We've Seen The Future And It Is A Dark, Dark Thing

After LOST and the news late Wednesday night, Ash and Turner are flipping through the channels and land on Much More Music's rundown of the one-hit-wonders of the last five years. Chumbawumba's "Tubthumping" plays, and it puts me in mind of our final months in India, feeling young and writing the terrific final chapters of being unencumbered and of independent means, loose on the world. This leads to a discussion of how it would have probably been fun to have made it to Australia at some point while we were still young partiers fresh out of university, something neither of us did (though we don't exactly regret it, it's something we just didn't get to on our various travels).

About five minutes passes, and we've gone through a few more videos, totally unconnected to the previous vibe. And then:

Ash: [sitting up, suddenly realizing] Oh no.

Turner: What?

A: Oh no.

T: What is it?

A: Oh no...

T: Whaaat?

A: Eventually, we're going to have to bankroll Sloane on one of those assinine "finding yourself" trips, she's going to go off to party in Brisbane and we're going to have to just sit by and watch.

T: Why Brisbane?  

A: Just that whole coast - Brisbane, the Gold Coast, Surfer's Paradise, that whole scene. Like what we saw driving into Brisbane last year with all the kids in the streets.

T: That was just after final exams at the universities.

A: Yeah, but it's a big party up there. Jenna went. I'm sure it's awesome. But someday, that's us, that's Sloane going off to that. And we have to sit there and let her go. We know what she's going to, we've done that, and we just have to let her go.

T: Yeah... But who knows, that whole part of Australia might be a big global warming disaster zone by the time she's ready to head out on her first travel adventure.

A: Yeah yeah, but it doesn't matter, it could be wherever - right now it's Australia, but wherever -- South America, Africa, it'll always be somewhere...[shudders] and someday we're going to bite our tongues and pay for Sloane to get on an airplane and leave us and head off into that big world of youth hostels and partying and we're just going to have to shut the fuck up and let her go. And of course we'll want her to in theory but in reality: shhiiiiiit! That chaos. The Israelis. The banana pancakes. Lord.

T: See, see, see ...see, I don't think that's the problem. I'm WAY more worried about a few years earlier, like, when she's 13? And some IDIOT comes to the door? With his [pinches the cartilage inside his nose]... his..

A: Septum.

T: This...[still pinching the nose cartilage] his... Y'know? The nose thing...

A: His septum.

T: ...That that that 'Here comes Bessie' piercing...

A: The septum.

T: Yeah. The inside of his nose, that stoopid piercing here. And he'll come to the door looking for Sloane. And I have to answer the fuckin' door and look at that. "Is Sloane home?" he says. And I've gotta let him in the house.

A: Yeah but see, but see, see I don't think that's ANYWHERE near the dangerous stage, at 13. You still have lots of control over the 13 year old girl's mind as a parent, even if it doesn't look like it. You can still keep her in line at that age. I'm totally way more worried about that older stage. When she's gone. Bye-bye. [Waving] Bye bye!

T: ...And he's wearing a fuckin' basketball jersey. A really big one. And nothing else, no coat, and it's, like, January. And he's got that stoopid piercing here [pinching his nose cartilage].

A: In the septum.

T: Yeah. There. ...Fuck.

Both sit there, looking into space, Chumbawumba still echoing through the brain chambers.

Categories: Dad-ness | Mom-ness

Comments [14]

Paris Hilton a la Testino

So Turner brings home the new Vanity Fair from yesterday's shopping expedition. And it's been a weird and tough couple of days around here for ol' Momma Ash, so when Sloane went down for her nap today I sez to myself I sez, "Ashley, just read that Paris Hilton cover article - it's sure to take yer mind off the nuthin' that's mysteriously amiss."

Prior to now I had no real opinion of Paris Hilton other than the usual okay, she's famous because she's rich and had a porn tape released to the internet three weeks before her vapid reality tv show premiered. Big whup. I guess I could see her appeal in some ways - she's a total machine, on the cover or inside every magazine, constantly everywhere. Just having the blanket coverage she manages to drum up makes her vaguely interesting, if only as a phenomenon. Why I even gave a crap is beyond me but I never thought her very pretty, like, not pretty enough to model, certainly. Her worldwide Guess campaign was unleashed on the planet last year at around the time we got to Malaysia, and I remember walking through the Petronas Towers mall and seeing a whole giant storefront thing going on with Paris Hilton half dressed, greased up, bling'd to the nines, and my thought was basically: yikes.

And so I like to think that this is as shallow as I can get, but let me say that because of this previous vague sense of judgement of Paris Hilton's looks I was actually surprised to see that, on page 284 of this current Vanity Fair, there is a photograph of the girl that makes it quite clear that she can be honestly, sincerely beautiful. I was rather pleased for the photographer that he managed to capture something new and truly alluring about a girl who is constantly, constantly, constantly under the public gaze. (It should be noted in the interest of full disclosure however that I am not a purchaser or reader of celebrity magazines and I am really only privy to the ambient Paris-Hilton-ness of the pop culture drone in all our lives. As such, it may well be argued that she's been shown to be beautiful elsewhere, but I haven't seen it.) And to have as a subject a girl who is followed by papparazzi so much of the time that she apparently hears the phantom sound of cameras clicking even when she's alone, it's really saying something about the photographer.

