Her Bad Mother

Saturday, June 9, 2007

You Know That You're THAT MOM When...

... You're out with your toddler, running errands and shopping and the like. And you go into a shop to replace all of those tank tops that got stained with shit and spit-up last summer when your toddler was going through that leaky baby phase. And you take your toddler into the fitting room with you, because, please, there's no other option. And you sit your toddler down on the teeny little bench in the teeny little room and you proceed to remove your clothing while you sing, off-key and sotto voce, the theme to The Backyardigans to the toddler who is not impressed because who the hell wants to sit quietly in a tiny little airless room with their half-naked mother.

And just as you've removed your top and your shoes and are pulling your skinny jeans down over your ass and toward your knees, your toddler drops to the floor and, before you can even blink to register the shock, has propelled herself under the door and is gone.

And in that split-second you realize that you have to go after her, sans robe, and you think to yourself - and maybe, just maybe, you holler it aloud - oh my f*ck.

And then you throw the door open and race down the fitting room hallway and out into the bright light of the H&M sales floor in your tatty bra, desperately tugging to get those goddam skinny jeans back up over your ass with one hand while you grasp at your wee hellion with the other.

And you die a little bit inside, just a little bit, because you realize that, although you are chasing your toddler, in public, in your underwear, and that this is really a much lower moment than the time that you tucked your skirt into the back-ass of your tights after a trip to the washroom in a busy office, you really don't care. Lower, even, than the time that one toddler in the library storytime group was drawn by the tractor beam radiating from the butt crack exposed by your - yes, again - low-riding skinny jeans and stuck his hand down there and yelled BUM! BUM!

You have lost that one scrap of dignity that you had left, and, also, you've realized that although you might be able to carry off those skinny jeans fashion-wise, you probably will never wear them again because clearly, they are designed to thwart anyone who is over the age of 27 and/or anyone who wrangles toddlers as part of their day-to-day routine, and you really don't care.

It's a kind of death, isn't it, the loss of your concern for dignity? But maybe it's also a rebirth, of a sort. The rebirth of me, into That Mom, the one that you see in the shops or in the parks, chasing a shrieking toddler, possibly shrieking back, possibly topless, and not caring.

The one with a leash.

(Not kidding. I am, now, SO THAT MOM.)

Are you That Mom? When did you know? Did you cry, just a little?

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Off The Grid

Somewhat unexpectedly.

Beloved sister is in town, for conference on muscular dystrophy, and for hugs, and love...

Love is exercise.

... and jumping. Lots and lots of jumping.

We'll back tomorrow. After we've jumped our hearts out.


And if you're really missing me - can't live without me - you could always go read what I have to say about the politics of hot dogs (and see why I was once mistaken for Debbie Gibson. No, really) here. Or come talk about sex here. Or get your fix of gossip here.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

The Shark Has Pretty Teeth, Dear, 'Cuz He Eats Dentists

Edit: Update below...

I'm going to the dentist today. I'm terrified. Actually, I'm more that terrified. I'm gripped by the chill hand of a terror that defies description.

I am afraid of dentists. I find dentists, and all dentist-related activity, more frightening than spiders, and needles. Actually, more terrifying than spiders and needles combined, because you very rarely find a spider brandishing a needle, whereas dentists, in my experience, almost always have needles and are prepared to use them. (Also, sometimes, they have spiders. One of my more terrifying dental experiences involved a visit to a dentist with a perverse decorating streak on Hallowe'en. Have never recovered.)

I didn't sleep last night, for the fear, and instead chose to drink two double vodka martinis, extra dry, in a misguided attempt to give myself a hangover so that I would be distracted by the pounding headache when the needle hovers into view. This was not a good idea. I'm exhausted, and achey, and I'm pretty sure that the vodka breath is not going to dispose the dentist - who, I am convinced, takes a perverse pleasure in terrifying and torturing her patients with needles and lectures on dental floss - to go easy on me. And I'm pretty certain that the post-vodka blurries are not going to distract me from either the needle or the lecture.

Once upon a time, Her Bad Father would accompany me to dental appointments, and hold my hand if necessary. But I am told that I am a big girl now, and he's off making money or something stubbornly grown-up like that, and I am on my own.

And scared.

Anyone want to hold my hand?

Always floss.


In lieu of hand-holding, you could do something big-hearted, and it might help mitigate my terror somewhat. Or, at least, re-assure me that while I am in the ice-cold grip of fear, nice things are happening in the world. Jen of One Plus Two has launched a campaign to raise money this money for the wonderful Stephen Lewis Foundation or to Open Arms. You can read more about over at Jen's place, or at Mad's. Let's join forces with these awesome ladies and take some more steps toward making the world a better place.

It's not getting rid of the dentists, but it's a start.


Also? Have you written your BlogHer post yet? I know that you want that candy. And don't forget that you can write one for Parent Bloggers, too. MORE CANDY.

Update: I survived. White-knuckle-chair-gripping-cold-sweat-didn't-make-it-through-the-whole-appointment survived, but still. I have to go back, so that they can finish the work, but I have a whole four weeks to freak about that. Thanks for your hand-holding. (And to the person who left the comment saying that they found my blog by watching me upload the site on my laptop in Starbucks? Um... NOT FREAKY AT ALL.)

I recovered last night by reflecting upon my teenage horror of school cafeterias, if you're interested. Less terrifying than dentists, but still pretty scary.

Sunday, June 3, 2007

A Clockwork Sippy Cup

Hurts your eyes, doesn't it? That's the Naughty Corner From Hell. We call it the Ludovico Naughty Corner. It's where toddlers go when they've been very, very, very bad. When they've done something far more serious than just smear a tube of lipstick across your carpet or taken their Crayola Washable Marker to the decidedly unwashable cat. When they've done something that undermines the very fabric of Western Civilization. When they've stolen pickles or chocolate or small rubber duckies made by nine-year olds in China.

Stealing is bad. Don't do it. If you're a parent, and you stand by and do nothing while your toddler - who has only the flimsiest grasp of property rights in advanced capitalist cultures and must be taught, and taught well, the principles of private ownership and the evils attending to transgressions of same - pockets a miniature cucumber, you should be punished, too.

You should be locked in a room, strapped in a chair, watching clips of Winona ripping off Saks - spliced with scenes from the musical Oliver! and David Hasselhoff's videos played backwards - on an endless loop, with the soundtrack to WonderPets running at full volume.

Then maybe you'll give this whole oh-she-didn't-know-it's-only-a-pickle-a-chocolate-a-ducky claptrap another think. 'Cuz one ducky is all it takes, people. One ducky is all it takes before ALL the toddlers are snatching duckies and taking our credit cards and and drinking our beer and calling for revolution and turning North America into a Mini-Maoist wasteland, littered with beer-sticky sippy cups and crayon-scrawled placards and cheap-assed Made In Alberta duckies and ruled by a bicky-sucking, blankie-toting military prole dictatorship.

Which is why, whenever WonderBaby snatches a pickle from the produce aisle or pockets a stray binky or lifts a rock from the fountain outside of the casino in Niagara Falls, we do something about it. We set her right. We reprogram her.

The fate of Western Civilization depends on it.


Memes, and contests, etcetera, oh my.