Birthplan

I'm the girl who lept out of the hot air balloon before takeoff, too scary. I am the 'hiker' who wouldn't cross the river in the cable car, too high. I'm the sort who would rather not run after anything, too much exertion, thanks.

I am no superstar. 'Cept when it came to birthin' baby #1. When we went to pre-natal classes -- what the Junipers say about those 15 hours is true -- I couldn't have cared less about natural childbirth. But the classmates and course leader sure did. We were so out of it. Our course was a two day deal and I remember, everyone had a birth plan. At the end of day one I said to p-man, "You, me and the cats, let's stay home as long as we can. That's our birthplan??" Yep. Well it worked. Amazingly.

While there was a brief window where p-man was asked about a contraction timing and was instead watching TV ... thus I screamed from the bedroom "You are the worst birth partner ever!"... He was a very good birth partner actually at the time -- and, after. I know that many marriages have lustrous moments of unbridled gorgeousness at weddings or through dancing and stuff, our shining moment was the delivery of the Girl Friday. I cannot think of any time of greater closeness in our relationship. I cannot pinpoint any other window where I felt the rush of adoration, support and pride of my spouse like the day we got her in our arms and for those weeks after when he would tell the story.

I believe labour is so apt for my performance birth day. Arrival of our baby was the time at which I was most hard at work in my life (no matter what I thought of my swollen feet all those weeks earlier.) I killed in there. And, I was rated a SUPERSTAR! by my husband. But bear in mind...

I remember it all quite choppily. The night after the birth, sometime after the 'sushi and gin' delivery, I said to papa-man.. so tell me, what happened? He tells it very well and so spritely as to be completely uncharacteristic. For those who have been concerned by the lightening of his tones in the last few weeks, wonder no more why. The time is near. We are in our 39th week and he's morphing into that birth junkie all mushy and sweet; transfixed on the thrill of his family growing ... knowing another bundle of unconditional love is about to fall into his hands. No pressure, eh?

So wish me luck as the time draws me in. I do hope we can have another unmedicated and uncomplicated birth. And, I'll say unabashedly not just for the sake of the baby but for the chance to repeat the closeness of mother and dad in bringing out baby.

Ass Wednesday : MoWo guest post ... Achilles in the white pants

OK so the p-man has been a big poster this week. Here it is Ass Wednesday and the caustic well has run dry, after his run-down of the surf and turf sporting life followed by the Jazz Festival report. (I was quite impressed the latter got him play at Costello fansite.)

But whatever, this is my asinine guest post. Be it resolved MoWo has a few not nice bones in her body. Whereas, it is sooo uncool to be a nice blogger. And, whereas, Metro defined me so publicly on his uber-blog as nice... and whereas I will bite the hand that sends me a zillion hits on his referring url here we go... a MoWo Ass Wednesday post.

It's about white pants.

The thermometers are beginning to register temperatures around 30 degrees celsius and here they come the white pants. (That's 86 degrees to you Southerners) I have an odd relationship with white pants, I don't really like them. Of course, I am a complete hypocrite about this for somewhere around that fairy tale age of 22 I was in possession of a pair of white Levis I would team up with an old belt of my Dad's and skimpy black t-shirt that made me look hot, hot, hot.. though that might just be the weed talking, there. My inspiration to the acquisiton of these pants, by the way, was the p-man himself. Poor p-man.

Poor p-man??? Your interrogate?? Yes. You know I found this fellow under the burning rays of a record hot summer in the UK. We were -- ostensibly -- and I mean ostensibly.. you have never had a more perfect definition of ostensible anything 'til now, luvies... Ostensibly, we were on a university program to excavate a Roman fort in the midlands and it was hot. More than shorts weather hot, but have shorts will dig.. and have teatime and play cricket with rudimentary wickets and no rules in the hot sun.

After two weeks in this 'class' p-man and me, we were an item. We had done some cool side trips to the Mumbles and up the Northern ends of Scotland.. I think we were almost done when I saw him in pants for the first time. And, they were white. Poor p-man .. I laughed out loud at the sight of him. I swear this rad guy I had been dating for awhile all of a sudden had shed every ounce of coolness that his svelte frame cut in those wee shorts and noisy tie-dyes; outfits further embellished by a horrifying network of mountain biking wounds current and past. I cringe at the memory of my nasty cackle that day.

Sweep up your sympathies, of course, for the husband if they are forming please -- the image of his diminutive stature out of the short pants was fully redeemed within 6 months by a chirpy, ageless Classics professor we shared. She unabashedly used my boyfriend and his slim, wiry -- and short -- physique as her example of what Achilles looked like!

