If Boo Boo Had A Middle Finger...

M: So, Boo Boo. It's a nice day, and you get to go outside now. But I hope you appreciate this, because, you know, we rescued you from that feral cat colony, we give you food and pay all your medical costs; I scoop your poop and give you Pounce and sing you silly kitty songs...so have a nice run around, okay, and later on when I call you to come in, please just come back so I don't have to worry about you. Okay? See ya later. Please don't poop in the neighbour's yard.

The Tiger That Eats Its Tail

When one has a toddler, one has to shampoo the carpet a lot.



It's hard to shampoo the carpet with a toddler around.

Lazy Sunday (And Saturday, Friday and Thursday Too) (Okay, and Wednesday)

B: Oh. It's you.

M: Hi Boo Boo. What's up?

B: Looking for cheap blog fodder again?

M: Um, nooooo. Um...so...um...do something?

B: Boo Boo don't play that today.




B: I mean it. Buzz off. Go WRITE something. With actual words and stuff. Can't you use the kid or something instead? What, was I put on God's Green EARTH to be your muse? And get me some Pounce.

What Tuesday Was Like.

M: Hey, Boo Boo.




M: Hey. Boo Boo. Today Capone, Trixie and Chico are coming over.


B: Who? What? Cough cough. Say that again?






M: Capone, Trixie and Chico are coming over.





B: Again.





M: Capone, Trixie and Chico are coming over.








B: I don't think so.


M: Oh, yes Boo Boo. It's true. Capone and Trixie are coming over while (our friends move to a stunning house a few blocks away from us in the expensive direction) - and Chico.


B: NO.


M: Capone and Trixie.





B: NO.




M: Capone.





B: NO.



M: Trixie.





B: No.



M: and Chico.





(the sound of two green eyes blinking very slowly)


B: I have to confer with a few folks about this.





B: Nope. I'm afraid I am going to be pissed about this. Perhaps for quite some time. You don't really like your house plants, do you? And you had better stock up on Pounce. I mean, buy stock in Pounce. My opinion of this here situation will be delivered in the litter box very shortly. You will be needing a mask and gloves. And quite possibly, back up.






Alas, 'twas true. And Boo Boo will be getting his "outside" shots on Saturday. Like his new collar? Inside the capsule where our information is supposed to go, it says "Please take care of Baby Finster".

I Should Also Mention...

The happy time spent at the Easter Parade on Sunday, standing at a windy intersection with Josie on Steve's shoulders and a mixture of runny nose and chocolate infused drool dripping down on the top of his head. She got the most excited about two guys in ill-fitting and badly made Bugs Bunny and Tweety costumes on a half-assed float. And I was all verklempt.

Weekend Update - Easter Poo Post

So, while we were gone, it seems my lovely pot of pansies took the hit from Boo Boo. That, and a hairball on the carpet, conspire to make me feel like I got off easy. At home, that is.

When a visit requires having to check the back of someone's coat for any visible evidence that she didn't make it to the bathroom in time at the outlet mall, and then hearing her repeatedly say "I can smell it on me, can you?" , including through dinner and the car ride home - it can't really have been much more enjoyable than staying at home with my own foul pet and toilet-training toddler, really.

So, the answer would be "No, Josephine and I did NOT have a lovely visit." If it weren't for the liberal application of my parents' credit card to the various retail outlets selling cute toddler clothing, I would even call it a misery. But finding out that I place the value of having to check out and smell my mother's bum at around $350 US on the AmEX - priceless.

It's nice to learn things about yourself. So it seems I'm easy, but I'm not cheap.

Detente.

M: "Hey Boo Boo?"







M: "HEY. Boo Boo."







B: "Yeah, what?"

M: "Josie and I are going to visit Grandma Nan for a few days, okay?"







B: "This is me looking like I care."


M: "Yeah, well, your ass looks a little fat in that first picture and I'm going to post it all over the internet."

B: "Yeah, well, I left a smudge on the windowsill that required you to rub off a layer of paint when cleaning it yesterday. Remember that?"



M: "Point taken."

B: "Now that's settled. Get me some Pounce."

Whatever You Were Thinking Yesterday, It Was Wrong.

There was nothing cuter in the world than when Josie got her face painted at a local event yesterday, and thought that because she was a BIG kitty cat that she should always yell MEOW at the top of her lungs.




