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Stuff I’m Digging: Legoland Discovery Centre

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The kids and I got the chance to crash (er, attend and report on) the media preview for the new Legoland Discovery Centre that opens today at Vaughan Mills. (That’s a giant mall outside of Toronto, next to Canada’s Wonderland for all you downtown elites, or people from elsewhere in the world.) We had fun!

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My favourite part because I am old and boring is the Miniland that is a Lego replica of downtown Toronto (and Niagara Falls) replete with a Lego city hall. What? No Lego Rob Ford?! That’s pretty much how clean our city really is, too.

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There was also a Lego Skydome Roger’s Centre with cutting edge, high tech, interactive pin ball functionality.

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Interactive ACC, too. Go Leafs!

Colum also had a blast building his own Lego car and then racing it down giant ramps. The kids all loved the Merlin’s Apprentice and Kingdom Quest rides. There is also a Lego Duplo play area for littler kids, a jungle gym-type obstacle course, a 4D movie theatre, classes with a master builder and party rooms.

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Reinforcing gender-based stereotypes like it’s her job, Irene could not get enough of the Lego play kitchen.

All in all, it’s a pretty cool place for kids. It’s not quite big enough to be a destination in and of itself, but it’s a great option if you are in the GTA anyway and looking for a fun way to spend the afternoon. Or, you know, a great place to unload your husband and kids while you get some shopping done.

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The Life Cycle of A Blogger

1. Why not become a blogger, right? Why not?! I have stories to tell. I have opinions. I have important things to tell the world. I know I’m not going to become the next Dooce or anything (but maybe I’ll be the next Amalah?). This is going to be good. I’ll start with a 2500-word introduction to my life story, just the self-involved parts.

2. You see? There’s so much creative satisfaction in the writing alone. I don’t even care if many people actually read it. *Refresh. Refresh. Refresh refresh refresh refresh refresh.* Why isn’t anyone reading this?! I posted the link on Facebook. I support everyone else, dammit!

3. I got a comment! This is amazing. People are really into my stories. All my family and friends say I’m hilarious. Well, not all of them, but, like, at least 30 of them. And I even have a couple readers who I only know through the internet, other bloggers. This is how shit starts to go viral.

4. Man, I really should blog something. Has it already been two months since my last post? People must be so disappointed. I’d better start with an apology. What I really need is a blogging schedule. That’s it, I’ll write a post about how I haven’t been blogging enough but I will definitely start blogging more now. That will be good.

5. Jen says I need to get a Twitter if I want my blog to go anywhere. I don’t really understand how it works, but I’m trying it out. Oh, wow, this is awesome. There are so many bloggers right here in my city I didn’t even know. They even get together at events and tweet ups and stuff. More people are reading my blog which means I have to write better posts which means even more people read it. Twitter has saved my blogging career!

6. Twitter has ruined my blog. It takes up so much time and I tweet out all the funny stuff that happens and then I don’t have anything left to blog about. Between work and the kids and the in-laws, I don’t even have the energy to put out more than 140 characters at a time. And nobody comments anymore either, so what’s the point?

7. I miss my blog. As soon as this next mat leave starts I’m going to really start blogging in earnest again. You just have to treat it like a job, really. You can’t wait to feel inspired. This could be my last chance to get my blog noticed. I think I’ll start a Facebook page for it.

8. Holy smokes. My depth of blogging experience, established Twitter network and all this fresh, new material is really paying off. Or maybe it’s just the magic SEO that comes with having paid hosting fees on some half-assed attempt at a blog for several years. Either way! My stats are up. I’m popular!

9. Oh no, do you know how many people are going to read my next post? Now I really need to make it good. Okay, I did it. That last post lit the internet on fire. I’m amazing. I’m awash in ephemeral internet glory.

10. This next post is brought to you by the Bank of West Toronto but that’s totally fine because I was wanting to write about savings accounts anyway. I just need these sponsored posts to subsidize the writing I really want to do. You can’t fault me for that. Yes, important writing like that family resort review I posted right after the kitchen appliance round up. Oh god, I’m a sell out, aren’t I?

11. Remember when blogging didn’t used to be about hashtags and PR campaigns? Remember that sense of community? That’s it, I’m bringing it back to basics. I’m going to write about whatever I want to write about, brand-friendly or not. This is my space and I’m going rogue. RAWR.

12. I didn’t mean it! I do care about sponsors, I do! Why doesn’t anyone want to work with me now? Maybe I can’t run a business based on my stories and opinions, but can I at least earn what the guy handing out the free newspapers makes?