So anyway... It's summer now and outside the lawn bowlers I must ready myself for a full 12 weeks disdain of white pants wearers. Old ladies and young things, golf weirdos and salesguys. Yuck. I really don't know why they elicit my sniffs of dissapproval and judgement so readily, but they do. Maybe I'm just thinking... he's no Achilles?

So what about you? Do you like white pants? Are you wearing them now? If so I have words for you...

Oot and Aboot

The heavily-pregnant Mo and I attended a local venue to watch and listen to Elvis Costello, Allen Toussaint, and their band last night. We left e with Mo's folks- a quick word about the mother-in-law. Yesterday Mo went over there for lunch and there was no food. Anyway, we entrusted the care of our little one to this woman and her husband, who for some reason laughs at everything e does (Look at that, she stuck a fork in my left gonad, heh heh. What a wiseacre!) because we do not fear social services even though we live on the east side of town. We returned to some unusual information regarding our child's welfare in this exceedingly hot (by our rather low standards for hot) weather which, as best I can tell from what this woman had to tell me, caused my daughter's hair to sweat. I don't know if this hair-sweating thing is a condition in the first instance, or a condition I need worry about, and frankly, I think the woman made it up. Maybe I should have listened to her more intently than I did. I kind of stopped after she said "hello" and now I am sorry. What if e starts to perspire from her eyelashes?

But to the show. I am as ignorant of New Orleans music as I am of nearly everything. I knew of Toussaint from Little Feat and I love the Meters who, despite the fact they couldn't really write a bridge and covered "Wichita Lineman", fucking rocked. They oozed groove and they refuse the ointment. I was ready to see this band. (I will point out, for those who may be interested in reading essays on New Orleans music history, or the invention of the piano, which is Mr. Toussaint's favoured instrument, that if you care about stuff, you already know more about it than me, and I am better served by typing my stream of barely consciousness herein than I would be in offering an unreadable and dull precis of someone else's research on alluvial soil, human intervention and the management of water levels, racial politics, syncopation, and Professor Longhair. If you want to read boring blogs about what I read somewhere, fuck off. If you want to read boring blogs about what I did or didn't do, and maybe what I think I remember thinking about it while it was happening, or what I am thinking now about what happened then when I wasn't thinking about it- you have come to the right place.)

Elvis, as he is known, is starting to resemble his namesake in the girth department. You may infer I am not a fan. I lost interest after "Shipbuilding". I was not that interested before then but I didn't want to go to Chelsea either. I still haven't gone. The thing is, why did Elvis need to put so many words in each line, and so many lines in each verse, and so many verses in each song? If you know the answer, please keep it to yourself. That is a rhetorical question. I am using for some reason, not entirely clear to me, but it has to do with this writng, and, and I don't want an answer. In any event, too many words, that was the problem. (Pot. Kettle. Black.) And what's the point in rallying behind some sweaty little white guy with glasses when he becomes reasonably popular? I will never relate to that. Bring me Andy Summers on a plate.

So, Elvis, Allen, a blended band (2/3 of the Attractions and Toussaint's band) earned their wage tonight. They were sweating out the groves. They slew the audience. They slew puppies and festooned the Orpheum with their still-steaming entrails. They read the livers and no, the Canucks will not win the Stanley Cup this year. I highly recommend this act. On the not-musical front, there were some jibes directed the Shrub, which likely endeared Elvis to the generally liberal, generally isolationaist Canadian audience, but in the midst of a speech about the disaster wrought by man and nature in New Orleans the songer silenced the laughing audience, saying: Laughter is the death of satire (or words to that effect. Maybe he said "I have a flat tire", or "I have jello in my briefs" I don't know, but he said it and it sure was funny. If only I could remember it. In any event, that won me over to the chubby little guy, with his weird little black cowboy suit, which was not very slimming at all).

On the musical front, the band was hot. The arrangements were hot. I was hot. Where is the a/c? Why did I wear latex again? The band played this version of "Watching the Detectives" which was equal parts Elvis, Trout Mask Replica, Jackie Wilson, and Lynton Kwesi Johnson. Unreal. I'd try to describe coherently it but for the prohibition I have against people who are not musicians trying to evoke or describe music. For that matter, I don't want some musician coming over here, trying to tell me why the adaggio passages invoke restlessness, or irritable bowel, or what have you. Shut up, you elitist pig, with your book-learning! Why the hell did I start this post?

