one thing I don't want to do more than potty train my child, it's potty train my child after having just given birth to another. So, albeit begrudgingly, I picked up my kid and hopped on the bandwagon.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Admittedly</span>, things went smoothly. We didn't have any huge hiccups and Thumper caught on quickly with little resistance. I know I should be hugely grateful for that, and I am, because I know this road isn't so easy for all kids and parents. But I still have to say that everything I stated in my <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.ca/2012/04/why-i-dont-want-to-potty-train-my.html">original </a>hate-on for potty training still holds true. I do not like having to literally run to the washroom multiple times a day. I do not like that while I run, my daughter takes a leisurely stroll towards the bathroom. <span style="background-color: white;">I do not like cleaning up the inevitable accidents. I do not like thinking of ways to entice my kid to <i>want </i>to go potty when our sticker reward system has lost its allure. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I do not like battling my daughter to make her go pee before we get in the car. I </span><span style="background-color: white;">do not like mentally making a getaway path towards the bathroom in every building I set foot into. I do not like dropping my intended purchases in the middle of the store in order to sprint over to Chapters with my daughter in my arms because Dollarama doesn't allow customers to use their motherf#cking washrooms. I DO NOT LIKE GREEN EGGS AND HAM! I DO NOT LIKE THEM SAM-I-AM! </span><span style="background-color: white;">Things got a little off track there, didn't they? The point, as I'm sure you can tell, is that I do not like potty training. Not one little bit. And d</span><span style="background-color: white;">espite the ease with which we started, we have now entered our first bout of regression. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">More often than not, Thumper waits until she has </span><i style="background-color: white;">topeerightthisverysecond</i><span style="background-color: white;"> to go to the bathroom. I do have to give her credit though, she'll go a little in her underwear, realize what's happening and then actually manage to hold it until she gets to the toilet. But when you've got a wet spot in your underwear every single time you show up to the potty, you've got a problem. And the problem isn't that she doesn't know what it feels like to have to go; she knows, <i>oh she knows</i>. She just doesn't care enough to pay attention to it until it's happening. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Do I blame her?</span><span style="background-color: white;"> No; no one likes to stop what they're doing to go pee. But it does mean that until she learns that she has to care, I have to do it for her. So naturally, I went back to telling her when she has to sit on the toilet - because let's face it, no child answers yes when asked "if" they have to go - but that has caused a huge struggle for control that often results in Thumper screaming and hiding under her bed or running as far from me as possible as soon as the potty is mentioned. And if we are lucky enough to by-pass the pre-trip theatrics, we usually end the trip with some of Mommy's because Thumper will insist on doing everything herself and doing it as slowly as possible. Which means that at some point, that little thread from which my patience is always delicately dangling will snap and I'll turn into such a raving lunatic that I make the women from <i>The Real Housewives</i> franchise look tame. </span><span style="background-color: white;">The ironic part about this constant struggle is that I would love nothing more than to </span><i style="background-color: white;">not </i><span style="background-color: white;">be in charge of her bathroom habits. And I think that's the real root of my beef with potty training. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I just flat-out don't want to be part of it. I would love love love if Thumper was capable of deciding when to go, or deciding to go in time I should say, and then take care of the clean-up herself. But with children so young, it's just not possible and it's not going to be possible for a few more years and I find it tedious. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Is it necessary? Yes. Part of my job as a parent? Absolutely. But...still tedious? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Abso-fucking-lutely.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">-Alice</span>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-73505672377429101792012-06-12T21:58:00.000-04:002012-06-12T22:01:29.258-04:00Are You There, Alice? It's Me, Your Blog<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes blogging is a lot like doing laundry. Laundry is
probably one of the easiest chores to do but despite its simplicity, it’s one
of the things I most often avoid doing around the house. Every time I force
myself to finally do the laundry, or rather, the overwhelming piles of dirty
clothes take over my room and I realize that I have no more clean underwear, I
wonder why it took me so long to get around to it. It’s not like I have to sit
and scrub anything; the machine does all of the work.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Lately, that’s how I feel about blogging. Writing is easy
for me, and I love this blog. I love being able to talk honestly about
motherhood and my experience in it, and I love the responses I get each week
from all of you. But, as you may have noticed over the last month, I’ve been
avoiding it. It’s not like I don’t have stories to tell you – things have been
pretty hectic actually, between potty training [insert witty remark about
wanting to bang my head against the wall], babysitting my niece for a week [see
above brackets for my thoughts on constantly being around two toddlers] and the
fact that my not-quite-three year old suddenly has nightmares and imaginary
friends [did I mention she’s not even three yet?!]. So why have I been avoiding
my own site? Well, I’m lazy. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could say I’ve been so lazy because I’m seven months
pregnant, or because I’m busy trying to <s>avoid death by toddler rage</s> raise
a toddler, or because I put sleep ahead of most other activities. The truth is that
it’s all three combined.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Motherhood is awesome but it’s draining even on the good days.
And being pregnant is no different; quite frankly, creating life for someone
else can often feel like it’s sucking the life right out of you. So between the
bun currently in my oven and the one that popped out a few years ago and likes
to find new ways to make mommy’s head explode every day, I’m finding that all
of my energy is used up, hence the constant sleeping instead of blogging. Don’t
get me wrong, I’ve always been pro-napping for adults, but it often doesn’t
even feel like a choice anymore. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Putting all of that aside though, there’s still the double
edged sword of procrastination to deal with. The longer you put something off, the
easier it is to avoid. But the longer you do so, the scarier the task becomes,
which is exactly how my one week off of blogging turned into a month. Suddenly
the thought of writing on here made me a little panicky. It was self-inflicted
pressure, but I felt like I had to be super witty and funny or else people
would just stop coming around here altogether. But, just like with the laundry,
the only way to get over the overwhelming feeling was to just do it. So here we
are. I know this post isn’t funny or
witty, but it’s a post and sometimes that’s just going to have to do. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So don’t worry. You will eventually get to hear all about my
thoughts on potty training now that I’ve actually done it and what it’s like to
have Irish twins for a week. Again, I don’t know if any of it will end up being
funny or witty, but I’ll try as hard as I can. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, if I’m not trying as hard as I can, I promise to at
least feel bad about it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-31470505716638977722012-05-14T21:13:00.000-04:002012-05-18T13:08:48.163-04:00Yes I Am. And So Are You<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ve all seen the cover, even if you don’t know what it’s really
about. I don’t even need to include a picture of it because I know you
know which one I’m talking about. I’ll admit that I haven’t actually read the
cover article on the latest issue of TIME Magazine, and I’m not going to. Maybe
I would’ve, if only to know what all the fuss is about, because it’s not like I
have anything against attachment parenting or a mother who chooses to
breastfeed for X amount of time. But why should I bother wasting my time on a
magazine that clearly doesn’t respect my role as a mother and the choices I may
or may not make by using a condescending headline like <i>“Are You Mom Enough?” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Am I “mom enough” for what? To carry a life inside my
stomach for nine months? Yup. To put another human being’s needs ahead of my
own every single day? Check. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Does that sufficiently answer your question, TIME? If not,
let me try again. Yes, fuck you very much, I am mom enough. You know who else
is too? That chick on your cover, but so are all the moms who aren’t on your
cover. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are mom enough whether we breastfeed for three years,
three months, or three hours. And we’re mom enough if we use a bottle and
formula to feed our children.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are mom enough whether we choose to stay at home with our
kids or go back into the workforce. And we’re mom enough if our social-economic
situation has made that choice for us.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are mom enough whether we shop at Whole Foods or not;
whether we let our kids eat McDonalds or not; whether we give our children
sweets or not.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are mom enough whether our children go to preschool or
never set foot in a classroom until their fifth birthday (or later. Or never!).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are mom enough whether our kids sleep in our beds or
their own. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We are mom enough whether we gave birth naturally or by
C-section, in a hospital or at home, with or without drugs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are mom enough whether our children are ours by birth,
adoption, surrogacy, or IVF. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are mom enough whether we’re 25 or 45, are blonde, brunette
or somewhere in between, drive an SUV or a sixteen year old clunker, are more
like June Cleaver or Roseanne, eat Granny Smith or Red Delicious apples, or
were born on Tuesday or a Saturday. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And do you know why? Because no matter what choices we make
throughout the day, we wake up every </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
morning and go to bed every night loving
our children. Because we strive everyday to provide for our kids and to give
them the lives they deserve. Because we work tirelessly to teach them the
little things, like how to poop in a toilet or that you shouldn’t stick your
fingers in a light socket, and the bigger things, like how to read and write or
how to be a kind and compassionate member of society.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One last thing, TIME Magazine. Shame on you for pitting
women against other women for no good reason other than to drum up publicity for
your cover and fuck you for insinuating that some of us aren’t good enough.
Because all of us, every single mother in this world that gives a damn, is mom
enough. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Mother’s Day, ladies. You are wonderful, and you are
doing an amazing job. Now go have a glass of wine and a bubble bath. You
deserve it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. I’m willing to bet that the person responsible for that
headline either isn’t a parent or has a dick. Regardless, using a title like
that makes you a dick. </div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-13880855157289351792012-05-09T01:43:00.000-04:002012-05-08T23:16:44.085-04:00Response to the Dumbest Letter to the Editor Ever<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, I came across a letter to the editor in my local
newspaper that left me feeling a little twitchy. I considered sending in a
response, but then I thought posting about it here would be more cathartic for
me. The original author may never read this, but at least I won’t have to keep
my word count under fifty because I have <i>a
lot</i> more than fifty words to say about this article.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the lo-down on the original letter: a local mom
relayed a “frustrating” experience in which she took her seven year old
daughters to the park, and upon finding the playground overrun with toddlers,
decided they didn’t want to play there for fear of unintentionally hurting the
younger kids. The mom is upset that she had to take them to a different park,
and is now requesting that parents of toddlers not let their kids use the city
parks that have “for children between five and twelve years old” signs on them because
it’s unsafe and disrespectful to the kids that the structures are meant for.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v0nAI8fjYEs/T6nZjmpPfwI/AAAAAAAAADA/NeUI9QsHRsc/s1600/httppixabay.comenbaby-three-sign-symbol-under-38591.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v0nAI8fjYEs/T6nZjmpPfwI/AAAAAAAAADA/NeUI9QsHRsc/s200/httppixabay.comenbaby-three-sign-symbol-under-38591.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stupid ideas make animated babies cry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So to recap, mother and children went to the park, smaller
kids were playing at the park; mother wants toddlers banned from parks. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Seriously? I mean...<i>seriously?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t even know where to start. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. Did
the mom in question make sure that her children refrained from using city parks
until after their fifth birthday? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or I could lead with this: Aren’t those “for children
between the ages of five and twelve” signs meant to serve as a reminder that children
under five should have proper adult supervision at all times? And also to cover
the city’s ass in the event that a parent is dumb enough to try and sue the
city after they’re dumb enough to leave their small child unattended on a slide
and someone breaks an arm?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, actually, I’ll begin with a different scenario. There is
a huge difference between the ages of five and twelve. I doubt that most twelve
year olds enjoy the thought of playing at a park full of seven year olds,
probably for the exact reason that this woman’s seven year old daughters didn’t
want to play amongst a group of toddlers – because they’d have to adjust their
behaviour, which, in the plainest of terms, means toning their shit down a
notch so as to make sure not to pummel someone. Now, if these
twelve year olds started campaigning to have those younger than them play at
separate parks, wouldn’t that seem ridiculous? Wouldn’t we
tell them to get over it and that adjusting your behaviour while in the
presence of other children, younger or older, is just part of life? Yes. Yes,
we would.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpkveAa2pCw/T6nV0ZLDn-I/AAAAAAAAAC0/x7dw4O1mtIo/s1600/httppixabay.comensmall-cartoon-saw-big-bears-46188.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpkveAa2pCw/T6nV0ZLDn-I/AAAAAAAAAC0/x7dw4O1mtIo/s200/httppixabay.comensmall-cartoon-saw-big-bears-46188.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See? Nobody is dead. We can do this!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what if your kid has to adjust her tactics when playing alongside
a four year old, or two year old, or a one month old? Is it a tragedy? No. Is
it unfair? Hardly. It’s called learning boundaries, and it’s just part of growing
up and being part of a community. I expect my two year old to be mindful of
other kids around her, especially when they’re younger than her, so why should
someone’s seven year old get a free pass from doing the same thing? Kids and
adults exhibit all kinds of behaviours at the park, and a lot of them can be infuriating.
