Vicki Murphy2013-05-22T00:15:04-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=vicki-murphyCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Vicki MurphyGood old fashioned elbow grease.You Are Four Years Old Todaytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31858902013-04-30T11:46:34-04:002013-05-01T15:00:15-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
Max James Murphy, you sneaky rascal. How are you growing up so darn fast? You are four years old today. I am in awe.
When people asked how old you were today, you said: "I'm four. And then five and then six and then seben*." (*Not a typo.) You are excited about getting bigger. You have your whole life ahead of you. Nobody knows what the future will bring, and that's just how it's supposed to be.
I still remember the day I peed on a stick and thought NO WAY. And now here you are turning four years old and I'm thinking the same thing. You can't possibly be the baby I held in my arms four years ago today, straining to open his swollen eyes for the very first time. You are my endless source of disbelief and my constant reminder that anything is possible.
Your father and I can barely remember the sleepless, screaming infant you used to be. (I said barely. We'll never fully forget, which may explain why your only sibling is covered in fur, and poops in the yard.) Boy, how you've chilled out these last couple of years. There was a time when you wouldn't sit still long enough to be hugged. But you're making up for it now, distributing love and affection on demand. I love your sudden, spontaneous smooches, with your arms slung around my neck or your hands gripping my cheeks. It's like you've just rediscovered that I'm your mom, you're totally stoked about it, and you'll burst if you don't let me know. Let's hope you still feel this way when you're a teenager.
You have your fiery moments, but Turbo Ginger has geared down. I see how you look at my face when I'm speaking to you now, your curious eyes flicking around, thinking about what I'm saying, asking questions to help you understand. You are a good listener (most of the time). You are a thinker. You are smart. There's nobody on earth I'd rather talk to.
You are a creature of habit. You have "your spot" on the couch. If someone else sits there when it's time for some Treehouse, they will be removed with brute force. You take an apple and a frozen yogurt in your lunchbox, every day. And you must have a puppet show at bedtime -- the exact same show every night -- followed by daddy's rendition of Christopher Robin. Daddy can't sing for beans, but you don't seem to mind.
You need to wave to us out the window every time we drive away, and we must wave back -- no exceptions. Waving to daddy as he leaves for work is what gets you out of bed in the morning. If he forgets to wave, you get upset, I call his cell, and he drives back to make amends with extra waving and airborne kisses. But we both know daddy never forgets to wave.
You're always up for adventure beyond our humble abode in "Torbag." But your favourite place in the world is right here at home. Our house is small and cluttered. Your bedroom is a matchbox. There's barely enough room for your train tracks. But to you, this place is a palace. Knowing you see it that way helps me to see it that way too.
You are one of the tallest kids at soccer. You scored two goals on Sunday. "I winned two times," you said. It's so hard to resist touching the ball with your hands though, isn't it? I don't know how you do it. You took me quite seriously when I said, "listen to your coach and do what he does." During your first class, every time Coach put his hands behind his back, so did you.
You can walk on the bottom of the kiddy pool at the Aquarena now. You think that's pretty cool. Although, I suspect you're thinking -- why learn to swim when I can just walk on the bottom?
You've outgrown your tricycle. When you pedal, your knees almost touch the handlebars. It's OK -- you got some brand new wheels today. A blue Thomas bike with training wheels. Yesssssssss. Fist pump.
You are starting to get freckles on your nose. And your chubby toddler cheeks are melting away to reveal the young man you're going to be. I find myself kissing those cheeks extra hard these days, trying to convince them to stay a little longer.
Your front tooth is still loose, but it seems to be hanging in there. Not bad for taking two smacks in the mouth from the same Tonka dump truck.
Your favourite food is "noodles and broccoli." You eat so much broccoli, we may soon start growing our own. Whenever there's something less favourable on your plate, you say you're not hungry and pout. But a few seconds later, you're clearing your plate. Your father and I snicker behind your back. Don't be mad.
No food on earth will ever compete with "pock-a-soles."
You're putting on your own shoes now. (No laces yet though.) And you lie down on the floor to slip into your coat -- the way they taught you at daycare. Your "Go Habs" mittens are the only mittens. There's a hole in them now, which I guess I'll have to sew up.
You are the kid who tells the adult in the room that something's going awry. "Aidan is jumping on the bed." "Owen said a bad word." But there's no emotion about it, just facts. You're not a tattletale; you're a reporter. Let's go with that.
You're fair and diplomatic. When I ask you who's funnier, mommy or daddy, you say: "mommy... and daddy." When I ask you who's a better singer, you say: "daddy... and mommy." When I ask you whose boy you are, you say: "mommy's boy... and daddy's boy... and Splash's boy."
You never forget Splash. It's probably about time you start calling her a "she" though. Not all dogs are boys, little dude.
You are an expert belcher. It's all burping and farting and peeing and pooping -- all the time. You told me you chase after the "bad guys" at daycare. I asked if you fight them. You replied, quite matter-of-factly, "I punch and fart at them." I know you're just playing. If I ever hear that you're bullying another kid at school, I will do as my grandfather used to say and "take you down a button-hole lower."
When you poop (yes, I'm going there), you immediately bend over and stick your butt up in the air. I walk into the bathroom and you're already in the "wiping position." I think you'd stay there for hours until somebody came. We were at a party a couple months ago and I lost you in the crowd. I passed by the bathroom and caught sight of your butt up in the air, awaiting the first person to come in and give you a hand.
You're not shy. You'll sing the Thomas theme song upon request, the Fisher Price microphone practically inside your mouth. And you're a clown. You take off your clothes before bath-time and stomp around the house chanting "handsome, handsome, handsome," shaking what your father gave ya. Crazy kid.
You love the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. You crack up when Donatello says, "butt sandwich." You say "heroes in a half-shell." I say "turtle power." And vice versa. This can go on for hours.
But even crime-fighting turtles can't compete with a cheeky blue train. We thought by now you would have left Thomas behind. Not even close. You've never had a pacifier or a blanket or a stuffed animal, but now I realize Thomas was all of those things for you, and still is.
You love playing hockey in the basement with daddy. You especially love to body-check. Daddy is looking forward to coaching your hockey team one day. But if you don't want to play hockey forever, that's OK too. We'll always have the basement.
You love ketchup. When we ask what you had for lunch, you say: "Caesar salad, chicken nuggets, and ketchup." Ketchup is a food. Daddy gave you a bottle of it for your birthday today. You thought that was pretty funny. You'll always remember he did that, just like you always remember who gave you everything. Who gave you those Thomas pajamas? Aunt Robin. Who gave you Gordon the train? Uncle Glenn. When you open gifts, you say WOW, even if it's socks. Today, you even took the time to open your cards.
You are master of the iPad. And you're finally holding a pencil properly. (Oh, how the times have changed.) You can write your name now. But you don't care that the letters are supposed to be side by side from left to right. You put the M, A and X wherever you feel like it. Freestyle, baby.
You have an unusual concept of time. You often start sentences with things like, "When I was a little boy last night..."
You like to hide. But if someone finds you right away, that's not cool with you AT ALL.
You love being outdoors. Summer's almost here so I expect you'll be spending some serious time in the backyard watering the clothesline post in your yellow rubber boots.
You are going to be a fireman when you grow up.
You love blue. But you'll gladly drink out of a pink Princess cup.
Jogging pants over jeans, hands down.
You wouldn't be caught dead without your sunglasses on. Even when it's not sunny. Even when it's dark! I think it's because your future is so bright.
At least once a day, I find myself staring at you, utterly amazed that the likes of your father and I could create something so perfect. If I could have picked parts from a catalogue, I would have created you just as you are.
It's hard to resist, but I try not to tell you you're handsome too much. Because how you look is not important. It's who you are. I hope you always know that. If there's one thing I want the world to see in you, it's not your beautiful brown eyes but the kindness behind them. I think the world is seeing it already, even though you're only four.
I realize as the years go by, the current you will replace the former you in my mind. It's just the way it goes. One day, I'll be looking at a young man before me and say "I can't believe you were ever that four-year-old little boy." So today, when you blew out your candles (all by yourself today, as requested) I made sure to take note. In that moment -- right after you blew out the flames, right before everyone started to clap, just as the smoke from the candles was slowly climbing skyward -- I took a mental picture of you. My big, brave, curious, affectionate, broccoli-munchin', train-lovin', kind-hearted boy who is four years old today.
I brought you in from the car tonight, asleep in my arms after a busy day. You're getting so tall and heavy, I can barely carry you anymore. But I will always carry you, in one way or another, no matter how big you get. And you can't stop me.]]>Trying to Balance Parenthood, My Work and My Passiontag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31716812013-04-28T18:26:07-04:002013-04-29T14:26:06-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
As a working mother with a writing racket on the side, I yak about that elusive work-family balance a lot. And I'm not the only one. You're probably tired of all the yakking about it. (Blame Anne-Marie Slaughter; she started it.) I'm tired of all the yakking and I'm one of the yakkers. I'm pretty sure in my next life I'll be coming back as a yak.
Something has occurred to me lately though: with my ongoing blog and upcoming bl\ook, this is more than a work-family balance. It's a work-family-art balance. (Yes, my blogging is my art. Just go with it.) That's three things to juggle, not two. Technically, two is not even juggling; it's two things switching back and forth from one hand to the other, and that's not so terrible unless you're the drummer from Def Leppard.