Oh, yes. I went out for the night with my beautiful and heavily pregnant wife. We sat in a comfortable theatre and listened to wonderful music played with passion and intelligence to an appreciative audience. I felt our soon-to-be-born child dancing in Mo's body. I observed seat dancing manouvres undertaken by middle-aged and older men. The acid-drenched rubber chicken dance of the Deadheaded past replaced by the, I don't know, arthritic chicken dance of the RRSP set. I drove home to find our cats waiting for us on the walk, our in-laws relating some dread medical miracle regarding hair-sweat to our unlistening ears, and observed our little girl, ever increasingly her own little girl, sleeping in her bed, the sweat flooding out of her little girl hairs as she floated away... another beautiful day. Damn.

P-man out.

Ass Wednesday Delayed Is Ass Monday

This correspondent would like to provide the esteemed readership with a reasonable explanation for the delayed Wednesday post. Mo asks so little of me yet I consistently fail to meet even these modest goals... As I said, I'd like to, but I cannot. In any event, you don't care, and if you do, you really shouldn't, so... so there (he says trimphantly)!

Last Tuesday I had a day-long partners' meeting with my former employers, now partners. It was a gruelling day of water-skiing and golfing. I don't water ski and while I own golf clubs they are normally used as ballast in the trunk of my car to prevent skidding on the moisture-laden roads of Vancouver and its environs and for little else.

Before you rush to judgment about the devil-may-care, fun-filled day I must have had, I will share with you something I learned about water-skiing (after 25-odd years off the boards): middle-aged men whose exercise for the last years has consisted of swimming, lifting infants, and sitting behind a desk, may lack strength in their so-called core area. A strong core, as it is known to fitness buffs (yourselves included, I am sure) is vital to ensure injury-free water-skiing. While I have the body of a newly 38 year old man (and this is an average- I have the mind of an 18 year old and the liver of a 60 year old) after all the "fun" I developed the lower back of, I don't know, Quasimodo. While there was not much of this there followed a lot of this. Suffice to say I am not a happy person right now. Suffice to say Mo was not thrilled by the symptoms, which included grimacing and whining.

As for the golf, I believe it was Twain who said: Golf is a good walk spoiled. Enough said.

Lest the casual reader conclude this post is naught but a pity party hosted and attended solely by this writer (typist, whatever) I should probably tell you about my cold. For nigh 3 weeks my head has felt as though it is stuffed with cotton. But it isn't cotton. It's snot and lots of it. It's green. It tastes terrible. I don't think it is at all appropriate to have this come out of your sinuses. Or this. I was able, in this land of socialized medicine, to locate a physician who could tell me all about my snot.

The good doctor put me on some kind of nasal steroid, which does little I can detect besides cause numerous nosebleeds. My left eye, which should appear thus , looks like this. If this goes on much longer I would settle for this. And a side of snot.

P-man out.

And then there's Maude!

Two weeks to the EDD.
One week left of work.

It is so different than with #1. I am excited, not scared, about the birth. We had a good one with E., maybe I'll tell you 'bout it sometime.

I am also very stressed about EVERYTHING else. Especially, E. and how I will look after her for the week or two I remain preggo and at home alone. As of this morning, I believe it is official that I cannot get her onto the 'change table'... too much belly. I can hoist her up there but then I have to sort of drop her on. That, of course, adds the most charming wrinkle to the unrestrainted delight that is diaper changing with any child over the age, of say, 11 months!

The weather has been very nice this week and is supposed to be continue all weekend. Miss Fancy has been pretty good to us too and it has made me more maudlin. One day last week in the hour we have before Papa comes home we sat in our garden under the cherry tree and shared some thoughts; the girl and me. 'You have good day?' she asked. 'Yes, honey I did' (which of course I didn't acutally)... 'Oooooh, bugs!' she adds. 'Yeah, great!' I chime in. She's off to look and describe and point at the legions of ants crawling about.

I stare at her industry. A few tears run down my cheeks as I look to her waning days of undiluted parental adoration.

I am a second child. All logic should say I don't care, but I do. My chest grows tight and I fear I will not have the capacity to cherish two children adequately. Oh, that's not right. Its not a question of capacity is it? I am just a bit tired maybe it is more about strength? Or, is it the fear of not having the patience or what? what is it??

It's nothing really.

I already know I fall so entirely short of composing a love commensurate to this, or the coming, darling child. I'll just have to be the best I can.

Benighted

A few notes about the dark age feminism I so revere over at this blog.

Although I am an honest working girl now, with a very practical masters degree in librarianship I was once a flightly undergrad. That girl was obsessed in refuting the Dark Age, which surprisingly is not hard to do. The medieval period so oft characterised as a closure of the shiny happy persons of Rome, a time not yet filled with the rich humanist light of the Renaissance... That period, hey, like Green Acres, it's the place for me!