Sorry. There just wasn't. Not even your kids. Not puppies. Not baby chicks. Nothing. There was NOTHING cuter in the world happening. I checked.

Love Is...

love |ləv| noun 1 an intense feeling of deep affection


I am always saying that blogging makes you care about people you don't even know. In some cases, it can inspire an instant affection. But, just like genuine lovey-love, you can't know it's real until it's been tested. When Blog world meets Real World? Well, I got lucky twice this week. An evening of shopping, girl talk, a glass of wine and Indian food? I haven't felt this light-hearted since Jim and Jimmy coloured my world.






Love Is... a very classy lady who will humour you by wearing a child-size bejewelled white straw Coyote Ugly-style cowboy hat (understanding you need to wear the pink one with the tiara) around the grand opening of a Winners store in the still rather scabby East end of Toronto, just so the other person you two are shopping with will be a little freaked out.




Love Is... someone who did not take pictures of that, understanding just how weird that might be for her.


Love Is... someone who will give you her almond kulfi, even though the day before, your reply to her sheepish request to join a sticker club for her three year old daughter's sake was "God help me to say NO F^#*&+$% WAY when it's my daughter's turn.", and then to proclaim that a chain-letter sticker club was the first step on the road to wearing sweatshirts with kitty cats on them, bracelets made from safety pins and beads and leading to holding lingerie parties in her living room.



Love Is...someone who missed out on the early part of the fun graciously accepting her consolation prize of a black ceramic nude male torso purchased during the shopping excursion. And a g-string with the "Love is..." couple that says "Love is blind", knowing full well her friends really would have brought her something French and sexy, if it were to be had.



In a world where both love and blogging can be minefields, it was really nice this week to put faces to the words, and find new allies.

Stuff Global May or May Not Have Missed.

Yesterday, I was interviewd by a reporter from Global TV. I was asked various questions about what it means to me to be a mom who works very, very hard to stay at home with our daughter. There was a definite bent, as it was in respons to a StatsCan study that documented an increase in the percentage of children in day care. It's risen 8%. Or something. I'll talk about that in another post.

But having cameras in one's home? It makes you look around before they come and tidy up. And it makes you look around after they leave, and cringe. And it makes you tape and watch that segment ad nauseum, so you can soon point out every tangle of wires and dusty baseboard.

All aflutter, you prepare. Getting some healthy food in the toddler while you forewarn her of the upcoming events seems like a good idea. That's the priority - not getting the bloody dish towel (which is really an old flannel diaper) off the counter.


The stab wound, all puckered after some time under the band-aid while I tried to clean up. Because you still have to wash dishes and wash your hands after diaper changes (I didn't say the word!) even though it almost went through:



On Saturday mornings, after the comics, the first thing I read is the Reader's Tips column. It cracks me up. Since nothing is ever tested by the paper, they just print the stuff and expect people not to do damage as a result. And so sometimes you get tips like "Run your old disposable razors through the dishwasher and then use them as vegetable peelers." Then the week after, when someone ELSE has written in with something contrary, I laugh some more. Or, sometimes I'll read one and think "Hey, that sounds reasonable!"

So when I once read a tip that suggested sticking the tip of the knife into an avocado pit and twisting it to remove it, I thought, "This could work!"



I didn't think "Hey! This could leave me with an inflamed and bloody puncture wound in a painful and awkward spot fifteen minutes before a reporter arrives!" I was too busy cleaning up, and trying to save half of the last ripe avocado in the house.

And now I have to get rid of that knife, because I believe that once a blade draws blood, it will want more and surely I will be hurt again. And I really liked that knife.

Hideous mess of toys behind the curtain.



Charming use of chalkboard and vintage/aesthetically pleasing toys arranged just so:




A certain parenting author's books:


Not deliberately placed there, even though she suggested me for this interview. Seriously. They're there because they're safe from cats and toddlers and close to where I unwrapped them.


The shelves:



I dusted in front of the books. And in front of the lamp. But the back half of the shelves are still really dusty. Stupid Swedish place black furniture because we have to have to be all hip and edgy. It also has a yogurty handprint on the side that I didn't notice until the light from the camera hit it.

But all this was fine - the house was pretty tidy. And chatting for a few minutes in the living/dining room? No problem.

Okay, one problem.


It is what you think it is.