Working and parenting is tricky enough, but when you also have to get your creative rocks off on the side -- a kind of work that usually doesn't pay the bills and if it did you wouldn't need to have a "real job" at all and we wouldn't be having this conversation -- it gets even more insane in the membrane. A trifecta of f***ery. You have to squeeze your art into your crazy ass life somehow. Because sacrificing it for the family and the real job is not an option. You didn't choose this passion. This is who you are. And if that part of you doesn't see the light of day, the whole shebang goes to shit.
My art can't be my real job. I'm not J.K. Rowling. I don't even have any advertising on my website. I don't have the luxury of just writing. Some best-selling authors don't even have that luxury! I don't have a big fat trust fund either, and my husband is not Donald Trump (thank god). The arts is a tough place from which to bring home the bacon. Unless taxidermy is your art and pigs are your specialty.
At an event last Friday afternoon at LSPU Hall hosted by the St. John's Women's Film Festival, I listened to four women talk about their art: finding their voice, putting themselves out there, facing their fears. Two of them were singer-songwriters, two of them were filmmakers, all of them were creative, funny, and determined.
The topic of family came up, as it always does among breeders. Making a living in industries like music and film doesn't quite jive with the schedule raising a family demands. So when you meet women who are rocking their creative careers, you have to wonder -- how do you do it all?
Well, three of the four women didn't have kids. And the one who did -- I'm pretty sure she didn't have the real job to complicate matters. They were all amazing and awesome and I will be stalking them henceforth, but technically they aren't doing it all. I'm sure they've got their hands full, but they're not juggling the trifecta of f***ery.
I got a couple nice chunks of wisdom from them on the matter nonetheless.
1. You don't have to live your life in segments.
New York singer-songwriter-mother Amy Rigby has been rocking out for more than 30 years. When asked about being a musician and a mother at the same time, she replied: You just do it. Women often think they need to do the career thing first, she said, then stop all that to have the family. Why do we have to live our lives in segments? Why can't we do it all at once? You just do it. Rigby had her daughter when she was in her twenties. She kept making music. She played with bands. She played solo. She persevered. Today, her daughter plays in her own band. Amy did it all, as a mom and an artist, without sacrificing one part of herself for the other.
Moderator Elisabeth de Mariaffi -- award-winning author, mom and marketing maven at Breakwater Books (now that's the trifecta I'm talkin' 'bout!) -- added: You can't separate the family and the work now. It's all wrapped up in one. Our children come out of our bodies, but they're forever attached.
2. Put the baby on your back and go.
Funny, these words stuck with me more than any others (hence the title of this post) and they came from one of the women who didn't have kids -- Bay d' Espoir native and filmmaker Latonia Hartery. (Yes, Latonia, a beautiful white woman from Bay d'Espoir, swear to god.) But if she does have kids one day, she plans to do what the women in the north do, at least metaphorically -- sling the baby on her back and go.
Part of me was like: Bite your tongue, Shaniqua. Just wait until you get that wailing squawk-box in your arms, and the mastitis and hemorrhoids and broken vadge and sleep deprivation and depression take hold and see how your plans change. But that part of me needs to shut the f**k up. You go, Latonia. I had lots of post-baby problems and a dead dad to boot, and I came out fighting. When you go up to accept your Oscar one day, just pass it back to your baby to hold for you while you do two-handed fist pumps.
The other day, a coworker said to me, "I think you may be a robot." I guess because I'm into so much, I couldn't possibly be human. I wish I was a robot or a computer -- something that could calculate a formula for balancing the real job, the family, and the writing racket. Alas, I am lowly human, so my formula is: hold on for dear life. I think the secret may be accepting imperfection: embracing the chaos, facing your fears - of rejection, of failure - and just going for it. And staying in the game no matter what or who comes along - like a little creature whose entire existence depends on you and your nipples. It's a juggling act. You're going to drop things. (Preferably not the baby.) But you pick up the pieces and keep going. You do it all, but accept the reality that you may not have it all. Maybe doing it all the best way you know how is having it all. Maybe I should stop talking now.
I will soon be editing my first book and I'm terrified. How am I going to find the time to perfect this thing? This thing that will be set in stone and OUTLIVE ME. Well, I'm not gonna. Beyond the real job and the parenting, there are only so many hours in the day. So I'll bust my ass and do my best and have some fun with it and hope it's good enough. And if it's not, f**ck it. This moment sponsored by the great philosopher, Jeff Bridges: "Live like you're already dead, man. Have a good time. Do your best. Let it all come ripping right through you."
Would I be a better writer if I had more time to write? Would I be a better mother if I spent more time with my son? I honestly don't know if the answer to these questions is yes. Maybe there is a reciprocity there, one role feeding the other, amounting to this mediocrity you're enjoying right now. (Thank you for being here, by the way. Really.) Maybe having a baby made Amy Rigby a better songwriter. Maybe Latonia Hartery's back-pack baby will make her a better filmmaker. We think motherhood is stealing away the time we would have spent pursuing greatness, trying to keep up with the men. But maybe it automatically makes us greater. Maybe the baby on our back is actually a jet pack.]]>Why I Tell My Son About a Religion I Don't Believe Intag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29957172013-04-02T11:38:16-04:002013-04-02T12:09:28-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/Little People book.
Yesterday morning (Easter Sunday), while we were visiting my mom at the ol' homestead in rural Newfoundland, Max came downstairs exclaiming "Jesus was back alive!" After fighting the urge to tell him that Jesus was a zombie who slowly morphed into a bunny, my straight-up bedtime story had stuck. "Jesus died," he recollected. "But when it became Easter day, he came alive again." My good Christian mother was tickled pink.
My atom-splitting science teacher of a husband, however, just glared at me, his thick eyebrows twisting into tornadoes. What have you been teaching our son? "Don't worry, honey," I assured him. "I'm not getting all Jesus-y on ya."
I went to church on Easter Sunday with my mom and Max. One time too many, I suppose, for an outspoken skeptic or atheist or agnostic or whatever the hell I am. People were moving away from me in church to avoid the projectile splinters that would surely result from a pew-splitting bolt of lightning. (They've been reading my blog.)
I was raised in the church. My father was an Anglican lay minister for 50 years. I sang in the choir for ten years. I know all the words to several hymns. I even have a favourite -- The King of Love, My Shepherd Is. But do I think it's all a bunch of biblical bunk? Yeah, mostly. I just can't bring myself to go to church anymore; it's all so silly. But I'm not one of those hypocrites who expects to get married and buried in the church but never steps foot inside inbetween. Let it be known: When I go tits-up, you can throw my ashes into the cavity of an old, broken typewriter.
But I haven't completely forsaken church. Because I guess I'm still open to the possibilities. Refusing to go -- never ever ever -- would be like declaring I know something for certain, and that is neither true nor possible. The burden of proof is with you though, Jesus lovers. So forgive me for skipping church and watching E.T. with my family instead. I may not be wrapped in the arms of Jesus, but I'm wrapped in somebody's arms and somebody's wrapped in mine. This is what's real to me. This is my heaven. Send me a Jesus memo when you find something.
But even though I'm not all Jesus-y, it doesn't mean Max can't be. So I took him to church on Easter morning. As his mother, it's on me to teach him how to be polite and share and wipe his arse, but it's not my job to tell him what to believe. Especially when I don't have the slightest clue myself. It's my job to guide him, and show him some of the options -- like the story of Jesus and Easter and Christmas -- and then he can decide for himself.
Besides, I reckon there are worse things to be than Jesus-y. As far as I know, Jesus was a kind, gentle, compassionate man who lived humbly and judged no one. If more so-called Christians acted more like that, maybe I wouldn't have such a distaste for the whole thing.
Anyway, even though I'm not much of a believer myself, I tell my son about Jesus. So that one day, when Max realizes it's all a bunch of horse shit, it won't be "because Mom told me so." It'll be "because that is what I think."
On the other hand, if he decides it's all true, I am open to be enlightened.
]]>My Brave Little Toddler Does Disneytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.28877022013-03-18T08:24:13-04:002013-05-18T05:12:01-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
Same thing goes for your kid. You never really know what kind of youngster you've got until you test him out in the real world -- beyond your 12-foot by 12-foot living room where his audience consists of dinkies, dust bunnies and the dog.
Our recent trip to Orlando confirmed that our little junior is quite the joiner. Not one of those annoying little assholes whose hands are permanently raised in class, volunteering for everything from erasing the chalkboard to shining the teacher's apple with his face fuzz. Max is the kind of kid who just wants to participate, see what it's all about, and doesn't mind that everyone is looking at him.
As soon as we arrived at Hollywood Studios, we got stopped in our tracks by one of those impromptu entertainment troops. They pulled up in the middle of the square in a funny little truck and a slew of crazy characters piled out. A crowd of onlookers quickly gathered around, each one with the kind of smile that hurts your face. After a few tricks and zingers, the actors said they'd now be giving away an ultimate Fastpass and asked for a few pint-sized prospects to come forward and compete for the prize. Max didn't start shouting "me me me!" He didn't know the war was over. But with a teaspoon of encouragement, he was game. "Do you want to go up there and try to win?" we asked him. Blank-faced and open-mouthed, a little stunned by all this excitement, he nodded his head. And with a gentle push of my hand on his shoulder, he was gone out there into the big, bad world. He skipped up into the epicentre of the action, stood politely in place, and said his name into the microphone on cue. Phew. I was terrified he'd say his name was "meatball" or "toaster" or "dicksmack" or something. Who really knows what's going to come out of their mouths? Seriously. He followed his father into the bathroom the other day and said, "Daddy, your penis is disgusting." And he did NOT hear that from me. Nor can he read thoughts.