The recent benighting declaration on me and my kind has me once again thinking about the persistence of fallacy and fakery about dark ages. About the tension between dreams held by both individuals, and movements, that their views represent a golden age. That their gilding, indeed their guilds, need be defended against the horrid, spotty, degredation by erratic unpredicable realities, identities and generations. I guess I have felt this week that my laisse-faire approach to my career in the face of motherhood has suddenly cast me -- and others -- as Dark Ages feminists.

I hear you asking, "What is she talking about?"

Well -- THIS! The latest from Linda Hirshman. Trust me I cannot do justice to deconstruction of this philosophy anywhere near as eloquently as L. has here and here.

If you have not got in on L. discusssion yet I encourage you to take a look. I feel her discourse on feminist choice is fascinating. And the questions this latest output from Ms. Hirshman raises on issues about:
1. Class and motherhood
2. Traditional employment
3. Mainstream VERSUS? blog media
and
4. Generations of Feminism

... well they all have me curious about the opinions of the diverse and intelligent readership of this, my, humble blog.

Do the liberties espoused by Ms. Hirshman ever read to you, as they do to me, more like a straightjacket than a release?

Come this way she beckons... "Over here where the Washington Post can analyse the New York Times to assess the real work of real women. See the best course through the lens of its failures and conform." She continues: "Put down your blogshares and hammer a better life from your offices."

oooops... better get back to work!

Mean Feets

Tonight I put e. to bed by myself. Someone nearly passed out in anger or distress. We are lucky that the p-man employ is pretty routine (not easy to come by in lawyer-land) so I can count on him to be home for bedtimes. At least, ever since I got smart and told him that his evenings are no longer for Da Band, or racquet sport du jour, etc, etc! What did that take me like 6 mos. of parenthood to figure out or something?

Butidigress, sort of....

So, anyway, he was away tonight and yet I did do it myself. This is no mean feat for the following reasons:
1. My mean feet. Yep, in week 36 of the pregnancy I turned my ankle and I am not entirely up to the strength requirements of toddler wrastling.
2. I am now 37 weeks + and nearly useless at many things like, general baby hauling, extended periods of patience, uhm, sustained persuasive rationalization of any kind -- of either the internal or external kind. SHIT!
3. With only one month to sibling arrivalry we decided to take the world's best sleeper and shake it up with a new bed complete with newish papa-man routine. (Insert something worse that SHIT here please.)

Stooooooopiiiddd!

While we have shaved the negotiation on sleep expectations by at least 45 minutes in the last week or so... and are now coming in at the more ideal 8:15/8:30 knockout I am not happy. The very intrusion of negotiation into what used to be non-negotiable is really pissing me off.

Also, I ask you to consider this; the disdain and disobedience of the child went as follows:
When trying to lay her in bed... Child response, 'No pushing' -- well you can't really argue with that can you?
When saying, nigh-night Mama will be outside, you go to bed... Child response. 'No. No please. Please do not go out there. Close the door please.' Be sure to roll this one in multicoloured sprinkles and sanding sugar in you mind to replicate the tone of this plea.
When asking for a hug and kiss bye-bye.. Child response.. all manner of renewed energy coming out of left field.

AAARRRGHHHHHH!

Intersperse all the sucking up with a few huge crying jags well seasoned with 'Leave me alone' and baby Garbo is too much for me? Well, maybe not. I don't know. We have spent sometime in the kinder gentler sleep training mode, or at least p-man has. That system involves laying on the floor and setting a good sleep example. Has its attractions for sure. But I don't entirely buy into this sort of 'system' too high maintenance for me. A month ago you put e. in her bed said bye-bye, night-night, see you in the morning light and left. That is my goal. I really can't buy in that the girl who could do that is as washed up as Jenilee Harrison!

Tonight I tried it a bit different and am a bit more comfortable. But I am still trolling for information/ideas people. Really, the first week was great but something went of the rails. Help! Help! What I tried tonight was to keep focussed on this being bedtime. After bath, zippo toys kiddo! Uno story thanks. Diaper and pajamas in the lovely friendly bed. Child, physically relaxed, might stay in bed? Well, no way. After about 5 minutes she is out. I put her back. She's out. Angry, going to lie on the floor. I put her back. Getting angrier and angrier. Going for the books to get me where it hurts. I put her back maybe a half dozen times. She is flipping out. We step out of the bedroom and do a relaxing circuit of good night to the cats, chairs, rooms, etc. She leads back to her room... near but not in the bed. Looks promising but noooooo, you are hooped motherwoman! A couple more distractions and bed putting exericises. Really only 15 minutes have elapsed.. so I don't think it will be too freaky if I play my trump card. Bye-bye. I step out.