So cheers, Mr. Mario Testino (what a name!), thought to be the best fashion photographer alive.

Categories:

Comments [3]

I -Heart- The Teletubbies

They're good. Now, I never thought I'd waver from my slavish devotion to Sesame Street. But for Sloane's age, the Teletubbies are perfect. They're more than perfect. They're simple, affectionate, and repetitive. I watched my baby girl learn how to wave bye-bye this week, with complete thanks to the Teletubbies. And for that, they earn my respect.

There are so many corporate, cynical "role models" for kids. And I need to mention the poorly-made, embarrasing cash grabs like Baby Einstein - yikes. And gracious, Sloane better be ready to duck if she ever tries any Bart Simpson crap on me, her father's masterpiece notwithstanding.

Though seriously, let me step up to the plate and tell the world that the Teletubbies are good. Good, lovely, and nice. C'mon, me and thousands of early-1990s UK ravers can't be wrong.

So here's a shout out to Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-laa, and Po, plus the ever-awesome Noo Noo. Lord knows I'd pay good money to have a Noo Noo of our very own. If anyone has a spare, send it to us c/o Spiller Road in Calgary.

Categories: Mom-ness

Comments [11]

Disaster On The Home Front (With A Happy Ending)

In light of the Hurricanes Of Destruction rampaging and flooding and flattening everything in sight along the Gulf coast in the USA, our incident on Thursday night was minor. But it was the worst crisis the Bristowe-Turner parenting administration has seen to this point, and there was much adrenaline, and we did end up going to the hospital. Lordy, this parenting gig has its heartstopping moments.

Sloane sports her much-chewed hospital admitting bracelet, now safely out of reach attached to her back.

Lord knows as soon as I became a mother I discovered a previously-unrealized ability to picture the most awful, monstrous things happening to my baby. Visions would arrive unbidden in my mind - Mum's cats eating her eyes after I leave her for a nap, desperate scenes of suffocation under a pile of laundry the moment I turn my back... no no no, please no. I squinch up my eyes and just try to breathe through those nightmares. I've never been a nervous person and I'm determined not to let these irrational fears to paralyse my parenting. But boy oh BOY are you endowed with an undeniable, enormous protective instinct the moment you become a parent, and it never lets up, and it never goes away. If Thursday proved something I only previously suspected, it's this: mine is now a life of worrying like crazy about my offspring, and trying like mad not to let them see me worrying. They said it was true and it's true: THE WORRY. Good old genetics.

So it was 11:30pm, and Sloane was in her crib. We were letting her cry a bit - she's been on a new back-to-sleep regimen that's helping her learn to fall asleep on her own. And it's been going really well (i.e. waaaaayyyyyy better than we ever thought it would). She cries just a bit, and not even every time, and then she settles down and conks out for the night. And up she gets in the morning, pleased and bright-eyed and smiling and well-slept. It's been amazing.

But sometimes there are a few minutes of really heartbreaking wails. Really hard to listen to. Hard. I'm serious. It calls up all the memories of lonely scared moments you ever had yourself, as a child. Those times where you just wanted your mom and she wasn't there (which is exactly what's going on for Sloane during those moments, of course). It's murder to listen to.

We were in the midst of a few minutes' of that kind of crying, and Turner and I were out in the livingroom steeling ourselves against the sound. Then it stopped. We relaxed. There she goes, off to sleep, we thought. ...And then there was a thud. It was the unmistakeable sound of our baby hitting the floor beside the crib.

We were going to lower the crib mattress on the weekend. We didn't think she could fall out of the crib yet, especially with the rail up. But when I'd gone in to soothe her the last time, I'd left the crib rail down. It was an accident. It could happen to anyone, but this time it happened to us. In the dark she'd pulled herself to standing and pitched over the rail.

In approximately .35 of a second Turner and I had vaulted the furniture and sprinted into the bedroom, and were pulling Sloane up from the floor. Luckily, amazingly, she'd landed on a body pillow we keep on the floor beside the crib. But there was a terrible purple goose-egg bruise rising at the top of her forehead, marking - very obviously - the spot that'd first hit the floor-through-the-pillow. God.

We had about fifteen seconds of really hard Emergency crying - all you parents out there know that cry. It's not the I'm tired cry, it's not the I'm hungry cry, it's not the I banged my xylophone too hard and scared myself cry. No, it's the Emergency cry. They only pull it out when something seriously serious has happened. I had her in my arms and held her tight, so tight, as she screamed.