13. Don’t tell me that’s a parking ticket on my windshield. I know I’m a few minutes late but all the kids suddenly had to use the bathroom and I already paid for $8 worth of parking. So parking is going to cost me almost $40 which is more than I’ve made all week on my freaking blog because there is no value in providing content that is not a dressed-up marketing vehicle and why do I even bother with this stupid vanity project anymore when I should just be working on actual, paying jobs but how can I let it go after all these years and who am I and what does it all mean???

14. I feel like the cold and empty shell of an inspired blogger, but I have a fresh pot of coffee, a blank page and two solid hours to myself. There’s got to be a joke in here somewhere.

PUBLISH

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Remember Before You Had A Baby?

Remember how easy life used to be before you had a baby? My god, weren’t we lazy? I’m not talking about how you were able to have a job without losing half your salary to childcare, or how you could dash out to see a movie on a whim or how you could walk clear across your living room floor without tripping over hunks of plastic. I’m not talking about the stuff you already knew was going to happen.

I’m talking about how:

  • You used to shove that last granola bar wrapper into the side of the garbage bin and barely even notice how it popped right back out and fluttered down onto a small pile of spill-over trash. Because, eh, whatever. You’ll pick it up when you change the garbage, after you eat this granola bar and watch a little tv and, hey, you’ll get to it. But now. Now you need to coordinate your freaking day around changing that bloody garbage bag and those errant granola wrappers are ruining your life.
  • You used to be able to, I don’t know, make yourself a sandwich, use a knife to chop things into little pieces, cook with more than one pot at a time, open and close the oven door without any warning and otherwise prepare food and it wasn’t somewhat more stressful than being late for your own wedding.
  • You’d haul crap up and down stairs in one go instead of taking eleventy-jillion trips up and down with socks and wash cloths and diapers and sweaters and blankets and rattles and books. (Let’s not even contemplate what that’s like when you have a baby and older children in the house.)
  • You could pee without another human on your lap.  (Ohmigah guys, get your heads out of the gutter; BABIES, I’m talking about babies.)
  • You would routinely go outside, go shopping, check your email, make a phone call (and not live in fear of your internet going out so you don’t even have Facebook), take a shower that includes BOTH hair washing and leg shaving, read a book, read a magazine and read the entire directions on that frozen lasagna. (It takes two hours, for crying out loud!)

[deep breath]

  • You could so easily have folded the laundry and immediately put it away, made giant batches of organic sweet potato puree and then washed ground in sweet potato puree spills off the kitchen floor (WHY DID YOU NOT DO THIS BEFORE YOU HAD THE BABY?!), shovel the snow, go to the bank and sit in a full-sized freaking chair at the library.
Anyway, I was just feeling a little nostalgic. No reason. [She says as she kicks an empty cereal box across the dining room floor.] Any favourite memories you’d like to share?
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Work-At-Home Weekend Woes

IMAG1113_1_1_1It was an extra long weekend for us with a PA Day at school on Friday and then the holiday Monday. Most people love long weekends. They are always lobbying the government for more of them. “MOAR DAYZ OFF,” they say. In fact, it’s probably a good bet to tack a long weekend onto any sort of political objective you have. We want government-subsidized child care for all! AND A DAY OFF IN JUNE TO CELEBRATE! You can just see right wing, anti-tax types crumpling all over the place. “That’s not the role of government! What’s that, you say? I get a day off? Oh.”

I also expect to enjoy long weekends. I look forward to not having to make lunches and rush everyone out the door first thing. I look forward to having another parent around to blame when the girls mix a baking soda and molasses pudding on the kitchen floor. (Guys, you cannot make this stuff up.) And I do, in fact, enjoy spending time together as a family when I’m not otherwise having a total identity crisis/meltdown.

The more time I spend with my kids, it seems, the more I realize that I don’t do enough of it. I know, I know. Cry me a river, you “work-at-home” mom. But if I was actually working outside the home then at least I would be bringing home a real pay cheque instead of going crazy earning just enough here and there to keep us afloat. If I worked outside the home I would hire people to make sure my kids were well taken care of instead of turning on the TV for Irene during Mary’s afternoon nap and then rushing up and trying to force feed her all the stories and books and word games in a 20 minute window of down time.

