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Word on the Street-ing

My goodness, is the season for a giant hockey bag in front of my dryer upon us already? Nobody told me to budget another 1000 square feet for sporting equipment when we were buying a house!

But there you have it. Hockey started yesterday and now I need to hoist a bag that’s bigger than all three of my children around the laundry/mud room in order to fish clean underwear out of the dryer in the mornings. Stop judging! I know you’ve done it too.

Hockey started yesterday morning, the same morning Ed was slotted to read an excerpt from his upcoming book at the Word on the Street festival. Huh, this was going to be tricky. We somehow had to get Ed and Colum off the ice and changed into street clothes and downtown in half an hour. Or I could just bring Colum to hockey myself with the two girls in tow.

SO, as I was saying, Ed had to figure out how to get downtown stat. Listen, hockey is their thing and far be it from me to come between them. Also, you don’t want the poor boy sent out with his athletic cup on upside down again, do you?

They cut out of the practice early and I met them at the arena with the two girls and we all drove downtown together. The idea was that Ed would check in at the tent where he was reading and I would find parking and then bring the kids down to watch. We’d hang out after until Ed’s scheduled radio interview and then head home.

That’s what I thought the plan was. Instead, we found parking at the far north end of the festival while Ed was reading at the far south end. (Bloor to College Streets, if you know Toronto. It was SPRAWLING this year.) So we set off on foot, passing the giant TVO stage and all the awesome children’s publishers as soon as we entered the festival. Sorry kids, we’re going to listen to Dad read first. We kept walking, past a row of port-a-potties, past all the food stands, right down to the foot of Queen’s Park. We were just … about …

“Emergency!” Colum was hopping around. “Bathroom emergency! Can’t hold it! Can’t hold it!”

I look at the time: 11: 27. We would have been just on time. So I drag all three kids back up past all the food stands to where there was a row of port-a-potties. Let’s pretend this went smoothly and I never once tried to guilt trip my kid for having to use the bathroom right when his dad was about to read. Because that would have been wrong.

We finally make it back down to the bottom of Queen’s Park … and then keep on going. This is when I realize  I don’t actually know where Ed is reading after all. By the time we make it to the very bottom-most tent, the reading is over and he’s taking questions from the audience. “This must be for grown ups,” Irene notes, “Because it’s BORING.” “What do kids care about the mayor?!” Colum chimed in.

I let the kids run around a statue of John A. Macdonald for half an hour before Ed and I realize there won’t be time to hang out with him before his next engagement after all. So then we start making the trek all the way BACK up to Bloor St. But not so fast with the TVO Stage, kids!

Bonus detour! We need to feed the parking metre first.

Eventually we do make it to the stage and Colum and Irene made their way to the front just in time for the show to end. We all sat patiently for 15 minutes waiting for the next show (because at this point in our day 15 minutes is nothing). The sun was coming down so strong and hard during that wait in the middle of the road with nary a leaf for shade that I pulled off all the kids’ sweaters and tried not to break into a sweat trying to contain a 12 month old in a crowd.

Then the kids from Pop It! came on and taught the kids some dance moves. That was fun. Then there was an author interview. That was less fun, but we were staying firmly planted. I opened the front of my button down shirt and started nursing Mary, hoping maybe she’d drift off to sleep. And that’s the exact moment the sky opened up and it started pouring.

I was left scrambling around in a downpour, trying to keep Colum and Irene from running off in different directions, trying to get sweaters back on and pick up my purse, and oh god, my shirt is still open and oh no! Not my fancy, new HTC! Keep the tech dry!

So we found shelter under a tree, Ed came and met us, it stopped raining, the kids really enjoyed the next TVO stage show, they got to meet Polkaroo and we went home with an armful of Chirp, Chickadee and Owl back issues.

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Watching

Polka too

It was a good day, all in all, and I would totally recommend taking your kids to Word On the Street if you’re in Toronto.

Has anyone else ever been? Did your kids have fun?

 

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Breastfeeding happens at the breast

So, breastfeeding.