Here is what I qualify as a valid frustration: kids pushing each other, parents
not supervising their children, an adult creeper, kids bullying other kids,
parents bullying other parents, parents bullying children, someone throwing
sand, mulch, or stones, or someone poking someone else’s eye out with a stick.
Do you know what an invalid frustration would be? SCOFFING AT TODDLERS WHO ARE
EXPLORING AND HAVING FUN AND ARE UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF ADULTS. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman also
mentioned that there are toddler specific structures at parks all around our
city. I’d like to point out that I live within walking distance of six parks,
only one of which has toddler specific equipment. The only other two I’m aware
of are at least a fifteen minute drive from my house. Now, maybe there are a
whole slew of these fancy-pants parks with toddler equipment around, but I’m
sure that there are a ton of families with kids under five who do not live
within walking distance of them. I’m also sure that we can all agree it would
be absurd to ask these parents to find and drive to a fancy-pants park every
time their kid wants to play outside. Besides, what does this woman expect
parents of multiple children to do? If you’ve got one kid that meets the “age
requirement” and one that doesn’t, are you supposed to forego trips to the park
altogether, or does your younger child have to sit on the grass watching all
the big kids play?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll give this mom one thing – she has obviously taught her
kids about being respectful towards children younger than them, as demonstrated
by their choice not to play on the slides that day for fear of hurting someone
else by accident. That’s great; truly, I applaud that. Now what about teaching
them about making a choice and living with it? The girls <u>chose</u> not to
play while the toddlers were on the playground. They could have played anyway and simply adjusted their behaviour, but they chose not to and I doubt that anybody
forced them to make that decision. Same as nobody forced the mother to take her kids
to another park; they very well could have found something else to do until the
toddlers were done. The mother could’ve suggested the girls play tag, have a
picnic, have a handstand contest, pick flowers- shall I continue? Nobody forced
her kids to not play on the playground and nobody forced her to take them somewhere else, so she should stop
acting like that’s what happened and stop trying to force toddlers to go elsewhere
as well. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Quite frankly, as long as my daughter has adult supervision,
there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be allowed on a “non-toddler specific”
park. Kids aren’t in danger of getting hurt simply because there is someone
bigger or older around. They’re in danger when someone is acting like a
jackass, no matter what their age. A two year old can accidentally hurt another
two year old just as easily as a seven year old could, and a seven year old can
injure another seven year old just as easily as they could someone smaller. I
understand that having an adult around doesn’t eliminate the risk, but it’s the
best chance at minimizing it, and that’s pretty much all you can ask for. Banning
one age or another from a playground isn’t going to necessarily keep anyone
safe, so let’s just focus on teaching our children to learn some boundaries and
respect each other, and hope for the best.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. I know that this was my longest rant to date, but it
was either write a two page letter on my blog or track this woman down and
smack-attack the bitch. </div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-26417950465091252272012-05-01T21:34:00.000-04:002012-05-08T23:17:44.397-04:00Why I'm Not Afraid to Say I Wanted a GirlI have always wanted daughters. When I was little, I planned
on having a brood of my own girls – mostly just because I had so many female
names that I loved, but also because I couldn’t wait to put them in frilly clothes and
give them my old My Little Pony dolls. Finding out that Thumper was a girl was
pure joy; it wasn't just that I got what I wanted, but it felt like a safety
net. If all of my other maternal instincts failed, at least the girly-girl in
me would know how to dress her.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So how did I react upon finding out that I’m about to have a
son?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the first months of this pregnancy, the possibility of
having a boy wasn't as distressing. I knew that having a boy wouldn’t feel
like a death sentence and that obviously the baby would be loved no matter
what, but I still anticipated a girl. There's already an abundance of
pink clothing, toys, and accessories in our house, and Dawson and I had a girl’s name picked out long
before conception. In wanting another girl, we came to expect it. So yes, when
the ultra sound tech confirmed that there was no <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.ca/2012/04/backfire-story-of-day-about-fajitas-or.html">fagina </a>this time, I was
clearly disappointed. And in a culture where I think most people feel ashamed
to say they are hoping for one gender or another, I’m not afraid to say so. Why
should I be?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that different from any other dream we have for
ourselves or our children. A father might dream that his son grows up to be a
doctor, or an athlete, or take over the family business. If that’s not what
ends up happening, the parent is allowed to feel disappointment – not
disappointment in the child himself, but in the death of the dream, of what you
always assumed or expected or hoped would happen. And as long as the father
continues to support whatever career choice the son makes, then he should be
entitled to his feelings. Our feelings are our own; we have a right to them,
and a right to express them in a healthy way. Sometimes, that just means being
able to say, “I wanted <i>(blank)</i> to happen,” and then cry about it for a few days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The phrase “as long as the baby is healthy” gets thrown around a
lot during the gender debate. I get that some parents genuinely don’t have a
gender preference, and that’s cool. I also understand that for those who have
had a hard time conceiving, the gender is insignificant compared to the simple
miracle of having a baby of either sex, and I certainly respect that. It’s the
people who use the “as long as it’s healthy” line to practically scold me for having
a preference that make me laugh. Of course I want a healthy baby; isn’t that a
given? Nobody wants a new car and hopes it will come with a smashed-up bumper,
or goes to the store for carrots and purposefully buys the rotten bag.
Everybody wants a healthy baby. It’s just that some people hope, for various
reasons, that their healthy baby will be a healthy girl, or perhaps a healthy boy.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s okay to want one or the other. There is a big
difference between hoping for one gender and regretting having had the opposite
of what you wanted. As long as you can get over your upset eventually, and the
parent-child relationship isn’t negatively impacted by those feelings, there is
nothing wrong with allowing yourself some time to be disappointed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My initial upset wasn’t over the fact that I don’t want a
son. It was merely about mourning the end of the dream I held onto for so long.
