The true challenges of higher education

I'm a pretty passionate person in general (I have strong opinions on everything from the colour of my toothbrush to the colour of my politics), but I have to say that my two defining passions are Law & Order (the show, not the actual concept) and kids.

Really.

I've been watching Law & Order for over half my life and when it ended this year, it was like a death in the family. As a girl, I'd often dream that my father was Adam Schiff and later, that Jack McCoy was my husband (to this day, if Jack were real and willing to take me, I'd have a hard time not forgetting I am a happily married woman). So, when I gave up the idea of a life on the stage and got tired of waiting tables and decided to go back to school, I of course turned to Law & Order for guidance and decided to become Dr Elizabeth Olivet.

Which is, of course, easier said than done, as I barely had a high school diploma and to be Olivet I needed a PhD.

Nevertheless, I dutifully went back to Cegep at the age of 23 to finish off the few gym classes I needed for my collegiate diploma and started undergrad studies in psychology, at the end of which I got sidetracked by my second afore-mentioned passion.

I got pregnant, married, had a baby, liked it so much I had another one, then another and I would have kept going, but since I am also very passionate about ownning expensive baby gear, I needed a better income and so, I decided to (ugh) go back to school after a five year absence. Truth be told, I was growing a bit weary of baking and laundry and going through some hormonal changes too, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. Keep in mind baby M is only seven months old and Big M is four and a half.

I bet Dr Olivet didn't have it so hard.

Forget the stress of homework or trying to find someone to babysit the baby during my classes, the horror, the real, absolute ABOMINATION is going back to school with a bunch of extremely young, extremely pretty, extremely thin, overachieving girls.

I'm telling you, orientation day nearly did me in.

For one thing, I was confronted with the fact that this is the breed of girls my husband is teaching as a young new university professor.

Pure trauma.

For another, although I am the absolute reference when it comes to cool baby gear, I am completely clueless as to what is hip for adults. So even though I had great advice for all my girlfriends who wanted to buy backpacks and school supplies for their kids, I myself showed up at orientation with a diaper bag, since I don't own a school bag (or even a purse, for that matter). I don't think anybody noticed tough, since none of these girls could tell a diaper bag from a grocery bag. But still, it was awkward rooting through the mess of old cookies and disgusting bibs in the bottom of my (hip) diaper bag, to find the only pen in there (a sparkly Cinderella one that lights up when you write).

Then I had to deal with the bad choice I'd made of squeezing into my happening, low-rise designer jeans to not be out-classed by the other girls and then having to ungracefully hike them up all day to (unsuccessfully) try to hide my ungainly muffin top. Seriously, that was not funny, it was bloody tragic.

But wait, I'm not done.

Because after orientation, there was an informal happy hour, so all the new students could mingle and get to know each other. And my dear, dear hubby brought the kids, then promptly forgot about them to talk with the other teachers. But not before I'd nervously gulped down a glass of wine, which went straight to my sleep-deprived brain, making me babble on to the other (half-horrified) girls about life as a mom and even making jokes about (oh God) my hatred of laundry. Then the kids arrived and it was like there were twelve of them! They went straight for the cupcakes and proceeded to smear chocolate icing all over themselves. Then little M started running around (in ever decreasing circles) the French girl in the fashionable white jeans.

I want you to close your eyes now and really picture this:

Me, sweating and tipsy in my too tight jeans, running around my twelve dirty kids trying to keep them from snooty looking French girls in white jeans, instead of exchanging witty banter with the other new students, who were looking on with various degrees of consternation and pity.

I'm terrified that at the next party where I drink a glass of wine or two, I'll start showing off my stretch marks.

And all this was after the talk with the twenty year old secretary of the program, a few months back,  who'd told me, after my four year old had answered the phone, that my little sister sounded very cute. I'd had to explain that my little sister was 28 (and indeed very cute), but that the child who had answered the phone was, in fact, my daughter and, no, I didn't have her when I was sixteen.

The only thing that keeps me going is the fantasy in which I become a famous forensic psychologist and the producers of Law & Order ask me to come on the show and play myself.

Please tell me that could happen, if only I can get through the next four years!!!

And they said it wouldn't last (admit it, you at least THOUGHT it)!!

