- We are both still awake, and there are birds chirping outside and What. The. Fuck.
- Way, way too many skinny, pale, almost-vaguely-ethnic, blonde chicks up in my fashion editorials right now. Diversity, PLEASE.
Life is amazing.
Published August 20, 2009 | 
Soooo some little lady of our acquaintance LOVES swings!
Honestly, I think I was giggling just as much as she was. Her delight is contagious!
Month Six
Published August 13, 2009 | Dear Maia,
This will go down in history as the month you grew too quickly. Oh yes. You see, Mommy just went back to read her Month Five letter to you, where she says such quaint things as “you’ve finally learned how to roll from belly to back” and “you are learning to crawl“. Haha. I know, right? You’re totally thinking GOSH MOM, THAT’S OLD NEWS, GET WITH THE PROGRAM.
You crawl like a speed demon all over the house, and we’ve had to put up gates or build mini-walls of laundry baskets to keep you in a safe, baby-proofed space. For a few days we didn’t even have to do that, but then you discovered you could go around the corner of the couch and that was it, your life changed forever. When Daddy and I blocked that area with a table and a rolling laundry cart, well, you just tugged on that cart and made it roll out of your way. While we appreciate (and are somewhat awed by) your intelligence and determination, it’s actually quite frightening.
A day before you really got the hang of the crawling thing, you mastered sitting. Literally, Maia, you had no interest in sitting, and then one day you were playing on the floor near the kitchen while I got a drink, then I looked over and there you were, SITTING STRAIGHT UP, all like “What up, homegirl?”
(you’re surprised to see me here, like “oh shit, she caught me!”)
Of course, all this movement comes with a price (besides my sanity): you fell down this month. You fell down A LOT this month. You’d sit up, beam at me, and in your excitement… THUNK! You’d topple right over, bonking your head on the carpet with this horrible, hollow, melon-esque sound. You tried to climb everything in the house and often ended up whacking your head against them. Your grandmas have a picture of you with all of your war wounds labelled that I will not share with the world, but it’s an accurate representation of how often, and how fast, you hurt yourself as you learned to move. Sometimes you’d wait a second before crying, as if in total shock, but most of the time you’d just start wailing. Mommy wailed with you a few times.
Yet you recovered more quickly than I did, and you have kept your sunny disposition this month.
Uh.
Actually, funny story, Maia: you’ve developed quite a personality, AND IT IS EXACTLY LIKE YOUR FATHER’S. So help me God, I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next eighteen years, but I think it might involve a lot of booze, hoarded chocolate, and expensive day-long trips to the spa, because your father used to be the most stubborn person I knew, but now you’ve taken that crown. You are also … mercurial. You will snuggle into me like I am the most precious person in the world, but then when I lean over to set you down you start to grunt, and the second your butt touches the ground you start the wailing and the teeth gnashing and the OHMIGOD MOMMY CATS SLEEPING WITH DOGS. This is when your father looks at me and says, “You know, maybe you shouldn’t kick her in the ribs, it seems to upset her,” but I’m pretty sure that even if I did, even if I were somehow an evil enough person to kick you in the ribs, it still would not make you cry as much as me setting you down when you want to snuggle does.
(And for the record, I tend to pick you back up, cause I like to snuggle you too. Don’t tell your grandpa.)
Very often this month, I’ve sat on the couch with a notebook or novel in hand as you roamed around on the floor. You really love your rattles and will often sit smashing them on the ground, then throw them a few feet away before chasing them down just to do it again. One time, I had a water bottle set next to the couch, and you smacked that bitch over before proceeding to chase it around the living room for literally fifteen minutes, squealing with glee every time it rolled away from under your hands. Do you know what I could have done with that fifteen minutes? I could have written a blog post, talked to your daddy, painted my finger nails, applied for a job, read a chapter of my book, played with the chihuahuas, made a sandwich… but no, I watched you. Because you were so vibrant in that time, so unbelievably charming and intrepid, and I both treasured and coveted your sense of wonder.