But really quickly, she downgraded to the I hurt myself, ow I got hurt cry, And then she seemed to look around, realize the lights were on, that Turner and I were both in the room, that she was out of the crib and being held. And for all the world a look of joy seemed to cross her face: Hey - is this a party? Hey! A party! At night! Just what I wanted! And she started to smile and giggle. God. THE RELIEF.

Still buzzing on the original fear, we walked her around the house and we called the Health Link line. They sussed the situation over the phone and told us that all signs were good that she was going to be okay, but that we should go to the hospital just in case. By this time Sloane was babbling away and in a fine, fine mood: Hey you guys, let's do this party every night at midnight, k? This is great! Dumb sleeping-all-night is for the birds! We headed to the Rockyview, and went to Emerg. Sloane was very, very pleased to chirp and babble and grin at everyone there, was very interested to grab at the ear-speculum, she chewed up her hospital bracelet, and overall our baby girl was in one of the best moods we've seen, possibly ever.

Sloane checks out the ER cot and all the machines that go ping!; her dad has one hand locked around her ankle, notice. By this point the purpleness of the goose-egg had almost disappeared.

Finally the ER doc arrived and checked her out, Sloane was pronounced "probably totally healthy, don't worry", and we were sent home with instructions to wake her up every hour to check for concussion.

Very relieved, very tired parents and one smiling smiler enjoying her trip to the emergency room.

Through the whole night at the hospital, I was fine. I didn't panic. I wasn't overwhelmed with what might be considered natural guilt about my role in leaving the rail down, nor did I cry or get overly protective of Sloane once I knew she was going to be okay. As soon as she stopped crying and looked around and smiled just after we got in the room, I knew she was well. We were lucky, and I was grateful.

But then I woke up the next day. Yesterday was awful. I was completely... hung over, emotionally. My heart and soul were hung the hell over, totally gueule de bois. Wrenched. Pulverized. I couldn't talk much, and everywhere around me I saw potential dangers threatening Sloane's life: Our plants (poisoning). The toilet (drowning). Electrical sockets (electrocution). And so on. The only thing that finally saved me was a girl date with Dana (made earlier in the week) to go see Theatre Calgary's "The Miracle Worker". I didn't want to go, but it was the best thing to do. (Thank You Dana!) When I came home late in the evening, I went in and woke Sloane up. Had to see her awake and alive in the world. She smiled at me, and fell back asleep.

Hopefully nothing bad ever ever ever happens to her ever ever ever again. But something tells me that this is just the beginning.

By the way, Turner lowered the crib mattress first thing on Friday.

Categories: Dad-ness | Mom-ness | Sloane

Comments [2]

Hey Everybody

A few notes from the Ash and Turner Finally Figgered It Out pile:

- The August/September issue of Maisonneuve features an article by Turner about his obsessive love of mangosteens, accompanied by a photo of mine (taken in Thaba's kitchen in Kuala Lumpur last November, with the intention of having it accompany this piece. Hey Thab -- your kitchen's FAMOUS!)

- This month's Alberta Venture magazine features an article by Turner on Okotoks' new solar-powered community, accompanied by a my photos of the site and the area.

And last but not least, though kind of bittersweet...

- This month's 2 Magazine features an article Turner and I co-wrote last January, entitled "8 Things You'll Do Because Of The Dog". (Obviously, Pony was still a lovey darling at that point - it doesn't mention "having to put the dog to sleep after she attacks your spouse's face with no warning".)  

Although, bless 'em, the folks at the magazine heard what happened and I wonder if it didn't guide their choice of accompanying photo. Just a theory.

Categories: Married Life | Work work work

Comments [11]

The Schedule

You need a schedule if you have a kid. It keeps you sane. It helps the child feel safe, that the world is a predictable and nurturing place. (You try to delay the popping of that bubble for as long as possible.) And on those days where you're exhausted and dizzy, it keeps you on track, moving from point to point.

We don't have it down perfect, and there are often anomalies in the pattern that throw it off - guests, appointments, projects, Turner going out to get lickered with Chris Koentges, Sunday dinner with the Bristowe clan, and so on. But Turner and I have established a kind of routine that more or less works for us, and it looks something comme ça:

5:30 - 6am or so: Sloane wakes up. I pull her into bed with us and feed her. She falls back asleep, and I get up to do my work: housecleaning, email, research, photo sorting. Sometimes Sloane doesn't go back to sleep. Those days, she rolls around kicking us in the stomach and kidneys until one or the other of us cracks and gets up with her. But usually, thankfully, she goes back to sleep.

8:30 or so: Sloane wakes up again. Feeding of Sloane. Turner rouses around this time and takes over for the morning parenting shift.