And if my son reads this one day, that’ll be fine. It won’t matter what I
wanted once upon a time, because he will know that I have and will always love
him as fiercely as his sister, even if he hates My Little Ponies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice </div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-74095051175461152332012-04-25T21:29:00.000-04:002012-04-25T21:29:22.497-04:00Backfire Story of the Day: About Fajitas, or Something<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
About a year ago, I wrote about the <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.ca/2012/04/funniest-things-my-kid-cant-say.html">funniest words</a> my
daughter couldn’t pronounce properly. Since that post went up, Thumper’s
vocabulary has changed quite a bit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She can correctly say all five words mentioned in my
original post and not only speaks in full sentences, but full soliloquies. She
continually proves that she does, in fact, listen when I talk by later
repeating what I’ve said, either to the cat or in song. Just the other day, she
made up a song all about how Mommy says we shouldn’t play with the curtains
because the curtain rod might fall down on us.* Later on, I overheard her ask
the cat, “What’s with the stink-eye?”** You also already know that she is
constantly asking ‘why,’ which requires me to constantly remind myself that she
legitimately doesn’t know the answers to the inane questions she asks, as well
as endlessly try to figure out what she’s really asking. It turns out that once
kids figure out that asking ‘why’ will get them an answer, they will ask it
even when they really mean is ‘what’ or ‘how.’ </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I’m not crazy. This has happened in our house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**The <i>Juno </i>fan in
me secretly loves hearing her say “stink-eye.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the funniest conversation she’s had since the evolution
of her language skills was by far one that she had with my husband a few weeks
ago in the grocery store. It went something like this:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wh-umFDyNds/T5ijJjUTplI/AAAAAAAAACA/KiYgR2vROkI/s1600/MC900445304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wh-umFDyNds/T5ijJjUTplI/AAAAAAAAACA/KiYgR2vROkI/s1600/MC900445304.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I may look sweet, <br />but I know what a vagina is.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Thumper: Daddy, where’s your fagina?</div>
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Dawson: <i>(in shock)</i> Um, do you
mean fajita? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Thumper: No, FAGINA.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Dawson: Are you trying to say... <i>(in a whisper)</i> vagina?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Thumper: Yeah! Fagina. Where’s yours?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Dawson: I don’t have one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Thumper: Why?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Dawson: Because I’m a boy, and boys don’t have vaginas.</div>
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<i>(Pause)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Thumper: You don’t have <i>any </i>faginas?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, let me remind you that not only did this conversation
actually take place, but it happened in the grocery store at a very audible
volume. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess I forgot to tell Dawson that Thumper asked me
what that area was called and that I actually told her. I should also mention
that she cried when I told her it was called a vagina and said she didn’t want
one. She just wanted to have a bum. Clearly, she’s gotten over that. Also, she
can pronounce vagina correctly now.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and one more thing. After her conversation with Dawson,
she began to very loudly sing a song she made up. That only consisted of the
word fagina. While still in the grocery store.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-58915818353687921142012-04-23T21:07:00.000-04:002012-04-23T21:07:23.393-04:00What to Expect When You're Expecting Again<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
During my first pregnancy, I found that people are really
forthcoming about their experiences. By "people," I mean family members, friends,
and strangers. And by "experiences," I mean horrible labour stories and a lot
more use of the word 'vagina' than you’d like out of your mother or person you’ve
literally just met. But whether you want to hear it or not, you can learn a lot
from other people’s stories. You’ll either be prepared for the shit-show that
pregnancy and childbirth bring or will be pleasantly surprised because you didn’t
have it near as bad as everyone else. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those readers who have yet to experience pregnancy, I
compiled a short list of things I learned the hard way or by listening to someone
else complain. This is by no means a
comprehensive list, but you’ll get the idea. You should expect:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>one or more of the following to ruin your sleep long before
anyone places an infant in your arms: back ache, heartburn, your bladder, nausea,
irrational fears, or rational fears</li>
<li>to have to pee every five minutes, even when you haven’t
consumed any beverages</li>
<li>to pay way too much money for maternity clothes, you know,
because it makes sense for people to charge women $60 for <i>one T-shirt </i>that will only be worn for nine months</li>
<li>your boobs to look like they belong to a porn star</li>
<li>to develop a love-hate relationship with: bras, Tums, hot
showers, other people’s opinions, sleep, greasy foods, and standing up</li>
<li>to become a raging B, a crying mess, and an over-sensitive
worrier (sometimes all at once)</li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But see, I’ve come to realize that no one really talks about
what to expect during your sophomore pregnancy. Sure, I hear a lot of people
say that you’ll get bigger faster and that labour will be much quicker (though,
fingers crossed, it will still allow me time for an epidural). I also often
hear about the changing dynamic in your family – what the addition will mean to
you as a parent and of course to your oldest child. That’s all well and great,
but there are some things I’ve discovered that would’ve helped in preparing my
mental state this time around. I created a list so that the rest of you will
know what you’re getting yourself into. In addition to what’s above, you can:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q9zjKgDHJS0/T5XC-SISyMI/AAAAAAAAABg/-SDsw54w4Fc/s1600/some+ecards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="178" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q9zjKgDHJS0/T5XC-SISyMI/AAAAAAAAABg/-SDsw54w4Fc/s320/some+ecards.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you could bring me some McDonalds, that would probably help.<br />
Photo courtesy of <a href="http://www.someecards.com/baby-cards/let-me-know-how-i-can-support-you">someecards.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ol>
<li>Expect for everything to happen really fast. You know all
those things we just talked about, that happen to you at a leisurely pace
during your first pregnancy? They will happen right away and all at once during
your second pregnancy. In fact, it all happens so fast that by the time you’ve
finished having sex, your boobs will have outgrown your bra by ten sizes, you
will be craving Big Macs, and the pregnancy rage will cause you to punch at
least the first four people you see.</li>
<li>Expect to actually forget that you’re pregnant. The first
time around, everything is new and everything is a novelty. You’d never forget
about the bun in your oven because you cannot think of anything else, ever,
even when all your non-parent friends tell you you’ve turned into <i>that </i>preggo. The second time though, you
not only have pregnancy-brain-turned-mommy-brain-turned-pregnancy-brain, but
you have a toddler to look after. So yeah, you’ve got other things on your mind
and sometimes you will wonder why the hell you’re peeing so often or why you
seem to have perma-heartburn only to look down at your belly and go, “Oh.
Right.” Hopefully this does not continue once the child arrives.</li>
<li>Expect strangers to not touch your stomach. I know it sounds
weird because with your first, everyone wants to touch your belly, even when
you’re death-staring them, hoping they'll spontaneously combust. But my theory, and it’s all based on speculation, is
that toddlers are people repellent. Think about it; toddlers are unpredictable.
That sweet smile can melt into unmitigated rage faster than Disney can send a
pre-teen princess into rehab. Nobody wants a piece of that, and so as badly as
someone might want to rub your stomach for good luck, they want to avoid your
little crack head even more.</li>
<li>Expect to miss alcohol more than you did last time. Again,
because being pregnant was a novelty the first time, you don’t really miss not
being able to drink. Your friends might be <s>doing shots</s> sipping a fine
Pinot Noir <s>before going to the bar</s> at a very classy dinner party, but you’re
all like, “I’m a mother now! I don’t need a drink!” This time, as your toddler is running circles around you and your belly, and you're counting down the minutes until
Daddy is home, you’ll be like, “I’m a mother now! I need a drink! Or seventeen!”</li>
<li>Expect to still not be used to the feeling of a baby kicking
inside you. Yes, you may be able to identify earlier what it feels like when
the baby kicks, but that doesn’t mean it will feel any less like a foreign
creature trying to bust out of your stomach like in those <i>Alien </i>movies. This is especially scary when the
kicking interrupts one of those moments when you’ve forgotten that you’re
expecting.</li>
</ol>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe I didn’t get told about any of this because I should
have just known, but still, a little heads up would have been nice. Now, if you
plan on becoming pregnant for the third time, you’re on your own. I’m tapping
out after two.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-53705355013683879832012-04-16T11:50:00.004-04:002012-06-22T16:38:36.222-04:00Um, Who Are You?<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, hi there! Welcome to the Shameless World. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Um, who are you?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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My name is Alice, and I am the Shameless Mommy. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Do I know you?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe. All of my rants and ramblings used to be found on Escape from Mommyland, but as of today, I am taking up permanent residence in the Shameless World. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Oh, I see. Bad breakup, huh?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hardly. It's just that my former partner and I no longer live in the same city. Or province. In fact, our provinces are not even next to one another. So it just made sense for us to go our separate ways professionally. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Right. Mm-hmm. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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No, seriously. I solemnly swear that neither one of us will suffer a mental breakdown or a severe addiction to heavy drugs because of our split. Also, no one is getting their own reality show. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That doesn’t seem as fun for the rest of us, but okay. So what about all those posts you did for Escape from Mommyland?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you look in the April 2012 archive over to your left, you can find every single post I ever wrote for Mommyland. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Even the one about the time <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.com/2012/04/riding-in-cars-with-toddlers.html">your head exploded</a> while learning to drive standard with your daughter in the backseat?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Yes. Even that one.</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>What about the one with the <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.com/2012/04/you-know-youre-pregnant-when.html">tell-tale signs </a>that you’re pregnant?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yup. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Or how about –<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Seriously. They are all there.</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Okay, okay. But what should I expect from you here at Shameless?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know me – either my daughter embarrasses me, or I do it myself, but regardless, you always get to laugh at me. Sometimes I get <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.com/2012/04/letters-to-strangers-who-suck.html">rant-y</a>, sometimes I like to talk about <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.com/2012/04/celebrities-i-want-to-be-friends-with.html">celebrities</a>. Or <a href="http://shamelessmommy.blogspot.com/2012/04/dear-celebrity-snooki-edition.html">to celebrities</a>. But mostly, it's just me trying, and usually failing, to figure how to be a successful parent. So basically, this will be just like Mommyland, except that it’s all Alice, all the time! Alright, that even sounds scary to me. It’s more like, all Alice, once a week! Or however often I feel like posting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you'll continue to follow my antics, even if for no other reason than to make yourself feel better. If you liked <strike>to laugh at</strike> me in Mommyland, chances are that you'll like me here too. There's more ridiculousness coming soon, I promise.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thanks for visiting!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Love, Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-23644274518763264092012-04-10T11:08:00.000-04:002012-06-22T16:39:17.054-04:00There is Only One Tree Hill<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Julian said it best when he called it a show that “isn’t afraid to be quiet
or heartfelt, a show that’s romantic and sexy and makes you feel like you’re not
alone.” A show that in theory may have sounded a lot like many others –
<i>Dawson’s Creek, The O.C., </i>or<i> Beverly Hills 90210 -</i> but would find
its own voice and its own fans and end up spanning nine seasons. <i>One Tree
Hill </i>may have been close to cancellation more often than not during its
lifetime, and it may have had its share of psychopaths, car accidents, and
kidnappings, but it also always managed to stay true to the characters and
relationships that were always at the heart of the show, something that most
shows can’t say. Last Wednesday marked not only TRIC’s 10 year anniversary, but
the last time we would turn on our TVs and see what Nathan, Haley, Brooke and
the others were up to. I couldn’t let the moment go without looking back at what
made this show so damn good. And in my humble opinion, those things
are:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The quotes: Whether it was Lucas quoting William Shakespeare, Karen
poignantly telling her son that there is only one Tree Hill and it will always
be his home, or Peyton’s voiceover telling us that “there are 6, 470, 818, 671
people in the world. Some are running scared. Some are coming home. Some tell
lies to make it through the day. Other are just not facing the truth. Some are
evil men, at war with good. And some are good, struggling with evil. Six billion
people in the world, six billions souls. And sometimes, all you need is one,”
<i>OTH</i> has always had a way with words. Yes, we all know that <i>OTH </i>was
a vehicle to showcase great music, both as live guests and as the score for the
series, but week after week, it proved that the words were just as important as
the melodies. An episode just wasn’t an episode without the compelling
voiceovers, the one-liners, or the heartfelt reflections. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The evolution of Brooke Davis: Oh, B. Davis. She started out as the
stereotypical bitchy cheerleader who threw herself at Lucas even though Peyton
had feelings for him, and ended up a confident and well-rounded business owner,
wife, and mother, arguably becoming the show’s most lovable character. But the
most wonderful part of it all was the journey that led her there; it was bumpy
and painful, it was honest and authentic, it was funny and earnest and flawed.