This is what we used to do. We used to leave. For the first week the door might open on us 1 or 2 or 3 or maybe 5 times but whatever. This is what I want to get back to, right? The hard crying subsided pretty quick and within 5 minutes she was calmish. The door opened. I asked, 'May I come in?'. 'Yes' she says nicely and then she does agree with me it is time for bed. I escort her bedside but don't put her in. She flops her head and shoulders on her bed and looks sleepy. I briefly rub her back and wish her a good night. Then I retreat to the door. I am trying to depart. But relent. I lurk near the door, tell myself 10 minutes should do it. She is inching up into her bed one inch per minute it seems. In the ten she is up in bed, obviously comfortable and mostly in the seven mile stare.

My massive 37/4 preggo frame is bearing down on my crappy foot. It more than stings. I am dying to get out of there. I shift my weight. She shoots me a look. I smile and nod. I ain't afraid of you baby girl, I tell myself. I am a selfish mother! I step toward the door bang on minute 10. Another look. I step out. She sleeps still.

Yay! ...... I think???

What do you think people? How long might it take doing this before we can just walk out again? I am still havin' her be the boss a'me with this sort of plan? Any tricks, tips? Should I put her in her bed or it better for her to get in herself?

I'll share one tip myself. If you are going to take your kids crib away for another kid do it well outside of the last four weeks of your pregnancy. Better for everyone, of this I am sure. -- It probably isn't even the bed is it?

P-man uncensored

So just when the great and wonderous Oz get's p-man out from under a bushel he makes nice with the blogosphere in today's post. For tres typical p-man lit, please see:

The man ... himself
Music man
Defend ye, your mix tapes plebs
Game, set and match
My favorite

Happy to be Daddy

I have had a terrific day. I attempted to elaborate in an earlier draft (ok, the earlier draft) but rapildy lost the thread in detail. I was going to describe the weather (which was great) to the barbequed steaks (which were dead-on) however I can only type so fast with 2 digits and I am very tired staying up last night, as I did, muttering about Winky's fate to those who'd listen. (Which was nobody. I was muttering to myself about a boxer I'll never meet not losing a fight he arguably should have won. I need help.)

I enjoyed a great evening with my dad, his wife (no, I did), my inlaws, wife, and child. It was one of those infrequent evenings when I felt light and largely unconcerned. Mo, who is super pregnant right now, and ailing slightly after a fall at an open house last week, was a ROCK I tell you. We attempted to attend an open house, but it was closed. Funny thing, this house: two weeks ago it came out on the market listed at $x. It stayed on the market for two weeks, which is pretty rare in the hysterical market we are um, enjoying at present. The listing agent re-advertised the house at $x plus $80,000 (yes, an upward movement) and now it has apparently found a bidder. I am moving here instead of looking any longer for a house in this town.

This morning my daughter gave me something she made at daycare. It is me, she said so. "I" kind of look like the image below but am a real egg with stuck-on features, specifically, a mouth and eyes. I understand e held out for the "eyes" sticker which came with glasses. What a peach. Set me up for the day.

Now that I have conducted some brief research into the beginning of Father's Day to discover it is not owned by Haliburton I can wish genuinely that dads all over had at least as great a day as I had the good fortune to enjoy.

P-man out.

Recommended title: Daddy Kisses

Daddy kisses by Anne Gutman.
Chronicle Books, 2003 ; ISBN: 0811839141.
Subjects: Fathers -- Fiction ; Kissing -- Fiction

On a last minute Father's Day shopping mission? Check out this title. Comes complete with ACTIONS!

Red Hot Chili Papas

Kara's Father's day bloggect seemed a good time to reveal that MOTHER-WOMAN blogging is actually all about Dads. Can you believe it?? I love Dads. I am a bonefide Daddy's girl and to be honest I hope my girl is too.

I thought I understood a lot about Dads cause, well, I can be an egomaniac. So when, our first year of parenthood elapsed and I was so perplexed by the new Dad in this house, the infamous p-man, I was rattled. I realized I needed to get help with questions like... What is he doing? Is he ok with this? He seems sort of off-put or wayward. Weird. Usually addicted to big dog-itis there is suddenly some sort of mommy-deference-mantra. Is it me? Can this be right? Damn his inscrutable nature... Where can I find me some empirical evidence, please. What should this be like?

I put on my best Batgirl hat and declared: 'This sounds like a case for the INTERNET!'

Around this time I was off for a number of weeks due to a province wide teachers strike. I had to keep up on the news in case of a sudden settlement, yeah right, so I got surfing with my new laptop. I bounced from cbc.ca, to Google news, this got me into, I think it was, the bosh first and then celebritybaby.com (blush). On CBB there is a link to Daddytypes, the weblog for new Dads...