9:30 or so: Ash heads to the gym. Trying to build back the muscle I lost and to lose the flab I gained whilst pregnant, I am on a treadmill/crosstrainer/weight lifting regimen, with the occasional suicidal attempt at a Ripped class. Pounds lost thusfar: 0. Since muscle weighs twice as much as fat, I figure I'm putting on muscle. ...Meanwhile, under her dad's doting supervisory eye, Sloane gets in a few hours of the Jolly Jumper, playing with her blocks, crawling around the livingroom, having the first of the day's tremendous poos, and visiting the back yard. Then, naptime.

11:30am or so: Ash arrives home. Sloane is usually asleep when I get back, and I feed her once she wakes. Turner makes lunch.

Noon or so (but usually right at NOON, like the changing of the guard at the Pakistan-India border): Ash takes over for the afternoon parenting shift. Then it's lunchtime, with its attendant carrying Sloane around and distracting her in the high chair during kitchen cleanup, after which Turner heads downstairs to his office to work for the afternoon. I dunno what he does down there, since the sanctity of Turner's basement office is something we take seriously. But periodically there are phone calls, and book deals, and articles written, and interviews transcribed, and speaking events arranged, and so on, so something must be going on down there. The magic and alchemy that produces Turner's brilliant work, in any case.

12:30pm or so: Storytime. Sloane's favourites (read: Ashley's favourites, because they rhyme. Sloane is rather undiscriminating in her reading material, her main criterion for preference being in favour of whichever book I let her chew on that day) - Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, and Silly Sally. After storytime we start to get ready to go out. It takes a while: being changed, juggling baby on hip while packing the diaper bag, putting things in the car, forgetting the water bottle in the house and having to go back in to retrieve it, forgetting the soothie in the house and having to go back to get it, forgetting my wallet in the house... you get the picture.

1:30pm or so: Ash and Sloane head out on the afternoon's adventure. This ranges from grocery shopping and other errands, to the Mommy Movie at Chinook, to walks around the neighbourhood, to the wave pool at Southland Leisure Centre, trips to the library, and more. Sometimes we just hang around here. Between 1:30 and 3pm Sloane goes down for her second nap, wherever we are at that time.

5pm or so: Ash and Sloane get home, Sloane often arriving home in the midst of her late afternoon nap (#3 of the day) in the carseat. Turner emerges from the basement lair. Dinner preparations begin. Ash and Sloaner have some trampoline time, and some sit-on-the-pink-blanket-in-the-backyard time. Turner and I do some haphazard gardening, with Sloane looking on, eating grass and dodging the wasps.

6pm or so: Dinnertime. Cleanup.

6:30pm or so: The official baby bedtime routine begins. First off, the bath. Since Sloane refuses to sit in the Tummy Tub anymore, we take baths together in the big tub. Sloane spends a good amount of time chewing on the rubber ducky's head. Next, the massage. We go to Sloane's room, turn on the spaceheater, and grease the baby up with almond oil. Around this time Sloane gets pretty quiet. We do her feet and legs, and if she's in an especially cooperative mood, her head and back. Then it's into her pyjamas, at which point Sloane starts to fuss and protest. She knows the day is coming to a close.

7pm or so: We head to the bedroom for Sloane's dinner. If she falls asleep on the boob, she gets put in the crib and that's that. If she eats but doesn't go down, Sloane gets to come back out and sit in the high chair visiting with the people for another fifteen or twenty minutes or so. Then it's off to beddy bye, with Turner taking the put-baby-to-bed duty.

7:30 to 10pm or so: Adult time, which usually means internet surfing, cleaning the house and organizing various household projects, making to-do lists for tomorrow, and yelling at the television if we watch the news. Sometimes we watch movies, which makes it a popcorn night. 

10pm or so: Ashley's bedtime. Glasses of water fetched for the bedside table, oat bag heated up in the microwave, Sloane given a dreamfeed. Turner tucks me in, and often gives me a rub. He's a great husband that way.

Sometimes midnight, sometimes 1am, sometimes 2am or so: Turner finally comes to bed. I dunno what he does in those extra waking hours. I know he watches the Daily Show at some point, but sometimes I get up to pee and find him all in a lather, in the midst of some project of organizing the bills, or re-folding all of Sloane's clothes, or alphabetizing his record albums. I think Turner restores his own sanity in these quiet dark hours when the wife and child are asleep in the bedroom,m puttering away at his own projects.

2:30 am or so: Sloane wakes for her mid-night feed.

 

And the cycle continues...

Categories: Dad-ness | House | Married Life | Mom-ness | Sloane

Comments [11]

Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 26.0

Sloane, having pulled herself to standing for the first time (other than that time at three weeks old, in the bath), all by herself.

{klaxon sound} Wah! Wah! Wah! Time to lower the crib mattress! {/klaxon sound} ...Uh, I mean, we're proud of you, dear.

In the new parents' bible, What To Expect: The First Year, there are milestones for each month. This section is divided into lists, "Should be able to...", "Will probably be able to...", "May possibly be able to...", and "May even be able to..." that guide parents in knowing what to look for, what to encourage, and so on. For example, "By the end of this month your baby should be able to object if you try to take a toy away", etc.