Most of the time I feel pretty lucky. I get more time with my kids than full-time working parents get. I am not stuck at a job I hate for 40+ hours a week. I am able to earn a little bit working from home, doing the kind of work I want to do. But there’s something about long weekends, the combination of spending quality time with my children and spending very little time actually working, that makes me think I’m deluding myself. I’m with my kids a lot, sure. But even if I’m not sneaking away to write, I’m checking emails, logging in to social media and plotting my next post. I’m constantly spinning my wheels with zero financial stability.  Maybe this is the worst of both worlds.

So we finally made it out to the ROM to check out the Ultimate Dinosaur exhibit. Colum totally geeked out over all the interactive features and Mary went absolutely nuts over the tiniest of dinosaur skeletons. Irene just loved running around and taking it all in. A fun time was had by all even if their debit/credit system was down, making me feel like a dinosaur myself talking the cashier through the process of running my credit card through the old manual swipe machine. “You have to really lean into it. The faster the better.” The exhibit runs until the end of March Break, I believe.

We also managed to cram in a family shopping trip, a birthday celebration for my mother-in-law and a jam-packed holiday Monday.  The sheer quantity of quality time was dizzying. (The mountain of laundry I barely made a dent in will attest to that.) I am officially sated on time with my kids. I should be able to knuckle down and focus on work for another couple weeks, at least until March Break sends me back down the identity crisis spiral.

What do you guys think? Is the grass always greener or are you happy with your own work situation?

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Mom Guilt: Winter Play Edition

Hello, my name is Rebecca, and I suffer from “seasonal-affective, indoor mom guilt.”

I know my kids don’t get enough outdoor winter play — or at least some of them don’t, some of the time. I guess Colum gets recess at school, which is plenty on a cold day. But Irene is in half days and doesn’t always get recess and then I tend to think the one and a half year old gets plenty of exercise just running around the house. Between naptime restrictions, school, extra curriculars, early sundown and the fact that it is just so damn hard bundling up three kids for 20 minutes of outdoor play, I know we’re not outside as much as we should be.

Compound that with the “I need to cook more from scratch,” “my house is a pig sty,” and “I need to work more to make ends meet” flavours of mom guilt and taking the time and energy to go outside in February feels like an impossible task. So when nature dumps a boatload of pure white, fluffy snow on our fair city and then follows it up with the most glorious, sunny and mild day, I know I have to take advantage.

“Okay, guys. Why don’t we just pick up the toys and books off the living room and dining room floors and then we can go tobogganing!”

“Nnno!”

“I’m too TIIIRRRED. I don’t know hooooowww to clean up!”

“Buh, buh, buh.” Eats playdoh, picks nose.

I pretty much lost it, replete with threats and yelling and hair pulling. Where have I gone wrong?! How are these my children?! Then Ed kind of lost it on me with the classic, “Maybe we need to teach them how to clean up,” line. Because I’ve never tried that. I ended up slamming the door to my bedroom like some emo tweenager (PMS much?) and picking laundry up off the floor and hurling into the hamper until the rage settled. (That is the best and most efficient way to tidy a room, by the way. Highly recommended.)

At least we all got a good cry out early in the day? We did eventually make it out of the house.

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That’s the way, baby girl. Nice and slow on your bum. Isn’t that fun?

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Oh no. Please don’t take the baby down on the toboggan. Really, I mean it. Don’t do it. Really.

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I command so much respect and authority. She LOVED IT, by the way.

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See you, suckers!

We all had a blast and the only person who got remotely injured was me when I wiped out freaking walking down the hill on the way to the car. I’m fine.

So I’m good now until March Break, right? Are we supposed to do this every day?

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Working Parents Deserve First Dibs on Shifts

It finally happened. A court of law has ruled that caring for your children is more important than prime time TV. Earlier this week a Canadian federal court upheld a human rights tribunal’s finding that employers have an obligation to try to accommodate employee needs as they pertain to childcare.  That means if your boss can reasonably let you work the day shift so you can drop your kid at daycare, then she has to.

(UPDATE: From the Globe and Mail article linked to above, “The ruling also leaves the onus on employees to prove that they have made reasonable efforts to sort out their family obligations before requesting help from their employers, Rudner said.” This isn’t about every parent trumping every non-parent. It is designed to protect those who would otherwise be forced to leave their job.)

Before I go any further, let me fully disclose my biases. Not only am I a parent, I am also a night owl. I worked shift work in the Telus Mobility call centre for a brief stint before I had kids and I could not for the life of me understand why young, childless people made such a fuss about working until 9pm. You know that means you don’t have to be in until noon, right? And you get to skip rush hour altogether? And you can still meet friends for a drink or whatever? I just didn’t get it. I still don’t.

