No. Sleep. 'Til Nighttime!

That's right folks. It's been a long, luxurious road these past 3 and 3/4 years, but on Sunday it came to a screeeeeeching halt.

No more naps.

At least not daily ones.

I know, I know. We've had it good. I have absolutely no right to attempt to garner any kind of sympathy at this stage. Most of our friend's kids dropped their naps before 3, some by 2 and 1/2. And yet we've coasted along, napping it up for a minimum of 90 minutes every day. Without fail, and without resistance. We all needed that naptime, and we were all grateful for it.

And now. Sigh. The jig is up.

No more collapsing on the couch at 2pm with a coffee and something chocolaty that I wait to eat while she's not around. No more catching up on laundry or dishes, or getting a jump on dinner without interruption. No more mid-afternoon naps or mom blog binges.

But also, no more splitting each day into distinct halves, factoring in travel time to and from home. No more stressing about late naps causing late bedtimes. No more remembering to bring home nap stuff, wash it, and return it to school on Monday morning.

As with everything, you take the good with the bad. I'm a little bummed about it, but also proud of my little muffin for graduating to a new phase of childhood. The non-napper. So far she's handled it without any meltdowns or fiascos of any kind. Just the odd "I'm tiiired", but that's nothing you don't hear from mom and dad ten times a day anyway, so we welcome her into our little chorus.

It'll make for some less peaceful car rides, I imagine, but on the upside Ralph can whine all he wants in the back seat without waking anyone up. Fantastic.

This is what I would call "sleeping hard".

Being a hooker just makes me feel good.

Yesterday I had a difficult day. It was a jumble of stressful events, schedule mix-ups, frantic emails and general SNAFUs. But the moment that stood out for me as the precise instant you realize you really should just go back to bed and try again tomorrow was the moment I was standing at the counter of the bake shop I've been wanting to try for over a year, a glistening sticky bun placed ever so tantalizingly before me, an unimpressed employee poised impatiently at the cash register, and my brand new motherfunking $8 Old Navy clearance purse would. not. open. The fabric was jammed real good into the zipper. Wouldn't budge. After an embarrassingly long attempt at wriggling it free, I finally had to apologize profusely and back out of there with my tail between my legs. And, as I was stuck waiting for a ride and the air had turned rather frigid and the snow started flying, I ducked into Bridgehead and sat at a table for about fifteen minutes, wriggling and pulling and trying not to scream profanities. When I did finally get it free, I ordered a cappuccino, which was delicious, and a scone, which sucked, and lamented that coffee shops really should have liquor licenses. 

Say it with me now: FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS much???

Sometimes I'm really ashamed at the stuff I complain about. Why, just earlier that morning I had chastised E for being so picky at breakfast time ("I don't know what I want, but I want to decide, but I don't know what I want, but I don't want that, no I don't want you to decide, no I don't want that either, but I want to decide, but I don't know…"), explaining that lots of kids have to go to school without any food at all, so perhaps she could spend a little more time on "thank you" and a little less time on "I don't want that". And you know, she totally got it. This was her response:

"I have an idea mom. What if I took some of my money and you took some of your money, and we gave it to a family who doesn't have any food so that they can buy groceries!"

These are the moments, along with the unsolicited snuggles, that really sell parenting as a solid lifestyle choice, am I right?

The absolute beauty of this whole situation is that the day before I had sent an email to a Rants from Mommyland, a mom blog that I'm sure I've mentioned my fondness for in the past, asking to be involved in their annual Gift Card Exchange (previously called the Grand Hooker Experiment, because fans of RFM are called Hookers for reasons I can't recall but very much enjoy). People who need help this Christmas email them with their names and addresses, and they get matched with people who can offer help. The helpers then buy gift cards to stores like Target and Walmart and ToysRUs in whatever denomination they can afford and send them to the address they've been matched with. Great idea, right? And I had asked to be matched with a family with a little girl if possible so that E could buy a gift card for a little girl like herself. 

And now, E has come up with the same idea! I really love this girl.

If you would like to get involved, check this out. I think there's still time to submit your name to either give or receive help. I promise, it'll make you feel better than you thought hooking ever could!

And the Grammy goes to...Dr. E!

I love kid brains. When  you can manage to turn off the go!go!go! mulitasking mom brain long enough to tune into them, they can provide endless entertainment. E asked me a very interesting question the other day. A simple question, but it just made me realize that they really are thrown into this world with no user's manual, no cheat sheet, and they can't even speak the language. They have to figure things out for themselves. Mind blowing.

We were driving along, E singing along to her favourite song, when she suddenly stopped and asked:

E: Mom, can people change what they do?
M: What do you mean?
E: Like, can they be doctors and then sing on the radio?
M: Of course. Mama and dada have had lots of jobs. Most people don't just do one thing.
E: Oh. Because I want to be a doctor first, and then I want to sing this song on the radio. Can I do that?
M: Sure. Or you could even write your own songs and sing them.
E: No, I want to sing Taylor's song. I like this one.
M: In that case, we could just call up the radio station and I bet they'll let you sing it on the air right now!
E: No, I'm not ready yet. I want to be a doctor first.