We shouldn't be surprised by his courage, I suppose. His nickname is Turbo Ginger for god sakes. He chewed his way out of his crib. He ran before he walked. His first crayon drawing was titled, Riptide of Emotion. But I just don't know where he gets it. When I was little, I'd have crawled up my mother's hole before I'd get up in front of a crowd. And his father is kinda shy. Except when he's drinking. Geez, I don't suppose Max was drunk the whole time we were at Disney... Hmmmm.
So our gutsy little guy didn't mind doing his own thang during our excursion to the land of mice and magic. And thank goodness; I didn't pay a zillion clams to have him cling to my thigh like a loser koala bear. This is a buffet of fun, dammit, get your money's worth.
His audacity was an endless source of amusement for us. Except at the Honey, I Shrunk the Kids movie set which should be called Honey, I Lost Our Kid. Max was up the big leaf, down the dog's tongue, in and out of giant Cheerios and crannies and tunnels. Our kid would go into a little nook, we'd watch and wait, and someone else's kid would come out! Me nerves. I'm going to have to teach him a new word soon: kid-nap-per. It took all four sets of eyes -- two parents, two grandparents -- to keep him from ending up in a Columbian brick factory. "Rust hair, strong, make good worker."
I reckon this audacious child of my loins is my ticket to greatness. I mean, it's not like I'm ever going to strike it rich with a bestseller or anything. (Coming this fall from Breakwater: Motherfumbler by Vicki Murphy.) In Orlando, I kept looking around for opportunities to win things, where I could shove Max up on stage to try his luck. "Remember that time you ruined mommy's vagina? You owe me. Dance, ya little frigger, dance!"]]>I've Fallen In Love...With My Kid?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25173062013-01-23T17:19:58-05:002013-03-25T05:12:01-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
I usually like 'em tall, but this guy stands at just three and a half feet. He loves trains, Legos, chocolate milk, and farting in the bathtub.
They say it can take a few weeks, even months, for new a mother to bond with her baby. For me, it took three and a half years. It's not that I didn't love him before. I loved him completely. But maybe I didn't completely like him. He was a little hard to like when he was sucking my nipples off, throwing his fork at my eye, waking up 27 times a night, and smacking me in the face when I tried to hug him.
At nine months old, he was a wrecking ball. A drunk midget in a crusty sweater. This picture was taken right after baby Hannibal ate his first liver.
At age one, he was Cabbage Patch Kid on crack. A Savage Patch Kid. Don't be deceived by the angelic face below. Lucifer and Danny Bonaduce also looked like this as children.
At two years old, he was a bumbling toddler with about 20 words in his vocabulary. Just enough to be dangerous -- and perpetually frustrated.
Now, at age three-and-a-half, he is absolutely perfect. I spent 10 days with him over the holidays, without work or distraction, and I got to see who he really is. And man, he is really something. I mean seriously, your kid is a total loser compared to mine. I'm kidding. Please keep reading.
Not so long ago, he was a rude little jerk. I'd take him to the store where some nice sales lady would grin at him and say, "Aw, would you just look at the curls!" I'd smile politely while Max scowled and darted his foot toward her face. I once took him to a clinic and when the nurse came in to greet us Max said, loud and clear, "I DON'T WANT THAT ONE." He had been tended to by a younger, prettier nurse during his previous visit and Pervo Ginger wanted an encore.
Now, he is incredibly polite. (Yes, in spite of me.) His reaction to every gift he opens, be it toys or tube socks, is an enthusiastic "Wowwww!" And he remembers exactly who gave him what.
There was a time when he resisted all affection. He was just too busy pulling the dog's tail and swinging from doorknobs to hug or kiss or cuddle. Now, he is full of love and gives it away freely. Ask for a hug and before you've finished the question he's halfway across the room with his arms open wide. He does a quick lipstick check first though; if your lips are bright red, forgetaboutit, hooker. When I help him out of his pyjama shirt in the morning, his hands holding onto my shoulders for balance, he comes in for a hug just because he feels like it. Sometimes, mid-embrace, he softly says, "mommy..." like he has just rediscovered that I'm his mom and he's pretty pumped about it.
He is smart. He can count to eleventeen. He doesn't have his alphabet down pat yet and he still thinks we live in "Torbag," but I know he's sharp as a tack. One day when I heard him say "fucker," I immediately scolded him: "Now mister, what did you just say?" As quick as a fox, he replied, "Sucker, I said sucker."
And damn, he's hilarious. His latest schtick is taking off all his clothes and marching around the house chanting, "hand-some, hand-some, hand-some..." Clearly, his band instrument is the kazoo. It's like some baby bootcamp hazing ritual taking place in our living room.
Yeah, yeah, I know every parent says their kid is the bomb and of course we're all right. But I think it's important for me, of all people, to declare my kid's awesomeness because I spend so much time likening him to Satan. Like I said, it's not that I didn't love the little devil before now. Of course I did. But up until recently, it was like loving a raving lunatic. Imagine trying to cuddle a school of capelin, or dress a huge harbour tomcod, or kiss a flatty on a prong. (Sorry -- Newfie here, fish theme.) He was just doing what toddlers do: exploring a strange new world with all his ginger might -- limbs flailing, teeth gnashing, mommy cracking. Maybe he was always this rad and I've just been too busy to see it. Hard to see things clearly with your head up your ass. Or maybe I'm finally starting to forgive him for tearing me a new one.
Don't get me wrong, Turbo Ginger has his moments. And I'm glad; where else am I going to get my material? I don't plan to write my second book about motherhood's rainbows and butterflies. It'll be much like my first book where the only butterflies are the moths that took up residence in my vaginal scar tissue.
I've experienced all kinds of love. Love among friends. The love of men. Many, many, many men. Call me a cynic, but it's never a sure thing. Shit happens. I think the love between my dog and me is pretty pure, but I also know she'd drop me like a wet mitt for a grilled cheese sandwich. This love for Max is perfect. It's not without frustration and chaos and shit and puke, but somehow it's perfect nonetheless. He's perfect. And to think, this perfect little person entered the world via my trés imperfect fur biscuit. Oh the irony.
These days, I come home from work, more excited than ever to see him. I flash him a silly look and watch his lips stretch across his face, revealing every tooth in his wooly little head. His eyes narrow and twinkle, bracing themselves for the quake of his belly laugh that's certainly on its way, possibly with a fart in tow. Oh Max. He at once picks me up and makes me fall to pieces.
One day he'll think I'm a total dork, and run off with some beautiful girl and break my heart. So I'm going to enjoy this while it lasts. I'm going to keep hugging him and kissing him and twirling him around the living room to songs like this one, stepping on train tracks and Legos while an excited dog nips at our ankles. It's a song about lovers, but I think it works for us too. I'm his mama and he's my baby -- the mother bloggin' love of my life.
]]>New Year, Same Hot-Mess Mommytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.23990372013-01-03T12:49:18-05:002013-03-05T05:12:01-05:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
Technology has spoiled me rotten. Almost everything is right at my fingertips and available in a heartbeat. So the things that are still sluggish drive me to utter madness. Breakfast time alone is infuriating. Take the kettle. (No really, take it.) Even the electric one takes light years to boil. Every time I get a cup of tea, I sprout a chin whisker. And the toaster -- has this invention evolved at all since it popped up (ha!) in 1919? By the time my bagel is browned, I'm ready to stick a fork in there just to end the agony.
And then there's the redheaded rascal at the kitchen table demanding jam instead of butter and his toast cut into squares instead of triangles, who has his shirt on backwards and no pants, who runs and hides when it's time to brush his teeth -- a fate worse than death. And I'm running late for work, of course. So my morning dialogue with him sounds a lot like this:
"Come on, Max. Hurry up and get dressed, Max. Eat your breakfast faster, Max. We're late, Max. We need to get going, Max. I can still see you behind the sex swing, Max." (Yeah, right. My husband wishes.)
The fly on the sugar-bowl shakes its head in disgust. I hate me too. Max is just being a kid, savouring the taste of raspberry jam, marvelling at the shape of his bread, swinging his naked legs under the table to the circus music in his head. And I'm here trying to rush him through the simple joys. Hurrying him along so we can get to what's next. Slap me with a frying pan.
So now that it's a brand new year, I guess my resolution is obvious: slow down and enjoy the moment. That's what you're expecting me to say, right? That's where you think this is going. And perhaps that is where this should go. But alas...
I'm not going to resolve to change my ways very much at all. I am what I am. I was born in a flame. Or the back of the Bonavista North Bus. Or something.
See, I'm fast. I scurry. I do look a lot like a squirrel. (Insert "nuts in mouth" joke here.) I hate golf but love tennis. I'd rather salsa than waltz. I hate melancholy music. (Adele can wail but she makes me want to kill myself every 30 seconds.) I type a gazillion words per minute with all the wrong fingers. The first time I attempted to bake bread, I grew so impatient waiting for the dough to rise I stabbed it 37 times with a cleaver.
It's not that I don't stop and smell the roses. I see beauty all around me. And I sit and ponder the meaning of life all the time. But then I realize my sitting and pondering has made me late for the Sit and Ponder Conference and I have to go turbo on everyone's ass to get there.
And it's not that I can't relax. Oh I can relax. I get out of bed at the last possible moment. I am the mayor of Dreamland and the cloud people need me to lead them.