However, now when I sit on the couch, you do this:
You stand. Against the couch. You stare at me, and talk to me, and try to grab my book or eat my knee. Sometimes you even let go with one hand and flail your arm around as if you’re intentionally trying to give me a heart attack, and no word of a lie, you even let go with BOTH HANDS once. Then you laid your hands back on the couch and scooted over a few steps to slobber on my leg.
Last night, you were trying to stand while holding your stuffed turtle toy. You were having some difficulty grabbing on to the couch, so you stuck one of his fins in your mouth long enough to stand. And let me tell you, Maia, I was proud of you, but you were even prouder of yourself, because you looked up at me and your face just LIT UP as you smiled so big that you released the turtle, who promptly fell to the floor.
You watched him fall as if it were happening in slow motion, then bent down to pick him up. You wobbled back and forth, one hand gripping the couch, the other extended, inching towards the turtle…
… and then the Earth imploded.
Or at least, that’s how you acted. OH, THE HUMANITY! OH, THE HORROR! What an utter indignity against your person, that Mommy witnessed your ass plopping to the floor when you were trying to pick something up! This wasn’t your hurt cry or your “give me attention” cry, this was a pure, gut-deep wail of embarrassment the likes of which I had never heard before but imagine your father must have also given when he was your age. Because, again, you are his clone (with a vagina) (also no ding-a-ling).
As if sitting and standing weren’t enough, you’ve also taken to reaching for the food on our plates (and getting very pissed when we won’t let you have it, as you evidenced last night when I wouldn’t share my fried okra with you — I love you Maia, but NO ONE gets my fried okra), so we’ve begun exploring solids with you. You’ve had mixed reactions to these:
Maia, if next month goes at the same pace last month did, I fully expect you to be trying out for the next season of “So You Think You Can Dance” (which is our favourite show to watch together now that “Canada’s Next Top Model” is finished and we were both pissed over who lost). I suggest that you specialize in Broadway because, judging by the hysterics you’re so keen to share with us, you’re just MADE for drama.
The good thing about drama, though, is that it can be deeply loving and kind, just like you. You raise your arms for us to pick you up and hug us when we do, one arm around our shoulder and the other resting on our chest. You laugh and laugh when we kiss you or try to teach you how to kiss us. At bedtime, we all snuggle into bed, lie on our backs, and read nursery rhymes, and you stare up at the book as we point out the words to you or glance back and forth between us as we sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat. When the book is done, you invariably roll over towards your Daddy and stroke his face as if amazed at the stubble on his cheeks and the roughness of his goatee. And you smile, smile, smile.
Thanks for letting us be supporting actors in your drama, Maia. We couldn’t be happier to watch you on centre stage.
Love,
Mommy & Daddy
Monster milk.
Published August 6, 2009 | 
It’s World Breastfeeding Week! To celebrate, each day this week I’m going to have a breastfeeding-related post.
I admit, this is kind of a cop-out post of me. I’ve had a horrible day, I’ve had less than four hours of sleep in the last 36 hours, and I just needed something to smile about. This is Maia. She’s about a week shy of six months old. BEHOLD, the power of my breastmilk:
Maia stands. from Tatiana on Vimeo.
Maia on the move
Published July 24, 2009 | On the night of July 21st, I took this picture:
She had been rolling around and playing with her toys, being, as I thought, “so big”.
This morning, I took this picture:
You see, two days ago, Maia decided that laying down is for BABIES, and she’s no longer a baby. Literally in the space of a moment, she started sitting up, and now she doesn’t remain lying down for long if she’s awake. Today, she has yet to fall over and bonk her head on the floor, although for the past two days she’d done it numerous times (to the point where I gave her some baby tylenol because I knew that if I’d hit MY head that many times, I’d have a headache).
I laugh and tell people this is “scary”. Scary that she’s moving. Scary that she’s growing. But honestly?