There is always breastfeeding versus formula feeding drama on the internet, but I mostly stay out of it. I stay out of it because I don’t know that there’s anything more to say. Who doesn’t know that breastfeeding is your best first choice for baby feeding? Adding more voices to the chorus simply adds to the breastfeeding pressure mothers feel. Mothers like Casey from Moosh in Indy who says, “Can you imagine someone who suffers from dry eye syndrome being accosted for putting eye drops in their eyes? “Those have chemicals in them! THEY ARE UNNATURAL! What, are you so selfish that you can’t bother to cry your own tears?”

And of course we don’t mean it that way! Of course, we are only trying to promote a culture of breastfeeding support and acceptance. But women, emotionally fragile brand new mothers, are made to feel like they have somehow failed. They feel that way and they shouldn’t have to. So I tend not to say much.

Anyway, many of the people who do speak out in favour of breastfeeding rights and support do such a great job. They have got it covered. (Holla Annie PhD in Parenting, KellyMom and Blacktating just off the top of my head.)

But. You had to know there was a but coming. But today I do want to say something.

We really do have such a long way to go. It’s so easy to assume, having lived and breathed parenting and breastfeeding literature for over six years now, that the basics are common knowledge. I assumed, at least, that in a top-rated, state of the art labour and delivery ward in downtown Toronto, the L&D nurses would encourage breastfeeding immediately following an uncomplicated vaginal delivery. I didn’t expect them to advise the mother “to just bond” with her instead, as if bonding was not something that happens at the breast as well.

Nor did I expect a nurse from that same hospital (*cough cough* Mt. Sinai *cough cough*) to deem a mother’s nipples unacceptable and declare “this isn’t going to work” within 14 hours of a baby’s birth. Formula was introduced right away, no instructions were given about continuing to try to put the baby to the breast with every feed and the normal breastfeeding assistance everyone else received was bypassed because she was no longer breastfeeding. Less than 24 hours after the birth!

I didn’t expect a nurse at that same hospital to turn a breast pump up to high and then walk out of the room when my own newborn son was receiving light therapy for jaundice. I still cringe at the nipple trauma from my first-ever experience with a breast pump. And then every other nurse I dealt with (some of whom were fantastic) gave me conflicting advice.

There are evidenced-based facts about what measures help to promote and encourage a healthy start to breastfeeding. THIS STUFF ISN’T A MYSTERY. Every expectant mother shouldn’t have to read the Jack Newman Guide to Breastfeeding in order to know what these basic measures are. (Although I do recommend it.) The nurses should have read it. Every labour and delivery nurse should be trained in basic breastfeeding support and nobody should have to wait more than 24 hours to see a lactation consultant if they need one.

But, you know what? Stuff happens. There are flat nipples and inverted nipples and tongue ties that are missed because family doctors are not lactation experts either. There are stubborn babies and sleepy babies and babies who have been traumatized with deep suctions. There are emergency c-sections and preemies and breast aversions and some moms really just don’t have enough milk.

Sometimes breastfeeding doesn’t go as planned. Sometimes you can do everything right and it still doesn’t work — at least not right away. This is invariably exhausting. Emotionally and physically and psychologically, it is draining to spend almost every waking moment worrying about how you are feeding your baby (and then feeling guilty if you take an afternoon off). All new moms need support; new mothers that are struggling need extra support instead of breastfeeding pressure.

A common error is to try to make the mom feel better by telling her not to worry. Things like, “Well, the important thing is the baby is getting your milk,” or, “All that matters is that you tried,” come from the right place, but they don’t help. For a mom that is dealing with round-the-clock newborn feedings and then having to pump in between feedings, that is not all that matters. Is there anybody who ever set out to feed her baby breast milk from a bottle or a tube? Is that ever the end goal? No, it’s not. So let’s stop pretending that it’s an adequate substitution for the mother. (A well-loved, well-fed baby is going to do just fine regardless.)

That goes for doctors, nurses and hospitals too, by the way. There seems to be a general push for mom to start pumping as soon as any feeding difficulty is detected and then, so long as she is producing milk and baby is feeding, nobody is following up. Baby’s getting breast milk, right? That’s all that matters.

Well, for me, breastfeeding is about more than just the milk. It’s about more than just the bonding and togetherness, too. It’s about never having to wash a bottle. It’s about not knowing about the different kinds of bottle nipples. It’s about knowing that as long as my baby is with me, it will have everything it needs. Breastfeeding is about never having to plan (too far) ahead. It’s about lazy mornings in bed. It’s instant comfort for bumps and bruises, a sleep aid and a pacifier. Breastfeeding makes me feel better and calms raging postpartum hormones.