In a nutshell: life is chaos, it's all my fault, but I just can't help it so bite me. I'm a busy woman who is chewing what she has bitten off as fast as she can. I'm a hot mess, always in a rush to get where I'm going, dragging poor Max behind me. But damn it, I'm doing it. I'm getting there. Max is happy and smart and wonderful.
There is room for improvement for sure. Setting my alarm for 20 minutes earlier sure seems like a good idea. And driving the speed limit, that seems wise. But at this dawn of a new calendar year, I'm not going to make a grand pledge to change. To get my shit together so I can slow down and savour the moments and not smash a toaster. Because this motherf***ery works for me, mostly. So, save a few tweaks to spare my boy mommy's madness, I'm going to resolve to keep making it work for me. A more ambitious pursuit is bound to fail because this bitch is a squirrel.
So my new year's resolution is to keep clipping along: typing fast, working hard, laughing loud, raising my boy the best way I know how. And, wherever we go, leaving a trail of fire behind us. Word to your mother.
]]>The One Thing I Need to Be Truly Happytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.22969122012-12-15T08:50:19-05:002013-02-14T05:12:01-05:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
Now that's a heavy question, but a welcome change from the usual mind-numbing converse of hair and clothes and weight gain and weight loss and money and Christmas shopping and bullshit.
It's a big question alright, with an infinite number of answers, especially when happiness means different things to different people. I think, for most people, it's a hard question to answer. Because most people never stop to ask if they're happy at all, let alone what they need -- what they really need -- to be so.
Just a few years ago, I would have answered this question with something like "friendship," or "true love," or "a rewarding career." Years before that, I am red-faced to admit my answer might have been something like "bigger tits" or "a smaller ass." From month to month and year to year, the answer would change, as would I.
Now, at the ripe old age of 34, I know exactly what my answer is. I also know that, while I am still continually changing, my answer to this question will not. Because the answer itself allows for change, from now until my expiry date.
What's the one thing I need to be happy? Above all else, I need to be myself.
Nobody else.
Not some version of me watered down by expectation and fear. What a waste.
Not who strangers expect me to be when first we meet. Pretending is so exhausting.
Not how I'd have to be to keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses can suck it.
Not like the people on TV and in magazines. This is it, baby.
Not the girl my husband secretly wishes I was.
Not how my mother would have me.
Not even as my dad would have wanted me to be.
Not another kind of mom. Max seems to like me just as I am.
I'm not even halfway through my life (I hope), but I've already spent too much time filtering out the parts of me that were inelegant and awkward, turning down the parts of me that were too loud or too bright, to fly under the radar with the rest of the perfectly normal people.
And it's my own fault. Nobody, except me, demanded anything else of me than who I was. It took me three decades to fully realize it, but the truth is: people fucking love it when you're real. You know, as long as you're not a real asshole or a serial killer or a cow fucker or something.
It's simple logic. How can you be happy if you're not being yourself? You're just trying to make the make-believe version of yourself happy, and that doesn't make any sense, stupid.
Of course, it can seem tricky if you don't actually know who you are. But here is the thing: we are all still trying to figure out who we are. It's a lifelong search. We are seekers of the truth -- that's who we are. And I reckon that's a great who to be.
So if you're bonkers, be bonkers. ("I'll tell you a secret -- all the best people are," said Alice.)
If you're smart, be smart.
If you're beautiful, be beautiful.
If you're not beautiful, yes you are.
If you're flawed, work with it. Nobody said you had to be perfect.
If you want to say fuck on the Internet, say fuck on the Internet.
If you're gay, for the love of god be your gay ass self.
Who you are is always right.
You know who had it spot-on? Doctor Seuss. See, I guess I've known the answer to this happiness question for some time now, because I scrawled it on Max's bedroom wall nearly four years ago. I was seven months pregnant, perilously standing on a wooden chair, determined to hand-paint a quote up near the ceiling, all the way around the room. I had searched for weeks for the one piece of wisdom I would like to impart on my first child above all, ultimately choosing one of Seuss's lesser-known lines:
"Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."
Maybe when I redecorate his room one day, I'll change it to this one, also by the good doctor:
"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
]]>Cheap Toys For Toddlers Who Don't Know the Differencetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.20640112012-11-27T15:00:26-05:002013-01-27T05:12:01-05:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
In spite of these uncertain economic times, we're spending more than ever on crap for our little crappers. But why? Forget our desperate need for "stuff" and thoughtless overspending, our kids have NO TASTE. In fact, most tots are downright tacky! Think about it. You give your youngster a big, expensive gift only to watch him toss it aside to play with the wrapping paper. And when your poor, deprived offspring has opened his skyward heap of gifts, the first toy he wants to play with is the one from the dollar store. I know mine does. Max is straight from the trailer park.
So this year, I'm taking advantage of his poor taste and giving him just one gift for Christmas: a telescope. And by telescope I mean an empty paper towel roll.
Here are a few other classic - and I mean really classic - toys for your tweedle-dummies. Each one fosters imagination and creativity, and guess what? They're all free! So you can save your money for booze. Or college, whatever.
1. The Cardboard Box. A classic among children everywhere. It comes with a built-in, saloon-style door, and windows can be installed custom. (Well, more like cut-out than put-in... even easier.) The cardboard box is incredibly multifunctional; it can be a house, a cave, a hospital, or a totally pimped out go-cart. For entrepreneurial kids, it makes a kick-ass lemonade stand. People spend a fortune on these child-size kitchens, but why? Just toss a few pots and pans in the box and your pint-size chef is good to go, money saved. For easy storage, the cardboard box can be folded flat and stored under the couch or bed. Sizes may vary. A refrigerator box = a swagadelic luxury hotel.
2. The Blunt Stick. Please note: this is different from the Sharp Stick, which is a toy for nimbler kids over seven. The ancestor of the Swiss Army Knife, the Blunt Stick is mega multifunctional. Is it a hockey stick, a golf club, a baseball bat, a fishing rod, or a javelin? All of the above, sports star. It's also a light-saber for a young Jedi knight. It's a sword, if your youngster wants to get medieval on another kid's ass. (Please note: I endorse chivalry and theatre, not bullying.) It's a baton for your future gymnast, and, for the big-boned child, it's a trusty roaster of marshmallows. (Oh wait, that's the Sharp Stick, nevermind.) Best of all, the Blunt Stick is eco-friendly, as long as you don't snap it from the endangered St. Helena Gumwood.
3. The Empty Pill Bottle with Macaroni Inside. Note I said macaroni, not pills. Take an empty, plastic pill bottle - preferably one of those chunky, bulk-size vitamin jars - and toss in a few rotini. Whatcha got? Instant maracas! Shake that baby booty! I recommend making a new label for the bottle so others don't think your kid's toy-box doubles as a medicine cabinet.
4. The Wooden Spoon. A mere spoon? To the sadly unimaginative, perhaps. This common kitchen utensil is actually a magic wand. Seriously - bang anything with it and that thing magically transforms into a drum. Throw in a stainless steel mixing bowl and it's a percussionist's starter set. At Long and McQuade, something like this would cost major coin. But lucky for you, the elves that live in your cupboard dish out this playtime fun for free. Comes with free microphone setting.
5. The Pet Rock. A knockoff of the 70s fad. (Yes, this really was a huge novelty in that era. Probably on account of the rampant drug use.) Create your own 21st-century model by going no further than your own backyard, preferably un-landscaped. Fat ones or skinny ones, bumpy ones or smooth ones, sedimentary or igneous, your child can choose the pet that he or she wants, not necessarily the one that doesn't shed. Disclaimer: If you live in a glass house, get a cat.
6. The Empty Paper Towel Roll. There's pirate treasure on your countertop, between your toaster and your microwave. When the last paper towel is pulled from the roll, BAM - you got yourself a telescope, matey. Arrrrrgh you ready to sail the high seas of awesomesauce? For a miniature telescope, head on over to the bathroom.
7. The Imaginary Friend. The success of this toy depends on your level of commitment. Start talking to the empty space next to your child. For example, when I first asked Max, "Would you like to read a book?", I then moved my head 20 degrees to the right or left and asked the same question again. At first, Max looked confused. But within days he started to realize - there is someone there. A friend! In two to three weeks, your child will be enjoying the constant companionship of a kid you never actually have to feed. Or give birth to.]]>One Thing my Husband Never Asks me to Say: Cheesetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.16699722012-07-13T12:55:16-04:002012-09-12T05:12:11-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
But marriage is so intimately tied to motherhood -- you know, if you manage to survive the turbulent toddler years without killing each other -- that my husband often creeps up in my writing. Not unlike the way he crept up into my bootyliciousness some eight years ago at a club downtown.
In spite of inevitable marital disputes, I try to respectfully hold back on the husband bashing. But I reckon after two consecutive long weekends of fishing, golfing and drinking, followed by a night out with his friends that delivered his hairy ass home at 4:30am reeking of George Street sausage dogs and whores -- he's fair game.
See, some husbands must endure the wrath of the wife who nags, yells, throws things, and generally freaks her freak.
And some husbands are subject to the wife who gently types.
He needn't know that with every key softly pecked I'm stabbing someone with a rusty butter knife and a smile.
Not that he even reads this thing. He probably just scans it for the words "husband" and "Andrew." Maybe he should also start scanning for "douchebag" and "tit head," starting right now.