Once again, Julian said it best when pitching <i>An Unkindness of Ravens</i> to
studio executives and he called Brooke a pivotal character. “Brooke’s heart is
vulnerable, and that’s why she’s so central. And that’s why the audience will
root for her; they’ll identify with her, her mistakes, her victories, her
heartache.” Yes, we certainly did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The throwbacks: Nothing excites a fan more than watching those little nods
referencing a show’s past, and <i>OTH</i> has always been good at supplying
those moments for us. From the quote hanging on the wall of Karen’s Café,
<i>“Somebody told me this is a place where everything’s better and everything’s
safe,”</i> to each female lead naming her child after her own maiden name
(Jamie, Sawyer and Davis), to Skills’ (justified) paranoid behaviour during
Brooke and Julian’s nuptials given the show’s history of wedding day mayhem, the
writers have always hidden little gems like these within episodes for long-time
fans to discover, and we have always enjoyed being in on the joke. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The vision: <i>OTH </i>was a show about a group of high school juniors
growing up into adults. It was a show about two estranged brothers. It was a
show about the love story between Lucas and Peyton, Nathan and Haley, and Brooke
and Julian. It was a show about music and sports and literature. But more than
anything else, it was a show about hope. It was always clear that the show’s
creator, Mark Schwahn, had a particular vision for how his show would progress –
not in particular events, but in attitude and quality. And through all of its
nine seasons the show stayed true to that vision and the characters within it
and none of that would have been possible without Schwahn. Just look at
<i>Dawson’s Creek</i>. It became a completely different show once it’s creator,
Kevin Williamson, departed, and in those floundering last seasons, it was hard
to watch the characters do such roundabout things that were no longer in line
with who they’d become. I doubt that <i>OTH</i> would’ve been able to survive,
or survive with integrity, after losing two of its main cast members, Chad
Michael Murray and Hilarie Burton, at the end of season six without Schwahn at
the helm. He was able to successfully shift focus completely onto the three
remaining leads and still authentically carry on their stories while maintaining
the same tone and heart that the show always had.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now for the best things about the series finale:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SPOILER ALERT! It’s been a week since the finale aired, so you should
reasonably be expecting to see spoilers all over the Internet, so you can’t get
mad at me. But if you have yet to watch the episode, don’t scroll
down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bevin’s cameo: With most fans hoping for an appearance from Lucas, Peyton,
and baby Sawyer, nobody really thought about who else should or could return. So
it was a welcome surprise to see Bevin working at City Hall and end up helping
Quinn and Clay get married and then adopt Logan. As soon as I saw her face, I
remembered what a weird and fun character she was, but it was good to see that
Schwahn remembered too when he had her awkwardly blurt out that she was married
once but then it turned out she hated her husband. But nothing was better than
seeing her reunited with Skills in the Tree Hill High bleachers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dan’s mystery cheque: All season, I felt that Mouth’s “fat” storyline wasn’t
really worth it. I mean, it could have been, but with all the other heavy things
happening, it didn’t seem to have the, uh, weight, it should have. But all that
started to change when he received a cheque from Dan’s estate for $500, 000, 000
with a note saying “What you do matters.” Using a throwback to a quiet and
mostly forgotten, but important, moment between Dan and Mouth after Mouth got
fired for refusing to report on the Nathan/Renee scandal in season 7, the
writers finally revealed the storyline’s real purpose – Mouth honouring Jimmy
Edwards and Keith Scott’s memory by founding the
Edwards/Scott Scholarship Fund.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chase and Chris Keller as BFFs: I wasn’t happy to see Chris back in Tree Hill
this season, and his arrogant and selfish behaviour certainly didn’t help his
case at all. That is, until Chase started to strike up a bizarre friendship with
the playboy singer who likes to refer to himself in third person. Though it
would have been nice to see Alex return to be reunited with him, I’m glad that
Chase, who always been somewhat of loner and floater on the series, had someone
by his side. Their antics provided a welcome, light-hearted tone to an otherwise
intense season and bittersweet episode. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brooke and Julian’s new home: It was a beautiful ending for a beautiful
character. Not only did Brooke finally find a man who was willing to do anything
to give her the life and family she craved and deserved, but in the house she
always loved. Who didn’t get goose bumps when Brooke excitedly ran up the stairs
to look in her room after Julian told her he bought her childhood
home?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The return to Tree Hill High: Not only did I do a happy dance upon seeing the
whole (okay, almost the whole) group together again in the gym where it all
started, but I was overjoyed to see the series end how it began– with a Scott on
the basketball court. As the camera panned from Nathan’s framed jersey to
Jamie’s, we learned that Jamie had achieved his dream of becoming the school’s
new all-time leading scorer. When a teenaged Jamie took the court donning a
Ravens jersey, hearts of <i>OTH</i> fans everywhere exploded with happiness and
the sense that even though we won’t get to see our favourite characters each
week, everything was going to be alright in the Tree Hill world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll admit it. When <i>OTH </i>ended season six with their “believe that
dreams come true every day” theme as Lucas and Peyton drove off into the sunset,
I didn’t know how the show could ever top that episode. And last season, when
Jamie dribbled a basketball over the bridge while wearing a hoodie in a nod the
show’s original opening sequence, I wasn’t sure there could ever be a more
fitting end. But I was wrong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks, <i>One Tree Hill. </i>Thanks for the music. Thanks for the memories.
But most of all, thanks for barely including Quinn in this season. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-83260702251980867602012-04-02T11:02:00.000-04:002012-06-22T16:35:19.817-04:00You Know You're Pregnant When...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s never been lost on Wendy and I that there’s a very good chance that the
majority of women who read this blog do not, in fact, live in Mommyland. Which
is totally cool with us. If you don’t have kids and you still think we are more
“funny” or even “adequately amusing” than we are “demented” or “bad parents,”
than we like you and invite you to keep visiting us here. Let’s face it; we’re
nothing if not birth control for the non-mommies out there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought it would nice to say a thank you to the non-mommies who like to
keep up with us here on Escape from Mommyland. Thanks for stopping in even
though you could just as easily busy yourself running up an online shopping
charge. Thanks for coming back even if it’s only to laugh <i>at </i>us and not
<i>with </i>us. And thanks for not calling Child Protective Services even when
our parenting strategies seem, well, questionable at best. To show my gratitude,
I dedicate today’s post to you, non-mommies. I thought I’d offer you some advice
on how to figure out if you’re pregnant or not. Some of you might end up needing
this advice sooner than others and some of you may not ever need it. But keep it
in the back of your mind because eventually you or someone you know will find
yourself in an all-too common scenario: your period is late and you’re feeling a
little bloated, but you’re not quite sure if that baby in your tummy is a
baby-baby or just a food-baby. Allow me to help you figure it out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know you’re pregnant when:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You use the phrase “pee break” so often that your co-workers are starting to
place bets on what you’re really doing in there. Some have guessed pregnancy,
but mostly everyone is in agreement that you have a drug problem. Although,
there are also a select few that are steadfast in their theory that you’re a
secret spy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You realize that Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner are no longer sufficient meal
times, and that an additional set of meals must be implemented: Early Breakfast,
Mid-morning Breakfast, The Sequel to Lunch (Parts Two and Three), Pre-dinner
Dinner, Second Dinner, Post-dinner Snack (also known as Gimme-That-Tub-of-Ice
Cream Snack), Late Night Snack, Late-late Night Snack and Mindless Munching on
Crackers in the Middle of the Night While Still Asleep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You cry during <i>Glee. </i>And I don’t mean during the final number, which
is often meant to be a tearjerker or sentimental. I’m talking about crying in
the opening song, even when it’s Artie and Will singing “Moves Like Jagger,” and
you’re ugly-crying like, <i>“Omigod. The way they move their hips
is...so...beautiful.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’re crying right now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your breasts constantly feel like someone has or is still giving you a
purple-nurple. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You've started spending more time with your head in the toilet than you did
during your entire college career. Except that this time, you don’t have tequila
burning your throat on the way back up or the foggy memories of creepy grease
monkeys trying to <s>grind</s> dance with you from the night before. (Or maybe
you do. Who am I to say how you got into this mess?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know that at one point, you had your wits about you. But you can’t seem
to remember exactly when that was. In fact, you can’t remember much these days.
It’s not so much your deteriorating addition and subtraction skills that worry
you, but the fact that you can’t remember who Ryan Reynolds is dating at the
moment or what happened on last week’s episode of <i>One Tree Hill</i>.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You start noticing pregnant ladies everywhere you go. You can’t help but
wonder if it’s some freaky coincidence that <i>every freaking woman in the
world</i> is suddenly pregnant, or if there were always this many preggos around
and you just never noticed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You buy new clothes. And I don’t mean that you’ve bought new clothes and then
suddenly they don’t fit. I just mean that if you haven’t gone shopping in awhile
but your partner has finally convinced you to spend some money on yourself and
not feel guilty about it, as soon as the credit card has been swiped you can
consider yourself sperminated. Because those stupid universal laws of parenting
want to make sure you won’t ever get to enjoy those skinny jeans or trendy lace
camisoles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You pee on a stick and it’s negative but you don’t feel confident enough
about the results to drink a glass of wine even though it’s staring you down and
practically saying <i>“Drink me, hooker. I dare you.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if all else fails, just remember this. You know you’re pregnant when you
pee on a stick and it’s positive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah. I’d say that’s a pretty good indicator that you’re preggo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. To those of you who just read through the list and are now pretty sure
you’re pregnant, don’t worry. You’re not alone. Your very own Alice is also
expecting! It was the constant purple nurples that made me realize it this time.
