Corn bran.

The Boy is at a fun age food-wise. At almost 8 months old, he’s tried most fruits and vegetables, a few meats, and we’ve begin dabbling in finger foods and different textures.

And wasn’t it cute when I popped a piece of corn bran cereal in his mouth, and he made a funny face. And wasn’t it cute as he sucked it down to mush before swallowing and opening his little mouth for more.. And wasn’t it adorable how feeding him the next four or five pieces led to a realization that even a small amount of bran cereal to a baby that small would be akin to an average-sized woman injesting A BOX of laxatives.

And wasn’t it ADRORABLE when the house smelled like a sewage plant explosion for two days in one of the hottest weeks of the year.

Lesson learned.. lesson learned.

Tempting Fate

Children certainly don’t come with a manual, and although most of us have good intentions when it comes to parenting, sometimes mistakes are made. Big mistakes.

Out of laziness or poor planning or apathy, The Girl watches too much tv. Sometimes her socks don’t match. A can of frosting for lunch is not necessarily out of the question, and a teeth-brushing schedule is sketchy at best.

She always always sits in a carseat with a buckled seatbelt. She always always has sunscreen and a hat on on sunny days. She almost always goes to bed at 8pm sharp, always wears a helmet when riding her bike, and never ever EVER lest-Mommy-wrings-your-neck runs on the road.

Last weekend, we were at the pool. And I’ll admit, I got lazy.

She had been up late the night before. It was my sister’s wedding after all, and the kids were in the pool much of the evening. The Girl can’t swim. She’s been in swimming lessons off and on since she was 7 months old, and took the Sea Turtle level no less than four times before passing and moving on to Salamander (which she failed). I don’t like to push her at sports or dancing or other activities, but I feel that swimming is a life skill, and she needs to learn how to do it, whatever her pace is. She sees no correlation between the lessons at the public pool and swimming in her aunt’s backyard.

At any rate, late in the evening the night before, there were maybe 50 people standing around the pool or swimming in it. She at first clung only to the stairs, but got a little more daring this year, and ventures into the deep (8 feet or so) end while on a floating chair. I try to make sure she’s wearing water wings or SOMEthing inflatable. And really, she should not have been out of MY arm’s reach.

The next day, we were back at the pool. There were 10 of us or so sitting poolside, eating, cannonballing, chatting. Family from out of town were set to return home in a few hours, and it was just a nice, lazy afternoon. The Girl spent much of it in the pool, floating along on her chair. I decided to take The Boy in the pool. I slathered him in sunscreen, put on his trunks and his hat, and made my way down the stairs on the inside of the pool with the baby on my hip. It took me a minute to realize what was going on. She was there, her toes barely scraping across the pool bottom. Her left arm was stretched out, and her face, slowly going under the water, was panicked. “Mommy, help me.”

And The Girl almost drowned.

It was so sudden. So… silent. She had tried to get out of her floating chair, and somehow fell to where the pool floor was just a little too deep for her. It seemed like hours between the time I saw her grasping for me and the time I yanked her out by one arm until she was well above the water.

The look on her face will haunt me for some time I’m sure. I think about what would have happened.. if I hadn’t happened to be RIGHT there. It occured to me that although I am a fairly good and confident swimmer, I wouldn’t have heard her scream. In fact, there were many good swimmers sitting by the pool.. a few were physically in the water with her.. and yet.. she was MY responsibility. Not theirs. We were all lazily watching her. A glance at the water now and then. But how long would it have been before she hit the bottom of the pool? Eight seconds? Three? And then what? What if she’d died? What would the rest of the day have been like? The next day..?

I had only a few days prior been reading how the week before was Drowning Prevention week. A person — even a good swimmer — can drown in an inch of water. And there I was, stupid as ever, being so careless with someone so precious.