See, I found some photos on his camera. Photos of him and his fishing buddies spooning in a tent, lovingly feeding each other beans from a can, and getting jiggy under the light of the moon.
Just kidding.
It was actually much, much worse. Brace yourself. The photos were... NOT. OF. ME. Gasp!
I mean obviously he didn't take any photo of me on his fishing trip. Because I was not there on the bloody fishing trip. I have bigger fish to fry, thank you very much.
My point is, he never takes pictures of me. Ever. Not pictures of me. Not pictures of myself and Max together. According to the camera roll on his iPhone, we don't exist. Not even the George Street pirate hookers get to see how cute we are.
I mean, God forbid he acknowledge my classic ginger beauty with an art form that does not include slapping my ass and yelling "giddy-up!"
Maybe if I had three months to live, he might consider immortalizing my image with a camera. I mean maybe. Possibly. If he didn't have anything better to do. As long as it's not fishing season.
But it's not that he doesn't take any photos. Oh, he takes photos. Of fish. And fish next to beer bottles to show how big (and photogenic) said fish are. Now that's something special right there.
I'm always the one behind the damn lens. (What, producing an heir wasn't enough? Now I am also the sole photobiographer of our entire lives?) There are so many snapshots of Andrew and Max, I was able to make an epic slideshow for him for Father's Day.
Number of pics of me and Max? Four. And all four of them were taken during this scene:
There's nothing sexier than a cow right after she calfs. I'm surprised I wasn't the one snapping the pictures here -- newborn in one arm, Nikon in the other, knob in an armchair across the room eating a popsicle.
Let's go upload this sweet-ass birthing suite snap to my Facebook and watch as the number of would-be suitors pours in like afterbirth into a bowl.
I'm being a dramatic sloptart. Obviously Andrew has taken more than four photos of me in our time together.
He has taken five.
And here's the kicker -- all five of them I had to ask him to take.
There are few things in life I love more than begging someone to take my picture. I mean, it just makes me feel so humble and modest and not at all obsessed with my own face. He sighs, giving in. Now that's a sound that really makes a girl feel beautiful. And my smile as he carelessly snaps the picture -- it just doesn't get any more genuine. And look at the sparkle in my eye...
That's not a sparkle, honey. That's a volt of electric rage. I made you a fucking slideshow!
After he takes the shot, he hands the camera back or pockets the phone immediately. That's it, one shot. No need to see how the ol' cow turned out. I could have had my eyes closed, my tit hanging out, anything. It doesn't matter. He exerted so much energy, depleted every ounce of creative juice with this one act of photographic genius, he couldn't possibly take one more for good luck.
And just to clarify so all you bushpigs out there don't come at me with comments like "get over yourself," I'm not asking him to take my picture because I think I'm hot as balls. I'm asking him to take it so that, in the event of my untimely death, Max will know I bloody well existed! Is that so much to ask? How much do you remember from age three? Exactly. If I die tomorrow, all Max will have to remember me by is a mop of red hair, this silly blog, and a handful of crappy photos.
But I'm not going to give up on my other main man just yet.
Next time our little family finds itself someplace magical, with the salty Atlantic breeze tossing our ginger manes to and fro, the setting sun casting the perfect golden light on our freckled faces, I will give him the opportunity to make his move. I will give him the chance -- about 45 seconds -- to stop taking pictures of his balls and emailing them to his friends, and start taking pictures of something bigger. Something beautiful that, sadly, just won't last.
Enough with the tadpoles, honey. It's time to take a picture of allllllladis. The catch of your freaking life.
Douchebag.
Tit head.]]>My Most Sportsmanlike Toddler. NOT.tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14431692012-04-23T12:39:30-04:002012-06-23T05:12:02-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
He hates 'em baked.
He hates 'em mashed.
He hates 'em french-fried.
Okay that last one's a lie. Damn you, Ronald McDonald.
But the rest is true. He hates virtually all forms of potato. He won't even play with Mr. Potato Head.
But when someone's passing him a hot one - you know, during a game of Hot Potato at a birthday party -- he will cling to it like sour cream on a chive.
At a birthday party last weekend, Max was one of seven kids, all aged five and under, sitting on the floor playing a game of Hot Potato. Now normally during Hot Potato, you want to get rid of the darn thing; pass it to the next kid as quickly as possible, because if you're holding it when the music stops, you're out.
But this game of Hot Potato was essentially the game of Pass the Parcel, where the prize is wrapped a dozen times and passed around, a layer of paper removed each time the music stops by the kid holding the goods until there are no more layers -- just sweet victory. Except in this case, the prize beneath all that paper was, well, a potato. So we called it Hot Potato. It just felt right. And it's way more fun when the kids think it's going to burn their hands.
But not when my stage-four clinger is in the circle. Apparently Max likes to feel a good, deep burn. The sought-after spud would come to him and, despite all pleas to pass it to the next eager child, he just could not let it go. Parting is such sweet potato sorrow.
At one point, the music stopped just as I intervened to flick the beloved tuber from his grubby paws into the hands of the next child. If we did a slow-mo replay of the action, it would show that it was indeed in Max's hands at the moment the music stopped, but it had been there for the last two to three bars of music! It should have been halfway around the circle by now. In fact, it should be halfway around the neighbourhood, in a pot up the street next to a few carrots. The next kid got to take off a layer of paper while Max kicked and screamed and sobbed, spudless.
Last time there was this much fuss over a potato, it was 1741 Ireland.
I could chalk it up to the terrible twos or almost threes. Toddlerhood is an emotional time. But here were a handful of kids, all around Max's age, and he was the only one freaking his freak. I was so proud, so very proud.
But I didn't let this potato drama boil my blood. Instead I thought how do I fix this?
Do I yank him from the circle as punishment for misbehaving? Show him that if he can't play properly, he doesn't get to play at all.
Or do I sit down in the circle with him and force him to do what is required of this game (and this life!) so he sees what's happening and, hopefully, learns? I mean maybe it's all a bit confusing for my little guy: This irresistible mystery package is plopped into his empty hands, and then, in a fraction of a second, he's expected to give it up to the next guy.
If I were at Neiman Marcus and the sales lady said, "Congratulations -- you're our millionth customer, you win this Gucci purse! Here you go. Uh, oh wait, no, you're our 999,999th customer, sorry, my bad. Could you pass that cherry red, genuine leather, luxury handbag with the gold hardware to the nice lady behind you, please?"
Waaaaaaaaaah. I'd be heartbroken. And I'm not three years old.
So I opted for plan B. I sat down next to him in the circle, cradled his sticky hands in mine and proceeded to facilitate the receipt and passing of the stupendous spud. I also refrained from making inappropriate jokes like, "Idaho who's gonna win this game!"
Each time the potato made its way around to Team Ginger, I plucked it from Max's death grip and passed it on at lightning speed; I didn't want him holding it when the music stopped, not even to take off an upper layer of paper. If he got to take off one layer, there'd be no stopping the human vegetable peeler from hitting pay dirt. And plus, the potato is hot, remember? "Toss that tuber, kids! Save your fingerprints!"
But lo and behold, despite my fast-handed action and good intentions, the little frigger won the game. The music stopped when the potato, now barely concealed by a thin layer of pink tissue paper, was fair and square in Max's mitts. Turbo Ginger's maniacal laughter broke through his tears. It was terrifying.
Victory was the worst possible outcome. Today's lesson in Toddlerville: Have more hissy fits, get more stuff.
Damn it.
He unwrapped the final layer of paper and there it was. He had no idea the potato-shaped parcel that we were all calling the hot potato was really a... wait for it... potato. Kids are so wonderfully dumb.
The long-awaited prize looked him in the face with a hundred gnarly eyes and said, Surprise, kid. What'd you think I was -- a truck?
What the heck? Max thought.
Then, ah well, Idaho who's gonna give this a go.
He traded in his potato for a real prize, of course: a pair of wind-up fish that swim around in the bathtub. He didn't let the precious cargo out of his sight for the rest of the day. They were donated organs on ice, en route to the operating room.
A second game quickly ensued, but this time I ejected the spud champ. I couldn't risk the greedy bugger winning for a second time. It would go right to his potato head.]]>How the Eggheads Stole Eastertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14100792012-04-08T01:42:24-04:002012-06-07T05:12:01-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
They rolled the stone away from the tomb to reveal... a giant Cadbury Creme Egg! Alleluia!
Then they rolled away the egg to reveal... the body of Jesus! Dead? Hell no. He was in a big dirty sugar coma. That's not dried blood on his hands; that's the remnants of a chocolate-covered marshmallow Peep.
And contrary to popular belief, he was not wrapped in the Shroud of Turin. He was wearing a big pink bunny suit.
In fact, that wasn't even a wooden crossbeam he lugged through the streets on his shoulders last Friday; it was a jumbo Toblerone bar. Just for you. From Jesus. You're welcome.
And His disciples... Now I know they're usually depicted as men with beards and flowing garb, but they were actually not men at all. They were fluffy yellow chicks in gardening hats.
I'm sorry, Jesus. Thanks for the sacrifice that miraculously inspired a holiday steeped in milk chocolate. How would I get my fix (and fat ass) without you?
It'd be just heavenly if chocolate were the extent of it. But Easter has become a second Christmas. Pray tell, when did this happen?