It also makes my hair continue to fall out. But did I mention the lazy mornings in bed?!

So let’s keep our eye on the real goal, medical profession and rest of society.

But if it really doesn’t work? If breastfeeding is not happening, for whatever reason, can we just let a poor woman feed her baby formula from a bottle without guilt trips and breastfeeding pressure? I mean, if she wants to keep pumping, by all means. But if formula can give her more time, more rest, more sanity — if it can make her a happier mom, then why shouldn’t she switch?

I know if I were to have another baby (hypothetically, puh-lease!) and was confronted with a killer tongue tie or some other insurmountable latching issue, I would switch in a heartbeat.

Who’s with me?

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Toast Bar: As Awesome as It Sounds

As promised (yes, I was serious): how to fancy up your brunch spread with the soon-to-be-all-the-rage toast bar. (Note: it’s not that fancy. I mean, it is fancier than a pile of egg mcmuffins or having to open the fridge to get out the jam. I guess there’s that.)

Ahem. I present … my toast bar!

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The first thing you’re going to have to do is clear off a suitable surface. Because I’m not the only one who’s dining room buffet is perpetually home to every single sheet of paper and craft project and sports trophy and are you kidding me with this pine cone collection?! Right? So put all that crap somewhere else.

Then get out your toaster. It doesn’t have to be a super shiny chrome deal like I have (although my toaster does make me very, very happy). Whatever you have at home is fine. Next — and this step is very important — wipe that sucker down. You would not believe how much grease and dirt was clinging to that chrome surface. I find baby wipes are well-suited for this job, but use whatever works.

The toaster is the centerpiece of a well-designed toast bar. *snort* Whatever. It is! So start by setting it up on your newly cleared-off surface. (I also discovered you can make a table runner just by folding a regular table cloth over a couple times. You guys, I could get a whole other blog post out of that.) Then go find an extension cord if you need one. You’re going to need one. Toaster cords are, like, 18 inches long these days. Ridiculous. So go fetch that extension cord and plug in your toaster.

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Then arrange a selection of toastables. You know, nice sliced bread, english muffins and bagels, like I have here. If there’s anything else you like to toast, go ahead and lay it out there. Some sort of pastry? Eggo waffles? I don’t care. Anything goes. I liked the idea of using a large, wooden cutting board so people could also cut their toast, etc. at the same time. But, really, any plate or platter would work. Just try to artfully arrange it just so, so that it looks like you just threw it together and didn’t arrange it at all.

You’ll also need some knives or spreaders for the jam and stuff. I have mine laid out on the cutting board here, but I’d probably stick them into the spreads for an actual party.

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Speaking of spreads! This is what makes it a toast bar. The essential toast spreads, if you ask me, are butter, peanut butter, marmalade, strawberry jam and cream cheese. That’s what I have here. Obviously, if you have some fancy preserves in a cellophane-wrapped gift basket that you’ve been holding onto, you’ll want to break them out now. Whatever you like, whatever you have. I just spooned out the spreads in little glass bowls. Any sort of dainty bowl or pot works. You can serve them right out of the jar if it’s small and nice enough. I do recommend, however, either using whipped cream cheese or cutting small rectangles off a block (like I did here) for easier spreading.

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Retro stereo system sold separately.

Uh, so yeah. Throw in a stack of plates and that about covers it. The toast bar I did for Mary’s birthday last weekend was just part of the brunch. There was also a strata (think savoury bread pudding, yum) and some croissants and coffee cake … A LOT of bread come to think of it. Hey, also fresh fruit and coffee! Depending on the occasion, though, a toast bar could be more than enough on it’s own.

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You can go ahead and make yourself some toast now. I know you will.

Okay, ‘fess up. I’m not the first one who thought of this, am I? I’m just really giving “continental breakfast” à la Best Western-type motels a fancy new name, aren’t I? Has anybody else been doing this in their home?

 

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Happy Birthday! Let me just wash that original sin off … There!