I am incredibly, perhaps even inordinately, proud. I see her sitting up and playing with her toys, or watch her crooked semi-crawling across the floor and my heart threatens to swell right out of my chest. She looks so grown up.
For the first three months of Maia’s life, I carried her in my arms almost constantly. Even when she’d cry in my ear, I still couldn’t imagine setting her down and leaving her alone when she was so upset. There were times she would fall asleep against my shoulder and I’d just cradle her there, my cheek pressed to her downy head, feeling the heat of her breath soft against my neck.
And at times in those three months, I admit, I thought that I might not be doing her any favours. There were moments I thought she might develop her motor skills slower than the books say is “normal”, because I held her so much. Because I didn’t give her tummy time. Because I didn’t leave her to wiggle around on the floor unless she was happy to do so. I accepted, in my mind and in my heart, that maybe, just maybe, this was the one time that mainstream North American parenting style might have an advantage over my way of attachment parenting. Maybe someone else’s baby would be moving around far sooner than Maia. Maybe Maia would be slow to learn to move. I didn’t mind that too much, because obviously she’d learn to move when she was good and ready to, but maybe, maybe, maybe…
Those thoughts seem laughable now, because our daughter is ON THE MOVE. She is ready to go, and for now, I am celebrating her independence.
Remind me of that the first time I catch her eating dog food.
Also, I have a guest post up over at Mamikaze.com today: Milk in bags and other weird things about Canada. Please drop by & say hello!
Another trip to the park
Published July 22, 2009 | The weather this week has been horrible. I mean, really, it’s supposed to be summer, right? You’d never know it from the mid-60s temperatures (just because I live in Canada now doesn’t mean I think in Celcius!) and constant cool breezes.
However, the one day where the temperature was more approriately seasonal, if still below average, I took Maia and the dogs to the park. And let me tell you, it was a completely different experience from the last time we went to the park.
Because now, she can move on her own.
Hey Mom, what’s that green stuff over there?
She got tired of me telling her she couldn’t eat the grass, and I got tired of stopping her, so I handed her my bag of cherries instead:
And then I decided I totally needed an unflattering shot of us to complete the set:
It was a very good little trip. I witnessed that she’s very determined while pursuing her interests — ie, eating the grass — and I also learned to CONSIDER THE BACKGROUND when taking a picture:
Maia <3s green beans?
Published July 19, 2009 | Thursday morning, we went to a local Farmer’s Market. One of the stalls was selling giant bags of green beans for $1, so we of course bought one. As I prepped a bunch for dinner (which I blanched then tossed with roasted garlic and brown butter), I passed one to Maia. This is the result:
I’m the Sunday Spotlight over at Allie’s awesome “No Time for Flash Cards” blog! If you’re interested in arts & crafts for your children, this site is a must-see. Thanks, Allie!
The best thing about having a baby with hair…
Published July 17, 2009 | … is this kind of stuff:
She’s starting to kick her feet around and splash when we bathe her, which is just hilarious. I tried to teach her how to smack her hands onto the water and splash that way, but she didn’t quite get it… she just gave me this blank stare like, “Are you crazy, woman?”
Which, I mean, all things considered, is probably actually good, because do I really want her to learn how to splash even more? I’ll have to start wearing a swimsuit to give her baths!
For comparison, here she is 3 months ago in the bath:
Month Five
Published July 13, 2009 | Dear Maia,
Today you turn five months old, and honestly? seriously? it’s only been five months that you’ve been in our lives? I find it hard to believe, because I truly cannot recall life before you.
Last month, you learned how to roll over onto your belly; this month, you’ve finally learned how to roll from belly to back. This means that, if we turn our backs to you for any period of time, you’re likely to end up all the way on the other side of the room, kicking your feet and grinning mischievously at us.
But let me show you what else you can do:
Yes, that’s right, you are learning to crawl. Already. It seems as though you may skip over the “army crawl” or “scooting” phase altogether and just get straight on with the big girl stuff, up on hands and knees. I must admit, I’m kind of scared of this, Maia. You see, your mama does not like to clean, nor does your daddy, and having to clean multiple times per day just to be sure you’re not eating anything more harmful than dog kibbles is not something I’m looking forward to.