As an advertising gal, I know how it happened: the onslaught of mega brands like Hershey, Hallmark, The Gap, Disney, Lego, Nestle, and Nintendo. Combine that with our ever-growing human desire to see, taste, experience and own everything on earth and you've got a billion-dollar industry built entirely around a bloody bunny. Yesterday morning, I saw the face of a jackrabbit in my grilled cheese sandwich and got $17 for it on eBay.
But when did this Easter mania happen? Well, the bunny legend dates back to 17th century Germany. But growing up in the 1980s, I don't remember the holiday being this big of a fuss. And take it from me -- an Easter baby. Born three days after Easter Sunday, I was the icing on the Jesus cake. And speaking of cake, my birthday often fell around Easter, so my birthday cake often looked like this:
My birthday outfits were geometric nightmares in pastel. This one even came with a set of bunny ears. (And an arsehole.)
Whatevs. All I know is Easter was no biggie.
I guess over time the evil geniuses seeped it into our social consciousness and before we knew it "chocolate," "clothes," and "crap" came before Christ in our list of Easter "C" words. Out with the Prince of Peace, in with the Reese's Pieces! C is for crock of shit all around.
Now that I have my own egg-seeking candy muncher, other moms are asking me, "What are you doing for Max for Easter?"
As eggnostic as I am, I'd be quite content if they were inquiring about our righteous resurrection rituals. I wish they were asking me which letter in the word E-A-S-T-E-R Max would be holding in the church pageant. I mean, my answer would still be "we're doing nothing." (I tried to reenact the crucifixion once using Mr. Potato Head, but his hands and feet kept falling off while I was driving in the nails.)
But no, what they're asking is what am I buying Max for Easter? To which I can't help but utter a bewildered, resounding "HUH?"
It kinda goes like this:
"So what are you giving Max for Easter?"
"Uhhh, I dunno. A wedgie?"
"Oh." (You horrible mother.)
"Why -- am I supposed to give him gifts for Easter?"
"Well, you don't have to. But you know, some parents (good parents) give their kids candy eggs, chocolate bunnies..."
"Oh yeah, I could do that. They sell that stuff at the liquor store, right?"
" ...and clothes, toys, bikes, video games..."
"Shit, son! The Easter Bunny really goes all out. Is this revenge for Santa sporting that fur-trimmed suit? Should I put up a tree and set snares under it?"
By now, she has already hopped away from my miserable sarcasm. I deserve it. If I were smart, I'd simply reply, "Oh you know, I'm having a egg hunt like everybody else."
But I just can't be anybody else.
"Oh, I'm having an egg hunt. An egg hunt so world-class, with eggs so skillfully hidden they'll appear on milk cartons. You'd need to give the house a colonoscopy to find them. They'll be missing so long, authorities will issue a turquoise alert. Nancy Grace will be yakking about it for months. Bloodhounds will hang themselves, worthless and defeated."
Which to her sounds a lot like, "You foolish, foolish twit of a woman."
And hey, maybe it's better to be a foolish twit of a woman than a miserable prick of a mom. I dunno. Pass the jelly beans.
Max will be eating eggs during Easter. But most of them will have sprung from a chicken's twat. He's not even three years old! One chocolate bunny contains enough sugar to send Turbo Ginger on a Boston Cream Marathon.
Sorry, I'm sounding crazy. There's nothing wrong with a bit of Easter fun. But baskets brimming with clothes, toys, gadgets... Seriously, people? You're giving your kids all this stuff... for Easter? For God sake, I just found a pine needle in my arse crack because we just had Christmas, like, five minutes ago! The house still smells like fricken fruitcake!
Yay, the baby Jesus is born! I think I'll go spend an Almighty fortune on gifts.
Three months later...
Yippee, Jesus is risen from the dead! I think I'll go crucify my credit card.
I mean, I guess I get it: Christmas and Easter are about love shown to the world by the son of God. So to honour that greatest of gifts, we show our love by giving one another frivolous junk. Yeah, that makes sense.
Admit it, runny babbits -- Easter is just another reason to overspend and overeat and overindulge your children with crap to make up for your shit-brick parenting. What would Jesus think? Tsk tsk.
Imagine how many kids out there, rustling through the backyard grass in their new Easter clothes (WTF) in search of little foil-wrapped eggs, who don't even know who Jesus is.
At least there's hilarity in it all. Easter at the mall is a riot. Parents line up with their kids to get their snap taken with the Easter Bunny. A couple months ago, they sat on the lap of a creepy old man in a red suit and ratty beard. Now it's time to get cozy with some sweaty guy in a rabbit suit made of pure evil. Here's a photo of my friend's twin boys, Will and Jack Cross. And a bunny who will haunt my dreams 'til July.
And check out this one. The sweet daughter of Mo' Blo' reader Roxanne, and a bunny who should have kept some of the candy for himself. I think it's safe to say this one's not a cottontail.
So, eggheads, what other Christian holidays can we go to hell with?
We have this dry period around summer. How about we have a Noah's Ark Day and give our kids expensive watercraft? Every child needs a Sea-doo.
Let's have a Mary Magdalene Day and have all the little girls go around drying people's feet with their hair. That'd be super cute.
And we just gotta have a Jonah-And-The-Whale Day. We'll have some dude dress up in a whale suit and make our kids sit in his mouth.]]>Motherhood Is the Sh*ttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12402492012-01-30T01:11:05-05:002012-03-30T05:12:01-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
"Did you eat a lot of fruit today?" she asks with a curious smile.
"Ummm, no?"
My three-day-old jaundiced son was in an incubator down the hall and Florence Frightengale here was talking about apples and oranges!?
She chuckled. "Max just pooped and it shot right out of the hole in the side of the incubator."
Not connecting the dots? Fruit has fibre. Mommy eats fruit. Breastmilk transfers fibre to baby. Baby shoots supersonic, projectile poop missiles.
Excellent work, son! Next time, point your cute little crap cannon right at the meany-faced nurse. You know the one. Get 'er right in the meany eye.
And so it began. My entire existence would henceforth revolve around the emissions of this itty-bitty bunghole.
During those six days at the hospital with my little Mexican midget with the excess bilirubin, I had to document every dang detail of his brownload downloads. Colour, frequency, size -- it was a proper doo-doo diary. From black meconium to guacamole green to mustard yellow, his Crayola box of crappola indicated his bilirubin was regulating and we could finally take Paco home. (As his liver-tan faded to the intended pasty white, his moniker changed from Cheech to Alfredo to Billy Reuben to Casper, but we eventually settled on Max, short for Maxican -- a salute to his uncanny six-day impression of George Lopez.)
I stole as many diapers from the hospital as my duffle bag would hold and went on my merry mommy way.
Before long, Max's butt nuggets became that familiar shade of brown. Now that's the shit I know... and love? My romanticized notions of motherhood quickly kerplunked to the bottom of the diaper pail. Beyond the bliss of little white onesies and cloud-soft chenille blankets was the fundamental truth that we are all just animals, performing the most basic of human functions: Eat. Breathe. Shit. Sleep. Survive. Max and I, both.
In a twist of cruel irony, my dad was battling colon cancer. He had a tumour removed from his bowel the very day I peed on a stick and heard it scream "pregnant!" Good and bad, the colon was certainly seeing a lot of action in our family. But let's keep this light, shall we? Back to the ass goblins.
Shit was everywhere. Yes, fan included. If I had one of those super-cool infrared CSI poop detectors, there'd be one white patch behind the fridge where shit had yet to splatter. But hey, we were home. Let the feces fall where it may.
It's when we ventured out into the real world that things got messy. More than once we stripped Maximus Stinkimus down in public places, including once in the parking lot of a car dealership as we shopped for a new ride. I triple-bagged his clothes as my husband dangled the 15-pounder out of the car door, Michael-Jackson-balcony style; Max had shat himself from neck to knees. If I hadn't packed extra clothes for him, we would have had to wrap him up in a Pontiac poster. Stool-resistant seats blasted to the top of our "things we need in a car" list. Basically, we needed to drive Frank Barone's couch.
We were rolling with the punches of new parenthood, but this shitstorm was a new climate for us. Two years prior, our new puppy had arrived, fully trained to poop in the yard at nine-weeks-old. Human babies are so dumb.
But I didn't realize just how wonderful infant poop was until Max, around age one, started depositing full-size, mega-toxic shitsicles. I may as well have been changing my husband's diaper. One day, honey. EW! (Please read that EW in all caps, 48-pt type, and followed by 10,000 exclamation marks.)
And around age two, the butt-munchkin started assuming "the position." Turbo Ginger never stops, so when he does it's either because Thomas is on Treehouse, or there's a corn-eyed butt snake en route to Pantsville. Here's how it goes: I notice a sudden silence. This can only mean one of two things. He's either standing there across the room, holding a pair of scissors and staring at me thinking, "Will she stop me, or shall I go ahead and carve the shit out of those curtains?" Or, he's bent over at the waist at a 45-degree angle, red-faced and quivering, squeezing some Mississippi mud into his diaper like a human tube of toothpaste.
His body in a full Nazi salute, it's like he's a member of the Turd Reich. Okay, that's it. When my kid starts to remind me of Adolf Hitler, I know it's time for change. It's potty time, baby.
But we didn't push the potty training too hard, warned by many that he might rebel and either get a tattoo or start pinching loafs all over the house. But once he realized what we were up to, Max started hiding. Behind the couch. Behind his bedroom door. And he started saying things like, "I gotta go see a man about a horse." Okay, that's a lie. But he did start saying, "I go hide," and "Don't look at me." Oh OK, Mr. Mysterious, what ever could you be up to? You better not be smoking cigarettes in there, or watching those skanks on Toddlers & Tiaras.
