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Stuff I’m Digging: Community Kitchens

I skipped out on dinner with my own family a few weeks ago to check out how community cooking at The Stop Community Food Centre works. I’d never heard of a community kitchen before and I was intrigued. Oh, and I also got to prepare a meal with Lynn Crawford. So, you know, that was pretty cool too.

The Stop is one of several community kitchens across the country where members of the community can come together to prepare and eat a meal. It provides fresh food for people living in what is known as a food desert, an area without access to grocery stores or affordable sources of healthy food. It also teaches people how to prepare meals from scratch and, perhaps most importantly, gives them friends in the community to share it with.

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On Getting Out of the House

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It was a lazy holiday Monday morning. Ed had to go into the office — something to do with a video of our mayor smoking crack at a drug dealer’s apartment, I don’t know — and I planned to drive the kids out to Scarborough to visit Ed’s parents.

We’d had a late breakfast and I let the kids sneak down to the basement with the tablet to watch My Little Ponies on Netflix. Oh, the stuff I thought I was getting away with as a child. I now realized my parents just couldn’t be bothered to enforce their own rules.

I finally decided we’d better get going if I wanted to make it out to Scarborough and back before dinner. One by one, I cajoled them into getting dressed: ordering one kid up to his room, bringing down clothes and coaxing another out of her pajamas and full-on toddler-wrestling with the littlest.

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In Defense of Sports

Don’t let the sunshine and chirping birds fool you. A long shadow has been cast upon my city and with the Toronto Blue Jays sitting dead last in their division it could be a cool summer, indeed.

Last Monday, we let our seven-year-old son stay up way past his bedtime to watch perhaps the most spectacular playoff loss of all time. It’s in the top five, for sure. I mean, we didn’t know he was going to witness sports history at the time, of course. I thought he’d just get to watch the Toronto Maple Leafs fizzle out in their typical fashion. Ed and Colum actually believed they might win. And then, up by three goals in the third period, I actually started to believe they could win too.

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Be Still My Grammar-Nerd Heart

Where do I even begin, dear readers?

How about with the basic grammatical convention of only using capital letters to begin a sentence or to demarcate proper nouns? Uppercase letters are not sprinkles. You don’t scatter them willy-nilly throughout your sentences.

There’s a minor spelling error. “Maks” should obviously be “makes.” No biggie. Proofreading is clearly for schmucks.

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What Summertime Memories Are Made Of

This post is sponsored by Natrel Baboo. Thank you, Baboo!

The t-ball season is on. You know what that means.

It means untold hours upon hours of hanging out at the t-ball diamonds and the practice fields with two other kids in tow. It means that the most meaningful summertime memories my toddler is going to have won’t be of sitting in the sandbox with mom, splashing around in the wading pool, making chalk art on the patio stones, blowing bubbles or making daisy chains. We’ll do that stuff too, a little bit, but mostly we’ll be hanging out with the t-ball players.

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For Mommy’s Special Day

Have I ever got the perfect Mother’s Day wish list for all you mommies out there! Let’s make this Mother’s Day, or, as we like to call it, Mommy’s Special Day, the best ever. Mommy, mommy, mommy!

  • First, mommy won’t be happy unless she has her special Mommy Juice (available in both red and white varieties). Who wouldn’t want to soften the focus on our inability to get through a day without drinking, after all? There’s also Mommy’s Time Out, because simply ordering a glass of wine is just too dignified for us mommies.
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Who Needs Mom of the Year?

I let the kids watch the first period of the Leaf’s game before bed last night. And really, no child should have been exposed to the carnage that was the second period, so it was for the best.

At some point, a Walmart commercial advertising their Mom of the Year contest came on. They were both immediately drawn in the way they always are whenever advertisers and marketers are able to weave their way past all the screens I set up and burrow into their impressionable minds.

As the commercial went on to explain that Walmart wants people to nominate someone they think should win Mom of the Year, Colum’s eyes got wider and wider. He turned to me and his face lit up in a giant, gap-toothed grin.

“You should enter that contest!” he said.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’m really a good enough mom to win Mom of the Year,” I said.

Now he was standing up, smiling and beaming. “Yes you are!” he said.