You’re also chatting a lot. You have a great deal to say and are quite eager to say it, whether to us, your fursiblings, or your toys. You’re beginning to experiment with consonant sounds, and one of your favourite things to babble these days is “mamamamamama”. It makes my heart skip a beat when I hear you do this, and although your daddy insists that you cry “mama” when you’re upset, I’m fairly certain you are just making the only sound you really know how to. The alternative, that he’s right, that you actually are crying out for me, is such a sweet thought that I can’t even wrap my mind around it. The idea that you, my little love, my beautiful baby girl, my papaya, might understand that “mama” is me and that if you call for me, I will always come, is too grand for me to accept right now. I don’t want to imagine you are saying it. I want to know you are.
This month has also seen another amazing milestone: you have slept through the night three times. THREE. Now, I have no problem with you waking up and wanting to nurse, but I must admit that waking up panicked twice in the middle of the night because why isn’t my baby crying out for me? just to look over and see you sleeping has its own satisfactions — namely, that I get to fall back asleep and pretend I didn’t actually wake up. Then, in the morning when you wake up and I pull you into bed to cuddle, we fall asleep together with me feeling pleased that I got seven hours of sleep in a row (even though, technically, I woke up during it).
However, at least three times, you’ve also woken up at a seemingly random time in the wee hours and decided that you would like to stay awake for awhile, thank you very much. So I bring you out into the living room and you roll around on your blanket while babbling to me, and whilst you look absolutely adorable doing so, I feel cranky and wish we were sleeping. I know that someday you’ll outgrow all this and I, being wistful, will look back on it and feel nostalgic. I think. Possibly I’ll be too busy dealing with whatever new trauma you are putting me through to remember, but either way, you are definitely trying to give me gray hairs.
You are still quite fond of sucking your hand and have little to no interest in a pacifier, although you will take one if we’re in the car. On your right hand, you suck your thumb and forefinger together, and on your left, your middle and ring fingers. Your pinkie is never part of the equation, which I figure means you either hate it or haven’t discovered it yet. If it’s the former, I promise not to have it reconnected if you sever it; if it’s the latter, I imagine your pinkie will become your new BFF as soon as you realize it’s been there all this time, waiting, at the edge of your fist.
Speaking of your hands, the other day you stuck your thumb between your fore- and middle fingers, and I was suddenly reminded of how, when you were newly born (and not a grown-up five months old!) you always clenched your fists like that. All I could do was smile and try to grasp the enormity of how much you’ve changed.
Earlier this month, you visited your uncle Sean again while your daddy and I went out for a movie. Apparently you were absolutely miserable with him, screaming and crying so much that he thought you were hyperventilating. Despite that, however, he still smiled and kissed you when you left and said he would love to babysit you any time. He loves you, Maia, just like everyone does, and I can’t wait to see how you interact with your aunt and uncles as you grow up.
There is so much I could say about you. There is so much I want to say about you, but there just aren’t words powerful enough to contain my thoughts. I know, someday you’ll read this and roll your eyes, remembering how I’ve recently slighted you by not letting you do something you wanted to, nevermind that I probably had a really good reason for it. Someday you’ll read this and think you don’t understand me Mom, you never have, and you never will!
And on that day I will just smile at you, my darling daughter, and think of how you don’t understand me. You’ll forget all of these things we do together now, all the hours of playing, talking, and teaching one another about life. You’ll forget nuzzling your head into my shoulder, or your daddy’s, eyes wide open as your hands grip us tightly and you just observe, learning.
But me? I won’t forget. I won’t, because I write to remember every moment of your life that I can. You are our world, Maia, and I can only hope that we raise you well enough that someday, you understand that.
I love you,
Mama.
Disney, daddies, and dumb decisions
Published July 6, 2009 | When I was 17 years old, I ran away from home.