How cool would that be to be a doctor and a singer? Why didn't I think of that?

Which of course got me to wondering what kind of singer my daughter will be. It appears that we don't listen to enough music, because she doesn't really know all that many songs, and an unsettlingly large proportion of them are...fairly inappropriate. Well, let's go through the songs she knows.

First there are the basics:

Happy Birthday
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
ABCs...you get the idea

She's got a good hold of a few Christmas tunes:

Santa Claus is Coming to Town
Rudolph
Frosty
Baby it's cold outside

From there we get into the Top 40 selections:

We are never, ever getting back together
We are young
Kiss you inside out
Blow my whistle

I'm sure there are others, and the vast majority of them make me cringe when I hear her sweet little voice delivering her unique interpretation from the back seat. Thank goodness for Taylor Swift. If it weren't for her, my precious three year old would still be reciting step-by-step instructions for performing fellatio. I think it's time to listen to a different radio station, and perhaps - oh, I don't know - remember to pop in one of the dozen or so children's cds we have around here somewhere once in a while. Because I don't mind a Taylor wannabe, but a mini-Britney I can do without.

She's never heard of a SANTA CLAUS PARADE??! *shame*

While putting on a little girl's boots this morning…

"Mom, I don't want you to ever die. Because I just love you so much. You are the sweetest mom ever."

This is the moment I choose to remember when questions like this crop up from the back seat:

"Mom, what's a Santa Claus Parade?"

I'm a good mom…I'm a good mom…I'm the sweetest mom ever… 

Perfect Mondays?

It's true. Mondays can be perfect. Especially if you have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off. And especially if you get to hang out with a small child who wants to do exactly what you want to do. Baking and colouring? Yes, please!

First up, chocolate chip pumpkin bread:

One of two people I to whom I will relinquish my spatula rights. 

Mom is the other one. 

Followed by volcanoes extraordinaire:

Whose is whose? 

E claims that hers is "rainbowier" than mine.

Nine times out of ten, when I suggest something fun, E decides that she definitely wants to do something else. Today was a glorious exception, which makes those other nine days of pretending that she's hatching out of an egg 86 times in a row much more bearable.

p.s. Here's some advice for her dad, who wasn't able to dine with us, on how best to enjoy his freshly baked treats:

Maybe it's Thanksgiving somewhere

Canadian Thanksgiving was last month. American Thanksgiving is next week. Does anyone else celebrate Thanksgiving? England doesn't. Grenada doesn't. And that's about the extent of my experience on the matter. But I'm going on the assumption that someone, somewhere is celebrating Thanksgiving this weekend and if I'm wrong, well I'm just celebrating on my own, which I can't imagine is a bad thing.

Today I am thankful for the ability to feed my child. Every single day, at every single mealtime and at any moment in between, I can provide my child with the food that she needs to grow and thrive. I don't ever have to hear her little tummy rumble, knowing that I cannot fill it. I have the luxury of hearing her whine about not enjoying dinner, knowing that she will never get hungry enough to have no choice but to eat it. I have the privilege of offering her choices and variety and more nutritious options than I can ever hope to convince her to ingest. All of the food issues that cause us to butt heads are, without question, first world problems.

It absolutely breaks my heart when I think about hungry children. I get a panicky feeling in my chest when I think about what parents must go through who can't provide the basic necessities of life for their own families. The one thing I would do if I was omnipotent for the day, the wish I would wish for if a genie popped out of a lamp and said I could have just one, the cause I will continue to support for as long as I live, is hunger. Especially hungry children. And I am so, so thankful that I'm on this side of the problem.

I've been thinking for a long time about how I can make a difference locally by cooking big batches of something or other and bringing it to where it's needed. I'm thinking about it again today as my stew simmers on the stove and I wish I could feed the entire world with it. I think it's time to move from the thinking stages to the planning stages, because the problem is not going to go away just by thinking about it. In the meantime, why don't we all commit to dropping a box or two in the donation box the next time we go grocery shopping? Every little bit helps to feed a hungry world.

That's all for today.

The Devil Wears Tutus

Picking out clothes one morning:

E: I want to wear a pink dress.
M: How about this one?
E: That's not all pink. It has white in it. I want ALL pink.
M: This one?
E: That's a skirt. I want a dress.
M: This one is pretty.
E: Does that look pink to you? No. It's purple. And it doesn't twirl.
M: How about a tutu?
E: No - pause for reconsideration - Okay, sure! A tutu.
M: This one is perfect. It's all pink and it twirls.
E: I want the orange one.


While reading Mr. Grumpy:

E: Do you think Mr. Grumpy would like it if maybe I gave him some of my clothes?
M: You mean to make him less grumpy?
E: Yeah, like do you think a pink or orange tutu would help?
M: Absolutely.
E: Or…maybe some ballet clothes, some tights and something like that? Even ballet shoes?
M: I can't see how he could possibly be grumpy wearing tights and a tutu.
E: Yeah.


