Monday, August 31, 2009

Teddies



Pictures of my Bear, just 'cause. My Sweetie piled Teddy's soft chums around him and he thought it was HI-larious. I'm not sure what Gonkey is saying to him in the second picture but I bet it's something nefarious.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Sometimes Dilly...

Sometimes Dilly is an International Dog Of ACTION, competing in pooch triathlons (the disciplines are leaping through long grasses, hustling squirrels and swimming in icky stagnant waters)
but sometimes she is NOT...

Friday, August 28, 2009

Love These Guys!

Falling off the Wagon


Today I fell off the wagon. I need to talk to my sponsor, but 'cause there's no Fat Ass Anonymous I don't have one. So you, faceless interwebs people, get to hear me talk it out

Today, I handed my bear an Animal Cookie, "Hey look, a camel! Watch out, they spit!"
Then I fished out another one and shoved it in my mouth "mmmm lion". Then a bear, then a buffalo, a hippo, one of those weird little dog creatures, a few more lions.
One after the other, (and sometimes two by two) I shoveled them in. A dozen or so Animal Cookies met their grizzly end in my maw. Straight out of the package, do not pass GO. Frenzied? Moi?

I stopped, put the package down. Blinked through the cookie dust.

After the first cookie I don't think I even tasted the next 11.
This isn't the first time since mid-July I've had something not strictly South Beach approved; but this was different from scoring a (single) scoop on Friday night ice cream dates. On those Fridays, I get to stroll and sit with my sweetie and The Bear, and go "mmmmm snarf mmmm" over each mouthful, and share with my two favorite guys. Fun times.

Mindless eating and subsequent guilt, not so fun times.

I actually feel that maybe this was one of those enlightening moments and I guess this right here is step 4. Now I better go find my brother and apologise for the Pecan Pie Incident (that would be step 5).

Image from here.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

The Plaza We Ain't...


VERSUS:



Today we had an Eloise moment (You know, the books about the eponymous 6 year old who lives at the swanky New York Plaza Hotel? and is kind of a jerk?)

We were coming in from waddling the dog around the block. Now, The Bear has decided that holding mummy's hand is not cool (unless of course there are shouting crackheads or friendly elderly people, to both of which Teddy reacts with glassy eyed horror. It's pretty embarrassing, but I digress).

As we got into the building I let go of the squirmy little hand I had been wrangling the whole time we were out. And the kid was gone like THAT. The flash fast. He practically had a sonic boom. Which would have been fine if the elevator had not just arrived and disgorged some folks.
People (stupid stupid people) hop out of the way for a winsome, waddling 18 month old (today!) fellow in a way they don't for a chubby thirty year old woman dragging a dog. So Teddy trotted through the crowd and on to the lift.
As the doors were closing.
"TEDDY NOOOOO!"
I shoved my way past a couple of well dressed fellows, barely stopping to wonder "Dude. Argyle? in August?"
And threw myself in front of the doors, waving like a wild thing. The doors are supposed to be motion sensitive, but they really really aren't. I was practically doing Riverdance as I tried to scoop up Teddy to stop him from pressing the only button he can reach - the alarm, and drag the dog through the doors, while not being crushed like a grape.
We made it.
Teddy blinked up at me, grinning.
"TEDDY" Imagine STERN voice, and at some volume"YOU MUSTN'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN"
His bottom lip wobbled.
"it's DANGEROUS."
his eyes teared up and small eeeeeeeei sound escaped him, and I felt like the world's worst parent. Though I know that his tears are of the "Oh no don't be mad at meeeeee, you still love me right? How could you be mad at this face?" variety as opposed to the "Oh, I am so contrite. I will never give my mama that kind of heart fluttering run around again".
Also, If I ever run into that Eloise kid with her elevator hopping shenanigans. I'm going to give her a swift kick in the pants.

Eloise poster from here.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Staying On Top of The Laundry...

The Bear is an enormous help with the laundry... if you need someone to grommit around in the laundry room bin, attempt to open every washing machine door (even the ones that are running) and howl heartbrokenly when you tell them not to lick the detergent bottle.... Teddy is your guy. For a modest fee he will also fluff and fold, observe Teddy's patented laundry sorting technique:

Step 1. Fish around in laundry bag for a likely candidate. Toss unsuitable items on the floor
Step 2. Remove item (in this case footie jammies)

Step 3. Shake until INVISIBILITY occurs.Annnnd.... my work here is done

video

Thursday, August 20, 2009

If Hunter S Made Baby Clothes...