The no-pants time for the toddler this morning resulted in this, probably while I was on the phone waiting for the reporter to come over. I casually arranged the throw over it. Isn't that what they're for? To cover unsightly spots on the furniture? And cat scratches? And we are getting a friend's previously enjoyed sofa next week. Stop it, it's just toddler pee. I didn't say I wouldn't post about pee.

And it wasn't like they were going to film in the KITCHEN. Where they might find...



The corner of the kitchen I shoved all my paperwork into, plus her hideous pink stroller which really really clashes with my living room. By the beer fridge. Because I didn't think we were going to be in the kitchen.

Rubber rat in the buffet.



This makes me cry. And this will make you cry. It was purchased for Beauty just before she died. I thought she didn't like it, because she didn't play with it like she did previous rubber rats - I didn't know she couldn't because she was in too much pain. Josie still calls it Booty's rat. I can't get rid of it, and so it moves around the house. And I tear up every time I touch it.

Hockey puck on the buffet.



Nobody here plays hockey. Okay, occasionally with beer caps on the dining room table, but not ice hockey. Josie found it in the melting snow dumps from the rink down the street. She was so proud of it. Now she hasn't touched it in weeks. But I don't know what to do with it. Does anyone have a use for old pucks? Something crafty? Something like a Reader's Tip?

Also visible - a bottle of Prosesccssososso - however you spell it. It's there because it doesn' t fit in the fridges. I know someone caught that and was all "She knows nothing about wine!"


My non-recyclable recyclables.



Despite our lovely blue box program, certain plastics don't go in there. But you can bring them to an Environment day. If you're like me, you fill four giant garbage bags with this stuff over the winter, and bring it in for recycling of a sort...along with all the summer's stuff - procrastinating until the occasion of the very last one. Breaking the lock of the car's trunk in the process, which means we needed to uninstall the car-seat, and crawl through the back seat to pull the bags out because there is no way it's all coming back home after the argument about why I feel I need to do this when not many other people do. It will be nice when the local produce is more available from the farmers markets so I have less packaging.

Mystery bags. And two squares of wood I want to do something with some day. So they sit there.



My treats from Andrea, plus the gift for my cousin from the One of a Kind show are in the bags. Because then Andrea could see that it was still hanging around after having been peeked in a few times; and others could see that as a poor, SAHM suffering not to put her child in daycare (the direction some of the questions were pointed in) I could afford $12 to go to the One of a Kind show and buy something. Actually, Steve's mom pays my admission and indoor parking because at 70+ and having asthma, she can't do a walk across a windy parking lot and wouldn't get to go at all if I didn't take her. Which is why I could afford a $30 bird painting and a $40 shirt. And why I have the invite to the grand opening of a brand new Winners at Gerrard Square today on my fridge covering the toddler art.

And then they left. And I looked around to see what else was around, or what they couldn't have seen because now my life was now back to normal and so was Josie.


My lunch. And my laptop. And tulips.



My lunch of half of a leftover free-range grain-fed chicken breast stuffed with ricotta cheese and spinach. Which I'd picked up from Meat on the Beach on the way home from a walk to the playground at Kew Gardens on Tuesday. I needed to grab something healthy for dinner for us girls, since Steve works later on Tuesdays. So I thought that looked good. The first half Steve and I shared, with some for Josie. The thing? It was fourteen dollars. Holy crap. I was not cool enough to say "y'know, I could do that at home for half that, so thanks for the free inspiration". But I never will, so I meekly forked over the debit card. And threw in the tulips, which were half the price of what they were at every other shop along the walk. Which cheered me up, because it had started sleeting and we had blocks to walk. Because the TTC fares just went up, and it seemed stupid to pay $3.40 to ride five blocks - that buys a bunch of tulips, you know. For the record, after the reheat the chicken was so dry I picked it up and ate it like a sandwich. And coughed a lot, because it was like eating the insides of a baseball.

And the laptop. My Christmas present from Steve. Bought at a discount on Ebay. As a tax write-off too. I need it for some work that I do, and because Steve needs it sometimes as well as the older computer upstairs. Why do these things factor in this post? Because part of the segment that was cut was a discussion of how my choice to stay home means we have to make sacrifices. And here are luxuries. And my brain was screaming HYPOCRITE.


You know, I felt guilty about spoiling her day with the interview. I admit I bribed her with four Smarties and six Rockets during the question period (about twenty minutes), but at one point I had to call it off because I couldn't be spouting off about giving my child my attention as much as possible when I was busy being a famewhore and letting her snivel and whine on the floor at my feet.

