If the kitchen is the heart of the household, then the fridge has to be the left ventricle of the kitchen. (That’s an important part, right? C’mon, people, work with me!) In any case, my fridge was way past due for a proper cleaning and the tupperware containers full of weeks old leftovers and the maple syrup spills were conspiring to drive me insane.
I did a thorough job on that fridge, pulling apart shelves and drawers and everything. But the sweetest thing is how easy it was to wash the crisper drawers in our big old sink.
It’s an enameled cast iron sink with a built in soap dispenser that we got from the Habitat For Humanity Restore when we were putting in our kitchen. When you buy a house with no kitchen on the main floor and you’re working with a tight reno budget and timeline, used crap is your friend. Ahem. I meant to say, reclaimed and vintage finds are the best. Price: $80, ballpark.
Stuff I’m Digging is a regular post in which I feature some thing or things that I like. These are often things that have been sent to me to review or that I received at a PR event. They can also be things that I bought myself or perhaps even something I crafted! (It could happen!) These are never sponsored posts and I will always disclose in the body of the post whether or not I paid for something.
Disclosure: I am part of the Finish Blogger Program by Mom Central. I received compensation as part of my affiliation with this group. The opinions on this blog are my own. Keep reading because it’s also a GIVEAWAY!
CONTEST CLOSED.
There is so very rarely a right and wrong way to do something — especially when it comes to raising kids. Breastfeeding versus formula, organic foods versus having enough money to also maybe send your kid to swimming lessons, attachment vs. uh … regular-style parenting: there’s no black and white, one-size-fits-all solution for any family.
The kids were so excited to have a baby sister. Ed took them out to buy her one small infant toy each. “Mommy, can I teach her to walk?” Irene wanted to know. And speech lessons began immediately: “Colum. Cawllll-UM. Colum.” But she mostly just lay there asleep.
Finally, after what must have seemed a yawning eternity, she smiled. Eventually she was actually able to reach for those little baby toys. And somehow, through a series of slow and gradual development, she has now become one of them.
From, “Oh my gawd, woman, why do you keep laying me down on my tummy?! I can’t see shit from down here.”
To rolling over all on her own … if only to end up stuck on her tummy, “Why don’t I ever learn. I STILL can’t see shit from here.”
“Now you’re talking, Mom. It took you long enough to get me some sweet Bumbo action.”
“Do you think if I just keep kicking my legs like this I might eventually get somewhere? Because those crayons and army guys aren’t going to eat themselves, you know?”
“Oh hi. Me? Just sitting here, playing it cool. Yeah, that’s right, just sitting up all on my own. Why aren’t you freaking out yet? How awesome am I?!”
“Alright, off the carpet. Now I’m going places! Aw shit. I’m going backwards, aren’t I?”
“It’s cool. I totally meant to do this.”
“Okay, wise guy, I get it. Very funny. Want to put down the camera and help a sister out?”
“Listen, I could totally get down and backwards crawl all around this park if I wanted to. I just don’t want to is all. Don’t think it’s because I don’t know how.”
“See, I told you I could do it. And check it out, I’m not even going backwards. Not forwards exactly either, but definitely not backwards!”
And then suddenly, last week, she figured it out. After weeks and weeks of backward crawling and a few days of rocking back and forth on her knees, she finally got the hang of it. She crawls! (Better than either of her sibs ever did, in fact.)
There she goes again!
Man, is it ever hard to photograph a crawling baby. Let’s try a video instead.
Er … disregard the last ten seconds in which I can’t figure out how to stop recording.
So that — if I kind of squint on tip toe — it almost looks like a me I recognize.
And maybe it’s not all in the tummy suck either.
Maybe some of the baby weight is actually starting to budge.
Just a little.
Because I was walking down the street the other day
When I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a store window.
For the first time in a long time I was able to see past my tummy
And realize that no matter how hard I try
I can’t suck in my butt.
Post Script: My grandmother tells a story about how she and her girlfriends used to walk around downtown in their teens reminding each other to TTI, Tuck Tummy In.
Last week my three kids and I descended upon a lovely lunch with Gill Deacon, sponsored by Seventh Generation, like a pack of wild dogs. We stumbled in out of a torrential downpour, soaking wet and dripping everywhere. I somehow managed to get the kids’ shoes off before they discovered the wonder that is somebody else’s playroom. You have got to love a PR event that includes child care.
Hey psst. Guys. I think I’m famous now. It’s catching, right? Here’s what happened.
There was some sort of giant mix up and I was invited to bring my family to a matinee performance of Cavalia Odysseo in Toronto. That’s the magnificent Cirque Du Soleil-esque show featuring horses and acrobats, an operatic score and enchanting sets. Clearly confusing me with some hugely influential person, they invited us to attend for free AND hooked us up with the VIP treatment — front and centre seats, buffet dinner, open bar and all. Just stop it, Cavalia, you had me at free lunch.
I wasn’t clear on whether or not parking was included, though, so we did park around the corner and walk to the event, keeping-it-real style. I don’t want to let this all-star treatment go to my head! Ed and I then had to do a circus-worthy juggle involving two kids and a baby and trips to the bathroom and to the buffet stations and to the bar (for juice and water because we’re lame like that). We finally made it to our seats with all of the children, three bags of popcorn, one program (which we promptly lost — your memories are your souvenirs kids!) and my big purse (a.k.a. the fancy diaper bag).