Five years ago today, I got happily married. I was in the second trimester of my first pregnancy at the time, so mine was actually a shotgun wedding (actually I was the one holding the shotgun, but I like to think I had to twist my hubby to be's RUBBER arm and not his ACTUAL ulna...). We went from first kiss to wedding to parenthood in just over a year and we haven't looked back since (well only to dwell fondly on our happy past)! And I am happy to announce that this year will mark the first time that we are actually going to go out and really celebrate, because as it turns out, baby M is the only baby I've had so far that allows us that luxury (come to think of it, he was the coolest one in utero as well, because we WERE able to go out for a quick bite last year)! To mark this momentous occasion, I shall take a stroll with you down memory lane and recount each and every August 21, since 2005.

Before the anniversaries, there was the actual wedding, which was quite fun. Even though it was more my mother's shindig than my own, I must admit she did a great job and it was a great day.

Did you know that most people don't actually do it on their wedding night? Unfortunately, I didn't at the time, so we "enjoyed" ours despite, the fact that I was five months pregnant and I'd worn the heaviest dress conceivable and horrid five inch heels all day and shmoozed with countless relatives and I was perfectly sober and retaining water and hormonal and really not IN THE MOOD. The things we do for love...

Our first year anniversary was a little bit like our honeymoon in that my mother was there (and so were my hormones and my baby weight and the new baby for that matter). It was the first time we left big M alone. My first baby, whom I could not stand being separated from for more than two minutes.

Alone.

With my mother.

My determined hubby dragged me ALL THE WAY DOWN the pier on Old Orchard Beach, ALL THE WAY DOWN to the Dairy Queen to have an anniversary ice-cream while I tried not to panic and cry from the suffering brought upon me by my separation from Princess M, my baby, my whole reason for living!!!Really, how could I be expected to CARE about anything else, when I was planning to have at least fifty more wedding anniversaries in my life and my baby would only be seven months old once in her life???And Dairy Queen? Come on.

The evening picked up (for me, anyways) when I was reunited with my baby a half hour later and we had a nice dinner with my mother in front of the TV, in our minuscule rental in Maine, our bedroom separated from my mother's by nothing but a thin curtain (which enabled me to dodge the proverbial bullet on that anniversary) and baby well ensconced in my arms for the next six months.

Anniversary number two was me pregnant (read hormonal, retaining water and FAT) again and for the life of me, I can't remember what we did, but I suspect my mother was there again...

No she wasn't! I just remembered, we were on a plane! We'd just left my mother behind in Italy and were on our way home on the fateful day of August 21, 2007! We had a one night layover in Paris and ordered room service with big M (the mother of all chaperones)! It was, because of my mother's absence, a step in the right direction, but still not the type of evening we write songs about...

The year after that, I was nursing two kids (yes, I am that kind of freak and I breast-fed Big M until she was three, which meant I was breastfeeding a baby and a toddler for almost a year!), still fat, still hormonal and still not feeling it. I don't recall exactly what we did for our third year anniversary, but we were either in Vancouver, ergo flat broke, or packing up to move to Vancouver, ergo really not  in celebratory nor, for that matter, hanky panky, mode...

But THEN, on August 21 2009, even though I was pregnant AGAIN, the fact that we'd finally moved back home, the fact that we weren't in BC anymore, the fact that hormonal fluctuations were now the norm for me and the fact that my best friend had lent me the most flattering little black dress I've ever worn all made me want to let my hair down, have a glass of wine (insert judmental gasp from first-time parents and my mother here) a plate of sushi (insert a judgmental, SCANDALISED gasp from the same crowd here) and celebrate my life with my husband for the first time since I got down on one knee (ok, both knees)! But of course, after three years of scarfing down a meal in minutes to be able to cater to the kids' incessant dietary demands (sit down to dinner to get back up to get more cheese, sit down to get back up for more juice, sit down to get back up to clean up spilled juice, sit down to get back up for some water, sit down to get back up because we forgot the forks/napkins/salt, sit down to get back up because even though they haven't actually eaten anything, it's now time for dessert, sit down to get back up because even though they SWORE they both wanted the same thing for dessert, they actually didn't, etc, etc.), we were done with our romantic dinner in half an hour, which earned us strange looks from our waitress. Then we got stuck in traffic coming home, but that was fun because we had no kids in the back seat (although we did not, in fact, "make use of the back seat" as my dear hubby of four years hopefully suggested...)!