But I don’t have to get it to understand why it might seem unfair for one employee who does the exact same job as another to get first dibs on shifts just because she has a kid. I mean, imagine if I had to start coming in at 8am! INJUSTICE! It seems unfair, but that doesn’t mean it’s not right.

It’s common decency, for one thing. I once worked lunches as a server with a woman who had to pick her daughter up from school at 3:30. This meant that I always had to put in the grunt hours between 3:00 and 5:00 when you clean and prep and make next to no tips and she never did. Not once did it ever even occur to me (or to anyone else) to complain. She had to leave at 3:00 just like I could only work two shifts a week because I was in school and the owner had to yell at everyone because he was an asshole. It’s life. You deal with it.

Having children may be a choice, but taking care of them is not. Juggling work and childcare is hard enough for working parents on a typical schedule. (Sick days and PA days and doctor’s appointments and school breaks all have to be covered somehow.) But how would a single parent even go about finding child care to cover shift work? Daycares have set hours and round-the-clock nanny care is absurdly expensive. A parent’s need to work around child care limitations does trump someone else’s desire for a 9 to 5 lifestyle.

Okay, I lied. It’s not a choice. I mean, even if I employ my power of hypothetical thought to its utmost and imagine that I could have opted to ignore my own biological imperative to procreate — even if I, personally, could have chosen otherwise — somebody has to have the children. Reproduction is necessary for our political, economic and cultural continuation. Who is going to write all the TV shows when you get old if people stop having children?! God, think about it. (Oh yeah, there’s that social security problem too. That would have been smart to bring up.)

One more thing. What is the primary factor holding women back from equal footing in the workforce? Motherhood, that’s what. This is not to say there aren’t other factors (like blatant sexism in the tech industry, for example), but this is the biggest. Women take more time off from their career when their children are young, they work shorter hours and they choose less demanding career paths so they can be there for their families. For some women this is a choice they want to make. For many others, this is a choice they have to make.

So bravo, Canadian federal court! Bravo Justice Mandamin! This is a huge step forward for Canadian families and an even bigger one for women everywhere.

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Growing Up Too Fast

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Mary toddled over to the book shelf and came back with one of her favourites. Maybe it was Everywhere Babies or maybe it was  The Pokey Little Puppy  or Sandra Boyton’s Belly Button Book. She climbed up onto my lap and I reluctantly put my phone down and opened the book.

“Dat?” she asked.

“Baby. Baaabeee. Baby!” I answered.

“Dat?”

“That’s another baby. Yes, other baby. That’s right. Baby.”

“Dat?”

“Doggy. Do you see the doggy? That’s a dog.”

“Dat?”

“Bear.”

“Dat? Dat? Dat? DAT? DAT DAT DAT DAT!”

“Bunny rabbit, stroller, baby’s nose, baby’s daddy, tree, bird, moon, sun, flower.”

It went on like that for about six months or so. I mean, sure, we took breaks to eat and sleep and to schlep the other two kids around. Sometimes she’d go to the baby sitter and sometimes she’d do other things. But the ages ten to sixteen months mostly featured a lot of asking about “dat”. There were some other words, yes, but not very many and not very often.

It was starting to wear thin. I found myself increasingly wishing she would just grow up a little already. “When can I read you the actual story?” I thought. “When can you read to yourself? Or will you at least sit and watch tv for fifteen minutes so I can get the bloody dinner on in peace?”

In two and a half years she will be in kindergarten, full day kindergarten. In two and a half years all my kids will be in school and I couldn’t wait. Intellectually, of course, I knew that I would miss her when she’s gone. I would miss having babies and I really shouldn’t wish away these early years. But this was my third time playing the “Dat? Dat? Dat?” game and I was tired of it. I wanted to spend more time working and less time nurturing. It’s horrible, I know, but that’s how I felt.

Then on Friday morning I managed to misplace my bank card, thus putting the kibosh on our weekly shopping trip. I sat down with a coffee and she climbed up onto my lap with a book instead.

“Dat?” she asked.

“Bear.” I answered.

“Buh!” she said.

“Yes! Yes, Mary! That’s very good talking!”

And it went on. There was buh for bear and beh for bird. Duh for dog and muh for moon. She pointed and repeated and she must have said a dozen new words. It continued throughout the day and beyond. She pushed herself to try new sounds, even landing that pesky “f.” She babbled and sang and delighted her brother and sister with her nonsense. She laughed along with them; it was a full and hearty, decidedly un-baby-like laugh. She played games with her sister and even forgot to ask to nurse one morning.