The seats next to me were empty until just before the show started. At the last minute a family filed in and they just looked so familiar. Convinced we were seated in some sort of mom blogger section (mostly because of all the mom bloggers and kids all around), I was focused on the woman about my age. She sat next to us and baby Mary kept shooting her the most winning-est smiles ever. I made small talk with this woman and racked my brain trying to remember if I’d ever met her before. A fitness blog maybe? Is that it? She had a girl about Colum’s age with her and a somewhat older man who also looked SO familiar and then a younger man sat on the end.
Now baby Mary is a happy baby. She’s a good baby. She’s really the best baby anybody could ever ask for. But she’s still a baby and this was a two-and-a-half hour show at nap time. She got pretty squirmy. You know, that kind of over-tired, back archy, claw your eyes out thing an eight-month-old baby will do. Go to sleep, Mary. Go to sleeeeep. She wanted to nurse; I wanted to nurse her. I looked down at my sleeveless maxi dress and considered my options. THIS is why I had originally tried to wear a loose fitting tee over it. Layers are a breastfeeding moms best friend. You’ll never need a cover if you have layers. But the t-shirt looked kind of dumb, so I took it off on the way out the door. Whatever, it was a dark room and I’m clearly sitting in the mom blogger section, right? I pull my dress down and feed Mary … all through the show. She just wouldn’t stop.
Then, finally, about five minutes before intermission, she falls asleep. I’m cradling sleeping Mary in my arms as we pick our way back to the VIP section for our dessert buffet. “Did you see?” Ed asks, “Laurence Fishburne is sitting at the end of our aisle.” What?! So that’s where I know that guy from, giantly massive Hollywood fame. I am so bad with celebrities, guys. So bad.
The kids and I had to go to the bathroom at the last possible second and were late finding our seats for the second act. Laurence Fishburne had to stand up for us to pass. “Thank you,” I said. “You’re welcome,” he said. See, I told you. I must be famous now!
The very nice woman who I think may be his wife, actress Gina Torres, commented on how busy we must be with the three kids and charmed the best baby smiles out of Mary. Then the show started again and I proceeded to flash the Fishburnes non-stop for another hour and change. Mary finally fell asleep five minutes before the show ended.
Completely unrelated shot of my kids eating mini ice cream cones. Laurence Fishburne! Beside me! Why would I pull out the camera? It's not like I have a blog or anything.
Sometimes in the summer the kids and I will pick up Ed from work and then drive right across town to the east-end Beaches for dinner and a stroll on the boardwalk. We do it when it’s easier than facing the throng of late rush hour traffic heading west. I do it when I just can’t face going home quite yet. We never plan ahead; we just go.
Friday was our first time this season — and our first as a family of five. We parked near the beach and then walked up to Queen St. to get the family meal deal at Lick’s. We always go to either Lick’s or the Goof, not because we’ve sworn off other places, but just because that’s where we always want to go. So I parallel parked the car on a bend in the road and turned off the engine.
“You’re like five feet from the curb, you know.” “No I’m not! What the hell, fine.” I pull out and park again, this time carefully tucking in close to the curb. “It’s that stupid car behind me. I was lining up with him, but he’s parked out in the middle of the road.” I roll up the windows and turn off the engine again. WHRRR. WHRRR. WHRMF. What the?! “Colum!” Stop messing with your window! How many times do I have to tell you?” Ever since we moved that kid into a booster seat it’s been nonstop with the stupid window. Nobody warned me about this! So I turn on the car AGAIN and roll up all the windows and cut the engine. Again.
I pull the first Maclaren umbrella stroller ever made out of the trunk and proceed to swipe at it with my foot while kind of slamming/bouncing it off the ground. It finally pops open and Ed starts to buckle baby Mary in. “What are you doing?” I snap, “There’s no way Irene’s going to want to walk all the way up to Queen St and back this late in the day. That’s why I brought the carrier.”
We finally gather all of our people and bags and things and more people and more bags and start making our way up the street. We have to walk a block out of our way to cross safely at traffic lights and I alternate between calling out for Irene to keep away from traffic and for Colum to just get down off that ledge/fence/bench/newspaper box and stick with us.
At some point Irene did climb into the stroller and Ed wound up pushing her while I wore Mary and the gigantic diaper bag and held hands with Colum. There we were, in full-tilt parent mode, when we came across an old friend and his girlfriend enjoying a beer on a patio. These are life long, die-hard Queen St. W.-ers and I even feigned surprise at seeing them that far east. We awkwardly exchanged ‘how’ve you been’s, us jiggling and bouncing and straining against our various progeny and them trying to exhale their cigarette smoke in the other direction. “So, uh, yeah. You guys should come out some day.” “We are out!” I exclaimed. Everyone laughed and we carried on.
And, you know, encounters like that used to kill me. It’s like I was waiting for some magical time when my kid would be old enough, or my life would be organized enough, that I could pick up where I left off. Because apparently I wasn’t quite finished whiling my life away, pint after pint? But then you have another kid, and another, and you realize that life is never coming back. And suddenly that’s okay.
Because we were out! Because nestled between the never-ending whining and bickering and nagging, hidden among the chaos and the stress and the time spent doing nothing, there’s this:
