Holy Shit

Today goes down in the annals of history. Under the careful guidance of her mentor and mother who leads by example and encouragement, I am so proud to announce that on this 17th day of August in the year 2006, my future Mensa member of a toddler has achieved total control of her bowels and has made a poo in the potty.

This Nova Mama is so proud, she could cry.

I Have Mental Problems......The Sequel

This totally crazy thing used to happen to me when I was a kid. I would hear a voice in my head that would tell me to do something and if I didn’t do it, I would have to suffer the consequences. For example, if I was too chicken shit to jump off a 10’ high roof (as a 4’ person should be), the voice would say “if you don’t jump, your mother will be killed by an axe murderer.” And so I would actually convince myself that by jumping-even if I broke my leg in the process-I would actually be saving my mother from her certain bloody demise! Of course I would jump! What kind of sick and twisted kid wouldn’t?! Oh wait…who’s the sick and twisted kid?

Around the time that I was being plagued by these disturbing voices, my mom was finishing up her PhD in psychology. Interesting coincidence, no? I remember clearly the day that we sat in my kitchen and I explained hearing these “voices” to her. She was (naturally) excessively alarmed. After years of reading behavioral psych books and prepping herself for conversations of this nature with total strangers, I think I took her rather off guard when, at about age 9, I told her that I was hearing voices that predicted her grizzly dismemberment…and that of my father and sister too. Looking back on this day from an adult perspective, I believe that she thought I might be showing signs of early onset schizophrenia. She made me promise to tell her about the voices every time and we devised a strategy of talking back to the voices to tell them to go away. I’m not sure that my 9 year old self was able to properly convey what the real problem was. These “voices” were not random or external, they were not coming into my mind out of nowhere and commanding me to do something dangerous, the voice was MY voice. It was my way of pushing myself to overcome my own physical or emotional boundaries. And for some reason, the only incentive that I could come up with that was convincing enough was the threat of death in my family. Thinking back on it all now, and knowing who I am today, I think it really had more to do with an overactive imagination, some dark creative genius, and some very deep anxiety.

I was reminded of all of this--the voices, the darkness, the death and dismemberment--the other day when Joe failed to show up at my house on time….or even within many hours of on time. In fact, no phone call and no answer to my 10 or more attempts at reaching him. And so, fed by my anxiety, my imagination began to go haywire….and once the blood and guts start oozing, there ain’t no stopping the imagination train that’s heading straight to Horrorville. In my head, I had Joe tripping in front of a car just in time to have his head run over, his skull crushed with a great POP that left brains, blood and eyeballs spattered all over Bloor St. Or maybe he had been attacked by a dog that went straight for the neck and he bled out, blood spewing like a fountain with every weakening heart beat. I can still see his eyes starting to go milky as he gasps for one last breath, blood bubbles forming from his open windpipe.

Okay. So Joe wasn’t dead (though I could’ve killed him when he finally DID show up, but that’s another blog topic entirely). What is it in my deeply disturbed brain that causes me to go to these awful places? And why does it seem so damn real? When I was a kid, if my dad was late coming home I would work myself into an absolute panic within minutes. I was able to convince myself for SURE that he had been killed in a car accident, a head on collision with the most gruesome outcome possible. I was orphaned in my own daydreams more times than I can count.

These images that I can conjure in my imagination don’t feel like make believe, they feel like memories, like I have actually SEEN Joe’s grey matter mashed into the tire tread, or my dad’s face break through the windshield on impact, his body hurled through the air like a bloody rag doll. It’s enough to make me feel physically ill sometimes. And now, as a mother, there is no greater pain that I can imagine than something awful (so awful I won’t even write it) happening to my child. I could cry just thinking about it. So why do I do this to myself? It’s emotional masochism and I can’t seem to turn it off.

Now before you go calling the insane asylum on me, let me tell you that I KNOW these things aren’t true. It’s just my overactive and runaway imagination, spurred on by some anxiety disorder that probably has a name. Having lived with this for so long, it has become manageable. I’ve developed ways of talking myself out of a panic and bringing myself back down to reality. I do know the difference between reality and delusion, which is what separates me from the truly insane (among other things, I hope).

It would be easy to blame all of this on the trappings of the modern world. I could argue that images from horror movies, TV shows, or even the 6 o’clock news have all contributed to my bloodbath of an imagination. Furthermore, my anxieties are constantly being fed by the “fearmongering” and constant speculation of terrorist plots that is rampant in the media recently. I mean who isn’t feeling more anxious these days? Anyone with even a shred of OCD has been bleaching the bathroom, washing their hands, and checking the stove with greater gusto than ever before. It’s just this world that we live in…it’s making us all crazy! Sorry, I don’t believe it for a second. As the brilliant Viktor Frankl once said, “We cannot control our surroundings, we can only control our reaction to our surroundings.” And, having survived the Holocaust, he should know that our surroundings are not what drive us to insanity but rather our internals.

So now that I have exposed my own craziness, my Nightmare On Elm Street anxiety disorder, maybe you can start feeling better about your own particular brand of lunacy. And don’t try to tell me that you’re completely mentally sound, I’ll only think that you’re suffering from acute delusions of grandeur, which, in my untrained opinion, is crazier than I am. Yes, we are all nuts in our own special way. But before I go and check myself into the loony bin, I think I’ll give David Cronenberg a call and see if he wants to collaborate on a film. After all, it’s a very thin line between genius and madness.

The Socially Acceptable Alcoholic

The other day on the phone, my ex (who is currently residing in rehab for a myriad of substance abuse problems) asked me if I was drinking a lot these days. I lied. Then it hit me...was I lying to him or was I lying to myself?

I feel as though I am living in a subculture of functional alcoholics. With very few exceptions, we all drink too much. Drinking has become such a normal part of everyday life that we don’t even realize anymore that this is NOT normal everyday life. I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently. What is it that makes us all drink so much, why has it become so important to us and at what point does it become not acceptable anymore?

This dirty little secret that we all share is not just confined to my group of friends. No, it’s an addiction that we share with an entire group of likeminded, upwardly mobile, left leaning, music loving, hockey watching, financially comfortable, fun loving and style conscious individuals. We are a generation of young adults who are caught in a routine of working and drinking, and not much else. Is anyone else dying of boredom?

Our intentions are always good. We’ll set out to play poker, play baseball, go camping, have a good talk, go to the beach, whatever. All of these are activities that should be able to stand on their own two legs, all really fun things to do. But then, every single time, without fail comes the inevitable question: “So what’re you drinkin’?” As if it’s an official rule of Texas Holdem, YOU MUST BRING BEER. You cannot raise the blinds without first being half in the bag. And then, after the activity has taken place, we all go out and celebrate its successful completion with a few rounds of beer. Does anyone else see the redundancy in this?

Nothing means anything anymore. It doesn’t matter what the event or activity might be when really it’s just a thinly masked excuse to get together and drink. It all just becomes meaningless. We are not moving forward, not furthering ourselves on this planet, not becoming better or smarter or happier. The alcohol has dulled our expectations of life and made us content with simply maintaining our existences. Life is now filled with meaningless chatter, promises that are only made to be forgotten, and that special morning feeling of guilt mixed with headache and an empty wallet with nothing to show for it.

I am not trying to preach, I am as guilty as anyone else…sometimes even worse. I’ve thrown a stink eye in the direction of someone who turned down a beer. I’ve probably even goaded someone into staying out way later than was advisable and I’ve definitely called a man who was trying to get home to his woman “whipped,” which is the surest way to get him to stay. We are all instigators, we are all enablers, we are all addicts. We each have our subtle (and not so subtle) manipulative ways of ensuring that we all remain on this sinking ship together, all of us going down.

Take a good look at how much you drink. Now take an honest look at how much you drink. How much money do you spend on a weekly basis to “rent” your beer? Really think about it. Do you lie to yourself or others about how much you’ve been drinking? Have you ever woken up and thought “I will NEVER do that again” and then done it again? Have you ever called in “sick” with a hangover? Have you wondered why, at age 30, you still get zits? Perhaps your clothes aren’t fitting properly and you’ve had to “upgrade”? So remind me again…..what’s so damn good about drinking that makes us do it all the time? Are we really such insecure, unimaginative, two dimensional people that we need alcohol to be fun? Are our lives so stressful and constantly miserable that we need the booze to calm ourselves and relieve the pressures? Please tell me what it is because I have forgotten why this is supposed to be fun.

I think that we could all stand to learn a lesson from my ex who is very hard at work, and for the first time, learning to be honest with himself. Let’s all be honest with ourselves and ask “What do I want out of life?”

Okay……now put the pint glass down and go get it.

(NOTE: Try filling out this questionnaire and see how you do. Mine was downright SCARY.)

Truly Terrible Two

At 2 years, 3 months and 24 days old, my daughter has been magically transformed into a head spinning, fist throwing, kicking and screaming little pain in the ass. It's as if someone came to her and whispered in her ear "YES, little Nova child, you ARE the ruler of the universe and don't ever let your mommy forget it for an instant." She has gone from my adorable little angel of a "mini-me" to vicious snarling spawn of satan in no time flat. It scares me.......it really does.

Apparently I've been living under some blissful delusion that my daughter would skip the entire Terrible Two's phase. I had somehow tricked myself into believing that my work as a mother was so outstanding, so vastly superior to all of the work of my predecessors, that she would just simply mature gracefully without ever questioning my authority. But then......with one look at her sprawled out in the middle of the floor in the Wonderbra section of The Bay, screaming bloody murder, my fantasy has been forever shattered. I am not a perfect mother......and I certainly don't have a perfect kid.

Exhibit A: As I am dressing the demon seed this morning, she hauls off and hits me in the face. I had told her that she needed to put on some pants and was attempting just that when she gets in my face and yells "No, YOU put on some pants!" The "YOU" was punctuated by her fist making full contact with my nose. I reeled backwards from the force of the blow. (At this point, the intense fury and rage causes time to slow down considerably and I have time to ponder my next move. Part of me wants to haul off and hit her back, part of me wants her to join a boxing gym.) What does a good mother do in this instance? Clearly I am not one, because I have NO clue. And so I do the worst possible thing.......I hit her back (softly) and say with all the force and conviction that I can muster "NO HITTING." Oh great......how confusing was that for the poor kid? Yell "NO HITTING" at the exact moment that my hand landed on her cheek. I think I have a lot to learn.

Exhibit B: Daycare has a policy about not drinking a bottle while playing. If you want to drink it then you have to be sitting down....(I know a few grown-ups who could benefit from this policy). So we arrive at daycare and the kid, bottle firmly planted in mouth, makes her way to the sandbox. Something just told me that this was going to be an ordeal, so I braced myself for the worst and asked her to hand it over. "NO." So I ask her to go and sit on the mat until she's finished with her juice. "NO." And so I try again.....and again. At this point I notice the daycare worker eyeing me up and down. She can tell I'm having trouble and is probably thinking to herself "No wonder this kid is such a little bitch, her mother has no control over her." I start sweating as my parenting skills are coming under direct fire from a professional. Do I snatch the bottle and run with it? Do I let the heathen child have her way? I was stuck. As the childcare worker made her way over to us, I braced myself for a lecture. Instead, she calmly asked my daughter if she wanted to finish her bottle. "Yes." Then, with the most silently forceful finger I have ever witnessed, she pointed to the mat. The satan spawn went and sat down. I think I need to get me a finger like that.

All I can say is....look out world. This is going to be a bumpy ride.

"Bump" is the New Black

Let's talk babies here for a moment, shall we?

On my way to work this morning I counted 12 women in various stages of post coital condition.....and I don't have very far to travel.

Is it just me, or is half the population of fertile females all knocked up? It's like a disease that's spreading east from Los Angeles and infecting everyone who comes in contact with it--via gossip tabloid or Brangelina photo.
The Bump-itis Disease.

Since when did sporting a pregnant belly become a cool fashion accessory? When I was pregnant they were called "Big Fat Tummies" (not very glamourous at all). Now they are referred to with the nausiatingly cute moniker "Baby Bump".......and all of a sudden everyone wants one (I wonder if my "beer bump" counts). It's almost as if the actual child--the lifelong responsibility, the individual person with needs and wants--doesn't exist. Like it's all just about the cute little "bump." And that one day this "bump" will just disappear and everything will be back to normal again.

Reality check#1: Your "bump" will NEVER fully go away and there is no amount of sit ups, crunches or leg lifts that will give you back the tummy you had before the arrival of your adorable little "bump." And since I'm talking about body changes, here are a few more that you may want to be aware of: Your tits will never be the same perky little missiles aimed at the sky. No, even if you don't breastfeed (and I'm not preaching here, but you should) they'll be laying down flat like the ears on a bloodhound napping in the sun. Oh.......and how about stretch marks? Some women don't get them (and should be shot), but probably most do. They can range from little dents that can only be seen if the light is just so, to deep purple scarring that resembles a New York City road map complete with side streets and "points of interest".

Really I'm just beginning to scratch the surface of the discussion regarding how your body will change with your pregnancy, I could go on and on and on........but in the interest of not scaring my lovely pregnant friends (and not grossing out my boyfriend), I'll just leave it at that for now and not go into any detail about the vaginal stretching or permanent scarring caused by tearing from one hole to the other. No, I won't discuss that stuff at all.

Reality Check #2: Within that cute little "bump" there lurks a real, live BABY--and you will have to squeeze that baby out of your once tiny little vagina! Yes it's true. One day you will give birth and there will be nothing cute about it. It's painful, it's bloody, it's long, and it's inevitable. (Note: Unless you can do like Britney, Angelina, Gwen et al. who slipped their doctors some cash and bribed them to just cut it out on a scheduled day......but as far as I know, in Canada, this remains illegal.) So provided you are birthing this baby the old-fashioned way, brace yourself for the most unbeliveably un-glamourous day(s) of your life. And it doesn't end there. No no, for the few weeks following the delivery you will be a complete and total mess. You will cry all the time and will feel like you will never sleep again (and there is some truth to this). You will wonder how you could possibly have ever done this to yourself, and will feel sometimes that death is preferable to that screaching sound of a crying newborn baby. You will not be able to poo for days--until you can actually begin to taste it in the back of your throat. And then when you finally do, it will be like giving birth all over again except this time without the drugs. No my friends, it is NOT cute.....and this brings me to

Reality Check #3: This is FOREVER. Having a child is a permanent condition and your life will never be the same again. Things like cute little "baby bumps", what shoes to wear, what type of martini to drink no longer have any relevence whatsoever. Right here, this is the hardest pill to swallow: IT IS NO LONGER ABOUT YOU. For someone as self centered, egotistical and well, just plain sefish as I am, it was not something that came naturally or easily......and to be honest, I still find it very hard. No more staying out past 10 pm. No more running off to Vegas at a moments notice. No more drinking till you puke and pass out in the bathroom. No more running to the store for midnight chocolate munchie attacks. No, no, no. The sky is no longer the limit. In fact there is no longer the sky, only the limit. I want to drill this point home: BABY RULES THE HOUSE. YOU ARE NOW THE "BUMP"s BITCH.

Allright. I know, this is a rather cynical view of what it's like to become a mother....and although not entirely inaccurate, it may be a wee bit harsh. I love every inch of my daughter and would never change a thing about my life with her. That said, I wish that I had known exactly what I was getting myself into before I closed my eyes and jumped in. Being a mother is absolutely the hardest thing that I have ever done. It's mentally, physically, and emotionally draining and it will be that way every day for the rest of my life. I am tough and I can handle it. I only hope that the tabloid addicts and the fashion victims of the world give pause for thought before settling on the "bump" instead of the toy poodle with matching Louis Vuitton carrying case.

Brokeback is Fixed!

Our very own Brokeback James has been sliced, diced and sewn back together. Welcome back to the land of the walking, my good friend.

Just wanted to post this picture so that everyone could say "mmmm.......yummy."

So here's the question though: Where is his ass crack? Did they accidently sew that up too? Wierd.

UPDATE: Brokeback Still Broken. Can someone up there please cut my friend James a break? The poor guy is still in the hospital dealing with fallout from the surgery.
Here's hoping that you get well soon, don't lose too much weight, and that there's at least one cute nurse for your spongebaths.

Chicks Dig Balloons

So I took the kid to a party on Saturday. Boy have things changed. I used to worry that staying out too late would piss off my parents, now I worry about pissing off my kid.

It was great actually. I realize that this is the way to do it. I got to the party early enough that everyone was coherent and I had a few good conversations, stayed just long enough to have a few drinks and have everyone ooh and aah over what a damn cute kid I have. Then I left before anything got broken, anyone puked, or there was any real uncomfortable or embarrassing situations. This is ideal because a) I still get to go out and party, b) I don't have to pay for babysitting, c) I look like a damn good mom whose kid knows how to party and d) my kid genuinely knows how to party.

Taking your kid out to a house party doesn't have to be a sign of a neglectful parent as long as you follow a few key rules. Firstly, if you plan on having too much to drink then make sure there is someone close by who is more responsible than you. Another key is to announce to all who will listen "if you can see her then she's your problem." This should ensure that there is at least one person watching at all times, so you can just go ahead and ignore her and pretend for one blissful moment that you are responsible for no one but yourself and you're 19 again and fuck the world, live fast, die young woohhooooo!!! Then you feel a tug on your pants and a tiny blond midget person says "mommy, I have a poo."

Then it's time to go home and if you've played your cards right then you haven't done anything stupid, your kid hasn't done anything (too) stupid, no one has called children's services on your drunk ass, and all of your friends who don't have kids can take heart in the fact that yes, there IS life after childbirth.

Anyone can have a blog....

So anyone can have a blog and say basically anything they want.....That's the easy part. How do you know if anyone will actually read it? And if they do, will they actually give a shit?
So I've decided to write this blog for ME.....because I'm sure that I will read it and am also sure that I will give a shit.

So what aspect of me do I focus on? This is hard. At first I thought I'd write mostly about how hard it is to be a young, fun, single mom in a big city......but I am so much more than that. To designate myself as "a mom" would completely negate all of the other interesting parts that make up the whole of who I am. My daughter may RUN my life, but she certainly is not my ENTIRE life. I can hear it now mothers accross the continent saying "What?! You selfish bitch, your daughter should be your life and if she's not then you must be a bad mom!" Okay fine, but these are the wives whose husbands are "staying late at the office" most nights. These are the women who have lost their sense of self, who put everyone's happiness before their own and then cry themselves to sleep at night because no one care about how THEY feel. I know this because I was once one of those miserable saps who felt trapped in every aspect of life and so I focussed all of my energy on my daughter while my own self went to shit.......and I'm only 29.

So what happened? It was New Years of 2005. I had taken my daughter (9 months old) to Floriday to visit my parents for a week and left the good for nothin hubby at home to party it up in style with his drug-addicted, degenerate friends. The thought of spending a week without him was scary and awful even though he barely knew that I existed anymore, since the arrival of "our" (my) baby. A few days in Florida and I was so homesick, like withdrawal from a drug that you knew was eventually going to kill you but you would sell your house to have. I hit a wall, a breaking point where I knew that if I didn't grow some balls, gain some self worth and start putting myself first again, as I had done in my happiest times, that I would eventually end up spiritually dead, actually dead, or even worse--morbidly obese, agoraphobic and depressed like those whale-people you see sometimes on Maury Povich.

Anyway.......on my return from Florida I planned my escape. Before telling my husband anything that I had planned, I got myself on welfare, secured a place to live and even had friends lined up to move my stuff. Then I dropped the BOMB. Boy was he shocked (SHOCKED!). And without much further ado, I was gone. Moved onwards and upwards into my new and improved life and love and career and self esteem.

The whole point of this is: How can you teach your daughter to become a strong, successful and independent woman if you don't lead by example. I can show her to put herself first in this life only if I put myself first.

So this is MY blog. For ME, by ME and all about the things that interest ME. I am a mother, but before that, I am MYSELF.

my parents are cooler than your parents