I bought lifejackets. One for The Girl, and one for The Boy. They will never, ever be in water without one. And even then, lifejackets are not substitutes for supervision. It’s terrible that it took a scare for me to realize my own stupidity, but I’m thankful for it, as now I know that laziness is best served with mismatched socks and cans of frosting, and should be kept far away from the pool where children are concerned.

Seven dead babies and a whole lotta stupid.

I am all for forcible sterilization of this woman. Really, how many people have to die before women like these learn to keep their pants on?

The allen wrench that ruined my life.

I remember The Girl’s nutritionist saying I could switch from formula to whole milk when she was at least 9 months old and eating at least a cup of food every day. We made the switch at about 10 months. The Boy? He’s 6 months old now, and eating almost two full cups of food. Everyday. He also drinks 45 oz of formula. Every day. I wonder what’s wrong with his stomach. Is it a boy thing? His sour stomach has calmed down quite a bit, and thank goodness — because cleaning up pureed peas is a little higher on the disgusting scale than cleaning up formula.

He’s also a little more mobile. He can roll over on to his side — and now and then to his tummy — and sort of.. spin.. on his back.. so I decided it was time to lower the mattress in his crib. He’s managed to wedge his big ol’ fat thighs (he gets those from me!) into the slats of the crib, so I put up the bumper pads. When the mattress was at its highest level, he was almost able to swing his legs over, so it was time.

I took off the bumper pads, and hoisted the mattress out of the crib to find the allen wrench that is always, always under the mattress. I needed the wrench to loosen the bolt thingies so I could lower the bottom of the crib (essentially a heavy, flat board separate from the sides). Except the allen wrench wasn’t there. I checked under the crib. No allen wrench. Night table, dresser, baby’s memory box. No allen wrench. I checked the kitchen cupboard where I hide things of value. Then the cutlery drawer (really, at that point, who knows). No allen wrench. I checked the toolbox! Nothing. I checked under the kitchen table, where the wrench for the table and chairs is always, always taped. No allen wrench.

I went downstairs. Checked the coffee tables, and even the disassembled coffee table where the allen wrenches — you guessed it — are always, always together with the bolt thingies. Found the bag of bolts n’ wing nuts n’ such. NO ALLEN WRENCHES.

I did eventually find two allen wrenches through my frantic flipping-the-house-upside-down. Of course, they didn’t fit the crib. Now, I was obsessed.

I went to the grocery store and picked up some milk. They had lightbulbs, hammers, duct tape.. Hmm.. No allen wrenches.

I stopped by the dollar store, where I KNOW I’ve seen allen wrenches before. The dollar store is normally a SEA of allen wrenches, just waiting to be scooped up. You normally can’t walk through the aisles without tripping over them. And you know? I think that particular dollar store was actually officially an Allen Wrench store, until people without cribs in their houses complained and they started introducting crappy toys and witty coffee mugs. They had lightbulbs, hammers, duct tape, screwdrivers in all the colours of the rainbow. No allen wrenches. I announced to some poor lady passing by with her child that I was on the verge of a meltdown. She didn’t have an allen wrench either.

I considered swinging by a furniture store. And buying a wooden chair or table just to get the allen wrench out of the box. Instead, I headed to one more dollar store. They had allen wrenches in packages of 8! I bought two packages, and went home.

Now, there are a few things in life that are easier with more than two hands. Lowering the mattress on a crib is one of them. I loosened one bolt thingy, then the other on the same side. I let the board slide to the ground. Now, I was working outside the crib, but using the wrench on the inside. I loosened the third bolt thingy. And off it flew. If I’d paid more attention in physics, I could have calculated trajectory and all those fancy x, y coordinates. I found it eventually, and approached the fourth bolt thingy. It wasn’t easy to loosen, as the other 3 corners of this ~ 60lb board were now dangling precariously toward the floor. And.. you don’t need to be a physics major to guess what happened next.

Mommy. Broke. The. Crib.

 

Can’t feed em? Don’t breed em.

What a great bumper sticker. Except not really.