So of course I’m in shambles. My baby is growing up too fast, yes, but it’s not just her. Colum, a couple months shy of seven, is all gangling limbs and Star Wars trivia. He has his own life at school and hockey and then comes home and entertains himself mostly. He’s still a little boy but barely. How many more years, months or days before my mere presence at the edge of the school yard is enough to make him feel utterly humiliated? How long before good night cuddles are no longer welcome?

And Irene! My poor middle child always gets lost in the shuffle. It’s easy to track those first milestones into uncharted big kid territory or those last teetering baby steps into toddlerhood. But she just seamlessly grows from toddler to kindergartner,  from little sister to big sister, without anyone much noticing. I don’t know when she started to be able to reach the light switch or the bathroom faucet without a stool. I don’t know how her hair got so long or how she learned how to get her own coat and boots on without any fuss.

They are all growing right before my eyes and I am somehow missing it. And if I’m not missing it I’m wishing it away. This is the most obvious and natural thing, but it still somehow surprises me. It catches me off guard and brings tears to my eyes. I don’t want to turn back time, but if I could find a way to hold onto the present, all these fleeting presents, just a little bit longer, that would be so good.

You know?

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Sandwich It! From Leftovers to Lunch

Last night was so wonderful. I bathed the girls, put on their pajamas, brushed their teeth, read them a book, sang them a lullaby and put them to bed. I repeated as needed until they both stopped screaming at me. Then I got Colum a post hockey-practice snack, checked  his homework and sent him up to bed.

THEN I emptied and loaded the dishwasher, washed all the pots and pans, swept the floor, tidied the cupboards and set about making inspired and delicious school lunches. It’s the best part of my day!

Are you buying this at all? Not even a little bit? Of course not. We are halfway through the school year and, let’s face it, if we can pull clean underwear out of the dryer in the morning, that’s a pretty big win for the whole day. I’m not sure how my life turned into a revolving door of, “I can’t wait until the next school break!” and “Omfg, when are these kids going back to school?” But there you have it.

And that is why this idea is pure genius.

You know those few bites of leftovers you have at the end of a meal? The little bit that’s not enough for another dinner but your husband puts in a Tupperware container in the back of the fridge anyway so you can clean out the moldy mess two weeks later? Yes, I think you do know. Why not take whatever’s left over and instead make a tasty sandwich or two out of it for tomorrow’s lunch? I CAN’T BELIEVE I DIDN’T THINK OF THIS MYSELF.

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First I made a wonderful chicken caesar salad from scratch and then put it in this plastic take-out container. There was some left over.

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I opted for the Ancient Grains bread because it’s my kids’ favourite. Ha!

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Caesar salad dressing on both pieces of bread, top with leftover chicken caesar salad.

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Ta da! That actually looks better than the dinner did.

Pure genius, I tell you.

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Sweet Surrender

Marshmallows
“This no sugar diet is going really well,” I said to my brother. “I think I’m going to keep it up past January. Maybe I’ll do no sugar from Monday to Friday but allow myself a treat on the weekend.”

“If you eat sugar on weekends then you might as well just move to sugartown and marry the marshmallow man. It’s all or nothing,” he said.

“IS THE MARSHMALLOW MAN AVAILABLE?!”

I was joking, but deep inside I was hurt. As if I’m not able to have the occasional piece of pie without falling into some sugar-coated downward spiral. As if I don’t have a modicum of self control. As if.

So, to recap, I gave up all sugar (except for the naturally occurring sugar in fruit and the small amount found in things like bread) for a limited time as a New Year’s resolution. I didn’t have a single dessert, candy or treat after January 1st. I didn’t have a muffin, pancake or piece of toast with jam. I didn’t have a cup of yogurt or honey-sweetened granola, for fuck’s sake. AND IT WAS FINE.

Until.

We were celebrating my father-in-law’s birthday on Saturday night and my mother-in-law made his mother’s “famous coffee cake.” It’s just a simple coffee cake, but she hasn’t made it for well over a decade and I’ve never tried it. I supposed a small bite wouldn’t hurt; just a taste, really, of my husband’s heritage. There’s nothing more important than family, right?

So I did. I cut off the smallest corner and popped it my mouth. It was good: light, moist, not too sweet. No harm done. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

The next thing I knew, I was clearing the remainder of Irene’s giant slice of coffee cake into the kitchen and popping just one more small taste into my mouth. Then I was standing at the kitchen counter and that’s when things got a little fuzzy. I seemed to have gone into some sort of coffee cake inhaling trance and when I came to the plate was empty and there were crumbs down my shirt.