She would not eat her healthy diced chicken and veg that I set out during the interview so I could talk. She whined, clung to my legs, and stated "Don't wear that thing." (the microphone under my sweater freaked her out)

When the reporter asked if they could show me feeding her or something, I wanly gestured to the coffee table and was all, "that's it". Because, you know, I stay home so I can take THE BEST care of my child.

Then I went into the kitchen and thought fast, and offered her yogurt and cereal. Forgetting I put the yogurt in the freezer to make it ice-creamy yesterday and forgot about it, so it was a solid block and now I know that doesn't really work anyhow. So I quickly made applesauce and cereal with milk- messy foods, because, of course she won't wear bibs any more. And then she wouldn't eat it. And I tried to feed her, and she was finally cute. Normally she'd feed herself, but that was too messy to have the world bear witness to.

The mere fact that the interview was happening was what freaked her out - not the lack of my attention, or lack or preparation or hunger or diaper issues...didn't say it did I?...she just wanted to continue with the day we'd started before the reporter came along.




After they left, I did what I was going to do, which was to add more veg, broth and the chicken to a pot to make soup. Which she ate, with that side of fries, happy that everyone was gone. Boo Boo put on a floor show for Josie. Thankfully he didn't come running through the interview with a ...damp tail.


The toddler eating her lunch. In a bib. Happily. Quietly. Watching Lady and the Tramp so I could post about the Global thing (and squeak in under the wire with the thing I am no longer posting about):





And then later?

They didn't see this. A flurry of hugs and kisses and crawling all over me. A cluster of belly tickles and a nap together. Moments that couldn't have happened if I was not home with her.

Global Warning...(*later edited)

On Global news tonight, I will be blathering about our choice for me to stay home with Josephine as much as possible and how we try to make it work. This was in response to a recent announcement with some statistics regarding how the number of children in daycare has risen dramatically. Could I be less specific? I don't remember half of what I said, because Josephine was not being cooperative. Some of the questions were pointed in an attempt to get me to dis women who've made other choices. The question asked wherein I dis the government received a passionate answer. I hope that one stays in.

I will wait to see how it's been edited. I don't often talk about why I made the conscious choice to stay home with Josie as much as possible. Part of that choice was made for me by the job market. Part of that choice was made by my younger self and the choices I made back then.

So it appears now that I have to write out a thoughful post about how all this came about - so no poop stories for a while, okay?


And speaking of poop, as I seem to do often these days...the email exchange with my cousin ended in three incredibly long letters back and forth that were entirely about poo and her thinking I am way too fascinated with it. Since that may indeed be the case, I am declaring Hello Josephine a poo free zone for the time being. Starting tomorrow.

*Edited to add the last of the Poo Correspondence before the self-imposed moratorium:

Dear Marla,

Ok, I've been wanting to tell you for some time now. You need help.
:0)

You have been a crazy mother - from almost day one - taking photos of (and emailing me descriptions of) your daughter's giant crazy poops and other wacky diaper shots like this. It's just not normal. I beg you to stop.

I have to believe, based on this early parental behavior, that someday you will become demented enough to pull out this portfolio of photos, no doubt when she brings home a boy to meet her parents, probably before a date dance or something... and she will be scarred for the REST of her LIFE. Think about the thousands and thousands of dollars you may be costing this young woman in therapy. It's just mean.

This fascination with what comes out of her bum has to stop. For your own good and hers. Have another bourbon and calm yourself. Step away from the digital camera. Don't make me come up there and kidnap the child, creating another story line for a Lifetime movie. (We'll have someone fabulous like Julianne Moore play me... Dakota Fanning will play Josie... and someone totally nuts like Anne Heche will play YOU)

If you cannot manage to curb this behavior, I'm going to have to talk with Steve about getting you some electro-shock therapy. I say this with love, but you're really nuts. Stop the poop fascination now. Get out and see other adults... it will be good for you.
:0)


E
________________________________


Dear E,


I am snickering, not because I am evil, but because you have NO IDEA how poop will pervade your life at this point. NO IDEA. It is all part of a larger picture that you just can't see right now.