What was it for you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.P.S. Congratulations!<i></i></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-37807940444982079822012-03-26T15:37:00.000-04:002012-06-22T16:34:44.089-04:00When I Was 21<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
2006. It was the year a song titled “It’s Hard out Here for a Pimp” won an
Academy Award, Justin Timberlake gave pop culture his greatest contribution in
“Dick in a Box,” and the most famous babies ever, Suri Cruise and Shiloh
Jolie-Pitt, first graced us with their presence. It was a world where iPhones,
the Kardashians, and Justin Bieber hadn’t become a thing yet – although to be
fair, the Biebs probably just wasn’t born yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_193574820" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q7rcoBWCwZM/T3oaxKpQ3DI/AAAAAAAAAEs/gzVlHiJrSxQ/s320/some+e+card.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of <a href="http://www.someecards.com/usercards/viewcard/MjAxMS0yYjU5MjdmNjA3YTY5ZGZl">someecards.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2006 was also the year I turned 21. I was in college, had an unexplainable
fondness for polka dots, and developed my first girl-crush upon realizing that
Tina Fey was responsible for both <i>Mean Girls</i> and <i>30 Rock</i>. Back
then, if you had told me that in six years I would be pregnant for the second
time, I probably would’ve laughed until I peed my pants or punched you in the
face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But alas, it’s true. It wasn’t that long until I would very abruptly trade in
Jager Bombs for diaper bombs. There was so much for me to learn, and yet at the
time I had no way of fathoming what was to come, and just how fast it would
happen. So in honour of my former bar-hopping, polka dot wearing self, I give
you the top 15 things I had no idea were on the very near horizon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was 21, I didn’t know that in six years I would:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
15. Say the sentence, “Sorry guys, I can’t, it’s naptime,” and actually be
referencing someone else’s nap and not my own. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
14. Stay up most or all of the night for any reason other than finishing a
last minute project or drinking my face off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
13. Give control of the music in my car over to someone who’s barely three
feet tall and thinks that anyone named Eric must be the prince from <i>The
Little Mermaid</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12. Talk about myself in the third person for at least 95% of most
days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11. Think of the term “sleeping in” much how I think of <i>Muppet Babies</i>:
I think I remember a time when it existed... Otherwise, the person who started
this lie is a really big asshole. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10. Not only let someone pee, poop, and throw up on me, but still love them
afterward. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. Spend 45 minutes at each mealtime watching a toddler very slowly eat her
food, not eat her food, or make games out of her food.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. Think that watching <i>Dora the Explorer</i> was preferable to shows like
<i>Jersey Shore</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. End up with songs like “A-Goong Went the Little Green Frog” and “The Flea
Fly Song” constantly stuck in my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. Think that “staying up late” meant being awake at 9:00 p.m. to watch
<i>New Girl</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. No longer view my boobs simply as accessories or successful manipulation
tools, but as sustenance for some and weapons for others. <i>What did you call
me? Take it back or I’ll shoot you in the eye with milk!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. Not have a starring role on <i>General Hospital</i> or at least two
Academy Awards to my name.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Discover what “after birth” actually refers to, as oppose to thinking it
just meant the period of time that followed pushing a human out of your nether
regions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Use my repertoire of 90’s TV show theme songs as lullabies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Think that having sex twice a month was a pretty good record.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All this talk makes me wonder what the next six years will be like. Hopefully
when 2018 rolls around, I’ll be able to say something like, “I didn’t know that
my sex life would pick up so much once my kids were in school,” or “I didn’t
know the “why” phase would be so short.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What? A girl can dream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-56351933116861496572012-03-19T15:37:00.000-04:002012-06-22T16:34:20.026-04:00About a Two Year Old<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The year in between when your child turns two and three years old is pretty
interesting. Frankly, Forrest Gump was right. It’s like the most terrifying box
of chocolates ever, and you never know which one you’re gonna get. Sometimes,
your toddler will wake up smiling and giggling and telling you that she loves
you so very much. And other times, that pint sized crackhead ain’t afraid to cut
a bitch simply because her milk was served in the wrong colour cup or you didn’t
do up the car seat buckles in the exact right order. It’s the worst mind game
ever, and you don’t really ever win; you just might get lucky some days.<i>
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I guess all of that is nothing new, it’s just that the crazy is amped up
quite a bit from the previous two years. Lucky for us, toddlers start to exhibit
some other original behaviours or traits during this time, all designed to keep
parents on their toes. Some of the mannerisms are funny, some are quirky, and
others are downright irritating. Here’s the round-up on what I’ve come across so
far:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ‘why’ phase begins. Initially, your reaction is a mixture of mild
perplexity and shrugged shoulders. Then the whys increase and you become more
flustered because how the hell do you explain why asparagus is green or why the
hallway is where it is. Then before you know it, you’ve officially reached the
point where you are literally banging your head against the wall because
surprisingly, or maybe not, that’s a less irritating activity. <i></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It becomes acceptable for your child to openly admit to talking to herself. I
have lost track of how many times the following exchange takes place in my house
each day:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Mumble mumble mumble.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Pardon, Thumper? Can you say it louder for Mommy to hear?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Oh, no I was just talking to myself, Mom. Don’t worry.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a surprising, or not, turn of events, children start monitoring what their
parents say. For example, you might think you’re having an adult conversation,
but when you casually say something like, <i>“Oh man, I hate it when Rachel
Berry makes those Broadway faces!” </i>your child is likely to appear out of
nowhere to say, <i>“Mommy, we do not say hate.”</i> Then five minutes later when
you absentmindedly say something similar, she will again pop out to remind you
to find a more appropriate word. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They will also start policing their friends’ behaviour. As in: <i>“YES! It’s
raining, Bambi. I told you enough times!”</i> after her BFF asks one too many
times if it’s raining outside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, let’s just put it on record that this is when they start saying
<i>exactly every single thing that you say.</i> You may overhear
<s>struggles</s> conversations between your child and her stuffed bunny that go
like this: <i>“I’m just gonna do your hair okay? No, sit still. No – just, NO!
Let! Me! Finish! There! Aww, you’re so beautiful!”</i> Or perhaps when you’re
trying to explain why we shouldn’t, oh you know, use the dresser drawers as
stairs, she will look you dead in the eye and say with complete seriousness,
<i>“Okay, okay. Calm down, Mmmoooommmmmmm.” </i>Um, I’m sorry, did I miss
something? When the f#*% did you turn sixteen?!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we’re on the subject of being sixteen, let’s just say that, yeah, that
becomes a thing during this year as well. Whether it’s because they demand to
call Daddy at work and proceed to lie on their bed with their legs kicking
behind them while they giggle and gab away, or because they’ve decided that they
only want to play with older <s>boys</s> kids- and we’re not talking a year or
two older here, but <s>boys</s> kids that are close to double digits and have
zero interest in babies - your toddler will turn into a teenager right before
your eyes. Yes, it is as frightening as it sounds. And somewhat karmic, I
suppose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s all I’ve discovered for now. I still have six months before Thumper
turns three so I’m sure there will be a lot more behavioural developments before
then. Oh, goody. And then hopefully this all tapers off...right? <i>Right?!
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now if you’ll excuse me, I'm busy. I have to go find a more appropriate word
to describe how I feel about Berry's musical facial expressions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-63960343622629728402012-03-12T15:36:00.000-04:002012-06-22T16:34:03.689-04:00A Hard Day's Night<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter is exactly two and a half years old today. It took 912 days, but
it finally happened. I finally did the one thing I said I’d never do as a
parent. Granted, there were a lot of things I said I’d never do, but this was
the one that after having actually become a parent, I thought I had a real shot
of standing my ground on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thumper slept in my bed last night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not my fault. Really. Well, if by ‘my fault’ you mean that I’m the one
who said <i>“Why don’t you come sleep in mommy and daddy’s bed?”</i> then yes
it’s my fault but I surely can’t be blamed for how fitful my sickly daughter’s
sleep was or the fact that she just wanted some cuddles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that I care if other people co-sleep with their kids. It’s just
that<i> I</i> could never do that on a consistent basis for the following
reasons: I love my own sleep too much, I don’t sleep well with Thumper in the
same bed, and I am the kind of woman who simply <s>may hurt everyone in
sight</s> cannot function if I don’t sleep right. And I was always afraid that
if I broke down once or twice, it would be too hard to make Thumper understand
that sleeping in our bed was the exception, not the rule.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even as a tiny baby, we never really let Thumper sleep with us. Sometimes I’d
bring her in our bed for a little while in the early mornings, but mostly just
because I was trying to squeeze in another hour or two of sleep. Which was kind
of stupid because between worrying that I was going to crush her, wanting my own
space, and waking up every time she breathed, I tended to not get much sleep out
of it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why did I invite my daughter to sleep with me last night? I’m not sure. I
couldn’t quite believe it when the words came out. I just know that after having
checked on her a few times and seeing the discomfort on her face even while she
was still asleep, I thought she could benefit from some cuddles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luckily, the cuddles she craved were from her daddy so I sort of managed to
get some sleep. Unlucky for him, Dawson spent most of the night sleeping on the
edge of our king-sized bed. Unlucky for me, Thumper woke up at 6 a.m. when
Dawson got up to shower and wouldn’t go back to sleep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have I created a monster? Probably. Am I going to suffer the consequences of
my actions when trying to put her to bed tonight? Maybe. Will I break down
again? I have no clue. Hopefully I’ll remember the early morning wakeup call and
leave Thumper in her own bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-14108365625663016212012-03-05T15:35:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:33:42.245-04:00Dear Celebrity: Snooki Edition<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Snooki:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This letter is based on the assumption that the recent rumours that you’re
pregnant are true. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look, you are currently the butt of everyone’s jokes, but I have made a
conscious choice not to do that to you. Not because you’ll ever know if I do or
don’t, but because I remember a time not too long ago when I was in your shoes.
I was once the girl who partied like it was her job, although I guess for you it
actually is a job. I had my share of dancing on tables and drunkenly running off
my mouth for no other reason than because I could and I had nothing to lose. The
only difference between us is that your life is filmed on camera and mine
wasn’t. Although, it’s true that if someone had offered me a reality show, I
would have taken it. I legitimately contemplated signing up for <i>Real World
</i>after a particularly crummy break up<i>.</i> I was also once the girl who,
at twenty-three, was unmarried but very suddenly and so very unexpectedly needed
four pregnancy tests to make me believe that I was pregnant. It was scary as
fuck. From that moment on, it felt like everyone I knew was watching my every
move. I became the girl that everyone expected to fail because party girls make
good gossip but they don’t make good mothers, right? Well, Snooki, the reality
is that now you <i>do</i> have something to lose in this world. And that’s a
game changer. Most people aren’t going to give you the benefit of the doubt,
but even party girls can change their ways, if they want to. So as a former hot,
hot mess, let me tell you two things that nobody else will.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s okay to mourn the loss of the life you had. You have the right to cry,
to get mad at yourself, at life, at everyone. It’s perfectly normal to be upset
about the major changes that are coming your way, <i>because there are some
huge-ass changes coming your way. </i> You just have to remember that at the end
of the day, it’s not about you anymore. It’s about the life that’s growing
inside you. From now on, your decisions have to be made based on what’s best for
that child. So here’s my next piece of wisdom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Get the hell out of dodge. If you stay in the spotlight to raise this kid,
you might as well start telling yourself you’re a bad mother because that’s all
you’re going to hear from those around you. Hollywood is a world where people
not only expect to see you fail, but they want to see you fail, and they will
hang you dry for even the smallest parenting mistakes. And you know what? You’re
going to make a shit-ton of mistakes because, like the rest of us, you will have
no clue what you’re doing. And that’s okay, but Hollywood will make you feel
like it’s not. That’s the other difference between us. Yeah, I had everyone I
knew watching me, but you’ve got everyone in the whole world watching you. My
mistakes don’t get plastered all over Facebook or become a Twitter trend heard
‘round the world. Yours do, and yours will. So go back to Jersey and surround
yourself with family. They might give you some grief but they won’t be waiting
and hoping for you to fail miserably. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope it goes without saying that I don’t think you should plan a reality
show around your pregnancy. MTV already did that with a bunch of teenagers, and
look at how well that turned out for those poor girls. Take a page out of Jaime
Lynn Spears’ book - when life hands you an unexpected pregnancy, just turn the
cameras off and go home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-21118131390548744992012-02-27T15:35:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:33:23.911-04:00Why I Don't Want to Potty Train My Daughter<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I were to write an essay called, “Why I Love Diapers,” it would be the
shortest essay in history because I can sum up my reasons in one word:
convenience. If the essay were titled, “Why I Don’t Want to Potty Train My
Daughter,” that would be different. I’d need to include categories. Things like
laziness. Fear. Pressure.</div>
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I’ll start with the laziness.</div>
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It’s not that I “enjoy” changing diapers. It’s just that, gross as a diaper
might be, it’s easy to do. It can be done anywhere, anytime. In the car and your
kid pees out the entire juice box you gave her? Pull over. Just entered Ikea and
you can smell something funky already? Find the bathroom. Out for a walk? That
stroller doesn’t lay back for nothing. And once the diaper has been changed, you
(usually) don't have to worry about it again for at least a couple of hours, as
opposed to every 15 minutes or every time your child takes a sip of water. The
key with diapers is that you don’t have to think about your child’s bodily
functions until <i>after</i> they’ve happened. Once you get to potty training,
you are not only thinking about them as they happen, but you’re trying to
anticipate them <i>all freaking day long</i>. That's exhausting and
inconvenient. </div>
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And that brings me to the fear. In addition to being passive aggressive,
emotionally sensitive, and hot-tempered, I’m also a worrier and I fear what
having to constantly think about whether my daughter has to, is about to, or has
just dropped a deuce will do to my psyche. I already hover around Thumper; I can
only imagine how this will intensify during potty training. If she says no when
I ask if she has to pee, I probably won’t believe her and will be left to
neurotically debate in my mind whether I should make her sit on the potty
anyway, if I just made her pee her pants by bringing it up, or if I think making
her sit on the potty when she doesn’t have to go will make her hate the potty
and ruin what little progress we may have made. I’m getting a headache just
thinking about having to think about it. </div>
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Finally, there’s the pressure. Sometimes it feels like everyone I know is
asking if Thumper is potty trained, and why she isn’t in pull ups or underwear.