We celebrated Mary’s first birthday yesterday morning, right after her baptism. Yep, kid number three gets a birthday and baptism combo party and I’m proud of it. In fact, I’m currently launching a “We don’t need a party EVERY year,” campaign for the other two. So far, they’re not buying it. This is probably because they’ve been spoiled by all the specialized attention they used to get. Don’t worry, though, I’ll chip away at their collective sense of entitlement yet.

The baptism itself was fine. Although we hauled ass to get to the church for the 9am mass that immediately preceded the baptism and it turns out we didn’t need to. The other two families who were baptizing babies at the same time arrived after the mass was over and therefore didn’t have a baby who had already sat through an hour long mass. Of course, we’ve done this twice before at the same church, but I seem to have lost all ability to retain information. Seriously, if I didn’t sit down and type all this stuff up on this blog right away it would be lost forever.

At one point Mary was arching her back so severely, eyes rolling back and letting out a sort of strangled cry and I wondered if she maybe thought we were there for an exorcism instead. Babies can’t keep anything straight. Then, as part of the ritual, the parents and Godparents are asked to reject the “glamour of sin” and the influence of “the Prince of Darkness.” Hold up. That right there sounds pretty alluring. Note to the Vatican: you might want to play down the appeal of a life full of sin in the old baptismal rite. I don’t have the stats on how many Godparents have left the ceremony and immediately booked a trip to Vegas, but I have to assume it’s not a small number.

We then had our families back to the house for brunch. I made a ham and broccoli strata which was a hit. There was also a “toast bar” (yes, I invented it) that I was particularly proud of. It didn’t seem to garner quite as much praise (because it was just a toaster and some jams and stuff set out, I guess) as I expected, so I might have to dedicate an entire post to it later this week. Then I’ll pin it and it will become a runaway Pinterest hit. That will then bring so much traffic to my blog that it will probably crash and you won’t be able to go back and read about that weird smell from last week. Be forewarned.

The pictures of the birthday cake and candle kind of suck. And there’s none of her with icing all over her face either because I served lemon coffee cake instead of birthday cake. What? It was brunch! And, really, she had zero expectations and the coffee cake was on sale and, you know, third baby.

I do love watching one year olds open their presents, though. They are pleasantly surprised by every gift bag and box that is put in front of them. They are just old enough to appreciate that they are getting new toys (but they still don’t care about the clothes). And, really, there is nothing more fun for a 12 month old than putting things into a container and then taking them out, over and over again.

 

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Is that? A big box full of balled up newspaper?

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Oh baby. This is the stuff.

Who’s with me on the “not a party every year” campaign? We can do restaurant dinners or whatever instead, but three kids equals party fatigue. You know?

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The Smell That Wouldn’t Die

It probably started about three weeks ago. The late August sun would beat down on our ramshackle back addition. We were in and out, leaving bags of damp towels and swim suits, piles of dirty laundry, diaper bags and assorted detritus amidst the heaping pile of shoes. The adjacent toilet sometimes backed up. There was a lot of clutter.

So when I first got a whiff of a slightly malodorous scent, I didn’t worry. Something was going musty in the heat. Of course it was.

I opened up all the swim bags and washed and dried and folded and put away all the assorted bathing gear. The smell just got stronger. What was that smell? I knew that smell from somewhere. It was like … stagnant water left sitting in an upturned bucket by the debris from your recently deconstructed, but not actually cleaned up chimney … or something like that.

I kept stepping in and out of the room from inside. Was it something under the porch? In the doorway? Next to the steps? No, it really did seem to be coming from inside. Was it the bathroom? The unused tub? The general toilet area (gta)? No. The bathroom was actually in decent shape.

The smell just got stronger. I now had even less of a clue as to what it might be. I went through all the bags and purses looking for dirty diapers. I walked around the room sniffing and sniffing. Was it coming from the shoes themselves? No. The inside of my washer? No. Behind the washer/dryer! Maybe there  was a leak? Nope. You guys, I was this close to taking everything out of the room, scrubbing down every surface and starting from scratch. (Actually, that’s still not a bad idea.)