For the first few days - a dozen or more poops a day, some of them hideous. Then it tapers off - to about eight a day. Then six. Finally, at age two, we are down to maybe four changes a day, with only two of them poopy. And still, there will be doozies. There is a lot of poop in my life - and worries about the quantity and consistency are not only a big part of keeping track of her health (seriously - how else do I know whether to cut back on the juice, push the avocado or get some more fiber in there asap) - but the doctor will want to know too, so you have to kind of remember.

When she has a poopy diaper, she tries to run away from it (a physical impossibility that hasn't occurred to her yet) so sometimes fussy behaviour can be attributed to either having to poo, or being about to. Poo is a big indicator of how your child is. It's one of the few things she can kind of control, and she will learn to use it against you. Josie knows exactly how much I want her to poop in the potty. And she will only do it for the larger audience - not just me. So when she does do it, we have to call Grandma Joan or Daddy to advertise it. Nice, huh?

It is also one of the reasons you want to separate carefully and wash laundry in hot water and dry it bone dry or hang it dry in the sun, or use a colour safe bleach in every wash. The new media push for cold water washes is a bad thing - it doesn't kill the evil germs that come with fecal matter in our clothing. In older days, the sunlight and ironing everything, even underwear like Grandma did Papa's boxers, would kill them. Our modern fabrics and desire to save energy with cold water washes means bad germs are getting a better foothold. When your daughter starts coming home sick from playing with other people's grubby kids, you'll want to do anything that will keep her healthier. In fact, I haven't checked your registry again, but
did you order a separate baby laundry hamper? It's a good idea, at least for the first bit until her immunity has been built up a bit. And, if you, like me, the thought of your husband's (dirty socks) rubbing up against your sweet baby's clothes will make you shudder.


So that's why, in part. And then, when your head is full of poop and it can go nowhere else, you have to share. It's part of joining the mother's club - like joining a sorority with a long, long hazing.

So, I take pictures so I remember why she will be an only child. And to send to Steve at work in case he thinks I spend my days watching Oprah and eating bon-bons. Furthermore, I do it so that he doesn't think that the poopy diapers he changes are the worst she has to offer. He thinks he gets off easy now! This is good advice!

And that isn't even talking about your own system. One of the other secrets about motherhood is that the time to have a proper poop becomes a much sought-after luxury. The first one after giving birth? Take drugs. That's why I told you to save them. I almost made Steve come and hold my hand, and I cried just a little. Then, your system is all out of whack and it's hard to get regular. Then, you'll be having your sit-down and the baby will cry and send it right back home. Then it will be the only ten minutes you get to yourself some days, so you'll want to linger a bit and enjoy it.

And then you will have a curious toddler, who can understand your explanation that "Mommy just needs a minute in here to make a poopie on the potty." And she will earnestly lean over and tell your bum "Come out poopies! Come on out and see Josie!" and then want to flush and say "Bye bye Mommie's poopies!".

And that, E., might give you an idea that the Poo train is entering your station. I'm not the conductor, we're all just passengers.

M


________________________________


Dear Weirdo,
Yes, I know that poop will pervade my life and that I have no idea yet... and I BELIEVE you when you say it's part of joining the mother's club - The sorority with a long, long hazing. And YES, I get it that the Poo train is entering my station, and we're all just passengers.

But my point is, I know SO MANY passengers... like EVERY SINGLE ONE of my girlfriends! They are all mothers of a child(ren) between the ages of 9 months and 6 years... so they ALL know what you tell me is true. So I don't doubt any of it, trust me... I know you speak the truth.

But NONE of them spend as much time as you do talking about POO. (or in your case, writing about it - and ugh - taking/sending photos) Some of them just don't talk about it at all! And those, my dear, are my FAVORITE friends of all.

All I'm saying is, I hope you only use those photos to gross out your little cousin (me), and to make a point to your husband. I just beg you to not use those photos against Josie someday... she speak ill of you to anyone who will listen. (You think you're hard on Nan? JUST WAIT.)

And, I love you cousin dear, but if you come to my baby shower in June, and can't think of anything ELSE to discuss with my girlfriends besides POO, I swear I'll kill you. I'll have the rubber truck outside, ready and waiting to cart you away. I beg of you... no disgusting stories in front of my family and friends. Even if your whole life is baby poop, please pretend, just for one afternoon, that it's not. Thanks.
:0)
Have a good night.


___________________________________________

There you have it. So, what if she's right?

And by the way, I want Sherilyn Fenn to play me in the movie of my life.