I found this story about a Maryland housing official proudly displaying it on his vehicle. I’m sure he grew up in the best neighbourhood, went to only the best schools, never ever lived paycheque to paycheque, and had life handed to him on a silver platter. (And then got a job in public housing. Good for him.) I only kinda partially agree with this statement. It’s hard to look at pictures of emaciated babies in third world countries who will starve to death before they learn to walk, and it’s too easy to wonder what their parents were thinking.

Now let’s snap into context. This is North America. There is no reason for anyone to starve to death here. In particular, there is no reason for a child to be homeless. We help each other here. Now, it’s not ok to have eight or ten babies when you really can’t afford them.  No one has children just to get a roof. That would be like chopping your feet off to save money on shoes.

I have never ever met a little girl whose wanted to be a “welfare mom” when she grew up. I never thought I would be going through school with two kids and a mortgage by myself. Shit happens, life happens, and we make the most of it. But public housing is usually a temporary thing. It’s there to help. It’s there to lower rent payments so children can have food and clothes and diapers, etc. It’s not always long-term, and it doesn’t need to be a shameful thing. If the help is available, who would be foolish enough to not accept it?

I’ve heard comments. Unnecessary comments. Posed to myself, and others in my situation. I’ve always thought.. my goodness.. if you cannot help me, you don’t need to make it worse. There has to be a middle class. There has to be a lower class. That’s just the way it works. If we all got paid the very same amount of money.. well, correct me if I’m wrong.. but didn’t Hitler have an idea about that 60 years ago or so? It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to raise a child from birth to college age. Should I have set that aside before I had children? Should I have aborted them?

I hope others can begin to think twice (at least) before passing judgement. It could have been you. It could have been your mother who applied for government housing to keep you safe, and to keep you warm. Or it could have been you who looked in an empty refrigerator one moment, and a hungry child the next, wondering if your baby was getting tired of rice and hotdogs.

Be thankful you are in a position to criticize. And not the one needing help. 

Cars, cops, n’ stuff.

In September, I was 6 months pregnant. On my way home between classes, I stopped for a train. And my car was trashed by someone who didn’t. No harm done, but the car was a write-off and my eye was messed up for about a week (actually, it’s still numb, but whatever).

I’m not the type of person who car-hops. I city-hop when I can, but car shopping is such a pain, so I drive what I have until it runs into the ground. I miss my car. I’m crying over spilled milk, I know. BUT THAT WAS MY CAR.

A family member gave / lent me a car in the meantime (so, between now and forever, I hope). It was free, and that was so great, but somehow it’s led to this post

In the 8 months I’ve been driving this car, it has broken down 4 times. It’s only 10 years old and has a reasonable amount of mileage on it, but somehow, it was cursed at the dealership. Or something. The first time it got towed, I had to abandon it in a church parking lot. I started walking to a gas station about a half block away (7 months pregnant, -40, and late for a doctor’s appointment). A few cars drove by, and one stopped. One stopped. The stranger told me to get in, and I obliged, though only after we assured each other neither was an axe murderer. He drove me to my doctor’s appointment, never to be seen again. The car was towed later that day, some belts were repaired or replaced, and although the ABS line was severed (really?) on the hoist, the car place told me all was well and the indicator light would remain on. Fine.

Then,

the tire blew. On the coldest day of the winter, when it was stupid to go out in the first place (especially with a little girl and a newborn), I heard the classic thumpity thump that only an exploded tire will give, and drove the last few blocks home from the grocery store. I purchased an emergency road service membership, and called for assistance. Since it was -55C or so, you can imagine the emergency trucks were in high demand, so after a refreshing 11 hour wait, the donut was on, and we were off to the tire store in the morning. Now, I’m not so good with cars, and I don’t pretend either. So I trudged in with two kids, two carseats, pointed to a stack of tires, and said “Hi. I need one of those thingies.”

“One of those round black things? A tire?”

“Yeah…”

And who knows what a reasonable price is. At that point, it doesn’t matter. They see me comin’.