Basically since the beginning we've been excited to note that in the physical development stuff, Sloane is consistently been at least a few months ahead of the official forecast expectations. For instance, this consistent pulling-to-a-stand-on-her-own stuff is in the "May even be able to" category for her age group. (The pull-to-stand is expected as a "Will probably be able to" for the 9.5mo mark.) However, when we were boasting about an earlier milestone Sloane had hit way early, a friend "helpfully" pointed out that she'd never met a baby that wasn't reaching the What To Expect milestones ahead of the curve. ...Uh, "thanks".

In any case, our future double-gold-medallist daughter (gymnastics and hammer toss, we figger) is up and poised to take on the world! (For reference, see "world" in photo, top right.)

Categories: Sloane

Comments [11]

Sloaned To A Crawl

Come on, dear!

Turner takes the "before" picture, me trying to coax Sloane to crawl down the hallway.

...And then T handed me the camera, to record the progress. No sooner had I pointed the shutter in her direction, she was off!

Faster than the autofocus, it's Slooooooooooane Laaaantaaaaau! (She knows how to work it for the camera.)

Categories: Sloane

Comments [1]

Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 25.0

So I realize if you haven't met her you don't believe us, but Sloane's been "bearing weight on her legs", i.e. 'standing', since her first week out in the world. People would say, "Oh, don't let her do that, it'll bow her legs, it'll ruin her joints". And so for the first couple of weeks even though she would stiffen out and try to pull herself upright, we'd gently fold her back down and go "no no no Sloaner, it's better if you sit" (...in front of company. When we were alone we'd let her do what she wanted, and kind of feel guilty about it).

But then on her three-week birthday I was giving her a bath. I had her all folded into the Tummy Tub and she was bucking her legs, trying to get up. And I was all, no no no Sloaner, it's bathtime and we sit in the bath. But she was not going to sit anymore, dammit. And with that she reached up, grabbed a fistful of my hair with each hand and hauled herself to a standing position. Three weeks old, I completely shit you not. So I was like, Okay. This kid obviously wants to stand. We haven't had any guilt about it since.

But it took us a while to get around to acquiring a Jolly Jumper. There's always some scaremonger in the gallery telling you about how kids get their heads wrapped up in the cords and choke to death. And/or that it's bad for their necks/feet/ankles/brain. That it'll ruin their digestion, or balance, or eyesight. Something.

But there's also a chorus of grinning supporters, suggesting, lauding, and cheering on the idea of the Jolly Jumper - how it saved their sanity, got the kid so much exercise, gave the baby something to laugh and laugh and laugh about.

I'll admit it, we're adherents to the "Pound of Dirt"* philosophy when it comes to raising offspring, so the Jolly Jumper was pretty much an inevitable addition to our household. But even as a fan of the consignment store, I wasn't thrilled about their selection of jumpers. Most had this stuffed Tigger motif (the character from Winnie the Pooh), where his head would form part of the fabric bucket that held the kid in front, and the tail wagged off in behind. As Turner noted early on, as soon as you have a child Winnie the Pooh comes back into your life in a big way. We don't mind it, and the stuff is of really good quality. Friends will tell you that I know all the words to "I'm Just A Little Black Raincloud". But we do get enough of Winnie the Pooh in the form of gifts - cards and clothes and whatnot for Sloane - and really don't need to be adding to the Pooh Pile with our own purchases.

...Plus, Tigger is kind of annoying, you have to admit. He's irresponsible and messy and although Tiggers are excellent spokescharacters for the Jolly Jumper (their tops are made out of rubber! Their bottoms are made out of springs! They're bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun-fun-fun-fun-fun!...) I just don't need to be staring him in the face in my livingroom for the next couple of years, day in and day out.

Anyway, after many reconnaissance trips to the consignment store hunting for a suitable Jolly Jumper, I finally found one. It's a freestanding (rather than doorway-mounted) one, and the frame doesn't bend, so it's a bulky and cumbersome piece of equipment, not easily moved or stored away. But I defy you to argue with the evidence of Sloane's reaction to her newest contraption:

Sloane, seen here during her first Jolly Jumper session, proud Auntie Dana looking on.

*The idea being that everybody eats a pound of dirt before they die, no matter what. And what's more, it's good for you - in the sense that kids will roll around and get skinned knees and bounce off the trampoline and what have you, and you can't (or perhaps shouldn't) prevent it, so you might as well relax (or, at the very least, bite your tongue and avert your gaze as best you can. Within reason, of course). ...So, yeah, since you're wondering, that does mean we don't scrub and disinfect the soothie when it falls on the floor. At best we pop it in our own mouths to clean it off (yes, yes, we know that's "wrong"), but most of the time we just hand it back to Sloane directly. Toughens her up, we figger. Builds that immune system.