I Would Post More Often, But I'm Busy Torturing People On A One-On-One Basis.

My cousin is pregnant, and I think she should benefit from my experience, so occasionally I inflict some assvice on her. Now she did ask for some, but you can't excpect brevity from me, can you? So this was last night's missive. You can see why I can't possibly sustain this kind of verbosity. I exhaust myself! For the record, many of you know me more and better than she does and will recognize parts of this post. What does that say about our family relationships on a day to day basis? Everything. Accurately. It doesn't mean I love her any less, but we are very, very different people and we catch up in fits and spurts. And, as far as I know, she doesn't know I blog.

------------------------------------

Dear E,


Okay - first, about me.

I have a glass of bourbon (albeit one with bunnies on it), Josephine is sleeping, and Steve is at band practice (Helpful hint: I pretend that I don't like Steve's band, so he has something to rebel against. It keeps him from getting at me on more serious issues. Really, I don't care. But it gives me comparable time off to meet up with my friends, and quiet alone time at home after Josie goes to bed at least once a month. In Nick Hornby's "How To Be Good", the wife and mother just wants to "breathe air that hasn't been breathed a thousand times before by her family". I know this feeling well. I'll happily give up one practice a month, occasional studio time and rare gigs in exchange for a little leverage when I blow $80 at Winners). Laundry and dishwasher are running, bathroom had a swipe, and I am ignoring the popcorn on the rug. I am pooped.

Today Josephine and I went to the Royal Ontario Museum, to meet with a friend and her daughter. Images attached. It was so awesome - the second floor has a huge "Discovery Zone" where you can dig in a sand pit for dinosaur bones; plus puzzles and mats and toys and books and stations to do rubbings and touch things and hear things. Then there are the usual exhibits. Today we stuck to the insects (Josie is now obsessed with Darkling Beetles), the bat cave (four times through, the last time so we could blow kisses goodbye) and the bird room ("Dat's Tom Turkeee, Mama" - ignoring the huge freaking cool albatross, which I've only ever thought of metaphorically, and the other weird feathered things). We took the streetcar and subway, which is an adventure in itself ("Why dat man coughing, Mama?" "Because apparently tuberculosis hasn't been wiped out during this century after all, Josie."). It was so easy to get there, so big and so child-friendly (even with hoards of schoolchildren in their burkhas and uniforms) that I knew over the course of the year, especially on rainy mornings, we'll go there often. A year long membership is only $99, so I treated us to one with the money from her modelling gig. I think that's fair. She can sue me later.

So that's some advice there - if you don't like malls (which I don't really either, but when it's raining and you are feeling trapped, they are a great place to wander - the fountains are fascinating and provide great white noise for naps, there's food and more importantly, other moms with kids who understand) - think about a membership to a museum or the art gallery if you don't have one already. Steve and I went to the Buffalo Museum of Science when I was pregnant, and had a blast. But a place to wander, decompress, diffuse the toddler mood and keep the child active while you chat with a friend is a blessing. We're going to do the AGO soon.

Yesterday I went to the One of a Kind show with Steve's mom, and it was lovely. Because we didn't bring Josephine. When she was itty bitty, she slept through the whole thing in the Snugli. When she was bigger, she was happy in the stroller. The third time (they take place in Spring and Winter, by the way), she was a monster because she wanted to walk and people kept bonking her on the head with bags and purses and she hated it. The last two times, we've gone alone and it's been such great time for Steve and Josie to hang out, and great for me. So my advice here is, at some point, just dump the kid on Dave and trust that he won't screw up too badly. This is in bold, because it comes and goes in phases and it's hard to remember, and we are at another stage where this is not going smoothly: THE BABY HAS TO LEARN THAT HER FATHER CAN COMFORT HER TOO. Not care for - comfort. And HE has to learn that too. Steve still has a rough time, and will too easily pass her off to me. Many times he'll try to give me a break, but here is the other thing: FIVE MINUTES OF CRYING FEELS LIKE TWENTY. If you get him in the habit of noting when she starts, he won't think you're dismissing his efforts when you say, "But it's only been three minutes. Could you keep trying so I don't have to jump out of the shower all soapy?"


So, all of that leads me to: you said you needed to get more hooded towels. No you don't. One clean, one dirty is fine. The baby spends next to no time in them - you want to get the lotion or oil slathered on and get them dressed pretty quickly. When babies are very small, they don't like being naked at all. When they're bigger, they won't stay in them. They get used on a clean baby, so they're rarely dirty. What I did get you at the show is something I wish I had: a babywrapper.
(in beige, if you must know. Do not look at the price.)

