Canada Moms Blog

*The Real Housewives*: Better Than a Chai Latte

If you've read my personal blog, you'll know I've developed a bit of an obsession with The Real Housewives TV series on Bravo. That's right -- The Real Housewives of Atlanta, New York, Orange County AND New Jersey. (I understand there's a DC Housewives, too, but it hasn't made it to Canada yet, as far as I know....)

The obsession began a few weeks ago when I came down with a vicious bout of the stomach flu -- like I've never had it before. It hurt to listen to my iPod, to flip pages of a novel, and obviously I couldn't eat. All I could do was writhe in my bed in front of the TV. And there on my TV was a Housewives marathon.... One after the other after the other. And, I was like, "WHERE have you been all my life!"

All I wanted to do was escape. Escape from how I was feeling, and any other stress that might cause my head to throb any harder. So I watched. And I watched. And then I swore I'd never get hooked on Jersey, but then I saw the table-flipping clip on youtube, and I was, like, "screw brain cells! I have to watch this!" I was hooked.

There's Such a Thing as TMI - Too Much Information

There's such a thing as too much information (TMI). Don't get me wrong, I'm NOT talking about sex or bodily functions -- things people usually associate with TMI -- because I've certainly been known to talk about my kid's poop and my bra size with random moms in the drugstore aisle. I mean, isn't that one of the beauties of being a mom? Within five minutes of meeting another mom, you could be talking about things like how necessary it is, since having a baby, to pee before you workout. TMI? NO PROBLEM. Loves it.

The problem is INFORMATION. The kind you get when you open your laptop, you wait restlessly for your wireless to load and, finally, wildly hit that search button. Enter: H1N1. Enter: Formula Feeding. Enter: Breastfeeding. Enter: (I don't know) Stomach Cramps; Global Warming; Economy; Pesticides; Poodles; Chocolate. No matter what, as my doctor likes to tell me, "You google it? You're going to find 'cancer,' 'death,' all doom and gloom." Information on the internet is endless, often unreliably sourced, often motivated by one side of an issue or another, by money. Even if you do manage to find a reliable source of information, you'll find at least one link in the sidebar, or in the footnotes, to MORE information -- information that will keep you up at night.

Beyond Gift-Giving: Hanukkah the Green

I'm finding dealing with things quite the parenting challenge lately. It's Hanukkah, and earlier this month I promised myself I wouldn't buy my kids anything at all until Hanukkah because I knew that if I did the whole beauty of getting and, indeed, of giving gifts would be lost. The Hanukkah gifts would be just more little trinkets for my kids to hoard, more random objects to attach themselves to in profound and confusing ways that only Freud could really understand.

And Hanukkah is such a beautiful holiday, so rich with meaning and hope. When we light the menorah, we are celebrating the victory of the Maccabees (a Jewish rebel army) over the Syrians in 156 BCE, and the rededication of the holy Temple in Jerusalem that followed. When the Maccabees rededicated the temple, they had only a small flask of olive oil with which to light the Temple's eternal flame -- enough to keep it lit for one day. But, miraculously, this small flask of oil lasted eight days, giving them enough time to press new olive oil, and keep the eternal flame alive, well, eternally.

As a "friend" reminded me the other day, there's a great modern message in this miracle: a green message. To think, one flask of oil could go such a long way! It's a reminder to us all that a little energy, a little water, any precious resource we use too much of, can go a long way.

Breathe In, Breathe Out: Yoga for Moms

I can't remember the last time I went to yoga class. I think it was over a month ago. It was a good morning. I left one kid with my mom, and the other was in nursery school. I schlepped downtown reluctantly, turning the car around to go home at least twice. But, I finally did make it to yoga class, half crying.

Why was I THAT reluctant to go? Why was I half crying? I was half crying because, I'm embarrassed to say, I would have SO preferred to sit on my arse and tweet with my internet pals, research new diet plans (an unfortunate pastime of mine) and just play on my macbook. I wanted to get work done so I wouldn't have to stay up until 2am answering emails, again. I wanted to read my novel, cuddle my cats, watch MTV, or even to peruse the giant bookstore (another favourite pastime) possibly for new diet books, WHILE sipping the bane of my existence -- a soy chai latte (DON'T try it). Sigh.

I wanted to do anything BUT actively work on myself. Going to yoga meant I'd have to BE with myself, sit with myself and be forced to take a good hard look at what's REALLY going on, instead of escaping into work, into dreams of some ideal me, into a novel, or a yummy gourmet beverage.

Why I Blog

Tap tap tap. Is this thing on? Hi. World. Canada. Universe. Mythical Creatures. Random person. Neighbour. Rival. Mom. Friend. Enemy.

If I left anyone out, I'm sorry -- I'll make sure they include you in the press release....

WHY?

Why do I BLOG? Or, how 'bout we phrase it in my favourite way (I get this all the time): "I could NEVER blog, Haley. How do you DO it? Doesn't it make you uncomfortable that the whole world knows what you're thinking and what's going on in your life?"

Here's another favourite of mine: "My husband would NEVER let me blog. What does yours think of it?"