In February, the heat in the car decided to stop working. It’s cold in February. Really, really cold. We drove around for two weeks with blankets and mittens and touques. Finally, I made a call to a car repair shop that had “courtesy shuttle” in its ad. I made an appointment, drove the car in, moved both kids and both carseats into the courtesy shuttle, and the driver took us home… about 6 blocks away. When the car was repaired, the guy working the desk decided that the shuttle only goes one-way. I explained to him that The Girl was sick, and I needed to get her to a doctor. I explained I was on my own, and even the shuttle driver agreed that he would be able to pick me up for a return trip. “Nope. One way. He’s off in the afternoon, and we only run shuttles in the morning.” (Which was as bold-face lying as I’ve ever heard, as my original shuttle was at 3pm, and as my cab arrived — with two carseats, and two babies — the shuttle driver was seen working in the parking lot. For an $8 cab ride, I will never, ever go back.)

Yesterday, I was driving home from my brother-in-law’s birthday party. I approached a stop sign. And yay? No brakes. I’d heard that feels-like-there’s-a-dead-body-under-my-car thing before when my brakes were shot with my old car. I drove a few meters, and turned around. I got out, and looked under the car. I got back in as a police car was approaching from the other direction. I flagged. Them. Down. There was a time in my life when seeing a police car meant, “Shit! Cops!” But now, especially living in the hood, it means “Oh thank God. The police are here.”

One of the officers thought it was a CV joint, which sounded mildly important when he insisted that was the piece that held the wheel on to the rest of the car. I drove back to my sister’s and called a tow truck this morning.

When the car was ready to be picked up, my sister dropped everything and came to get us. Again, two kids, two carseats, it’s an epic. She probably doesn’t drive through the hood too much, and ultimately drove 57 in a 40 zone (some hidden playground somewhere). We were pulled over. There was another car in front of us, and just as my sister handed her licence over, the driver in the front car was suddenly in hysterics. He opened and slammed his driver door, and was either refusing to get out or otherwise cause a scene. He started screaming. We were on our way shortly with her licence in hand, no ticket or warning, and a great sight in the rearview of a man parked in a crappy old white car next to a lawn that hadn’t been mowed in months, being successfully subdued by two officers who figured he was more of a pressing situation than two girls, two kids, and two carseats. Yay, no ticket

But alas, after the car was towed from my sister’s, then to the only auto shop open on a longish-weekend Sunday, and an appointment was cancelled getting us closer in line (and it really only took 3 hours to fix), it turns out some sort of disc.. or something… had exploded. The shop guy said it was the worst he’d ever seen, and actually showed it to me, next to what “one should look like.” He knocked 20% off the repair bill for some reason, which was awesome I swear driving this car is practice for the kids’ teenage years. Every time I turn around, it needs $200. Bah.

*snicker*

1 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

To quote…

“It is a poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.” 
  —  Mother Teresa

They walk among us.

Alright, this one needs a whole new post. Cause really.

On Thursday, I took the kids to daycare, and met up with a friend at the university for some much-needed tutoring before finals. Afterwards, I ran a few errands and decided to stop by the grocery store, since I was kid-free for a few minutes. The Boy has finally started dabbling in solid foods. (And incidentally, this is one of my favourite parts of having a baby in the house. Besides the toothless grins and first wobbly steps, I’d say first foods are such an incredible milestone to be a spectator to. I saw a nutritionist once a week for a year when The Girl was a baby, and she has an excellent appetite. When offered a donut or brocolli, she picks the latter. Wonderful.)

Ok. Yes. So I’m at the grocery store. Picking out baby food. I’m minding my own business, silently wondering why Heinz doesn’t seem to offer plain wheat as a cereal flavour anymore. A lady is behing me, stocking diapers or wipes or other baby items. She singles me out and says, “you’re lucky you’re doing that today. It’s going to be nuts in here this weekend.” She sounded sort of disgusted, so I asked what big excitement could possibly be upcoming. “Child tax,” she said.