When they're new, you can't take your hand off them in the bath (even for a minute, despite the nice bath seat you registered for), so groping for a towel is a bitch. When they're bigger, they do splash you (by the way - some cotton gloves are great to wear in the bath - the kind you get from the Body Shop for letting lotion soak into your hands? You can really get the crevices with them, and they help you keep a grip on the baby. And those babies are slippery little buggars too. Now, we still get splashed sometimes, but at least Josephine can stand up for us to wrap the towel around. I swear to God you will find this item helpful. I wish I'd had one from newborn to about ten months, when she could finally stand. If you hate it, fine - I took my chances. It's not the only gift you'll receive, but it's one I really think will be helpful. It was immediately sealed in a bag and has never been opened in my home for your allergy protection. You will open it at your shower and look surprised, won't you?

Speaking of helpful, and crevices! It wasn't until about three weeks after Josie was born that I discovered she had a third neck fold that we hadn't yet discovered. There was a rope of lotion, breast milk, and crumbs from my bagels in there. Also, behind the ears needs cleaning a lot when babies are mostly lying down, because stuff runs downhill. Also, now that I know you are having a girl, you must know that although husbands can and will change diapers (I only ever required one a day from Steve - my pick, heh heh heh), he will have the heebies about her girly parts. While you shouldn't clean the um...crevices...too thoroughly (nature's protection is a good thing) - after a messy poo, they will not always think to um...lift and separate and really do a good job in her...umm...cheeseburger. Case in point, one day we had to turn back from going to the Royal Agricultural Winter Fair because Josie kept complaining "My bum HURTS!". Since she repeated it constantly over the course of half an hour, I began to think, "UTI? Maybe it's serious!". We turned back, and drove through the city hearing "MY BUM HURTS" all the way. We got to the walk-in clinic, where the doctor found nothing...but a kernel of corn in her um...coochie. I am not going to tell you who did the diaper change before that, but I will tell you that I wouldn't be telling you if it was me.


And so, hooray! A GIRL! Can I tell you, and it's no secret, that I didn't want a boy even though I know it's a crapshoot? Oh sure, I'd love a boy, if I'd had one. When I visited him at Grandma Nan's on Holidays and his birthday. No, seriously. And here's what I'm going to say about names before I say anything about names:

She already has a name. You just have to find it.

"Oh, Marla, you hippy!"

I'm serious. Before Steve and I even considered pulling the goalie, we had an imaginary little Josephine in tow. At antique stores when we'd find cool baby things, around the house...lots of places. When I got pregnant, and even after the ultrasound where we didn't get a money shot - where the technician could only give us 80% - not even 82% surety it was a girl - I knew. She was a spirit before she became our daughter. She didn't have to fit our pre-conceived name or notions - she just was.

Now, since twins run in Steve's family (crossing myself and being grateful for just one, what with how active she is and how lazy I am), a twin girl would have been Justine. A twin boy, or a boy, would have been called "Hank" - but whether it was Hiram or Henry, we weren't sure. We liked Declan for a boy (Steve's Scottish background) and calling him Deke. We blamed a lot of boo boos on Baby Steve. But we never settled because it wasn't an option. For a girl, I also considered Claudette and I kind of liked Ava, until I realized that Evas and Avas are like Britneys these days. But I never felt strongly enough about any of these, and when Josie came out, the first words I said after "It's a girl!" were "Hello Josephine!". Blossom we chose rather recklessly - another day and she'd have been Josephine Cash Good. But her name suits her, and to hear her say it now thrills me. And sometimes she'll hate it, and sometimes she'll love it - but after life, it's the first gift you give to your child.


So, what I'm saying is, sit quietly and think and feel. Think forward to yelling after her at the park, to getting her to turn around for a picture, and to what you see on her business cards and wedding invitations. Think about who your baby is on her own, not just who she is to you. It'll come.

And then, just to be sure. Google it. You don't want to find out she's got a namesake who's a porn queen.

And check out the Social Security website.


It lists the top ten names, and then you can type in a name and find out where it ranks over a period of years. It's based on names registered with the Social Security administration - not just people registered on a Website, like BabyCenter, which will give a skewed perception of middle class white moms only. But then, I'd consider that too. Our peers do make differences in our lives.