He came over and threw his gangly limbs around me in a hug and then Irene said, “Yeah!” and piled on.

And that’s the story of how a stupid Walmart commercial made me day.

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What’s a Stay-At-Home Mom?

A reporter from the Toronto Star interviewed me a couple weeks ago for a story about mom bloggers and Mother’s Day. The story was printed on Friday and it’s a pretty innocuous Q and A piece with four Toronto-area bloggers. But this is how I’m introduced:

Rebecca Cuneo Keenan, a 34-year old stay-at-home mom, blogs about motherhood at Playground Confidential.

I’m the only blogger who is described as a stay-at-home mom even though I did talk about the other freelance writing I do in addition to blogging. The reporter even asked me about being a stay-at-home mom and I launched into a spiel about how I don’t think I know any stay-at-home moms. There are some, I’m sure, but everyone I know who is at home is working some kind of side angle. I said, paraphrasing myself, that, “It’s less about staying at home and more about trying to work in some flexibility.”

This article in The Star isn’t a big deal and I’m not actually upset or put off. But I can’t help but feel like my childcare costs are unnecessarily high for a stay-at-home mom. I mean, I would have booked a pedicure if I knew I didn’t have to work.

The truth is that I didn’t come right out and say, no, that’s not right, I’m a “work-from-home mom,” like Lena did. I didn’t clarify that I’m only home with the kids part-time or that I’d really rather be described as a writer.

Why not?

Partly because I was being interviewed as a mom blogger. Mom blogging, in fact, has been a great platform for my writing and has helped me secure a lot of other, non-blogging work. (See this Mom-101 post for an excellent discussion of what kinds of doors blogging can open.) Insofar as this was an interview with mom bloggers about Mother’s Day, I didn’t want to diminish the fact of my motherhood. I am home with my kids a lot. I write about being home with my kids  and I identify, at least in part, as a mom blogger. Sure, fine.

But I also can’t help but feel like an impostor.  Does the fact that I work from home, with only part-time childcare, around nap schedules, late into the night and on weekends somehow make me less of a professional? Is there a reason someone who knows that I maintain a blog and write for other publications still calls me a stay-at-home mom? I feel like I’m just a mom who is managing to do this cute little writing thing on the side and that’s nice dear.

So the question remains. What exactly is a stay-at-home mom? Do I qualify? And if I do, why does the term rub me the wrong way? Not that there’s anything wrong with it!

I’ve talked about this before on the blog and on Facebook.  I never know what to say when people ask if I work outside the home. I mean, no, I work from my basement for the most part. Is that what you mean? Or do you mean to ask if I do other work than (the all-consuming and exhausting, yes) job of raising my three kids? I do. But is there a threshold where one crosses over from stay-at-home to work-at-home to plain old working? Is it hours logged? Or number of invoices? Or how much I get paid?

This much I know. For four months, when Colum was just over a year, after my mat leave ended and before I picked up a couple serving shifts, I earned no money. Other than that, I have always contributed a part-time income to the household. You know, mad money! Like the kind you use to buy groceries and shoes for your kids and to pay for hockey, swimming, t-ball, chess club and piano.

I also know that I don’t work full-time. I did hold a proper office job for a brief stint right before Irene was born and I still fantasize about those peaceful lunch breaks. Notwithstanding the lunches, though, working part-time from home is definitely not nearly as demanding (on the work-for-pay side of things) as a full-time position outside of the home. I get that. But isn’t it still work?

It’s hard for any parent who is home with the kids, fitting in work where they can and trying to make things happen. But I also don’t think anyone called my dad a “stay-at-home” when he was our primary caregiver and writing his PhD dissertation. Members of our working class family might not have understood exactly what it was that he was doing but they were pretty sure it didn’t involve homemade bread and paper mache crafts.

The image of a housewife or stay-at-home mom is still culturally ingrained. And like the off-the-mark description of Rebecca Woolf and her blog Girls Gone Child in the New York magazine Retro Wife article illustrates, mom bloggers are even harder to figure out. Woolf is obviously a full-time working mom with a nanny and a top-ranked blog and a gig with HGTV. But because she blogs about motherhood, because she documents the precious moments of her children’s lives, she is depicted as a throw back housewife.