Categories: Sloane

Comments [0]

Famous Babies

Today we're going to the baby movie at Chinook Centre. This is a once-a-week special matinee at which they show regular, first-run movies, and moms (and some dads) can bring their babies. The point is to give parents a chance to get the hell out of the house and be able to do a real person thing. During the early days of parenthood, it's a true boon. You'd be amazed at how energizing it is to be able to see a whole movie, in the theatre, in the dark. You can tell the first-timers - after the movie they're the ones giggling near the washrooms looking giddy and crazed, realizing they'd just bought themselves another week of sanity. Even further on (Sloane is six months old, now), the baby movie is truly a great thing.

The hallway leading into the theatre is jammed with everyone's giant oversized strollers.What's more, the theatre puts out diapers and wipes out in the hallway concourse and there's a special greeter at the door to tell you what the following week's movie will be - they know that if they make it easy for us moms (and dads), we'll be dedicated and loyal. The assembled audience is generally large; moms breastfeeding, women dancing with babies in the aisles, people rocking car seats with their feet as their illuminated faces stare at the screen, blissfully glazed. Inevitably there's one or two sets of 'real' people there, folks who just wanted to see the movie. They're conspicuously babyless, and usually craning forward to better hear the dialogue over the low din of baby noise dominating the theatre. But us moms (and dads), we know it's our zone. We know we're among our kindred. It's a room full of tiny, pre-verbal dictators, held by underslept people who haven't had nearly enough sex or privacy or non-baby-related conversation for a long, long time. So dude, we see your sidelong glances but we'll raise you six hours of late-night babyproofing, all the crappy worn-out maternity pants we're still wearing (and not  'cause they're stylin'), and neverending piles of laundry and dishes and phone messages.

Although some kids are movie screamers, Sloane's been great; her favourite thusfar was The Island back in July, which had lots of movement and noise and she sat there transfixed for nearly half the show (before zonking out for the second half). But we'll go see anything, I'll be honest. I even went to that terrible waste of John Cusack, "Must Love Dogs" - I knew it would suck, and I went anyway. Enh, the popcorn was good.

Not having to get a babysitter makes the experience all the better. Turner and I have gone to a few movies on our own and inevitably you wind up spending the whole second half of the film wondering if everything's okay at home. [Our first outing after Sloane's birth was to go see the Star Wars 'Revenge of the Sith' movie. Which was great, very distracting and engrossing, but of course Luke and Leia are born at the end of the show and it was all we could do to sit there through the rest of the denoement and the end of the film before bolting to the car to get home to our own baby.] It's such a cliche as to have become parody: new parents, desperately in need of a few hours' escape, spend the time away all wide-eyed and distracted. ...Which is part of the genius of the baby movie - the baby's right there, you can see for yourself that she's fine. It's crack for new parents: Hey hey, wanna get out of the house and do something totally consuming, something that makes you feel like a regular person, something that recharges your batteries and makes life seem, albeit briefly, normal again? Genius.

Turner is a big fan of going to movies. I think at least half his enthusiasm is because of the movie popcorn, but he's a fan of cinematic adventures, if you will. [Go Dane Cook: "I hate movies! They're fake and wrong and no."] When we came back from India in 2000, movie admissions had hit $13.50 in our absence and I declared a moratorium on going to movies. I was not going to fork over that much money just to see a movie, no sir. Greedy greedy bad people being greedy is all that is - thirteen dollars and fifty cents, my ass. I love the fact that bit torrent technology has destroyed their profits, as uncharitable as that sounds. And $6.00 for a bag of popcorn? Give me a freaking break, those greedy greedy greedheads. Nevertheless, Turner long lamented the non-going-to-movies-ness that was our post-India life in Canada. And because I'm a stubborn mule about such things, we never managed to get back in the habit of movie-going in the years since then - until now. I'm only barely okay with the $10 admissions these days in an objective sense, but in light of the new-parenthood and all, I'm more than happy to fork over the cash because it's totally worth it. Oh boy, out in the world! Seeing movies! Lookit us! We go as a family. We've actually started planning our week a little bit around the baby movie at Chinook.

 Today it's The Constant Gardener. Can't wait!

Categories: Mom-ness

Comments [12]

Budget The Fuss

Today, the Sloaner she is a mite ticked. She's "testy", she's tempermental, she's a fussy fussbudget. If today had a soundtrack of what's come out of Sloane's mouth, it would be:

 "Grr... dadadada gurgleblop bpppupp ... uh ...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!"

...On "repeat". Only a few days ago Turner said such a nice thing as we were headed to bed and the baby was sleeping peacefully in her crib, complimenting me on what he called my "endless patience" with Sloane and all things parental. Yeah... well, I guess we all have our hard days, and today's one of mine. There's just been no extra energy for Her Sloaneness and I know she's speaking to the level of service in the Momland Hotel with all the complaints.

