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By rebecca, November 28, 2011 10:19 pm

I got an email the other day informing me that someone had unsubscribed from my blog. At first I was pretty excited. I mean, someone had actually subscribed to my blog! Then it hit me. Aw, they don’t like me.

Or maybe they don’t like all the blog tours, sponsored posts and reviews I’ve been doing lately. I get that, I really do. In fact, for a long time I refused to write anything for compensation on principle. I would sell ad space and I would do the occasional product review, but my editorial content would remain completely unsullied by corporate monies. The only problem is that it’s very hard to make much money selling ad space on a blog unless you’re Dooce or somebody. I was lucky to cover to my hosting fees.

Sponsored posts also seem to have become more common all of a sudden. (Or maybe the FTC rules about disclosure just made me realize how common they already were.) Hey, I know that just because everybody’s doing something, doesn’t make it all right. But it does make it seem less gaudy, you know? And as long as there is full disclosure about compensation, advertorial copy is no worse than ads running in the side bar from an ethical stand point. Back when people used to write undisclosed sponsored posts? That was unethical.

And then I had another baby. As a self-employed freelancer, I don’t get a paid maternity leave. Instead, I get to cut back on the amount of work I take on and try to make ends meet with that much less money. A recent hike in our insurance premiums and property tax rates, coupled with the cost of another human in the family means that a drop in the family income is kind of a big deal. In short, I need the money. And as far as making money goes, blogging is my most favourite way.

So here’s the deal, dear readers. I will keep doing sponsored posts, blog tours, campaigns and product reviews, but I promise you two things:

1. You will always know when I’m being paid to write on a topic. I will, from now on, disclose that at the very top of a post. (I have always disclosed compensation, but it used to be at the bottom of the post.)
2. I won’t cheat my blog, my readers or my sponsors by phoning in these posts. I will put just as much story-telling effort into a sponsored post as I do my regular ones. These are advertorial spots that are paid for, but my stories are as sincere as ever.

Also note that accepting any sort of advertising or advertorial content is not an endorsement of everything a company sells or does or has done in the past. (No more than buying a product in the supermarket is.) I’ll use my best judgement when deciding if something is a good fit for the blog, but I’m not running corporate background checks either. Product reviews are not paid, but I tend not to post bad reviews unless something is horrifyingly, dangerously bad. If I don’t think a product is worth recommending, I just won’t write about it.

Basically, the more (and better) sponsored opportunities I get, the more time I’ll be able to put back into writing about how I forgot to look in the mirror all day and only just now realized I have a sparkly butterfly sticker on my hair. And that’s really what’s best for all of us, isn’t it?

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By rebecca, August 16, 2011 3:37 am

Image courtesy http://www.bridalspace.com

The temperature was dropping as we set out from our modest three-bedroom, semi-detached house on one of Toronto’s main arteries. We quickly passed through the little square of patio stones that serves as our backyard, hopped into our car and turned into thick, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Still, we made it to the lake shore in less than 20 minutes.

The cool breeze off the lake had us second-guessing our late-evening swimming plans at Sunnyside’s free pool, so it was just as well that we had the hours mixed up and the pool was closing when we got there. I quickly ducked into the public washroom in the historic Sunnyside Pavilion while Ed and the kids went off to skip rocks.

That's me holding Irene at Sunnyside this past spring.

Next up was climbing the two painted concrete dinosaurs and letting the kids ride their bikes around the empty wading pool while I planted my pregnant self on a bench, watching the sun set over the lake.

Across the wading pool from us was a family celebrating a birthday in the park. They asked Ed for a light for the candles as soon as the sun went down and then insisted that we join them for cake. My kids happily sat up at the picnic table with very generous slices (never mind that they’d already had dessert) and I talked to the mother of four about the baby we’re expecting and how nice it is to be able to celebrate birthdays in a public park for free.

We drove back home that night feeling utterly at peace with nature and our city and especially her citizens.

Contrast that with the picture painted in Philip Preville’s cover story of the current issue of Toronto Life. It’s a profile of a handful of elite, privileged families who trade in their city homes for exquisite mansions on sprawling properties in small towns outside the GTA. They are dubbed “The New Suburbanites” and it’s just a matter of time, so the article argues, before there is a great exodus of young families fleeing Toronto’s cold, crowded and over-priced neighbourhoods.

First, let’s remember that towns like Uxbridge and Creemore and Dundas are not, in fact, suburbs at all. They are independent communities and most of the people featured in the article don’t even make a daily commute into Toronto. (Or if they do it’s a $30 per day VIA rail trip replete with after work wine tastings.) Preville even takes a pot shot at the actual suburbs, describing them as, “the cookie-cutter, aluminum-clad, cul-de-sacky, Mississaugish, soulless wasteland of  the downtown imagination.” Never mind that for most working families looking to gain some square footage and a bigger backyard, those actual suburban municipalities are their only feasible choice.

But what about those bigger backyards? What’s so bad about raising kids in the city anyway? One mother quoted in Preville’s article describes the seemingly next-to-impossible chore of packing “diapers, bottles, snacks, changes of clothes, all that stuff,” only to have to rush back home from the park for lunch. Huh? I have never packed more than a water bottle and some sunscreen (and even then only on very hot days) for a short 30 to 60 minute trip to the park. If you are going to bother taking all that other crap, then of course you pack some lunch, too. I can even walk to half a dozen different parks in under 20 minutes and pick up dinner on the way home.

So sure you get more floor space for your buck outside the city, but good luck popping out for some decent Indian take-out — or Thai or Chinese or Greek or Italian or Mexican or late-night burgers with greasy onion rings. Good luck going out to see a show, indulging in a couple cocktails, flagging a cab on the street and making it home within half an hour. Or aren’t parents supposed to do that sort of thing? Are we just supposed to head home from work and never go anywhere (save the odd Tupperware party) ever again?