Or how 'bout this one: "What you wrote today, like, about eating disorders? That was, like, really intense. I could NEVER. Eek."

Kindergarten Blues

I've mentioned elsewhere that I'm an unbelievably indecisive person. (It really is unbelievable.) Well, now you get to witness it first hand. Last month I pleaded with the "Governmental Powers That Be" to "like, IMPLEMENT" full-day kindergarten. And now I've changed my mind.

WHICH really goes to show that it's true what they say: you really do need to let things sit for a while before you make decisions on them (like that chick-pea curry I made for my extended family the other night, which really was quite good once I let it sit for a bit, marinate...).

Now that I've let it sit for a bit, I realize that half-day Kindergarten is definitely best for my child. In fact, I'm now what they call a staunch supporter of the program because I understand a little more what kindergarten's about, and what's involved and what's at stake. It is not to be entered into casually, too soon or too fast. It is the freaking beginning of The Journey.

Yom Kippur Reflections: Motherhood and Myself

I've been feeling disappointed in myself lately. I'm naturally very hard on myself, so my current state of self-disappointment should come as no surprise to my mother, friends, readers, people I pass by on the street, and even people on airplanes looking way down at the speck of me from the clouds. Alas!

Sigh, it's not that bad. But, still, I've been hard on myself since I was an average-sized kid struggling to lose 30 pounds because my dance teacher told me to, and even earlier than that, like, since I was born and cried for 10 straight months presumably because I thought I sucked -- until that fateful day when it snowed in July and I stood on broken legs (another story) gazing out the windows in awe.

I tend to go from there to there when it comes to motherhood. I'm either exploding in frustration or gazing in awe at the two little wonders pulling each other's hair out before me. My daughter, 4, and my son, 2 -- half her age, as I like to remind her, not that she quite understands that yet. And they're getting past the stage where people take pity on me for being, say, tired or frazzled or at wit's end. My kids aren't "babies" any more. I can't go around telling people how exhausted I am anymore, and I can't complain about how challenged I feel all the time -- "because this is motherhood," they tell me, shrugging their shoulders, "and it ain't gonna get any easier."

Vegan Mom Does Detox, Gets Healthy

So I'm a vegan. It's no secret. I didn't grow up being a vegan. I ate meat, mostly chicken. I hated it, and I jumped for joy whenever it was pasta night because, mmm, cheese. When I first heard about vegans, I definitely laughed and thought "NEVER" and "those peeps are weeeird." Yet here I stand before you -- a vegan. And probably a wee bit weird, come to think of it, but not because I'm vegan.

I'm vegan for a whole host of reasons, but mainly for the animals, the environment, the health. Now, two out of three of those I have down pat: I'm saving animals and I'm helping the environment. Health? Another story. I've been eating crap. Starbucks soy chai lattes, bagels, bread and peanut butter, vegan pastries (mmm, cake), and did someone say vegetables -- what is this thing you call "vegetable"? I was eating crap.

Then finally it hit me. I FEEL like crap. I must BE crap. Because, after all, you are what you eat.... I want to be a long, lean BANANA, a blossoming broccoli, a sweet pea..., not a sorry piece of crap.

"Where's Tigger, Mama?": Teaching My Daughter About Death & Dying

When I woke up the other morning, I didn't think I'd be teaching my daughter about death. But, quite suddenly and unexpectedly -- as is often the case with cats -- our beloved Tigger passed away that afternoon.

“Is she in a box?”

“Yes, I think so, Monkey. A cozy box.”

“Is she late for a party?”

“I’m not sure. She might be late for a party.”

“When is she coming home?”

“She’s not coming home, Monkey. She’s gone to a peaceful place. But, if you ask her, she’ll come see you in your dreams. And she’s always in your heart.”

“What is that place? What’s there?”

“I don’t know, Monkey. Probably lots of grass and flowers, and Simba.”

“Is she sick?”

“She was very sick, Monkey. And now she’s not sick anymore.”

“Where’s Tigger, Mama? When is she coming home? Is she sick, Mama?"

And the questions go on, and on, and on. Never mind my own grieving. How to answer my four-year-old's questions about death and protect her from the anxiety this new knowledge is certain to bring at some point -- maybe even now?

I'm NOT Pregnant. Just Fat.

“How many months are you?” the nurse asked me, as she left my sister’s hospital room – elated and relieved that my new nephew's tedious delivery was over.

“Oh, my son is 22 months old,” I replied (giving her a way out of certain awkwardness), “and I’m not --"

“So, are you having the baby in this hospital?”

“I’m not. Pregnant,” I said, “Just FAT.” My cheeks started to boil, and I placed my hand protectively on my belly.

“Oh no. Is it a boy or a girl?”

Are you KIDDING ME?

“She’s NOT PREGNANT,” my brother blurted.

“Oh! Ha ha! Oh! It does take a long time to lose the weight. I know. OH, I know.” And, she walked off to take her break. Not even an apology for, like, ROCKING my WORLD in the middle of an exciting occasion.

Grrrrrowwl...!