But there are, as they say, saving graces in life. Today's high point was finding one of Turner's Birth Cds in the car (being a series of mix cds Turner made in the days leading up to the birth, with a mind to having all sorts of music available as a soundtrack to the labour. We didn't use any of them on The Big Day), previously undiscovered by me, entitled "Heavy". Among the offerings, Jesus Built My Hotrod (it's a love affair), Head Like A Hole (which always reminds me of Joey, dancing), and Bring The Noise. Coming home from this afternoon's swim (at which Sloane learmed how to dip underwater while holding her breath) I hauled that cd into the house along with Sloane and all the kid paraphernalia you inevitably tote back and forth to the car as part of being a parent. And I put it on the livingroom stereo, down low. While Sloane yelled at Turner in the kitchen to the tune of "twinkle twinkle little star" (her new musical high chair is Sloane's birth gift from the great-grandparents Horbow out in Nakusp), I quietly re-lived a few Clark Hall Pub memories with a glass of wine and some email in the next room.

It's the little things that save your sanity. Turn it up!

Categories: Mom-ness

Comments [13]

Kicking It Old School

Cousin Viki recently moved to Montreal to take up her life as student, artist, woman-about-town; our future philanthropist and heir to Leonard Cohen's sceptre has been posting her impressions of being out on her own (with roomates) for the first time.

Ah, the ancient rite of learning all the stuff your parents tried to teach you but failed (like lightbulb-changing and vacuuming). Oh, to be young and unwilling to accept that yes, that milk has gone bad. It's a joy, being free of those family shackles at last and finally and open to all those inevitable roommate battles about who didn't do the dishes, and whose turn it is to put out the garbage - they'll tear you apart, they'll getcha. It's the land of "I didn't know they would TURN OFF the heat if we didn't pay the bill," and "Why doesn't his yucky dysfunctional girlfriend ever sleep at her own house?" My my my... the joys of becoming-an-adulthood. Charming as these years are, I'm glad they're over for me, I must admit. But it certainly puts me in mind of many many many stories from the olden days. The following was one I left in the comments on Viki's site:

When I moved to the Philippines in 1995 at first I was living with these two American girls, neither of whom should have been allowed to leave the States. One was a Filipino-American who'd been sent back to her homeland to learn to speak Tagalog, and she was so afraid and put-out by everything -- the heat, the traffic, the possible kidnapping-of-her-precious-self, etc. that she ended up sitting around for weeks on end just looking at the fan. The other was a whitey from Kansas City, a certifiable crazypants liar who talked and talked and talked and talked and f*cking talked. That girl never shut up. I knew it was time to find other accommodations when I had a very vivid dream about pushing her down the stairs. It was a happy dream. I moved out the next day.

ANYway, about two days in, I found the first girl sitting in the kitchen, staring morosely off into space because she couldn't open a jar of Nutella-type spread. Oh, no problem, sez I. A few bangs on the counter should set that top loose methinks, so I grab the jar and turn it upside down and go one[bang]-two[bang]-three[bang]. Well, one and two were no problem. But on three I discovered that the glass they use to make jars in Asia is a great deal thinner than the glass they use in Canada. Somehow with my super he-man strength I smashed the jar all over the counter, Nutella-like substance going everywhere and all over my hand & arm...

Now, I started to laugh. Because who the hell ever thinks they're going to PULVERIZE the jar when they bang the lid to loosen it up? Well, not me, that's for sure. So I'm laughing - it's an absurd situation, and I've clearly made a hell of a mess and there's shards of glass and chocolate spread everywhere. Laugh laugh laugh. I look over at the girl. She's not laughing. I calm down a bit and giggle, and say, sorry, but jeez I sure didn't expect this.

And she juts her hip and says, "You're going to have to clean that up, you know."

I probably would've shoved her down the stairs eventually, too.



...So, uh, good luck with everything, Viki!


 

Categories: Family | Olden Days

Comments [1]

Katrina & The Waves

I had a lot of trouble with the aftermath of what happened in the southern US last week. Couldn't sleep. Actually prayed for the first time since I was 19. I think it's the New-Mom-dom, in part. The images of women my age carrying babies Sloane's size through waist-deep water; hearing that society had broken down and feeling in my throat that I need to keep my child safe before anything else. Last week I sat on the back porch in Antigonish as the last bits of Hurricane Katrina blew through Nova Scotia. Gusto ko malakas na hangin, and I breathed deep and held Sloane while the wind pushed at our clothes and hair. I know I could kill someone with my bare hands for her. And not regret it.

There's a great deal to say and this website isn't the forum. In general I mostly keep the political rants to my email list. But I was disgusted by the sanctimony of the US broadcasters in the early days after the hurricane landfall, the condemnation of the looting while playing and re-playing the clip of people leaving a Walgreen's drugstore with supplies - one woman hiding her face behind a package of diapers. I sat there transfixed and horrified at the paralysis of bureaucracy that prevented the "rescue" of those left behind. I read the papers in Nova Scotia and Toronto as we made our way home - I haven't read the paper since before Sloane was born, but last week I read them every day. Why didn't all those helicopters filming people with "Please Help" signs throw down some water? Or a ROPE LADDER? Because it makes better television to see people desperate?