Let me say this. No blog that is worth mentioning is mainstream media is going to be written by a stay-at-home mom.

There are blogs that are merely hobbies, for sure, and they can also be lovely and brilliant. (Or, as often as not, they are unbearably self-involved, meandering and boring.) But they are inevitably intermittent or short-lived. Nobody sits down three to five times a week for years on end to write consistently top quality posts if they are not treating it like a job.

I write something every day. These days, I typically publish three or four posts on this blog and write one or two op-ed posts on a wide range of topics for iVillage.ca every week. I also like to have at least one other freelance project on the go for Today’s Parent or some other publication. Then I have the entire other job of dealing with the administrative and technical tasks that are part of running your own blog and freelance writing business. I also attend PR events when they are relevant, spend hours scouring the internet for relevant topics and attend “mommy” business trips (aka blogging conferences).

So what do you think? I guess I can start losing the stay-at-home descriptor. Fair enough?

Image credit.

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Stuff I’m Digging: High Park Cherry Blossoms

This weekend is it.

Toronto’s High Park cherry blossoms are expected to be in bloom and will last for about a week. Most of the trees were a planted as a gift from Japan’s Sakura project in 2001. That explains the frenzy around the blossoms in recent years after I’d never heard of them for most of my life. (Leave the car at home, or at least a couple blocks away from the park, if you do go this year because parking is impossible.)

There is a tradition of picnicking under the blossoming cherry trees in Japan that has spread to North America (and wherever you might find the trees, I imagine). If you’re not in Toronto, there’s still a good chance there are some of these cherry trees near you. The timing of the blossoms changes, however, from year to year and from place to place according to the weather, so you may have already missed your chance for this year.

But High Park goes crazy for these blossoming trees. Last year was the first time we visited them and it blew my mind. I expected a few pretty trees, but there was a whole surreal vibe going on. Hundreds of people were walking around. There were dozens of picnics, hammocks, musicians, dancers, drum circles and the like. It was a total trip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We went in the evening, just before sunset, and it was simply magical.

Here’s a map that shows you where they are in the park.

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Now We Are Seven

I don’t usually do mushy birthday posts on here, preferring instead to publicly recount my humiliations and catastrophes, I guess. But Colum just turned seven and something weird keeps happening in my chest. It’s like a squeezing sensation that’s accompanied by a lump rising up in my throat and suddenly my eyes get all wet.

What is it about seven that feels so different?

It’s his second season of t-ball. He’s rounding the bend on Grade One. Next fall he’ll be in an older hockey division. He told me that even though he still likes Dora okay, other kids in his class don’t and he gets that he’s almost too old for it. (Not that he’d ever watch anything but sports and Power Ranger reruns anyway if it weren’t for his sisters.)

He’ll reluctantly hold my hand crossing busy streets but pulls away as soon as we reach the other side. He is about to learn to tie his own shoes and ride a two wheeler, I swear! (He’s more than ready, but someone has been too busy to properly teach him.) He pours his own milk and throws his clothes in a heap on the floor just like his dad does. Sniff.

He’s not little anymore is the thing. Seven feels like the threshold between little kid and big kid. He’s still a kid, of course. He still needs supervision and help and prodding, and he’s not yet completely and utterly humiliated by my presence. (I am working on it!)

But I can’t easily pick him up anymore. He spends much more time apart from me than he does with me. His French is already better than mine after two years of French Immersion and he definitely knows way more about Star Wars than I ever will.

In many ways these next few years will be even better. Not being needed as much (or in such a time-consuming way) is liberating. He’s great company and bedtime reading is so much better than it used to be. No offense, Goodnight Moon. He’ll become ever more independent and responsible and is already able to help out with his little sisters.

It’s a good thing, I know. But if the past seven years have gone by in a blur, can you imagine the next seven years? By this time next week, he’ll be 14 years old and his voice will be changing and he’ll be the one who can pick me up.

Oh dear. Now the wetness from my eyes has spilled down my face. I’m okay. I’m okay.

I just need to remember not to wish away any more moments. They are fleeting enough as it is.