After I found matching tights and socks for the dress she picked out:

E: How convenient! Oh, I'm going to look sooo conveeeenient! As convenient as can be!!!

Where it all began.

Reasons to smile

Yesterday I found so many reasons to smile.

I had the wonderful fortune of spending the morning with my mother-in-law and her mother-in-law, two ladies who excel at being lovely, strolling through the National Art Gallery and the Notre Dame Cathedral. We saw snowflakes dancing in the wind and sunlight dappling the rooftops through a soaring glass facade. We saw stunning ivory carvings, whimsical blue ducks and a mosaic of fabrics in the most brilliant shade of red. We saw far more penises than I think was necessary, but that's neither here nor there. We saw portraits almost one hundred years old that could have been taken yesterday, as well as paintings by accomplished artists that might easily be reproduced by my three year old. It was the first art gallery I've been to in a long time, and it was refreshing beyond words. Smile-inducing, to say the least.

We sat here:

We went to lunch, the ladies and I, joined by my father-in-law who was just in time to watch us eat a most luxurious sticky toffee pudding before ducking into the kitchen shop next door to dream about a kitchen filled with every gadget for every culinary adventure I might ever take - with one in every colour, of course.

I found myself alone, wandering cheerfully along streets that before today had been previously undiscovered, at least by me, letting the sunlight soak into my pores and making a mental note to do this much more often. Wandering, exploring, dilly dallying. Enjoying the quiet in my mind amid the bustle of the city.

I drove slowly, appreciating that there was no need to rush to the next destination, enjoying the luxury of having a vehicle that could take me where I needed to go. I let people around me do the hurrying while I turned up the music and eased off the gas.

E and I ran around the park, chasing, climbing, balancing and swinging. We smiled, happy to be together.

I watched my daughter in her swim class, the one with her hand perpetually in the air to be the first to attempt whatever feat the instructor might dream up. I watched the instructor react with surprise and amusement every time E was able to do something that the bigger kids had trouble with. I watched my daughter float on her stomach with her face in the water for five full seconds while my entire body swelled with pride and my smile engulfed my entire face.

I stole a spoonful of chocolate chip cookie dough from the freezer.

J and I went to bed, for the second night in a row, before 10pm and chatted sleepily in the darkness.

Sometimes all you need is a Tuesday and a smile.

None of us perfect, but some of us funny.

Wife asks husband to pick up 3 items from the grocery store on the way home. The following string of phone conversations ensues:

Call #1

Where is the closest grocery store and how do I get there?

…11 minutes later...

Call #2 

The store doesn't open until 12:30. 

M: It's 12:28.

I know. 

…10 minutes later...

Call #3

Is homogenized milk the same as whole milk?

Why are there so many brands? What's the difference?!

Wait, I'm going to get this one because the expiry date is December. It's more expensive, but the other one is Nov 19.

M: Babe, I'm using it all today.

I know, but it's only $1.25 more expensive, and it's fresher!

…6 minutes later...

Call #4

Someone said aisle 8, but I can't find it. Any suggestions?

…9 minutes later...

Call #5
I did it! I got it all! Oh, man I got so lucky. The guy who told me aisle 8 when I asked (you know, because I did the smart thing and asked instead of walking around randomly) ended up remembering that they had moved it and tracked me down to give it to me!
M: You're my hero.

So before you go and crucify me for belittling my poor husband after he so clearly came through for me in a pinch, let me just say this. What is life if we cannot laugh at ourselves, and those with whom we have chosen to spend the rest of our lives?

Also, if you refer to the highlighted section in Call #5, you will note that My Wonderful, Helpful, Selfless Husband, out of nowhere, decided to seize an opportunity to sucker punch me, his wonderfully attractive and appreciative wife who just fielded all 5 calls with grace and patience, about the fact that when I go into a store I assume that the employees have no idea where anything is (which is almost always the case in a grocery store), and instead apply an educated guessing system for locating items. Out of nowhere he hits me with this. That's ballsy. And after humming and hawing over whether to post this exchange on the internet, that's what sealed the deal in your favour.

I swear I'm not getting paid to gush like this.

I also promise to talk about my daughter again one of these days. But for now just allow me my honeymoon phase for a post or two longer.

The first recipe I actually made from the cookbook I've been talking about non-stop for six days was a kale salad earlier today. But not just any kale salad - think goat cheese, walnuts, cranberries and a delectable honey-dijon dressing. The key is to let it all marinate together for awhile - as long as possible, really. J and I had it for lunch, and then again at dinner, along with some grilled sausages. It was even better the second time. But don't take it from me. Take it from J, who in the grand scheme of things comes down on the anti-kale side of the fence:

"This is good. I'm actually surprised by how good it is. I would eat this even if I wasn't on a diet, like, as regular food."

I'd post a picture, but it's long gone.