Then, just a couple days ago, I was doing a load of laundry when the smell seemed to get even stronger. It was definitely coming from the washing machine. This time I was sure. I leaned over the front-loading machine, careful not to disturb the pile of kiddie artwork, clothes and empty coffee cups on the top and sniffed. OH GOD, THAT WAS FOUL. Yep, definitely coming from behind the washing machine. Probably a dirty diaper that gets heated up when the machine is running. I’d get Ed to pull out the machine as soon as he got home. Definitely solved that one at last. Thank goodness.

Then, as I was getting the girls ready to go meet Colum at the school bus, I reached over to pluck a pair of baby-sized capri leggings off the washer. They were caught under something and I gave them a little tug. AND THEN THE WORST SMELL YOU CAN IMAGINE (short of rotting rodent carcasses) came emanating from the top of my washing machine. As Colum would say, “What the _?”

Yeah, so. It turns out that the empty take out coffee cup on my washer wasn’t empty after all. It turns out that it was half filled with coffee that had been sitting there for so long that it started to turn green and to rot. The smell of the rot slowly made it’s way past the cheap plastic lid of the coffee cup and permeated through my back addition. Until, finally, I knocked over the cup and it poured oozed onto an otherwise clean cloth diaper, thus fouling the diaper but preventing a disgusting clean up. How did I not just clean up the cup weeks before? What depths of slovenliness am I living in? I was deeply ashamed and vowed never to speak a word of this to anyone.

Afterward: 

I STILL need to properly clean and organize the back room which is now sagging from the weight of back-to-school clutter. The diaper that took one for the team has been washed and is currently hanging in the sun for the second consecutive day, stained a blue-green coffee rot colour that I doubt will ever come out. I may have to say goodbye to that diaper.

Please tell me, do you have any horrifying housecleaning mishaps to make me feel better? Anyone? 

 

 

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School Tales

“That boy is James*,” Irene said, somehow stretching the name out for four or five syllables. “He cried today.”

We were standing in the kindergarten playground after her first day of school.

“Oh no,” I said. “Poor James. But you didn’t cry, did you?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” Irene was nodding.

“You did?! Why did you cry?”

“Because I missed you.”

“But you knew I was coming back.”

“I still cried,” she said. “And then James* cried, and then everybody cried.”

“Everybody cried?! The whole class?!”

“Yes,” she said. “The whole class.”

So Irene started junior kindergarten last week and her mood seems to be infectious. I’m so sorry. It’s a Catholic school with a blue and white dress code, too, which seems like a bigger change for the little girls than the boys. I mean, a navy t-shirt over navy cargo pants isn’t much of a departure from Colum’s street clothes. But Irene? My little style maven? How was she going to cope with the new school look?

photo.JPGThis is the look she put together for herself over the weekend.

But you know what? She’s into the uniform. It’s almost like a costume or something. She gets to dress up like a big schoolgirl and ride the school bus with her brother and all the other big kids. “I sat beside a teenager on the bus.” I’m sure the novelty will wear off at some point. But I’m also sure she’ll find ways to make it her own.

In fact, she already has.

How cute is she?! Dying.

I was kissing her goodnight when she looked up at me from the bed. “I was just kidding, Mommy.”

“You were kidding? About what?”

“I didn’t cry at school.”

“You didn’t?! And what about the rest of your class? Did the whole class cry?”

“No, the whole class didn’t cry. Only James*.”

What do you guys think about uniforms for little kids? Do they stifle creativity or make life easier or both?

*Not his real name.

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Stuff I’m Digging: This Dress

On my last day in New York City for the Blogher Conference last month, Nadine Silverthorne gave me this dress.  I like it.

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But I’m not posting this here so you can run out and buy the same dress. (Although it would be fine if you did. I’m not that kind of girl. We can have the same things!) I don’t even know where it’s from. Somewhere in NYC, I guess. My point is that she bought a dress for herself and then decided it didn’t fit quite right. Returning it was a hassle, so she offered it around. When it fit me, she gave it to me.

How often have you gotten home only to discover that you had actually been temporarily insane when you bought that latest shirt/pair of pants/giant owl-shaped brooch/string bikini. It seemed like a good idea at the time. A giant bird head on your lapel would be jaunty! Isn’t it time you embraced your curves? Alas, you were out of your mother-effing mind.

So you fold it up and put it on a shelf in your closet to return. And there it sits forever more. Let’s stop kidding ourselves. We’re never going to get around to returning that wishful thinking-sized dress. Why not give it to someone who might actually use it?