Which brings us to this year! This year, where another excellent buddy has leant me another beautiful black dress, I've spent a fortune at Sephora's on a mascara and a lip gloss, I've pumped milk like a maniac for  weeks and I've been pretty good with the Weight Watchers! I've no qualms about leaving the kids now (in fact most any excuse is good now to get out of the house) and I've reserved a table at eight o'clock tonight (practically our usual bedtime!!) in a super fancy restaurant in lovely Québec City!

Tonight, we are setting a new-trend in anniversary celebrations!

Tonight we are actually going to have a romantic outing which doesn't involve the grocery store or the McDonald's at Wal-Mart!

Tonight, we shall be a beautiful, well-groomed, childless couple!

And tomorrow, another day, we shall be up at 6:30 am with the kids to go meet my mother early...

So there you have it! Five years of celebrations and through all that, I'm still ecstatically happy and in love! Hell, Hubby and I aren't James Mallory and Georgina Anderson*, but I can guarantee you that the few times a year, we actually do get to do it, it's "just like in the books"!






* For the few who "got" the reference, I know you'll never admit you did and for those who don't, sorry but I'm not telling

Where is that smell coming from? Or the story of my life.

I've been between cleaning ladies for a year now. Which has happened to me frequently over the years and, unfortunately, even more frequently since I acquired a bunch of constantly dirty, mess-making, bad smell factories, aka a family.

Life was so much easier (and smelled so much better) when all I had to contend with was the dog! Yes, she was stinky and I had a couple of roommates who would actually wash her behind my back and show me the pictures after wards, they were so bothered by her stench. But she is a tiny dog and the mess she generated was proportional.

Yes, there was also the cat, and its constant shedding. And its litter box.  Interestingly, that smell was taken care of when I switched from the expensive hollistic cat food to the cheap generic kind. I don't know about its health, but the smell of its poop was much improved! The shedding problem I took care of by giving the cat away.

Then came Hubby and his lizards. With them, it wasn't so much the smell as the runaway crickets, who escaped their sad destiny by sneaking out of the lizards' cage and then dying somewhere in the house.

Then we had big M. I was a MANIAC with baby number one! She was so clean all the time, you could eat off her (except you couldn't 'cause that would be too messy)! The house was always immaculate and her toys always put away neatly in a very specific order. But really, before they can move, babies are very low maintenance, especially if you have just one! Yes, there's the diapers, but with a Diaper Genie, that's not so bad. And okay, the high chair gets kind of sticky, but mealtime is a very well-contained mess, especially when you have a dog to clean up the floor every time there's a tiny spill. And big M liked to play with books when she was a baby. Board books are a cinch to put away, even in alphabetical order.

In those days, ours was a house of clean, uncluttered space upon which the sun shone, highlighting our spotless hardwood floors (free of dead crickets. The lizards went the way of the cat once I caught big M with a dead bug in her, tiny, immaculate fist, making its way to her mouth).

So up to that point, things on the cleanliness front were actually hopping (if you'll pardon the pun) until, that is, we got the bunny. I wanted the bunny. I loved the bunny. I pleaded with my husband, begged, swore I would take care  of him all by myself. Hubby'd never have to help, I promised.

Stupid thing (the rabbit, not the husband, although now that I think about it, the husband was a bit dim also, to believe me and/or agree to the bunny. Does the man not know me???). The bunny made a MESS and it chewed up all of big M's furniture and it stank and it ate like a horse and pooped CONSTANTLY. And of course my poor husband got stuck cleaning the cage, since I had the perfect excuse of being pregnant (handy excuse for anything, really). But the bunny was cute, I'll give it that. Still, it didn't last.

Exit the bunny, enter little M.

Now that I had two kids, I had less energy to care about the cleanliness of my children's surroundings as well as less time to pick up big M's growing messes. By age two, my daughter had somewhat set aside her fondness for books and moved on to an all-consuming addiction. She was totally insatiable and completely enabled by yours truly. She was on a one-to-two a week habit. Indeed, she had and still has, the New Doll monkey on her back.
At last count, there were about 40 of them (I am not exaggerating!!), some so life-like as to give me a heart attack if I trip on them, thinking I've just crushed my own infant baby by falling on top of it! And they are EVERYWHERE. In the high chair, in the car seat, in the car, inexplicably sticking out of an empty box of diapers, under my bed, in my bed, in the hamper, in the dryer, on top of the actual baby, under the actual baby, in the tub, in the yard. In short, any surface, conceivable or not has a baby somewhere on it. Even the playroom has one or two rejects left in it.
And these forty babies are all naked.
Because the first thing that must be done as soon as a baby is acquired is to remove its clothing (because one can) and then never put it back on (because only mom can and she stopped wanting to about 25 babies ago).
And they all have names.
Since big M has started being solely in charge of the Baptisms, it's  been nothing but names like Rose or Rosalie or Rose Button or Rose Petal or Rose Bud or Rose Bush or any other of 15 variations on that lovely color (big M's favorite).