But now, at two and three-quarter years of age, he's ready and about 87 per cent trained. He has the occasional accident, but who doesn't? (Blush.) The day is quickly approaching when I will no longer accidentally lick "chocolate" off my wrist, and I can buy more vodka and less crap-catchers. Those friggers are 50 cents a poop, er, pop! I'm broke. And I'm not just talking about my vagina.
In the meantime, I'm savouring my little pooper's first life endeavour. (Well, second, if you count "latching on.") His determined, wide-eyed poop face is cute as hell, despite the assault on my nostrils as an ungodly aroma wafts up from below him. He looks down through his legs to see the chalupas he's dropping and exclaims, "Look -- it's poop!" No shit, Sherlock. He has pooped on the potty about 70 times now and he's still psyched -- every time. It's the gift that keeps on giving.
Then we "drop some friends off at the lake." Proud and excited, he watches it swirl down the drain and exclaims, "Bye poopy, see ya later!" I sure hope not, dude. What's that? -- A knock on the door. Oh... God... Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!]]>Parents Need Dreams Tootag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12068712012-01-16T09:44:18-05:002012-03-17T05:12:01-04:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
As a child in the '80s, I used "2012" in my short stories as that far-off, fictional year when humans would be colonizing Jupiter and driving hoverboards like Marty McFly.
Instead, here we are, only slightly altered since last year, but another year closer to death nonetheless. And we're still asking ourselves: What do I truly want?
And don't say, "I want to be happy." That's a given. That's like saying, "I like puppies." Of course you like puppies! Who doesn't? Well, Jeffrey Dahmer... but, who else?
The real question is, what do you want to do before you croak, before you expire like sour cream in the back of the fridge? I'm not talking about a bucket list of bullet-point experiences. I'm certainly not talking about things you want to buy. I'm talking about your passion, your work, your "thang" -- the pursuit that will probably dictate the theme of your eulogy.
For some, the answer is as easy as pie: "I want to bake pies!" Sweet action. Bake your buns off, bee-otch. Give Martha Stewart a run for her honey-pecan pumpkin pie.
Maybe you just want to fish more. Become one with the great outdoors. Catch a rainbow trout so colossal, Cuisinart will invent a bigger frying pan and name it after you. (That one's for you, honey.)
Perhaps you want to be a CEO with a corner office and a parking space that says, "Park Here If You're Awesome." Go for it, smarty pants. The world is your oyster -- shuck the shit out of it.
Or maybe you just want to be a really, really good parent. Awesomesauce. Spit 'em out, keep 'em happy (and alive); there is no higher vocation.
Myself, I want to be an author. Stop laughing.
I want Angelina Jolie to play me in the movie based on my book, The Adventures of Turbo Ginger. I mean come on Angie, we look exactly the same.
I want Tina Fey to stumble upon my broken twat and ask me to co-write the screenplay for Reflections of a Broken Vagina. Ticket sales will be through the pelvic floor, and then the roof.
With my earnings, I'll live (and write) worry-free for the rest of my days and pay Max's way through The School for Freaking Awesome Children. (Screw the gifted.)
In the meantime, I'm having a blast making advertising. I plan to be the first person to create a billboard made entirely of human hair.
People ask me, "Where do you find the time to do it all?" Sometimes it's because they're impressed, more often it's because they're secretly scorning me: You should be nurturing your mini, not your manuscript. Bad mommy. Bad, bad mommy.
Here's how I find the time:
I don't clean. It's not an episode of Hoarders up in here. But to my mother's disappointment, mommyhood and Hollywood come before cleanli...hood...ness.
I write like you shit. It comes naturally to me and doesn't take as long as you think. It helps that I rarely use words beyond seven letters long. #mesostoopid
And I occasionally neglect my family. Luckily, I married a patient man who's a really good dad and thinks dust bunnies are kinda cute. If he snaps one day and leaves me, I'll hire Vincent Schiavelli to play him in the movie.
Clearly, in addition to all this mommy blogging I have to actually be a mother. I mean, where else am I going to get my material?
I'm a good mom. But I am more than that and I'm not going to feel bad about it because the Society of Breastfeeding Nazis thinks I should. (And before you go crazy cakes, I suckled my boy for 10 months and have the empty water balloons to prove it.)
Why not have aspirations beyond the diaper pail? By doing what we love -- whatever that may be (as long as it's legal) -- we're setting an example for our children. We're saying, Do what you love, baby! We don't even need to say it; we just need to do it. Live it. Our children watch and learn.
Every parent is unique, but we all share a common goal before we go tits-up: To die with no regrets. (Other than the regret of accidentally swallowing that rat poison that's now killing us.) And that pursuit -- or avoidance, rather -- is a complicated thing.
Think about it. If I ignored Max tonight to work on the next great Canadian novel (just go with it) and I died suddenly tomorrow, I'd probably regret not having spent those last moments with him. You know, if I was still alive to feel that sting of regret.
But if I die next week without having at least half-heartedly pursued my childhood dreams, passing it up in order to be the best damn mother the world has ever seen, I'd probably regret that too. You know, if I wasn't already decomposing.
Remember Randy Pausch? The theme of his famous Last Lecture was "achieving your childhood dreams." "The inspiration and the permission to dream is huge," he said. Among other things, he wanted to be an Imagineer with Disney and he made it happen, all while being a great husband and dad to three young children. Randy succumbed to pancreatic cancer in 2008 at the age of 47.
Balance is everything. The challenge is to find the time and the energy to pursue your dreams -- however grand or humble -- while taking care of your greatest dream-come-true, your family. It isn't easy. Time is scarce. So is money. And unlike mine, not all dreams can be pursued with little more than a computer and spellcheck. But isn't it sad to hear parents say things like, "Oh, I've got no time for that now, with the kids and all." Dude, don't let your children be the reason your dreams dried up and died. Let them be the reason you kept them alive!
Contrary to corny philosophy, I don't think you should "live like there's no tomorrow." If I did that, I'd be cuddled up in bed with my three favourite people (well, two people, one furkid) and never leave the house except to buy poutine, chocolate, ice cream sandwiches and candy. What? It's Armageddon! Screw Canada's Food Guide! I also don't subscribe to the whole "you'll never hear a dying person say they wish they had worked more" concept. Maybe that's not always true. I bet it's not true for the dying guy who had the cure for cancer but was so busy with the kids he never found the time to formulate it. Especially if he's dying of cancer.
Randy Pausch's inspirational Last Lecture was about achieving your childhood dreams -- and enabling the dreams of others. Whose dreams did he most enable during his mere 47 years of life? Surely it's those of his children, Dylan, Logan and Chloe. He enabled their dreams -- not just by being a good dad, but by being a dreamer himself.
So, would I be a better mom if I didn't have all these time-sucking pipe dreams? Maybe.
I'd like to think I'm a better mom because I have them.
]]>Dear Pope, Time for Some Tweaks?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.11841862012-01-09T03:53:03-05:002012-03-09T05:12:01-05:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
How do you prevent a mommy blogger from ringing in the new year in head-to-toe flannel, scraping chocolate out of her spacebar with the label from a bottle of cheap wine while she updates her Facebook status to: The first person to bring me another bottle of Shiraz wins a big, fat prize wrapped in flannel.
Invite her to a wedding!
BAM.
What a time.
But why in holy hell did they choose that reading for the wedding ceremony? Whyyyyyy?
Allow me to quote from the Book of Sirach:
Happy is the husband of a good wife; the number of his days will be doubled. A loyal wife brings joy to her husband, and he will complete his years in peace. A good wife is a great blessing; she will be granted among the blessings of the man who fears the Lord. Whether rich or poor, his heart is content, and at all times his face is cheerful.
A wife's charm delights her husband, and her skill puts flesh on his bones. A silent wife is a gift from the Lord, and nothing is so precious as her self-discipline. A modest wife adds charm to charm, and no scales can weigh the value of her chastity. Like the sun rising in the heights of the Lord, so is the beauty of a good wife in her well-ordered home. Like the shining lamp on the holy lampstand, so is a beautiful face on a stately figure. Like golden pillars on silver bases, so are her shapely legs and steadfast feet.
One second. I need to go flip the flapjacks, then iron my husband's shirts, then "add charm to charm," then hurl. All the while remaining cheerfully silent and glowing like a "shining lamp." What the H-E double hockey sticks?!
I'm not sure if the passage was read verbatim. I was too busy picking my jaw off the floor, pinching myself, and mentally slapping my husband who kept looking at me with that smug "Get in the kitchen and make me some pie" look.
The thoughts kept pinballing around in my head...
Is this really happening?
Did she really just say that?
Is this 1954?
Am I alive right now?
Is the Pope a He-man Woman Hater?
What's next -- a pro-slavery poem?
Are they going to sacrifice a gay on the altar?
Someone check my ears for wax. There must be a full box of crayons in there because what I'm hearing just can't be right.
I'm no feminist, trust me. Sometimes I even objectify myself. (See photo above. Dress bought at Trollops.) But what in the name of Christ (that's not a curse -- I mean it literally) is this verbiage doing within a 100-yard radius of a Christian establishment?
So let me get this straight... the Catholic Church thinks that, to be a good wife, I need to be a good housekeeper? Someone interpret that differently for me. Please. Be my guest. Tell me I'm reading it all wrong. (After the comments on my last post, I'm sure you won't disappoint.) I will gladly accept dyslexia in exchange for clarity that does not involve me wearing an apron around my "stately figure" in my "well-ordered home."