It makes me to want to <i>not</i> potty train even more because, well I guess
because I’m stubborn like that, but also because she’s barely two and a half.
Who the hell cares if she is still in diapers? If I’m the one changing them and
I don’t care, why do the people who don’t have to change them? It also feels
like suddenly every child we know who is even remotely close to Thumper’s age is
potty training or trained. This doesn’t faze me so much, but it did make Dawson
promptly take Thumper to Wal-Mart in search of princess underwear. I guess he
forgot that he goes to work every day and I’m the one who stays home, and that
just because he’s ready for Thumper to be in big girl undies doesn’t mean that
Thumper and I are. </div>
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I’m just not excited about having to make sure I know where all the bathrooms
are in any given building that I may enter. I’m also not excited about the fact
that even after Thumper is “potty trained,” I’ll still be wiping her butt, on
constant did-you-wash-your-hands duty, and probably finding poop on my floor at
random for years to come. </div>
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I know that potty training is inevitable. I know that it’s coming, and
probably soon. Just...not yet. Please.</div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-48053834345537686262012-02-20T15:34:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:32:47.986-04:00A Home Fifty Years in the Making<br />
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It’s no secret that I, Alice, am a rant-er. I have a temper and I like to
bitch. Now, although all of this is obvious to those who have been following
this blog and my many angry rants over the last year, it might come as a
surprise to those I come across in real life because in addition to having anger
management issues, I am also, oddly, very passive aggressive. What also might
come as a shock is that I am super emotional. I cry during all of the
appropriate times, like weddings, girly movies, when I see anyone else crying,
and when Mufasa dies in <i>The Lion King. </i>But I also cry during other, less
appropriate times. Like during awards shows (it’s like watching dreams come true
for two hours straight), every time I listen to “Lean on Me” (including the
reggae version), and through 95% of every <i>Glee </i>episode (mash-ups and
competitions medleys are especially emotional*). And yes, I cry this much even
when I’m not pregnant. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Yes. I <i>literally</i> shed tears during <a href="http://escapefrommommyland.blogspot.com/2012/02/you-know-youre-pregnant-when.html">“Moves
Like Jagger.”</a> </span></div>
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See? There are layers to Alice. I may often come off like a raging B but I
also possess a softer side. Which brings me to my real point. Last week, I had
wanted to put up a post in honour of Valentine’s Day. A love letter actually,
but not the icky-roll-your-eyes-make-you-wanna-puke kind. I think Valentine’s
Day is about more than just romantic love, so the letter was actually going to
be to my grandmother who passed away the weekend before. But my house was so
chaotic that things got away from me and I wasn’t able to post. Well, actually,
instead of writing a post, I was busy writing a eulogy. But now that some time
has passed, I thought I should amend my original idea. So instead of a letter,
I’ll tell you a story.</div>
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Once upon a time, there was an Italian woman who moved to Canada with her
husband and four daughters. When they arrived, they spoke literally no English.
The girls learned the language in school, while the woman and her husband were
left to teach themselves how to speak, read, and write in English. They had very
little money, but after four years, the woman convinced her husband to purchase
their very own home. It was modest and small, even for the times, and they
required a border to live with them for many years in order to help afford it,
but the house was theirs. It was the first and only house that ever belonged to
them. For a couple who had come from next to nothing, who had lived through the
war years, and who had been separated for two years before reuniting their
family in Canada, this house was a source of great pride. </div>
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For nearly fifty years, the woman remained in this house. Even after her
daughters had grown up and moved out, and even after her husband passed away,
the house was still hers. It was still the place where her family, kids and
grandkids alike, came together. It was still the place with beautiful flowers
lining the front walk, a plentiful vegetable garden in the backyard, and
something tasty cooking in the kitchen. But the time came when the woman could
no longer live there. As she got older, her vision worsened and it was no longer
possible for her to live on her own. The woman was faced with potentially having
to sell her beloved home.</div>
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The woman came up with an idea. One of her granddaughters was pregnant at the
time, and was looking for a house with her boyfriend. The woman made plans to
move in with one of her daughters, and instead of selling her own home, she
offered it to her granddaughter. The house where the woman had raised her four
children would become the house where her granddaughter would raise her own.
</div>
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It’s been three years since my grandmother, my Nonna, let Dawson and I move
into her home. And throughout her last days in the hospital, I tried to find the
right words to make sure she knew how grateful I am. But how can you find the
words to properly express the incredible appreciation that you feel? How can you
tell someone how much this home means to you? Because it’s not just about the
house itself, it’s about the fifty years worth of memories inside these walls.
It’s about the fact that my Nonna passed her proudest achievement onto me. It’s
about the wildly generous gesture that I surely didn’t deserve. </div>
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My Nonna worked hard to be able to afford this house and she spent fifty
years turning it into her home. So I’ll spend the next fifty years, if I could
be so lucky, trying to earn the right to live in it. </div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-38532167909354218702012-02-06T15:32:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:33:09.236-04:00The Unsolved Mysteries of Sleep<br />
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I’ll admit it. Thumper’s sleeping habits have never been a major issue for
me. As long as all the conditions are right – complete darkness, blankets and
stuffed animals placed <i>exactly </i>right, she is happy to drift off into
dreamland. (Don’t hate us. The kid might sleep well but dinners are always a
disaster. Everyone gets one freebie, this is ours. Let us have it. ) But even
though sleeping has been a mostly successful area for us, it hasn’t been
perfect. She is still a child after all, and has definitely given me the
run-around here and there, and like all you sleepless mommies out there, those
moments have left me with a twitch and fistfuls of my own hair. Today was one of
those days, the
bang-your-head-against-the-wall-why-won’t-you-just-f#cking-go-to-sleep days, and
as I reflected back on all the things Thumper has done and said to avoid sleep
or to ruin mine, I kept coming back to these five major questions. And since I
don’t stand a hope in hell of ever answering them, except to say that these
relate back to the backwards universal laws of parenthood that continually screw
us over, I thought I’d share them with you. So let’s each get a martini, and
commiserate over why our children can so easily and gleefully deprive us of the
single greatest gift that our world has to offer.</div>
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Why must children always sleep in on the mornings when you actually have
somewhere to be? Oh, you have an 8:30 doctor’s appointment? Or big meeting with
the most important client in the history of ever? Or you’re just trying to make
it to your kid’s gymnastics class on time, for once? Oh, they’ll sleep right
until the last possible second that you’re willing to give them. Yet every week,
without fail, on those lazy Sunday mornings when there is absolutely nothing to
do and nowhere to go, they are up at the ass-crack of dawn, rearing to go like
Richard Simmons circa 1984. </div>
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Why, once they’ve begun to form a vocabulary and a variety of sentences, must
they wake up and immediately start crying? This, of course, is in reference to
the cries that *you know* aren’t real and are only supposed to serve to let you
know it’s time to release the dragon from her cage. Why can’t they just wake up
and calmly call out to us to let us know they’re up? (Side note: children, if
you’re going to cry, please make it believable. Because when you’re actually
crying, I feel sympathy for you. When your tears are so blatantly and obviously
fake, all I feel is blind rage.) Aren’t children supposed to be observant
creatures? Why is it that they can tell right away when Mommy wants to kill
Daddy because his dirty socks are everywhere , even when she is actively trying
to hide it, but can’t pick up on the fact that if they fake-cry after a nap,
Mommy will storm into the room like one of those lesser-known dwarfs, Stompy,
Twitchy, or Slammy? And that if they wake up like a normal person, Mommy will
come into the room all sing-song and Julie Andrews-ish with bluebirds on her
shoulders? Do they really prefer the dwarfs? C’mon. Nobody wants the dwarfs.
Let’s just cut the shit and everybody wins.</div>
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How come on the days when you’ve done absolutely nothing and gone nowhere,
they sleep for their full naptime and then some? But then when you’ve dragged
them to every playgroup and story time in the tri-city area, as well as taken
them along to run every errand you can think of, and let them run up and down
the hallway squealing in delight for 20 minutes straight in hopes of tiring them
out, they don’t sleep a f*cking wink?</div>
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Once they’ve learned to sleep through the night, how come they decide to wake
up only when you have house guests over? In an effort to spare your guests’
their precious sleep, you sacrifice your own by doing all sorts of things you
normally wouldn’t dare: let the child sleep with you, lay down on the floor
beside their bed until they fall asleep, actually get up with them at 3 a.m.
hoping that they’ll tire out soon (they won’t) and basically just barter and
plead your soul away to the tiny little devil in Dora PJs.</div>
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How do they get so damn good at stalling before bed? <i>“I need...I need...I
would really like some...uh... (ten minute pause) some water please.” “I just
want you to lay down with me. Just for a minute.” “Another story? You’re such a
good storyteller. Please Mommy?” “May I have another hug please? And now a kiss?