I hopped over to Daddytypes and read some great stuff by Greg. My interest was piqued. Although, I do in the overall reject the trappings of anthropological study (read too hard for me)... I can sometimes get sucked in. All can be demystified with just a little field work. So it began.

I love Dads.
I love Dads who blog.
I love blogs.

From Daddytypes I jumped to learning all good things t-shirt on Sweet Juniper.
I nodded vigorously at MetroDad's comments on Dutch's posts, better check him out.
Which led me to Dadcentric and Cheeky's Hideaway, Jason et al.

Sometime after this I clued in that there were Mamas blogging, too, but that was, of course, secondary to my fieldwork. Observing Dads in their internet environment was what I 'needed'. Was pretty damn excellent to get a backstage pass into some rather righteous child-rearin'. It emboldened me to start our blog, as a parent tag team, nicely skirting a lot of junk -- at that point unbeknownst to me -- about Mommyblog politics.

But back to the Superfriends of Internet Dad-dom... These are the archetypes of modern male parenting? What are they saying as they cycle from Consumer Reports to Chaos Theory to Boob reportage? Tell me: what is it all about Alfie?

'P-man ya gotta take a look at this.' I'd say reading something over. Oh, come on I know you are gonna love this guy. Are you reading x? what about y? All the subsequent laptop passing, snickering and sniping was good; the blog we built has thanks to these first indulgences has been good.

Parenting has not been some relationship cinch for me and the p-man. I was glad to have the talking points, big, small, silly, and wise from the circle of fellas I found out there last autumn. I wonder if it occured to you when you started our your enterprises that it would fill a need like mine - that any Mom a bit tongue-tied on the road to co-parenting would benefit so enormously from having the chance to peek into your homes, your fatherhood. Well, it has.

Gentlemen, have a great day this Sunday.

My Kingdom for an MTBI

You'll need an MTBI to make any sense of the news these days. (Already I sound like my dad, or an archetypal dad, noting how wild, amoral, and anomic the world of today is... not like when I was a kid, when we walked 50 miles to school uphill each way in bare feet on broken glass and we were glad to, damnit, and we held doors open for the elderly and our pants covered our under pants and people took pride in their work...) But, fuck, when the idjits on the news wonder why this is happening here in Canada, where our worst crime is apparently our arrogance about how FRIENDLY and NOT AMERICAN we are (and we are really extra super benign and nice, look at Alex Trebek) and the next news item is about this... need we look any further? (The answer, in case you were wondering, is "no", we needn't.)

"Mountain Thrust" is such a great name. A strong name. A male name. The kind of name a high-altitude goatfucker might come up with... yeah, it is some kind of bestial lovin'/overcompensating-for-something-unspeakably-dreadful-kind of name. It makes me ashamed to be Canadian. Of course, so does this, this, and this. Oh, and apartheid. And the fact we are still playing NHL hockey in June.

P-man out.

Jetsam, Flotsam

I will not eat them Sam I Am.

Random cranial flatulence for Wedens Assday.

Something led me to think that this man has been in Pittsburgh recently.

Is this some screwed-up version of "This hurts us more than it hurts you"? (And who conceived of that little nugget?)

It was easier to like her better when she was a lobster or whatever. Well, maybe not. This is difficult. Maybe not.

Does this work retroactively? I hope so.

I liked him better when he wasn't 64. And I wasn't 38. Or in Wings. That band sucked. Apparently this guy was devastated to discover his wife, soon ex-, has some kind of, um, 'artistic photos' in her past... what kind of weird fringe of smut hound goes chasing after shots of amputees (don't answer)... or, hm, nevermind. She had the leg for that job. Therefore, no comments about the stump-lovers ass'n. of wherever. Ew.

I have the day off to hang with e, so that's it. Quantity, quantity uber alles.

P-man out.

Working on her backhand

So to celebrate Papa Man's big 3x we went out for dinner with the family. Once again.. I repeat .. Helloooo relations, are you listening? The idea of going out for a meal with a toddler is NOT my idea of a celebration. It is, instead, a tortuorous 3-day prep-a-phobic stress-a-ganza. Gotta have perfect nap the day of, gotta plan all manner of dripless yet intriguing menu items for such toddler in deference to ridiculously 'cute' grandpeople purchases party clothing, etc, etc.

For Mother's Day there was some sort of picnic and that was ok; especially since they finally caught on that a walk with the kid is a fun thing to do. Last night was a dining room. Oh sweet Mary and Joseph! Dining room with babbling relations taking three quarters of an hour to order; kitchen taking loooooong time to deliver on aforementioned order.