I wonder if the Pope has a little diagram of a "good wife" pinned to his fridge (full of wine and unleavened bread?) -- of a shapely (but modest!) woman holding a feather duster, bending over (but not too far!) to wipe the crud off her husband's big, long briefcase that contains his big, long list of manly achievements.
Seriously. Is this holy scripture or last month's copy of Hustler? But hey, this gibber-jabber was written a couple thousand years ago. I can't blame the Church today for something written in another time.
But I can tsk-tsk today's Church for offering up that passage as an appropriate reading for a marriage! Dudes -- there are so many other passages, why oh why would you include this one in the list? Leave it in the dark ages from whence it came. Stick it in the closet with the rest of the secrets, whatevs. It doesn't belong here no mo'. Good grief, we women are trying to get ahead here. Do a girl a solid.
Thankfully, the Protestants do not accept the scripture of Sirach. High-five, my Anglican brothers and sisters! And here's an additional hip-hip-hooray for allowing women to preach.
I must sign off now and sharpen my "skills," to put meat on my husband's bones. Holy hilarious. This must be the passage my mother read every night before bed. Keep a clean house and food on the table and you're top notch. (She must have fallen off to sleep before the "silent wife" part.)
Even the priest who officiated made amendments for this dinosaur of an excerpt. After the reading, he chuckled and said something like, "Of course, all these things can be applied to the husband as well." I was relieved. At least he kinda-sorta acknowledged the hogwashiness of the thing.
With all due respect, Mr. Pope, I think it's time for a few updates. Or kick that passage to the curb altogether. The Bible is, like, a gazillion pages long; surely you have enough other sacred stuff to draw from. Maybe this un-wisdom was applicable through to the 1950s, but come on -- times have changed a little, don't you think? The leader of the free world is black. GASP! We've even opened our minds to electing (and re-electing) douchebags here in Canada.
Come on Benny, I know you're not that out of touch. You don't deny that the Holocaust did indeed happen (unlike your rebel bishop pal, Richard Williamson, who believes there were no gas chambers -- and also that women should not wear pants). Good on ya. Now... why can't women be priests? Are we ladies not capable of being divine? Is our divinity restricted to our partridgeberry pie and how we fold those blasted sheets with the elastic at the corners? Is the Church a part of Al Bundy's No Ma'am Club? Let us in. Not me, but anyone else with girl parts who wants in. Oh, and while you're at it, maybe you could reword the whole thing about homosexuality being a "disorder." That's just silly.
I think most priests and churchgoers would agree -- congregations (and, consequently, contributions to the collection plate) are dwindling as communities age. The Church is a dying institution, as more and more young people drift further and further away from conventional religion. So helloooooo -- if you are trying to appeal to a younger, modern demographic, this is so not the way to do it. (I think you need the guidance of a good marketing company -- call me.)
When I heard that reading during the wedding ceremony, I thought to myself, thank God (I guess) that I was married by the mayor because this backwards baloney is just bananas. I'm sure there are other teachings and readings that I could embrace, and many that I already do, but the endorsement of this Sirach poppycock is enough to turn me toward voodoo instead; clearly, the Church and I are not a good fit.
Go ahead. Put me on the Illuminaughty List. Until there's an update, I will continue to worship the fairies in the woods. Word.
And to all ye getting married in the Catholic Church, for the love of God and all his creatures great and small and male and female, stick with Corinthians; faith, hope and love never go out of style.
]]>To Breed or Not to Breed: Reflections of a Broken Vaginatag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.11832922012-01-04T10:42:15-05:002012-03-05T05:12:02-05:00Vicki Murphyhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-murphy/
"Drink water," he says as he takes a gulp and grins, his upper lip sporting a thick bubble-stash.
"Drink water, drink water..."
He repeats it again and again until I warn, "Now Max, you know you're not supposed to drink the bath water. It's dirty."
He looks at me for a long time, his orange eyebrows entwining to form a question mark. One day soon he will ask: But mom, if the water is dirty, why am I in it?
Touché, little dude, touché.
He is growing so fast. He's the full length of the bathtub. He has a moustache for God sake! Holy crap, it must be time to have another baby.
I feel a sudden ache in my uterus and a burning in my loins. Desire? Hells no. That's just the lifelong repercussion of squeezing a human out of my magic muckle. Oh the horror.
So... It's 2012. A new year. Do I spit out a new youngster or not? I am torn. And oh how I wish that was not a play on words.
This calls for one of the things that my husband dreads more than penis-kabobs: A LIST. Don't worry, honey. It's not a honey-do list... unless it concludes with "do me," in which case I'm confident you'll have no problem following orders. It's a list of pros and cons. To breed or not to breed: that is the question.
PRO: Max gets a brother or a sister.
CON: I have to grow said brother or sister inside my body and get it here via the Va-Jay-Jay Express.
PRO: The Bearded Oyster is already a dive, so why not close shop altogether and go home with a nice souvenir?
CON: I am well-healed and back to my pre-prego weight and pretty pleased with it, despite the extra stomach skin that makes me look like an accordion when I sit down. (Crop tops prohibited.) Why mang all that merchandise up again?
PRO: I get an extra human to produce grandchildren for me.
CON: I have to worry that said human will produce grandchildren at age 13. Coming up next on TLC... 13 and Pregnant! Followed at 10:30 by Nanny Nightmares: My Kid is a Little Tramp.
PRO: We get a baby to love and cuddle.
CON: The baby is a demon who keeps me up all night and ruins my shirts with puke and poop.
PRO: If it's a boy, I get to reuse all Max's perfectly unsoiled clothes.
CON: If it's a girl, I have to buy a bunch of pink clothes so our daughter doesn't look like k.d. lang.
PRO: We get to make another living, breathing masterpiece. Max is way too cute to have just one of him. Exhibit A...
CON: Maybe Max used up all the good DNA and this one is doomed to get the leftovers: big nose, big ears, third nipple, and eye of Cyclops.
CON: Every time I do a jumping jack at the gym, I pee a little.
PRO: Once I'm pregnant, I can eat what I want because I'm going to get fat anyways. My pet saying as a prego? "Quarter Pounder with Cheese Combo, six nuggets on the side and an apple pie, si vous NOWWWW."
CON: My ass will resemble the broad side of a barn for at least six to nine months, with the possibility of permanent barnliness; even the barn will mistake me for one of the livestock.
Need proof? This was a full-size Clydesdale...
CON: Bye-bye, MILF T-shirt. Hello, saddle. My career as a swimsuit model is so over.
PRO: Cha-ching! Another kid, another $1,000 from the Newfoundland and Labrador Government.
CON: Cha-shit! The average cost of raising a child in Canada: $14 zillion. And that's just the Goldfish crackers.
PRO: Wayne and Rosena Murphy get grandbaby number 10 for a nice even number. Shirley Combden gets grandkid number four... maybe a girl this time?
CON: Not gonna happen, sister. The walls of my uterus are painted blue. Last Thursday, I pooped a dump truck decal and a handful of gravel.
PRO: I get a year off.
CON: I get a year trapped in a time warp, relying on EI which doesn't cover shit, not even shit catchers. Yesterday, I noticed the price of diapers has gone up: $41.99 for a box of 100. Shooooooot. Today, Max is wearing a dishcloth.
PRO: Andrew could take paternity leave, so I could go on working.
CON: I may be inclined to strangle Andrew with my rope-like boobs.
CON: Yes, breastfeeding deflated my boobs and now I have to wear a super-duper push-up bra just to keep the suckers out of my pockets. This can only get worse.
PRO: I get to go to mommy and baby movies at Empire Theatres on Thursday mornings.
CON: No I don't, because I have another kid at home ruining my life.
PRO: I can get one of those kickass double strollers.
CON: I need one of these damn double strollers. Can I borrow 20 bucks? How much can I get for this MILF T-shirt?
PRO: Max can use the baby as a pillow in the stroller. Bonus.
CON: Andrew and I will be so busy being parents, we'll forget about being a couple.
PRO: We'll be so busy being parents, we'll forget about our relationship problems.
CON: I set my career back a notch or two. Come on people, you know it's true. One of the reasons there'll never be a female president: We're breeders.
CON: I'll never find the time to write a book. *POUT*
CON: Andrew is not the doting type. So when I start getting fat and uncomfortable, I can look forward to NOT getting my feet massaged.
CON: My dad was sick when I was pregnant. He died when Max was nine months old. So I associate pregnancy with impending doom. Textbook psychiatry. I can diagnose myself because I am a doctor part-time.
CON: First trimester nausea. Once, on my way to work, I threw up in my hat.
CON: Second trimester semi-chubbiness when people aren't sure if you are having a baby or if you just had a big lunch. Awkward.
CON: Third trimester bulbousness when people mistake you for the Penguin from Batman, followed by the awesome sensation of carrying a bowling ball in your underwear.
CON: Vagination Ruination: the Sequel.
CON: The Meat Curtain Massacre, Part Deux.
CON: Hotdogs in Hallways: The Final Poke.
CON: Wow, that's a lot of cons. To top it off, maybe one of my kids will be a con. Max is already terrible at sharing, and goes ape-shit for toys at the store. Just steps away from kleptomania, I reckon.
PRO: Kids keep us young as they see the magic of the world and discover it for the first time. My boobs may sag, but my spirit will soar.