And how about another hug? And another kiss?”</i> When you finally snap out of
it and realize you’re just being played, you end up feeling like a monster for
denying them both your affections and a drink. And even though they’re fine and
will soon be in dreamland, you’ll be up all night worried that you’ve not only
scarred them for life, but will have Children’s Services knocking at your door
by morning light.</div>
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And after all that, they are so friggin’ cute when they do fall asleep that
you have to sit on your fingers and lock the bedroom doors so that you don’t
wake them up right away. They’re crafty, alright. Jerks.</div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-8022158177999317052012-01-09T15:32:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:31:56.387-04:00Domestic Enemies of the Unwed Mother<br />
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In this plentiful world of mommy blogs, there are some that are, how shall I
say, more successful than others. Or in other words, are way more bad-ass than
others. There’s one that I follow often called <a href="http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/">Rants from Mommyland</a> and it's a blog that is pure hilarity. If you enjoy me,
you will love Kate and Lydia. And while I encourage you guys to check out their
site, I should mention that I'm not getting paid to advertise for them, so I'll
get to my real point. </div>
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One of the many on-going series that Kate and Lydia often write about is
called “Domestic Enemies.” It’s basically a place where they can bitch about stuff that bugs them.
Wait, I guess that’s what most mom blogs are about. Well, let’s say that the Domestic Enemies series is a little more <i>specific</i> in what is bitched about.
Anyway, click <a href="http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/2010/04/domestic-enemies-of-suburban-mom.html">here
</a>to have a look at the original Domestic Enemy post and <a href="http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/p/domestic-enemies.html">here </a>for
the rest of the editions, some written by Kate and Lydia, and some submitted by
their readers. I wrote a piece hoping to have it included on RFML, but alas,
some dreams just aren't meant to be. So while it never made it up on RFML, I wanted to include it here. Because really, there hasn’t been a good angry Alice rant on here in,
what, a few weeks? That’s a new record.</div>
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So here it is – the
<strike>world-famous</strike> <s>highly-anticipated</s> post that is probably
not actually as funny as I think it is, the Domestic Enemies of the Unwed
Mother.</div>
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As most of you know, before Dawson put a ring on it, I spent the better part
of two years as an unwed mother – not a single mother, just an unwed one. While
sometimes these two titles are synonymous, this was not the case for me. For the
purposes of this post, an unwed mother refers to a woman who is not married to
her baby daddy despite the fact that they are in a loving relationship. If
you’re new around here, you can catch up on <a href="http://escapefrommommyland.blogspot.com/2011/04/how-i-fell-down-rabbit-hole.html">how
I fell down the rabbit hole</a> into Mommyland. Despite the fact that our
non-married status was totally by choice, I still managed to become an expert in
the enemies of unwed motherhood, including but not limited to the
following:</div>
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<b>Wedding Rings –</b> Do you know what’s really fun? Having someone see your
big preggo belly and smile and start to fire off questions in an excited frenzy,
like “<i>When are you due? And it is a boy or girl? And will you get the drugs?
And let me tell you about the time I was in labour for 427 hours! And...”
</i>Then they catch sight of your empty ring finger and quietly trail off and
avoid eye contact. It’s like once people realize that your baby is,
<i>*gasp*</i>, a ‘baby out of wedlock’ – oh the <i>horror!</i> – they no longer
want to talk to you for fear that you’ll start crying about the deadbeat baby
daddy or perhaps take the opportunity to hit them up for money and/or diapers.
Don’t people read celebrity magazines anymore? Babies out of wedlock are all the
rage these days. Brangelina did it. So did Nicole Ritchie and Joel Madden. An
empty ring finger does not necessarily equate a ‘bad situation’ or an ‘unwanted
pregnancy.’ My daughter may have been unplanned but she was not unwanted, by the
baby mama or daddy. I even experimented with wearing a faux engagement ring to
see if there was a difference in how people treated me or if it was all in my
crazy, hormone-filled head. And it actually proved that I was totally <i>not</i>
crazy. No awkward stares. No horrible gasping sounds or beady, judge-y eyes
blazing a trail all the way from my left ring finger to my belly. So naturally I
just started wearing the ring all the time. It might seem like a backwards
solution but it really just helped me not feel so awkward about other people’s
awkwardness. </div>
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<b>Grandparents –</b> I guess I shouldn't complain too much on this front
because despite our grandparents’ displeasure with the situation, they didn’t
cut Dawson or I out of the family or anything. They also must have forgotten
about their misgivings once Thumper was born because they give us dresses for
her every time we see them. However, in the beginning we did receive a stern
letter or two from one set of grandparents, and weekly lectures about “doing the
right thing and getting married...for the <i>baby’s</i> sake” from another. Then
there’s Dawson's paternal grandmother. She has dementia and could never remember
who I was or whose baby I was carrying. She would repeatedly ask when the
wedding was and why she hadn't been invited, which led to the repeated awkward
conversations of us trying to tell her that we were, <i>*gasp*</i>, having the
baby out of wedlock – oh the <i>horror!</i> At least with our other
grandparents, we didn’t have to relive telling them for the first time over and
over each week.</div>
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<b>People from your past –</b> I guess this is technically a domestic enemy
of anybody, parent or otherwise. But in the unwed mother’s case, it’s doubly bad
because if this person from your past has heard nothing through the grapevine*
about your pregnancy and/or the relationship that produced the baby in your
belly, then they, like people looking for a ring on your finger, will assume the
circumstances surrounding your pregnancy are sketchy. They will either tip-toe
around the subject trying to pry answers out of you without sounding like a
jackass, unaware that they are already sounding like a jackass, or they’ll
refrain from asking you any questions at all, leaving you unsure of whether you
should bring up the elephant in the room, and if so, how should you go about it?
Should you make a joke? Should you just spit it out? Should you tell them
they’re acting like a douchebag? Then you’re so confused you decide to say
nothing and your silence will have basically confirmed their suspicion that
you’re a slut with at least seventeen potential baby daddies. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*These days the "grapevine" is really just Facebook, but
still.</span></div>
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<b>Careers –</b> If, like me, your unplanned but totally wanted pregnancy
happens before you get the chance to make use of your college degree or diploma,
then your once most sought-after dream will soon become your nemesis. Because
the more time you spend in Mommyland, the more unattainable your desired career
becomes. You can’t really write “been busy making babies” on your resume** to
fill in the space between the present and your college graduation and/or your
last job. And even if you did write that, something tells me it’s not going to
win you the job. And so your dreams of winning an Oscar for Best Original
Screenplay or writing a weekly column for your favourite magazine serve only to
taunt you with <i>what if’s</i> and <i>ain’t never gonna happen’s.</i> Your
non-existent career can also come back to haunt you when you run into people
from your past; you might run into Cindy from high school and she’s all like
<i>“Last I heard, you were going to move to California to pursue you writing
career.”</i> And you nod your head in the direction of your offspring, who is
probably smashing something expensive or causing a traffic accident of some
sort, and Cindy’s already slowly backing away, like <i>“Oh, I get
it...”</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">**But I really wish you could.</span></div>
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<b>Yourself –</b> Like all moms, an unwed mother is her own worst enemy. Yes,
it’s most definitely true that when you unexpectedly get pregnant, everyone in
your life will watch you with hawk-eyes to see how you fair in a maternal role.
But nobody will judge or criticize the unwed mother more than the mother
herself. The self-doubt is in everything you do. Whether it’s changing a dirty
diaper, trying to breastfeed, figuring out a nap schedule, cooking dinner or
trying to finish the thirty million piles of laundry that arise every day, you
wonder if things would've been different if only you’d have been more prepared.
Maybe if you were somehow smarter or wiser or more maternal, then everything
would be easier. Maybe if you had waited to get pregnant, then you would've had
a career and a paycheque to go back to and you wouldn’t have to worry about what
will happen when your savings run out. Maybe if you were more like Gwyneth
Paltrow, your family could enjoy a meal that doesn't come out of a box or a can
and your child would even eat a vegetable now and then. And even if the faux
engagement ring on your finger is replaced with a real one, it won’t erase your
mediocre home-making skills or the extreme case of the Guilties that comes with
them. </div>
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The trick is to remind yourself that the kind of mother you are is not
determined by the status of your ring finger or the way in which you entered
Mommyland. It’s about the unconditional way you love your child and how you
continually strive to create edible and maybe-sorta-kinda nutritious meals for
her even when you know she won’t eat them, and even when you’d rather be working
on a best-selling book telling Gwyneth all the way she can suck it***.
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">***I don’t really have anything
against Gwyneth. I really liked her in <i>Glee</i>, actually. However, I reserve
the right to tell anyone who makes motherhood look that easy to suck it.
</span></div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-112529127596908952012-01-02T15:31:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:31:34.238-04:00How to Recognize a Diva<br />
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What’s one thing that all children have in common? They are notoriously picky
creatures. And what do all parents have in common? Besides the fact that we’re
all <a href="http://escapefrommommyland.blogspot.com/2011/06/liar-liar-mommys-pants-are-on-fire.html">liars</a>,
it’s that we have all been there. You might be the parent whose kid will only
eat a certain kind of granola bar and even though you buy an identical looking
one, she will know that you bought the no-name brand instead of Quaker. Or you
might be the one with the child who has been wearing a Buzz Lightyear Halloween
costume for the past four months and only agreed to take it off because you said
Santa wouldn’t come to the house if he thought it was still October. It doesn’t
matter if we’re talking about food, clothes, toys, or a type of butt wipe, kids
know what they want and they aren’t afraid to say it. The other thing parents
have in common is the crippling fear of waking up one day to realize that our
run-of-the-mill picky child has morphed into a diva that makes Mariah Carey look
like Cindy Lou-Who. </div>
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Lucky for you, I’ve compiled a set of guidelines to help you figure out
whether you and your child have reached full-on diva-dom. </div>
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Unlucky for me, upon completing the list I discovered what I’ve been afraid
of all along. Thumper is Mariah-reincarnate. </div>
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Are you ready? Here we go. You know your child is a diva when:</div>
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1. She can walk better in plastic Princess Ariel heels than she can
barefoot.</div>
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2. She begs you to let her wear her frilly pink skirt to bed so that she can
be a ballerina even while she’s asleep.</div>
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3. You affectionately call her ‘baby’ and she says, “I’m not a BABY. I’m
Fumper. Call me Fumper.”</div>
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4. She unnecessarily throws a crying fit, and you tell her she doesn’t need
to cry, but she says “Yes I do! I WANT to cry! Let! Me! Cry!”</div>
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5. Instead of asking you to sing nursery rhymes or the ABCs, she asks you to
sing Justin Beiber songs. </div>
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6. Her favourite line from the <i>Tangled </i>soundtrack is from<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bate_tvVUpk"> “I’ve Got a Dream”</a> and
it’s <i>“...surrounded by enormous piles of money!”</i></div>
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7. She doesn’t like having her picture taken. And the odd time that she does
let you take one, she needs to see it right away for approval.</div>
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8. She is the only one allowed to dance when music comes on. And even when
you think you’re out of eye sight and can bop your head a little, she’ll know
and will inform you that, “No, Mommy, just Fumper dances. Stop! ONLY
ME!”</div>
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9. She instructs you on when you’re allowed to sing. And, of course, when you
are <i>not </i>allowed to sing. See above.</div>
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10.She tells strangers not to talk to her before they’ve even said anything.