Mother's nerves fraying into a zillion lil' bits.
Child holding fast. Enjoying hat game with auntie.
Child hangin' in discovers swimming pool and hockey rink down the hall. WOW!
Many relatives doing good job chasing toddler and carrying her about.
Ultimately is a trooper, enjoys the ketchup course enormously and only steals one piece of jewelry from the MIL.
Small whining as evening wears on half hour past bedtime.

This is the MIL who has to note what a perfect child she is. [yes of course, it is genetic. entirely falls from the sky] MIL who adds that, when in the arms of her father at least, e. is so content and self assured it is truly wonderful how she is developing.

1. Ah, I do love a backhanded compliment to top off a really ball-busting performance for a family event!
2. Have I mentioned that little will raise my bile than the third person assessments of this child, who is a person, as some sort of development robot!

But I'm not bitter, not anymore, anyway.

ps.. has anyone seen the cross-stitch for Bless this Blog, yet?

Happy Birthday Papa Man!

A goodly number of years ago, but on this day in such history... you know, back when you could still make the baby share the dog's bowl. Nope Metro,you did NOT think of it first! ... Sometime around then a p-wee-man was making a start in this world.

Back then he thought lots of things in life were funny.



After a number of years that should have made him wizened and worried, quite the contrary, he finds tons of stuff.. hilarious. He shows tons of stuff to be hilarious!



How fortunate for me and e. How amazing it comes in the soul of cynic. Dear Husband and Excellent Father, happy birthday to you our love.

Bad Parenting Confessional : Mo' Woe indeed

God, a tough week at the Wo household.

1. I am sooooooo tired. 1 month to the EDD and I am wiped. I had been waking in the night for a while. Now, I am staying up quite late. Tiiiirrred. What is this sleep training for next month's schedule? Or is it something else?

2. 3 weeks left of work. Remember I work for the school board? You know June is sort of a busy time; not necessarily conducive to someone who's brain is goin' like Swiss Cheese. I got 100 locations to wrap service on, and about 10 projects to close or write up for a handoff to the replacement, interviews Tuesday. I tell myself it will help when I know who the replacement is, what they know and don't know.

But it won't.

3. Since the move to the bed e. has had only about a 45% nigh-night success rate. Quite a few nights bedtime routine is getting stretched to 1 to 1.5 or almost 2 hrs. It is, of course, our fault. We don't know what we are doin' and all our inconsistencies are resulting in some pretty ugly late night moments.

That said a late night for e. remains 9pm; so we are quite ridiculous shitheads.

I am gonna take tomorrow off and spend some quality time with my girl which I expect to be the best medicine.

Big Red 1

Now that e enjoys the privilege of sleeping without bars or canvas restraints some interesting new behaviours are apparent. The one I can remember at present without any increase in pulse is that she comes to our room each morning. We awaken to the sound of her little feet crossing the dining room. When she enters our room, clutching her cross-dressing bear-rabbit like a bangalore torpedo, she hits the floor at the base of our bed like Mark Hamill storming the beach head in the above-named movie. She won't get up until we look over the foot board and address her in some manner. She laughs, we laugh, Lee Marvin laughs.

Every good boy deserves..

Although p-man and I spent months, nay years.. count 'em 14 years together and 9 years of marriage pre-baby available to talk out our plans and expectations of ourselves as parents, our offspring as people, etc. etc. so little was really covered.

A recent argument arose around music lessons, for example. Me, I will never pay for 'guitar lessons' -- anyone who wants them can pay for them on their own. I will not buy an amp for anyone EVER! And, I will not fork out for singing lessons, either. I come from slightly musical folk, but we are all choir and band people. I believe that music is a social activity, piano lessons count as potential sign up for a Wo-kid, all those programs and competitions and stuff, that's social! What I refuse to do is fund the lonely guitarist types. You won't get me to invest in vehicles for the brooding of my offspring which I expect to be considerable.

P-man has already gotten e started on his kit. He wants me to agree to a name change: Billy Cobham. No daughter of mine, I say, will be called Billy Cobham! What about Sheila e? he asks, ducking the knives.

Disclaimer
Perhaps, this is somewhat coloured by the fact one of our best friends is currently living the slacker utopia, crouched in a palatial family home, with popcorn, buds, and a Gibson hollow-body, playing the most delicate and taciturn scales a jazz guitarist can turn out right now. Allloooooone, so alooone.

Recommended title

There will be no recommended title this week. At storytime last night Girl Friday responded with, "No, thanks." Bibliophile parents are still recovering.

We hope to resume our regularly featured recommendations shortly. And, we are sure the literary refusals are simply because she loves her new bed so much. Right?

Boo-hoo.