I pulled myself together. It was okay. I was going to start allowing a bit of sugar on weekends anyway. It was Saturday, after all, and January was practically over. I could recover from this. No big deal.

And then yesterday. Oh, the shame. It was still the weekend, you see, so I might as well start the day with some granola and vanilla yogurt.  I’m not sure exactly what happened after that but it involved granola bars and stale-ass peanut butter cookies, and ended with me buying marshmallows to go with the Rice Krispies that were on sale.

Less than 24 hours after my first taste of sugar in almost four weeks, I was whipping up Rice Krispie squares for only the second time ever in my life. I married the marshmallow man, basically.

But it was still the weekend!

Never mind. I just scarfed down a banana chocolate chip muffin. Oh god.

Image credit.

 

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Here’s The Thing About Strollers on Buses

“There are too many strollers on buses.” “These mothers today and their SUV strollers.” “That kid shouldn’t even be in a stroller.” There’s been a lot of that kind of sentiment going around since a citizen issued a complaint at a Toronto Transit Commission meeting on Monday about strollers obstructing the aisle on TTC buses. Transit staff will look into the issue and report on whether there is, indeed, a need for guidelines. (Note that TTC CEO Andy Byford says they have no plans to start charging an extra fare for strollers.)

Here’s the thing.

Sure, it’s a pain to fit a stroller on a bus. The newer (I guess they’re not even that new anymore, are they? I’m showing my age again!) wheelchair accessible buses that ride closer to the ground make it much easier to get a stroller onto a bus than ever before. Once you are on the bus, however, seats need to fit around the protruding wheel humps. (I’m quite sure that’s the official word for them: wheel humps.) This causes a bit of a bottleneck about one third into the vehicle that’s annoying during rush hour even without any strollers. Throw a couple Gracos into the mix and your transit commute becomes a live action Tetris game. I get that. Do you know who else gets that? The parents or caregivers who are trying to take up as little space as possible while placating a baby or toddler on a crowded bus ride and apologizing to every person squeezing past, that’s who.

That brings me to my next point. Nobody brings a stroller on the TTC during rush hour unless they have to. I live in the city and have three children under seven years old. We didn’t own a car at all until the second baby was born. I know what I’m talking about. For the most part, parents do try to coordinate their travel to avoid rush hour. We’re not all masochists! But sometimes you have no choice. Child care is hard to come by in this city and some people do need to lug their kids to and from daycare on buses and streetcars. Is that not punishment enough? Or you could bring a five year old and two year old downtown for a rally supporting pay equity for midwives when you are heavily pregnant with a third baby and accidentally find yourself boarding the subway with a giant belly and a sit-and-stand stroller in the heart of rush hour and have to contend with scowls and sideways glances because how dare you impinge on that guys right to a child-free commute!? Ahem, you know, for example.

If there’s a stroller on a bus during rush hour, basically, it’s because it has to be there. More commonly, you will get a stroller traffic jam mid-morning or mid-afternoon. That can also be a hassle for anyone else trying to squeeze by, but it usually works itself out. In those cases, there is plenty of room on the bus if you don’t mind moving back a bit.

And I’d just like to point out that the so-called SUV strollers people like to complain about tend to be economy models. It’s actually quite expensive to buy a nice, sleek, light-weight and transit-friendly stroller. Contrary to popular belief, the SUV models are not a sign of exorbitant indulgence. They’re simply the only affordable options for many people until their kid is big enough for a $15 umbrella stroller (but that’s another story).

But why do these kids need to be in strollers anyway, you ask. Babies, for one, can’t walk and while some sort of baby carrier is always an option it’s not always the best choice for everyone. (If I was going to be out all day, I would want both a stroller and a carrier, for example.) The thing that most people seem to be completely unaware of is that while toddlers can walk, they really do need to be strapped down for their own safety. Children under 3 or even 4 years old have the impulse control of Rob Ford at a football game and I would never feel safe taking the TTC unless they were harnessed into a stroller, especially if I have more than one child with me.

Just remember that it’s public transportation, people. That means you’ll occasionally have to squeeze past a stroller or two and I’ll have to bite my tongue when I miss my connection because there’s an old lady taking her sweet time on the stairs. I’ll try not to begrudge the perfectly able-bodied person who took my stroller’s spot on the elevator and we will all pretend we can’t smell that guy over there.

Can we all just agree to leave young families alone and instead focus on that pervert masturbating over there? Because that still happens.