Who will be her classmates and co-workers? Fifty other Madisons? In popularity, Josephine has moved from #438 to #242 since 1990. I know of two other Josephines her age, and one in her twenties living in the lofts down the street. (Marla, which I've never liked, has dropped from #805 in 1990 to #1000 in 1992, then right off the charts. Nice. No one else likes it either.) The trend is toward sweet, old-fashioned names these days - which is lovely. But in our first baby play group, besides Josephine was O., E., L., R., S. (okay, (ethnic) names don't rank right up there) and I forget the other kid - but we joked that they sounded like a Senior Citizens shuffle board team rather than a bunch of two-month olds.

This website does really fascinating analyses of names, if you're interested.


Even though I don't need it any longer, I still read it for amazing articles like this.

But what I'm also going to say is - don't tell anyone what name you're thinking of. If you remember, my mom called weekly with suggestions that were not framed as suggestions. Actual conversations:

"What do you think of Stacey?" "I don't know anyone named Stacey." "I mean as a name." "I've never thought anything about Stacey as a name until you mentioned it just now. But since our daughter's name is probably going to be Josephine, it's a non-issue, Mom."

"How will she learn to spell her name in school! It's so long!" "So, we should name her Ann, maybe with only one N, in case she's stupid? The same way Grandma learned to spell her name is the answer, Mom."

"We should name her Ashley, because she was born on Ash Wednesday." "And as we are hardly fervent church-goers, and as there are no ashes on your forehead either, and as that is not a name we would consider if Steve was in line to be the Pope, I am not going to dignify that suggestion with a response."


My mother's first name is Mary, remember? And yet, how could she ever be anyone other than Nan? And Lisa's son, Alexander? He is never anything but Alexander, and he is SUCH an Alexander. Your mom is SO Camille. I think a name has a lot to do with your destiny.

So I suggest Marla.

Good night. I will pester you about baby clothes another time.

Affectionately,
Marla

------------------------------------


Now Andrea did post accurately and flatteringly about our visit. And I will too, because it gave me a lot of food for thought. But I'm off to the farm with Josie soon, and it will have to wait for naptime. If there is one. Please let there be one.









Sunshine and Showers.

A few bright spots on an otherwise gloomy day:

This followed me home from the One of a Kind Show:



As did this:




Which I'll be wearing to meet them.

So it'll be sunny inside, not outside, in Toronto today.

The Floodgates Have Been Opened!

Josephine and I contrived her first April Fool's Day joke. It went like this:

(Mommy coaches Josie from the bed, then she wanders off to find Steve doing his morning ablutions)

J: Daddy, Ooo poopied on you pillow!
S: That's nice. (wasn't paying attention)
J: Poopies on your pillow!
s: Really! (still not really listening)

(Josie gets called back in for a consult)

A few minutes later:

J: Daddy, Boo Boo poopied on Ooo pillow!
D:That's not unusual.
M: You're supposed to say NO! Bad Boo Boo!
J: (wanders off)
M: Come here Josie (whispers: Tell Daddy again.)
J: Daddy, Boo Boo poopied on youah pillow!
D:No! Really?! Say it isn't so! (feigning great surprise)
J: April Poo!

Family: Hahahaha!

S: Usually you have a better April Fool's Day joke planned, Marla.



You see, now that I have opened the gates to poop stories, I can't hold them back, I'm sorry. I am really trying to avoid an all poop, all the time blogging habit - but such is life. I mean, such is my life.


Thankfully, over at Mommybloggers. today and tomorrow, I refrained from mentioning the poo in my life. But I think I managed to be disgusting all the same. I'm sorry.










What? You want to know my April Fool's Day joke for Steve?

It was easy, and he fell for it withing TEN minutes of telling me my first one sucked. I told him I had two glasses of bourbon last night, and feeling a little tipsy and sorry for being such a grouch lately, and feeling flush since I just accepted some new work, I left a $600 bid on THIS after he went to bed last night. The artful combination of my love of bourbon, my sorry explanation, my good but often misguided and impulsive heart, and the fact that I pulled it within minutes of the previous one worked. Hook, line and sinker, babies! He did admit that for a minute he was thinking "She'd never be that nice to ME", so maybe I should have gone with THIS.

Either way, please feel free to call on me for advice on on how to pull a fast one.