My Sweetie is an awesome daddy, seriously, awesome. He is funny, patient and kind and he totally takes joy in the job; BUT occasionally he dresses our only child like Hunter S. Thompson
See? ( "I told you not to stop here, this is BAT country")

And this is a good day. My sweetie describes these outfits as "Dapper". I think they look a tiny bit crazy, and by "a tiny bit" I mean completely.

"Um, Sweetie?"
"YAH?" grinning and wrangling a pair of bright orange socks onto the Bear's feet.
"Are you really going to put him in that?"
"YAH!"
Then, addressing Teddy as he yanks the kid's pants up past his nipples, "Looking good there fella... LOOK-ing good"
Under my breath, "I think my eyeballs are bleeding"
Out loud, "That is definitely a LOOK. Hey Sweetie, just out of curiosity, were you ever tested for colour blindness?".

Sure I could just say "no way is he wearing that!" but even the loopiest outfits are chosen with care (I just don't necessarily get the logic behind them). My Sweetie takes so much joy in these sartorial shenanigans that there's no way I would deny him them. And he is, after all, the other half of this parenting team. I know that Teddy is lucky to have a daddy who wants to be involved in the little things, even if some days that means that he looks like he's about to go on a road trip in the Red Shark with a crazed Samoan lawyer.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

A Rookie Mistake

So, I sometimes (not often but sometimes) feel like I am totally on top of this whole parenting thing, like I am a sippy cup slinging, non-serial killer raising, pro.
Other times... Not. So. Much.

Yesterday was one of the other times. It's been deliciously hot around here, which means playing outside is a go. And that makes for a sweaty, sunscreened, dirt-encrusted-in-the-creases-of-his-eyelids baby.
Normally we're pretty lackadaisical about bath time, figuring that dirt is good and that the dog usually gets the big stuff with her tongue (I jest... sort of) but in the hot weather baths are a more frequent occurrence.
See:
Which is what makes yesterday's "event" kind of worse for me. It was a rookie mistake and I've been in training.
So, I poured a bath, popped down the non-slip thingies, added some bubbles, agitated. Tra la la.
Then I went to hunt down the bear, "bath time" I informed him and he gamely trotted to the bathroom. Where I whipped his shorts and tee off. Then, and here's where I went wrong, I whipped his dipe off and slid him in to the tub in one smooth movement.
Slash splash. Teddy patted the water and shouted at his tubby toys, I filled up the jug to pour over his hair.
Then I spotted it.
"Dude" I pondered aloud "what is THAT?"
But I knew what it is.
Floating in the general posterior area of my kid was a rather enormous poop.
I checked my impulse to dry heave then whipped Teddy out of the tub,
"Did you go poops?" I asked him. In answer he swiftly cycled through bemusement and incredulousness to screaming fury at being removed from his toys.
No he hadn't pooped in the tub, he had pooped in his dipe like a civilised fellow, but some bozo had neglected to check for poop before placing him into the tub. also DUH.
So, my son thinks I'm clown shoes and I got poop under my fingernails. I will remember to check from now on. I can't really remember where I was going with this story, but you're welcome for making your day a little grosser.
x

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Rightous Anger... Check

There is a bit of swearing in this post; I wrote it yesterday in a steaming rage, and while I am lots less upset today I think that maybe I'll post it just how I wrote it. In all it's cathartic vitriol.

Today I am furious. I am frustrated-tears-of-rage-scalding-the-back-of-my-throat mad. I am wishing-for-a-taser pissed (which is a big deal for me, cause I think tasers should be as illegal, even for the police).
Today Dilly, Teddy and I got flashed by some douchebag.

We were in Queen's park, for our pre-lunch walk, 'cause the weather is awesome today. The park was pretty busy, so we headed off towards our favorite statue (one Mr. Al Purdy - poet), where it's usually less busy; I like to let Dilly off the leash so she can tool around bouncing like a bunny and chasing filthy pigeons.

We passed this guy laying on a bench, and as we get closer I realised he has his hands in his pants; 'eeew gross' I thought, but before I could turn us around he looked up, saw us, then whipped his pecker out and started beating off.

I didn't say anything. Not a word, 'cause the last time I was flashed (this is the SECOND TIME) I read that getting a reaction is totally the fun part for flashers. I also didn't want to scare Teddy by completely losing my shit and shouting at this guy.
But
That silence was hard for me.
That silence made it actually kind of worse that being grabbed by some slimeball in Gare de Nord, worse because I gave that guy an almighty shove and called him a... something that starts with C (and that my mama would wash my mouth out for saying here). Job done, jerk dealt with to my satisfaction... hear me roar.