Now, really. That just pissed me off. As a little bit of background, “child tax” is a monthly payment to parents of small children from the Canadian government. It’s based on income, and I believe parents are eligible until their household salary is somewhere around $40 000 / year. (I’m a student, my income is essentially nill, and I max out on child tax. Cool.) I’m not an economics major, I don’t know how this makes Canada essentially socialist (does it?), and no idea what’s really going on with the taxes and politics, blah blah blah.

Anyway. I — like many, many others — get money on the 20th. It’s to pay for daycare. It’s to pay for food and toys and heat and water for baths and laundry. It’s to pay for diapers and kindergarten school supplies and clothes and haircuts for kids so that they don’t have to live in poverty. And yet, people still get upset over it. It’s tax free. And only for parents or guardians. I’ll be paying taxes soon enough, and I know my tax dollars will help others in similar situations. I know many people abuse it and buy alcohol or make car payments and such on the 20th. I get that.

But we weren’t in a liquor store. We were in a grocery store. And I was buying baby food. It was the 19th of the month, and yeah, most people who are eligible for child tax are probably living month-to month. Maybe the-20th-to-the-20th. And maybe it would have made more sense to wait til that extra money was in to get baby food. Maybe. And maybe if she had taken a moment to notice that it was the middle of a Thursday afternoon (when maybe I should have been at a day job), I’m fairly young-looking, my clothes were slightly ill-fitting, my cart was not full, and I was buying BABY FOOD… maybe — just maybe — I get child tax. I’m not useless, I don’t sit at home all day, my kids want for nothing, my bills are paid, and yes, I do depend on the 20th. For baby food, daycare, kindergarten school supplies, heat, water for baths, etc etc etc..

Like, fuck.

I went on to remark that Heinz doesn’t seem to make plain wheat cereal. She suggested I call the company and complain. Oh, boy. “Yes, Heinz? Concerned parent here. Would you mind taking the fruit out of your wheat cereal and stocking your inventory the same way you did five years ago when no one knew any better? Cause umm.. I met a psycho at a grocery store, and she suggested I call you. Oh, and about child tax…”

An older couple came through the aisle. “You’re lucky you’re here today. It’s going to be nuts here on the weekend,” she said. Some people should just.. not be around others.

Summer stuff.

I think maybe.. if I didn’t have two kids, and I wasn’t in school in an insane program where every single class has a lab, and there was no such thing as laundry or dishes, and no one needed to go to the dentist, doctor, park, or daycare, and if I didn’t have to eat, sleep, or pee, I might have time for this blog. I’m forcing myself. I really am. So, here’s what’s been going on:

In the interest of saving money creating something magical and wonderful and thoughtful that will hang on the wall for years to come, we made this for my dad for Father’s Day (yeah, yeah, old news).

We used Crayola Colour Wonder fingerpaints, and slapped some stickers on. I think it was well-received… but maybe the stickers were a bit much.

The Boy has been baptized!

We had issues with this one. Without getting into it too terribly much, apparently there are still some priests who will not baptize a child born out of wedlock. I realize this is my forum to rant and rave about such things, but it seems wiser to hold my tongue.

Ok, and summer’s here!

We’ve been busy enjoying the weather when we can. The city has several spray parks open from June to August where kids (and big people!) can splash and play and cool off (oh, bonus, it’s free).

I like this park best, I think. It’s clean and well kept, relatively (tho still driving distance) close to our house, is typically not too busy, has baby swings, a slide, a sandbox, and lots n’ lots of “callepitars.”

We also took advantage of the weather by going to a (free, yay) movie in the park. There are several throughout the summer, and they’re played at dusk on a large inflatable screen. We didn’t get home til waaaay past everyone’s bedtime, but I suppose it’s ok to do it once or twice a year. And with all the packing that goes into taking two kids to the park for a two-hour movie, once or twice a year is about all I can take