Picking up the dolls was not something I could stay on top of, even were I so inclined.

And THEN, little M became ambulatory and started actively participating in the mess-making, with the dolls (he likes them too) or his hard plastic dinosaurs, with their spiky tails and horns, which always end up poking the most sensitive part of my sole when I step on them.

And little M also likes to keep his shoes on in the house. Really, really likes to. And if not caught in time, he will bring outside grime onto my already grimy floor (annoying, but the floor is gross anyways), onto my lovely leather couches, and into my (I really do try to keep it that way, even though it's the kids' favorite place for a snack or for building a sandcastle or painting a picture...) clean bed.

Thus, now that baby M has arrived, with his clammy, hairless skin, to which dirt always sticks to, he is most days covered in a fine, uniform layer of hair, sand, dust, and grit, with thicker even more disgustingly fascinating layers of grunge between his toes and fingers and the folds of his neck. But I haven't given up completely, I do try to give him a bath every day or at the very least, every other day...

So here it is: the present time. Far from the sanitary existence we enjoyed with only Princess M and ourselves to clean up after, all surfaces of our living space not otherwise covered by gravel or grime or a toy is now covered by a pile of dirty laundry or an overflowing basket of clean clothes.

And this chaos, you'll understand, renders investigations into the provenance of an objectionable odor much more difficult than it once was. And on top of it, since the dog is getting old and has started  smelling like, well, old dog and sometimes poops on the rug, my life has been reduced to sniffing the air or a baby's butt and seeking answers to a few unanswerables, like "Where is that smell coming from?"
Or variations on the same theme, including, but not limited to:
"Honey, did you forget to take out the garbage again?'
or
"Sweetie, did you remember to flush this time?"
or
"Where exactly did you "throw out" baby M's diaper to "help out" mommy?"
or (gross but true)
"Did the neighbors' stupid cat get in the house and pee somewhere again?"
or
"Why did you say yes to the gerbils?? Did you learn nothing from the bunny debacle???"
 or (on a more proactive note)
"Where's the Febreeze?"

But when all is said and done and considering that even if I were to clean the house relentlessly, without rest or sustenance, every day and night for ever and ever, I could still not win the war on messiness, the only question left to ask, really, is:
"Does anyone know a good cleaning lady?"

It's the Food Guide's recommendations, stupid!

From the moment you first puree a batch of carrots and try to cram a miserable spoonful into a wriggling, uninterested baby,  existential questions like "What is the meaning of life?" and "How will the universe end?" are replaced by much more probing and pressing ones, like: "What am I going to make for supper?" and "How will I get them to eat their veggies?".

Artistry, some say, is the key. Arrange a varied assortment of steamed or raw veggies to look like a face or a sun or Magritte's The Son of Man or whatever. Kids will be charmed by this food "tableau" and not only polish off their plates but even ask for more!

Thus, with high hopes, I tried this method with Big M when she was about a year-old. She looked at her plate, charmed by my talent, then turned  huge sad, eyes to me when I urged her to dig in. She was horrified at having to deface my work of art by actually EATING it. No, she insisted, let's keep it right here so we can enjoy looking at it for a long, long time. Funnily enough, she had no qualms in demolishing the stack of heart-shaped pancakes I whipped up for Valentine's Day (only thing left on her plate that time were the fresh berries: they were delicious, she had no doubt, but unfortunately, she just wasn't hungry anymore.).

Trickery, others say, is the way to go. Why not try to hide some mashed squash in a grilled cheese sandwich? It's the same color as the cheese and kids will happily gobble up this high in vitamins vegetable without ever being the wiser.

I dutifully peeled, boiled and mashed some squash, before adding it to what would have been an otherwise easy lunch to make. Gleefully expectant, I served it to my family. Yeah. Even my husband, who is by no means a picky eater, wouldn't touch his soggy, weird smelling, weird tasting sandwich. It was a big hit with the dog, though, who can now see in the dark with all the vitamin A she ingested that day.