Doing NOTHING while Chuckles here handled his meat and eyeballed me and my dog and my BABY (making us unwilling participants in his deal) made me feel meek, and I fucking hate feeling meek.
I completely ignored him, but I stomped us right home, fast. By the time we got home I was in tears, I wasn't sad or frightened I was FURIOUS and frustrated (those are the worst sort of tears, I think).

It made me want to move. RIGHT NOW. or yesterday. I am worn down by crackhead-who-might be-dead getting rolled by other crackheads, by the shouting drunks in the playground, and even by the up and down sneers of the cruise by Alex. I just want to be able to walk my kid and my dog without having to deal with an edgy-first-novel's worth of the human condition.
I am done waiting for "just the right place" so we can live like humans. I want to be gone. NOW.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Mama Sing The Blues

I should really preface this post with a note about just how badly I sing.
I sing badly. Really, really badly (at some point I will have to tell you about Japan and the Karaoke bar FROM HELL).
So, singing is not one of my talents, and the lack might be genetic. My mum also has more enthusiasm than ability when it comes to carrying a note but, rather marvelously, that doesn't stop her from singing A LOT. Not in public exactly, but in the car, in supermarkets, on a stroll. Any time something comes on the radio that she likes she will sing along, or hum if she doesn't know the words. As a kid I found it a bit excruciating ("Mum! People can HEAR you!") but that's because I was STUPID.
Now I absolutely adore it.
If I am lucky enough to be in the same place as my mum when the opening bars of Love Is In The Air peel out I know that there will be singing; and possibly even a subtle-but-jaunty hip swing.
Mostly what I love is my mum's ability to take unselfconscious pleasure in the moment.

Today as I poked around the Dollarama looking for exactly the right shade of "silk" flower (more on that later) I heard the opening ooooh oooh oh's of Kelly Clarkson's Because of You, my ears perked up and by the time the chorus kicked in I was warbling "because of YOOOOOOOOU" under my breath. It's not something I normally do, nor is La Clarkson usually my cup o' tea musically, and when I caught myself doing it I gave some thought to stopping instantly (for the sake of humanity) but I didn't. I just hummed along more quietly.
It wasn't until I got home (flowers in bag, song still in my head) that I realised how much closer to my mama it had made me feel. Like a genetic hug, delivered all the way from Ireland.
I now can't wait to hear my Bear whisper "Maaaawm! People can HEAR you" in mortified undertones. It will mean I am a proper mama.

Here's a picture of my beautiful Ma, just 'cause.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

It's Like Swimming, But Fun..


So, You might have seen in the last picture posted that I have rather a superfluous of chins. I am over chinned, and unfortunately folks, since having my bear, the problem is not confined to my lower mandibles.
So, exercise and not eating my own body weight in pies. It's my new thing.
With that in mind I have joined the Y. Now the Y hasn't moved at all, it's been in exactly the same super-close spot since we moved here two and a bit years ago. But it's taken me this long to get around to joining, on account of the lazy.

But no more! Today I went to an aquafit class, I figured "aquafit, aerobics in water, beloved of old ladies, how hard can it be?" And that was sort of the case. Sort of.
There were older women sure; but they, and I don't say this lightly, KICKED MY ASS. I was huffing and flopping like a steam-powered fish, they were gliding around with grace and style. I actually didn't feel too bad about it as there were three girls in their late teens, with bodies that they obviously did nothing to deserve, hacking and honking like 50 a day smokers.

So the class. Fun. remember how swimming used to be fun when you were a kid? Instead of swooshing in a boring straight line back and forth, back and forth; it was more
"ok, I'll race you using nothing but HANDS. Oh and we're mermaids, beauuuuutiful mermaids!"
Well, aside from the mermaids part (though that's totally what I was thinking) that's a bit what aquafit was like. I am a fan.
Image

Well Hello, Come On In...

Hi folks, come in, cop a squat, score a cookie and welcome to my blog.
Wondering why I have started a brand new blog when I already write for weebabystuff, and theoretically also for Curbly but can barely manage a post a month? Oh, and when my child is in the process of throwing off the shackles of the morning nap? And I have a plotted- but-as-yet-unfinished novel slowly scratching it's way to the surface in the roughly 10 minutes a week I can devote to it?
Yeah... me too.
But I have an answer and it might even make sense.
See the title? Luck and Bliss? I have those.
Sometimes they're a little less obvious to me than I would like (like today, when I am wearing regurgitated banana goo).
So, I want to try and focus on what I have.
I want to document what is good, whine about what is not, score a little support for what is hard and share some of the luck and bliss. I do hope you'll be joining me.
Chaste, friendly kisses (with hardly any tongue),
Me.

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