Inspired by Nadine’s generous grasp on the reality of life (as well as her actual generosity), I went home and scooped up the two XL-sized breastfeeding shirts that had been sitting on top of my dresser in their original packaging for TEN MONTHS. Thus is the peril of online shopping meets guess-tamating your shirt size four weeks postpartum. Who cares if the store might still accept the returns? My chances had expired. I gave them to a very pregnant friend who will likely fit them better and felt immediate relief.

So try it. What’s in your “to be returned” pile? Who might be able to use it? Wouldn’t that be easier than trying to sort out the return postage? And won’t it feel so much better? Let’s keep this going.

 

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I Found My People

You hear a lot of talk about finding your people or your “tribe” these days. The idea is that we can find comfort and support, and enlightenment and fun from a community of kindred spirits. But what if your tribe isn’t who you think it is? What if we’re way off the mark hanging out with those book club and Martha Stewart centrepiece kind of people?

Because I’m afraid I may have found my people. My real people.

It was 10:30pm on the Sunday of Labour Day weeekend and I was trying to find a parking spot at my local Walmart. I was there to buy school supplies and thought I’d find one near the entrance.  But as I inched along, it was clear that all the spots were taken. I maneouvered between streams of young families and a multitude of cars coming and going in every direction and finally snagged a spot nowhere close to the entrance.

The store was equally jammed with shopping carts being pushed by families of four, five or six. At least I didn’t have my kids with me! That was the entire point of shopping so late at night. People were picking up clothes and groceries and toiletries, sure, but the school supply section was fully ransacked. I waltzed by happily because I was there for one thing: kid-sized water bottles. And some cheap containers for lunches, too, I guessed — as long as I was there. And, hmm, did Colum need any more school supplies? What are Grade Ones expected to bring anyway? Maybe I should have thought about this before.

Right, so they were sold out of water bottles. They were even sold out of those crappy reusable juice boxes I figured I could use in a pinch. The entire bottle section was torn apart like a toilet brush expo display at the end of Blogher. I picked up some semi-disposable Rubbermaid containers and grabbed a pack of pre-sharpened pencils just in case on the way out.

I pushed past the screaming throngs of desperate families with a big grin. You see? I’m not the only one still scrambling for school supplies at the last minute! In fact, I was looking relatively pulled together and organized in that Walmart line up. It was a good feeling.

These are my people, I thought.

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The Ex Or How Not To Parent, For Reals

We went to the Ex. What follows appears to be a tale of gross child corruption and irresponsible parenting. What can I say? It’s only once a year.

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It started in a classic fighter plane. Well, actually, it started at a Super Dog show packed with people getting in out of the rain during which I chastised Ed about never letting our family split up again. This meant I had to bring Irene with me when I went to pick up a discounted, small-sized school bag for her. I think you see where this is going. Let’s just say it was very pink, very sparkly and very Barbie™ in giant, bubbly 3D form. She was threatening a full and total freak out if she didn’t get it, holding the entire visit to the CNE against me. I had no choice.

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So how about some bombers, then? Pinkest fighter pilot ever.

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Colum was schooling the other kids in line about how this bomber works. Somehow he’s an expert on military jets? I swear teach a kid how to read and use the remote and it’s the beginning of the end.

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Oh, a tank! The baby’s going to want to see this! We eventually pried the kids away from the weapons of mass destruction and made our way to the Food Building. We then gorged ourselves on our usual meal of everything that’s cheap and not, like, a $10 hamburger. So, er, that was spaghetti in tomato sauce, sausage on a bun, back bacon on a bun, pierogies and some random pepperoni sticks. What? Processed meat is a vegetable, isn’t it?!

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Bring on the rides! It was actually still quite bright. I’m not quite sure what happened with this picture, but I’m including it anyway because the sight of my two bigger kids, side-by-side on a driving-around-in-circles car ride, brought me right back to my own childhood. My brother and I would ride these very same rides over and over again, year after year, and they remain some of the brightest, most joyous moments of my life.