As for the community you’re supposed to get in smaller towns compared to the cold anonymity of the city, I think you pretty much get what you put in no matter where you are. I frequent many of the businesses in my neighbourhood and always have warm exchanges with the shop owners and staff. I am positive that any number of them would and do keep an eye out for the neighbourhood children. I’m also likely to know two or three parents at my closest park at any given time that I can count on for support. My neighbours on either side have given us food and we’ve invited them into our home. Our kids play together and when they are out in our little backyard I know there are extra sets of eyes on them at all times.

There’s a safety fallacy when it comes to the suburbs and small towns. Sure, there’s less traffic on most streets, but contrast that with more SUVs backing over small children in driveways. You are just as likely to fall victim to a freak child abduction in a small community as you are a large one. In fact, when my children are old enough to venture out a little on their own, they will know that the businesses that line the streets of our neighbourhood are their refuge. If you get lost or scared you can always go into a store to ask for help. And they’ll be less likely to get lost in the woods or fall into a ravine, too.

I won’t even get into the benefits of walking versus having to drive everywhere for everything. I’ll barely mention the freedom that being able to walk or take the TTC will afford my kids when they get a little older (and the time that will save me).  Let’s not talk about culture  and the rich alternatives to drinking and drugs and teenaged sex that are available to city kids every single day. (Even if they don’t always choose them.) Ultimately, though, where Preville claims that, “space is, in fact, the best thing money can buy,” I will always choose time. Those countless hours on our soul-sucking highways would just kill me.

But to each his own. I know I’m a pretty hard-core city girl and not everyone is going to agree with me on all counts. (Nor should they.) I grew up in Toronto for the most part (save for one year in Halifax and one in the Bronx) and went to high school right downtown. When Ed and I decided to start shopping around for our house, we didn’t have anywhere near the budget most homes in our neighbourhood were going for. So we bought a run-down semi on a major street and continue to sink untold hours and bucket-loads of cash into it.  For us, it’s worth every penny and every drop of sweat to be where we want to be. Of course, I also know several families who have traded their homes for the promise of greater, greener and less urban meadows — and a few who have managed to move back.

Here in the Junction there are two brand new condo towers that are filled with families of four or five living in small two and a half bedroom units. These families are only too happy to claim a few hundred square feet of Toronto real estate for themselves. They have everything they need right here: parks, schools, libraries, recreation centres, shops, restaurants, you name it. One mother of two told me she was on the fence about going for baby number three. I asked if there would be room for a third in her condo and she shrugged, “In Poland, you would have two generations in a space that size.”

So, yes, we live in more cramped quarters and have to take our birthday parties to the park. But maybe we’re the better for it. Of course, those who do leave are pretty invested in convincing us (and themselves) otherwise. As Preville says, “Once you move out of the city, it becomes almost impossible to move back. Just as everyone who leaves Toronto makes a nice killing on the real estate transaction, everyone who returns gets killed. Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

Note: It has come to my attention that my husband has also written a rebuttal to this same Toronto Life article. He even leads with the same anecdote. His platform is much bigger than mine and his response has already been making the rounds. Here is the link: http://www.thegridto.com/city/opinion/a-suburb-by-any-other-name/ I’m about to go read it now, but rest assured that any similarities are purely coincidental. And also maybe the product of our co-habitation and incessant talking about the piece over the weekend.

Spacing also put out a response yesterday that I haven’t yet read. But you can go right ahead: http://spacingtoronto.ca/2011/08/15/toronto-life-screws-jane-jacobs/

Comments (4)

By rebecca, July 4, 2011 11:20 pm

Bubbles are the worst. Here’s why:

1. They’re tricky. The prime bubble-enjoyment ages are probably between 12 months and 6 years which is still (often) too young to be able to master the art of making decent bubbles. So that means I have to stand there waving the bloody bubble wand around which is fun for maybe half an hour out of the year, max. (Although an older kid willing to hang in your backyard making bubbles for the tots is kind of sweet.)

2. There will be spills. Invariable the little kid who has been chasing the bubbles around will want to start making them for him/herself. “Let me try, Mommy! Let me try!” And you will cave — or the older kid will — and you will duly caution your child to just please be very careful. And then the soapy liquid will be all over the ground in five minutes flat, guaranteed.

3. There will be tears. No matter how you play it, bubbles never really make anyone happy. They are a shiny distraction from the big old ball of nothing that’s inside them. You can not let your kid try making bubbles and make them cry that way. Or you can let them cry tears of frustration because they can’t do it themselves no matter how hard they try. Either way, they’ll cry when all the bubble stuff gets spilled.

4. Good luck keeping that stuff together. So say you want to go ahead and play with some bubbles anyway because perhaps you are suffering from amnesia or maybe you’re a bit of a masochist. Let’s imagine, even, that you think the three and a half minutes of fun before the tears and the tantrums start are worth it. Okay, fine. Unless you make a special trip to the store to buy new bubble stuff each time, you will never find both wands and soap in the same place at the same time. Come on, it can’t be just me, right?

5. They aid in childhood abductions. (Or they could.) I’m not one to leech off of a parents worst fear, but the number of times I’ve almost lost a child in a crowded place because they’re chasing after some bubbles is ridiculous. It’s those stupid bubble guns vendors are now selling every place that caters to families and even some that don’t. The Beaches Jazz Festival? Really? Now these musicians have to compete with the AK47 of bubble guns, too? It’s not fair.

So, down with bubbles. Are you with me?