And then yesterday morning Turner told me about the video clips and postings on Metafilter that'd kept him up late the night before. And that Condoleeza Rice had been at a Broadway play on Wednesday night - Brother John read that earlier in the day she was shoe shopping in New York. I just wanted to throw up.

Charity and donations to humanitarian causes should be part of our everyday lives, but very often we put it off, or get complacent, or don't remember that next time it could be us. If you're Canadian you can donate to the Red Cross at the checkout counter of your neighbourhood Safeway.

Categories: Mom-ness | Sloane

Comments [0]

Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 24.0

From September 3rd, Toronto Ontario.   

Bauer and Karen's wedding at the Sunnydale Estate was fun and beautiful and the wedding cake was spectacular. Finally, an event where they served enough smoked salmon - piles and piles of it as far as the eye could see. (This, after the nonstop smoked salmon menu in Nova Scotia... I don't think I'll ever get my blood mercury count down to normal levels.)

And Sloaner was all set to go: special party dress from Grampa Brucio? Check. Best seat at the table? Check. Meh-mah and Dadada flanking her, adoring Uncles and Aunties all around, all paying attention? Check.

Okay, the reception may proceed. Bring on the dancing girls!

Categories: Sloane

Comments [11]

Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 23.0

From August 29th, Antigonish, Nova Scotia.

Shown here on her way back from the depths of despair, Sloaner's still a little teary-eyed about the tyranny and injustice that is the car seat. We did lots of driving in Nova Scotia - to Halifax and back twice, around Antigonish county to investigate properties and swimming holes, out to Arisag to have dinner at Moira's, 'round Cape George for lunch and a tour, down to Sherbrooke to check out the historical village. And every time we get in the car to go anywhere, Sloane of course has to sit in the dreaded Car Seat. "Meh-mah and Dadada, why oh why do you strap me into this wretched thing?!" she cries.

Sloane, she don't like the car seat so much.

Categories: Sloane

Comments [0]

Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 22.0

From August 20th, Antigonish, Nova Scotia.

"Say 'Mumma' ...Good girl."

There's a raging debate as to the orientation of the house at 105 Hawthorne. Grampa John calls the back the front, and the front the back. As in, the side that faces the road, the side that has the garage, the side where you enter the house - he calls that "the back". And the side that looks out over the sunset and where the garden will go and where the porch is, he calls that "the front". Needless to say that everyone else who comes to the house calls things the other way around. So here we are, out back in the yard enjoying the late afternoon cocktail hour - though Grampa John would label this photo in no uncertain terms as having been taken out front.

Categories: Sloane

Comments [1]

Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 21.0

From August 13th, Howdenvale Ontario.

Shown here with her Auntie Anne, Sloane begins to look increasingly bald as the summer vacation progresses. Our theory is that she was born with all the hair she has, and while the hair hasn't increased in volume, her head has increased in circumference. So there's more head-per-hair than when she was born, we figger.

Categories: Sloane

Comments [12]

Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 20.0

A month's absence has surely made Sloane's fans' hearts grow fonder, so we come at'cha with an avalanche of Sloane's Pictoral Weeks In Review. The first is from August 6th, when we were out at the cottage in Arnprior.  

Heeeeeyyyy baby wasshappnin?

Categories: Sloane

Comments [0]

The Alcove

Nova Scotia produces one hell of a passable white wine.

I know, I know - there are those among you of our acquaintance, Brother John and Sir John Johnston included, who might stand on a plastic lawn chair in order to better shout to the neighbourhood (this mainly being Brother John rather than Sir John) that Canada has never produced a good wine.

Au contraire. [Cousine Tanya, take note.]

Now, we're not saying it's great, as in, "for the love of god buy stock in this winery", but rather it's good, solidly good, in a "bye jesus that's a hell of a good wine there, bye - anybody'd think so, doncha think?!" sort of way. And it's grown just around the corner from us here in Antigonish, up on Cape St. George of all places, never known for its... well, it's anything other than wind and bent-over trees, really. I mean, the road's pretty and it looks over the ocean, but it's never been grape country; like, never. But then a coupla years ago some nut got it in his head to grow grapes, I'm told, and sold them to the local winery- and here's the result. I put in one vote for this guy's hand on the proverbial vine-growing tiller.  

But good luck finding it:

Jost 2004, Cote St. George "L'acadie Blanc".  $11

But anyway, like I say, it's a good wine. So great that this nursing mom, bulging milk-filled boobs notwithstanding, fed her daughter Enfalac from a bottle tonight when she woke. Now that's a good bottle of wine.

Categories: Canadiana | Married Life

Comments [14]