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Bumble bees! The next ride up was the merry-go-round, only I was concerned it would be too lame during the day. Because that’s what mothers of three year olds are always concerned about, right? Is that ride too lame? Is it not scary enough? Wouldn’t it be better and more exciting after dark? Maybe an hour or two after her regular bedtime? Apparently that’s what I was thinking.

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So we went to the petting zoo because I’m pretty sure they close that when it gets dark. Ed led Mary around while she gently touched the lambs and kid goats, squealing with excitement, cuteness oozing out of her pores. I walked back and forth calling out to Colum and Irene to please, for the ever-loving last time, stop chasing the ducks and chickens all over the place. They don’t want to be pet. I wasn’t at all bitter about that division of labour. I’m still not.

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“Mom! Mom! Take our picture. We’re pretending to be a crown. MAKE SURE NOT TO GET OUR LEGS.”

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Oops.

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Look at that baby turkey. And the bird’s pretty cute too. Get it? Groan.

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Why wouldn’t you let your very young children play on the floor of the farm building? With a water bottle, no less.

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I know know … maybe for the same reason you don’t give a baby a tattoo?! Bad parenting. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.

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Is it dark enough and late enough to go on some more rides now, Mom? Why yes, children, it is. But please, before you go on the merry-go-round, please ride this kiddie version of the Polar Express first. We heard the screaming just as soon as the ride started. The cars were whipping around and around at a frenzied speed, gravity pulling Irene farther and farther toward her brother on the outer side of the bench seat. She was my fearless child who has enjoyed every ride she’s ever gone on. And I think maybe I broke her. She was not having fun. Finally, toward the end, she seemed less terrified and more shell shocked. She got off and said, “That was scary, Mommy. It was still fun, but it was scary.”

She declined going on a very tame motorcycle kiddie ride with her brother after that and then the kiddie merry-go-round was closed. Closed?! Don’t they know it’s lame until it gets dark?! So we put them on the merry-go-round in the main midway, Ed standing right next to Irene the whole time, and she still thought it was a little fast. I really hope she doesn’t stay broken.

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We left just before midnight. I have no idea how an eleven and a half month-old baby stayed up that late. Oh dear.

It was empty!! Tell me I’m not the only one whose kids all love nothing more than sucking back the last remnants of an empty coffee cup?

Whatever. It was a really, really good time.

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Stuff I’m Digging: Endless Summer

I know, I know. We only have one more week of summer vacation left before the school routine swallows us whole. I’ve been working myself up into a school lunches and supplies organizing frenzy as much as the next parent. But as this weekend’s weather forecast bears out, it’s still summer, and I intend to make the most of it.

I’m taking a three-pronged approach: summer reading, ice cream, and the Ex.

Nothing says lazy summer days like hanging out in the backyard with an iced tea and a paperback. Leave the Dostoevsky on the shelf, though, and pick up an exciting page turner or two or ten. My very own dad’s latest true crime title fits the bill perfectly. One Last Kiss by Michael W. Cuneo is the story of Chris Coleman, head of security of a prominent evangelical ministry, who plots and executes the brutal murder of his wife and two young sons. All personal biases aside, the book is fantastic. Richness of detail and polished and powerful prose breathe life into the characters and bring tears to your eyes. It’s like I knew the family. I finished it in two days flat.

On a somewhat lighter note, we haven’t consumed nearly enough ice cream this summer. It’s a crying shame, really. The Canadian arm of Cold Stone Creamery was running a promotion in celebration of National Ice Cream and they sent me a gift card to sample their goods. Starting on July 15th they began offering a special Signature Creation for each province. We tried the Ontario, chalk full of strawberries, fudge sauce and brownies and the PEI with blueberries, graham crackers and almonds. Ah-maz-ing. I’m not sure if the promotion is still on, but the Cold Stone Creamery is most definitely still serving up delicious ice cream. And a quick shout out to my other local favourites, if I may: Tom’s Dairy Freeze , Ice Cream Junction and Delight.

Then there’s the ice cream waffles at the Ex. Summer deserves a proper send out and I can think of no better way than visiting the timeless attractions and midway of the CNE. I love the classic carnival vibe, the games and rides, the lights and sounds and smells. The petting zoo and kiddie rides are good fun too, but the real midway after dark is a little slice of heaven.

It’s still summer! What are you doing to hold onto the sunshine until the very end?