Still others rely on bribery, threats, emotional blackmail or good old-fashioned begging and crying to get their mulish children to at least TRY the broccoli!

I used to be one of this latter group: promising lavish desserts, promising to withhold any kind of dessert, promising to withhold my love or even weeping like an infant at all my wasted energy (But you had a bite of the cauliflower "mashed potatoes" last time I made it, why won't you even let me put some on your plate this time? For the love of God, why, why, WHY? Insert uncontrollable sobbing here.). Nothing doing. These tactics merely resulted in pitying looks being thrown my way by my elseways unmoved children or, sometimes, a kind pat on the back, but never, ever, EVER with an actual bite of healthy, fiber-rich fruit of the earth passing their lips.

Abdication, I now know, is the answer. With minimum effort and just a little reinterpretation on my part, my children's fruit and vegetable requirements are now filled daily, like so:

You say daddy fed you a  bag of potato chips in the car to keep you quiet? Excellent. One vegetable serving done.
Or
You had a strawberry flavored Lifesaver you found between the couch cushions? Just wait here while mommy checks off one of your servings of fruit for the day.

My husband and I have now gone back to enjoying healthy, delicious salads and sides not elaborately disguised or shaped like Disney characters and my mental health is in much better shape.

Of course, I've never mentioned my new strategy to any of the kids' health-care professionals nor to my mother-in-law, for that matter. For them, I've invented another brilliant approach: shameless lying.

Jumping on the band-wagon... but wait! I'M different!

So here I thought I'd be different and revolutionize the world of parenting blogs with my original, incisive observations about motherhood. But then it took me almost an hour to find a blogspot url name that hadn't already been taken by a couple of other revolutionary mommas. Crummy Mummy? There are at least two per continent. Mama drama: ditto. Rummy mummy wasn't taken, but I wasn't sure I felt like being the first... So, if you kind of mispronounce "aberrant", it kinda of rhymes with "parent" and voilà! Let my uniqueness shine, baby!

Ok, so I'm certainly not the wittiest, funniest, wisest or most interesting parent out there, but I can guarantee you one thing: I'VE got the best kids.

Seriously.

They are gorgeous, brilliant, always clean, well-dressed and with manners out of Victorian England (I swear my oldest has been known to curtsy new acquaintances). Sadly, I don't know where they get it from. I, myself could stand to lose a few pounds, don't have one non-child related intelligent opinion, don't get to shower and change my clothes as often as I'd like and am so damn tired I sometimes forget to say "please" and "thank you" (especially when addressing my husband). 

The good news is after five years of wearing the same maternity pants, I've finally graduated to my sister's "skinny" jeans. Ok, actually, her "fat" jeans, and only if I take shallow breaths and don't sit down, but stil, it's ajean with a button...

I've also had my hair done today! As my two older kids and my dear hubby are off camping this week-end, I can finally "take it easy" and have "some me time" with only my six month-old to take care of.

It was lovely at the salon! At least for the first five minutes, and then, of course, Baby M woke up from his nap. Still he was all coos and grins and charmed everyone in sight while all I had to do was keep my stroller out of the way, and not move my head at the same time so the colorist could do his magic. Then, when baby got hungry, I simply had to breast-feed him without him getting cooked under that halo thing they use so the dye takes quicker in your hair. Finally I really got to relax before my turn at the sink to wash my hair, with only one fussy infant to bounce on my knee and trying to rip the foil pieces off my hair (which is falling out by the fistful anyway due to my post-partum hormones).

And tonight! Tonight, I shall enjoy a quiet dinner out with my mother (since my husband is out camping), with only the same stroller-always-in-the-way issues to deal with and still with only the one fussy baby bouncing on my knee while he tries to grab stuff off my plate and mash it in my new hair and (almost) clean top! Easy living, I tell you!

I can promise you I ain't wearing the "skinny/fat" jeans out this evening, though!  They've already been forgotten on the floor behind the bathroom door until I'm back on Weight Watcher's for a few more weeks (or my husband runs out of clean underwear and decides to round up some dirty clothes for a load of laundry, whichever comes first).

Still, my hair looks great and the maternity jeans aren't so bad with my black top with only the one tiny hole in the shoulder. At least baby M is wearing a cute outfit.

Sigh.