Mixed Tapes Are Representative of Emotional Vacuity, or, Lester Bangs' Ghost Can Kiss My Yellow Ass

I am short on material today. As much as I adhere to the "that's not writing, that's typing"-type of writing I cannot but get on a rickety soapbox and address a rather disturbing trend observed of late in the blogoverse. I call it the "mixed tape" blog. This isn't to say the trend is recent, it's just me. Until last year I thought a blog was a particularly splashy shit.

You may be aware of the mixed tape. You have either made one at some point, in an effort to tell someone about yourself, or you have received the tape from someone who is trying to tell you something about themself (without just doing so) that they cannot put into words because... it's... too... personal for mere words (or possibly because the giver is too, hmm, full of himself to relate properly to another). Now, before you readers (all 2 of you) (Hi Honey!) get pissy because you are or may be mixed-tape practitioners of long standing and actually prefer it as a method of self-revelation, or self-veiling, or are people who can communicate with others quite well and who just happen to enjoy sharing a variety of music with others notwithstanding copyright laws, I will confess to having given and received mixed tapes. Yes, I have been on both ends of this deep, culturally weighted, and encoded mixed-tape equation. I have been that callow youth attempting to reveal my deepest self through the medium of a carefully selected and meaningful selection of songs written and performed by someone else. I have been the eager contestant in shittiest-mixed-tape contests.

I can tell you, having gained some slight distance from the practice, the only things I think I ever communicated in giving the tapes to another were my tastes in music (impeccable, I might add), and my unwillingness or inability to communicate verbally. The only thing I ever learned about the other from accepting their tapes was to avoid listening to their crappy record collections. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this practice, and are likely still pondering whether you should upgrade your home listening system from wax cylinders, further and better description of the phenomenon I am unjustly portraying is described in the book High Fidelity (and to a lesser extent, the movie bearing that name).

So, bloggilly described, the mixed tape blog is one where the author reveals his (usually) favourite songs, records, and musicians in an effort to either describe himself in a manner calculated to impress upon the audience both his impeccable taste in music and his artistic soul. Whatever. It's a mixed tape.

More odious than the mixed-tapery is the mixed tape blog with commentary. The author will attempt to put into words the music itself, the experience of listening, possibly the intentions of the artist. This is merely my view, but unless you are a musician who can describe music in musical terms (thus excluding the rest of us from the discussion) you should refrain from using your squishy little descriptors in an effort to breathe life into music you enjoy. Unless you are shilling for the label and are trying to overwhelm the reader with Eggers-esque and meaningless hyperbole in describing the groundbreaking soul-enriching qualities of the wretchedly banal 4/4 Casio-tone album in mind - keep it down. It's enough that you should enjoy the music- shut up and listen!

To quote a dead American composer: Writing about music is like dancing about architecture. For fine examples of odious amateur music writing, I refer you to The Rotter's Club by Jonathan Coe. (As an aside, I am not a musician, but a drummer. I am, by dint of my instrument and according to our resident maestro, MC Hitler, "someone who hangs out with musicians.")

If you are prone to the unfortunate acts I have just described (like me), and are irritated by my opinion, I welcome your response. Please keep in mind that I have, at various points in my life, compiled top 5 lists (now bottom 5 lists), joined band fan clubs, and argued with others the merits or demerits of bands or their music. It's not like I am immune from the disease of the mind referred to above. If only that were the case, then I could stop telling our band leader to cease selecting horrid songs for us to mangle publicly, and start playing some of the high quality product stored in my ipod. He picks the songs we play and we sound like some kind of MOR mixed tape. I can't take it. Artistic differences, rehab, solo albums &c. (As an aside, we do not play the "high quality" music on account of the fact that to do so would leave us "gigless and broke." I have yet to see a dime from our accountant.) I think this is the genesis of my mixed tape misanthropy. It's not you, it's me. Fuck.

With luck, MC Fuhrer will find this site and find out what I am afraid to tell him directly. I do what I can.

Yours in canary,

P-Man.

BEDTIME!

This has been the week for moving e. from crib to bed.

She likes the bed and although we didn't quite make her put it together herself; when it was nearing completion e. declared: "I do IKEA!" Yes, honey. Yes you do. She was quite good with the dowel-ly bits and we did put her in charge of tool distribution. Bears were a big help, of course. Didn't matter if you asked for a screwdriver or a hammer usually. In her 'do IKEA' a hammer will always suffice. Yes, honey, 'You do IKEA'

Sleep tight.

ps... For the curious, we are 4 nights into sleepin' in the bed and it's goin' pretty good. Fell out of bed last night at about 2:30 and came to visit us one morning at 4am. Hopefully, we'll work through it all by Sunday. Fingers crossed.