</div>
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I sincerely hope these guidelines help in spotting diva-tude well in advance.
Also, if your child says she is going to name future children after the
Moroccan-themed room she was proposed to in, then it’s a safe bet you’ve got a
pint sized Mariah on your hands. And if this post made you realize your
offspring is too far gone, well, sorry about your luck and, welcome to it,
bitches!</div>
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Oh, and, we are working on manners right now. I swear. </div>
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-Alice </div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-87345739859100458882011-12-26T15:30:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:31:14.327-04:00Sometimes People are Cool<br />
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And sometimes, they’re really not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Last week, a friend of mine unknowingly dropped her phone in a parking lot. Upon
realizing what must’ve happened, she tried calling the phone, but it went
straight to voicemail, so she assumed it died or had broken somewhere in the
fall. But when she called her husband to tell him what happened, he said that he had
called her earlier and someone picked up. When he asked who was speaking, they
hung up. Being that she had retraced her steps through the parking lot and the
store, this likely means that someone found the phone after she dropped it,
and kept it for themselves. That’s a pretty sucky thing to have happen at any
time, but especially at Christmastime. It’s an unfortunate reminder that not
everyone in this great, big world of ours is, shall we say, honest or kind. But
that’s not the kind of post I’d like to write about today.</div>
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In the spirit of the holidays, I’d like to tell you some stories that have
happy endings.</div>
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The first tale is about a man named Albert. I had served Albert only a few
times but I remembered him because he always drank Stella, ordered a pound of
wings with extra celery and used a double Airmiles coupon. Plus, he was a really
sweet old man; just someone that was polite and always struck up a harmless,
friendly conversation, which, when you work in a sports bar, is not always what
you get when serving an older man who dines alone. I hadn’t seen him in quite a
few months, so Albert was surprised to come in one day to find that I remembered
him and his order, and that I was six or seven months pregnant. So we chatted
for awhile; turns out his daughter was also pregnant at the time. And after he
paid his bill, which included a gratuity, he handed me a $20 bill. I assumed he
just needed me to break some change for him, so I started to do so, but he
stopped me and told me to use that $20 to start my baby’s college fund. I cried.
Not an ugly cry, but a shocked, misty-eyed,
could-not-believe-this-actually-happens little moment. Can you imagine? This
almost stranger, someone whom I barely knew anything about – just his preference
in beer and wings, was selflessly handing me money to put towards my unborn
baby’s future. I tried to refuse the money, and when that didn’t work, I tried
to be as gracious as I could. How could I tell this man how much his simple
gesture meant to me? I didn’t have the words then, and I don’t have them now
either. I just know that what he did was the kindest, most pure thing anyone has
ever done for me. I promised him that my daughter would know where her first
twenty dollars came from, and when she’s old enough to understand, we will go to
the bank together to deposit the money that Albert gave to her, the money I’ve
kept in a special place since that day, and she’ll know all about the man who
likes to drink Stella. </div>
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The next story also takes place during my stint as a pregnant waitress. This
one involves Steve, one quarter of a group of regulars that I had been serving
for years. One day while talking about my pregnancy, Steve made a comment,
something to the effect of him offering me the crib his youngest son had just
vacated. I don’t really remember what was said but I know that even though I
agreed, I brushed the exchange off and didn’t take it seriously because well,
people don’t just <i>give</i> other people cribs, let alone to your friendly,
neighbourhood bartender, no matter how good she makes your mild Caesars. But
then a few weeks later, Steve brought it up again, asking when would be a good
time to bring the crib by. Again, I don’t really remember the conversation, just
that I was still unsure if this was actually happening or not, because this kind
of stuff doesn’t really happen to people, right? And then one day, Steve showed
up with a pretty, white crib in the back of his truck; a crib that made its way
into my car, and then my daughter’s nursery. For free. Again, I was shocked and
dumbfounded that people this nice do exist and I’m still overwhelmed sometimes
when I think about Steve’s gift. If you remember, Dawson and I hadn’t exactly
<i>planned </i>to have a baby, so it’s not really a stretch to say that we
were... scrambling a bit to get everything in order before our monster
princess’s arrival. In giving us the pretty, white crib, Steve not only gave our
baby a place to sleep, but he lifted a huge weight off our shoulders and, like
Albert, reminded us there is good to be found in this world. </div>
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I remember once during college, while paying for groceries at the
self-checkout, I used the cash back button to take out $20. Like an idiot, I
forgot to take the money with me, even though that automated voice reminds you
every time to please take your change and your receipt. FYI, I did manage to
take the receipt with me. Anyway, I didn’t realize what happened until I got
home, and since I lived a five minute walk from the store, I raced back to see
if the money was still there. It wasn’t, of course, and I felt so stupid for
having forgotten it in the first place. As I walked home, again, I decided that
instead of being mad about the situation, I was going to believe that my money
had found its way into the hands of somebody who desperately needed it, somebody
who was now able to afford some extra groceries for their family or somebody who
was having a string of bad luck, who thought that finding $20 might just be a
sign of good things to come. Maybe none of that was true, but I think that
believing in something positive, however improbable it may be, is always more
powerful than thinking the worst. </div>
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So instead of assuming that some punk found my friend's phone and took it in a
selfish act, we’ll choose to believe that whoever found it needed an iPhone more
than she did. Because that’s what Christmastime is all about -believing in the
good, the magic, that kindness exists and that strangers can give each other
money or cribs simply out of the goodness of their hearts. Merry Christmas to
you and yours, and if you don’t celebrate Christmas, well then Happy Hanukah,
Happy Kwanza, or happy holidays. Or happy whatever. We hope that whatever you
celebrate or don’t celebrate, that your days are filled with joy and love. And
iPhones. </div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-39557652160874910062011-12-19T15:29:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:30:57.664-04:00Goodbye Money<br />
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It seems like just yesterday that I made the 30 second decision to go back to
work (as a waitress, not a hooker). But alas, it’s been eight months. Eight
months of spending two to three days in another city, away from my husband and
only seeing my monster princess in the a.m. And while those circumstances are
certainly not the worst case scenario by any means, it was still not ideal. So,
as much as we could definitely still benefit from me bringing home some dolla
dolla bills y’all each week, we made the decision that I should quit. That way I
can be home full-time with Thumper again, and hopefully the lack of bills
flowing in my bank account will scare me enough to kick-start my freelance
writing career. Seeing as I did legitimately go to college to become a freelance
writer.</div>
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And that’s the thing. Even though it was totally my decision to quit, and
even though Dawson fully supports me, I am freaking out. I started working again
to help sustain our finances while we saved for the wedding. When I look back,
had we not had the extra income, well, I’m literally almost in tears thinking of
the debt we’d have accumulated only in those few months. And even though we no
longer have a wedding to save for, we still have every day expenses that I fear
one income might not be enough for for too much longer. </div>
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I know that I just finished saying I hope this is enough to make me start
working independently as a writer, but do you know what statement I heard most
often from my teachers in college? That writers make shitty money. Seriously.
(No wonder my class of thirty was down to eleven by the time graduation came
around.) And there’s no guarantee that anybody ever wants to read what you’ve
written, let alone publish it. So I can work my little butt off and create these
grand stories and articles until my fingernails fall off but that doesn’t mean
I’m guaranteed to ever make a single cent off of it. And that’s fucking
terrifying. </div>
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The reason why I’m blogging about this is because I’m hoping to hold myself
accountable. By putting this goal of mine out there (to actually at least <i>try
</i>to be a “professional” writer), I’m hoping that the fear of debt and the
fear of not succeeding after having told the whole blogging world that <i>I’m
gunna be a <s>rock star</s> writer! </i>will be enough to help me get over the
fear of potentially sucking at writing and just do it. </div>
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So yes, this week will mark the end of my waitressing career (again) (and
hopefully for the last time). But hopefully it will bring about the beginning of
something better, maybe not something more financially lucrative, but something
that will have more passion than me listing off what beers are on tap for the
rest of my life. Goodbye money. Goodbye serving uniform. Goodbye noises
everywh—</div>
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Oh wait. Wrong story. My bad.</div>
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Maybe I should stick to my day job.</div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2437763267884309984.post-4547961655956333692011-12-12T15:29:00.000-05:002012-06-22T16:30:24.027-04:00Good Days<br />
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Sometimes motherhood is exhausting. Sometimes, you get so tired of the never
ending line of eardrum shattering tantrums, uneaten meals, and mountains of
laundry that you swear you’d give up your own boobs if it meant you could have
some peace and quiet. </div>
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But other times, motherhood is fulfilling and fun and all of those heart
warming things they talk about in the baby books. You know, all the stuff your
pregnant self dreamed about but then realized was BS when you brought your
screaming, pooping, nocturnal bundle of joy home from the hospital. But
seriously, those days you long ago dreamed of do exist. I promise.</div>
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I know because today was one of those days for Thumper and I. I don’t know
why, but we had the simplest, most fun day ever. We didn’t do anything
extraordinary; we just did some errands and went to a play group, but Thumper
decided that today would be a good day to listen to everything I asked of her
and to share toys with other kids. She also did her first real craft, with my
help of course, but still. I don’t even like doing crafts but I had so much fun
with her I might even try another one. She also willingly went down for a nap,
which automatically makes any day a good day. </div>
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It also helped that I was in a good mood too. That’s the one thing I too
often forget- that positivity is a two way street. It’s not just up to Thumper
to share, I’ve got to have the patience to play with her and show her how to do
things and actually let her do them on her own. For whatever reason, I did that
today and it reminded me how well things go when I do. It’s something I’ll need
to start doing more of. </div>
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I’m sorry that this post is so boring. I know you guys count on me for a
weekly story of awkwardness and parental failure on my part but there just
hasn’t been much happening for us since Thumper renamed herself El Dorado.
(Update, we did see those girls again today and although Thumper knew who they
were immediately, they didn’t remember her. I have yet to decide if that was
influenced by their mother who probably still thinks we’re crazy or not.) But I
promise that soon enough, I’ll have some interesting stories for you. After all,
Thumper is moving to a big girl bed this weekend and we’re going to start potty
training in a few weeks. God help us all. </div>
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My point, however vague or boring it is, is that you can survive even the
most harrowing days in Mommyland. You have to, because the days when everything
goes your way are so sweet. The days when you and your kids quietly and happily
colour together, or snuggle under a blanket watching a movie, or make paper
reindeers for the Christmas tree are what make those hellish days so worth it.
</div>
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-Alice</div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13739798979842813971noreply@blogger.com0