It was the summer before my senior year of high school. I bought a bus ticket to Michigan, where “the man of my dreams” — we’ll call him Leon — lived. We had met online several months earlier, and he had come out to visit me in Connecticut for Christmas and New Year’s Eve. We didn’t get to spend New Year’s Eve together; I spent the transition from 1999 to 2000 in my bedroom, grounded and furious. Leon’s the person who bought me the Hot Damn that I got drunk off for my 17th birthday.
What he hadn’t told me, and what I discovered soon after arriving in Michigan, is that he, at 24, lived in his parent’s basement. He also hadn’t told his parents that I was visiting, never mind planning to move in. This was not the first of his deceptions, and certainly not the last.
My dad and I
As I’ve written before, if I have any “relationship” with my father at all, it’s a frail, tempestuous one. And while I take personal responsibility for my actions, I also can’t deny that I — that any person — is shaped by their life experiences, and that includes what he’s done to me. So when I say that I felt adrift, confused, and completely abandoned by him, and when I say that those feelings are part of what contributed to me seeking out some man to love me, some man to fill that void in my heart left by him, I know that I have every right to it. And Leon happened to be the first man that came along.
However, something else contributed to me seeking out a man to save me: Disney. I grew up in the Golden Age of Disney movies, when they were all still musicals featuring beautiful, spirited princesses who somehow nonetheless were incomplete until they found their man. I remember seeing The Little Mermaid in the theatres with my mom, and both of us crying at the end when Ariel gets married, hugs her father, and whispers, “I love you, Daddy“. I remember watching Belle finding true love as she kissed The Beast. I remember Jasmine crying out, “I am not a prize to be won!” and then, dressed in fiery red scraps, being rescued from the evil Jafar by a daring Aladdin.
I grew up — so many women grow up — with the concept that someday my prince will come and rescue me pounded into their heads. This isn’t even a subtle message. It’s the plot line of our youth. I just looked through this list of Disney animated movies and the number of them I loved where that storyline is implemented is staggering. There is no denying that I believed my prince was out there, searching for me as I searched for him.
Again, let me say that I take responsibility for what I did. I’m not writing that I ran away because of my father and Disney, but I am writing that having those two influences in my life has shaped me as a person. The person, the teenager, I was, was not a wise enough girl to look inside herself, find the strength nurtured by all the positive influences on her life, and abandon the idea that she needed to be rescued.
Now, as a mother, clearly I worry about my daughter. I look at her in Chris’ arms and think, “You are the first man she’s in love with. Don’t break her heart.“ I hold her in my own arms, nursing her, our bodies two separate entities now and yet still so completely dependent on each other, and think, “Make your own mistakes. Don’t make mine.“ She will make mistakes. She will have her heart broken. She will break mine. But I can’t stomach the thought of her doing the same things I did. When I imagine her being as weak as I was, nausea rises in my throat. I think of someone treating her the way Leon treated me and a primal, irrational fury consumes me, the need to protect her burning so strongly at the very core of my being that I would face anything, anything, to keep her from that anguish.
So when I saw this feature in JPG Magazine called “Fallen Princesses”, where a photographer took the stories of Cinderella, Snow White, Belle, Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, Rapunzel, and Little Red Riding Hood, then looked at them in a modern, post-fairy tale light, it really resonated with me. Now that I’m more than a decade removed from Disney’s target audience, and I’ve come into my own, I look at those images and nod.
Cinderella in a bar, despondent, staring at a shot glass and being eyed askance by a pair of rough-and-tumble men, the type you expect to see hanging out in a place like that during the day.
Snow White, barefoot and surrounded by her own little dwarves, her mask of resignation unable to hide the desperate look in her eyes that cries, “Yes, this is my fairy tale ending — is it yours?”
Belle, lying with eyes closed, hands clasped, on a surgery table, bloody stitches crowning her hairline, a needle penetrating her grotesque lips and a scalpel carving her face.
On and on.
Yet at the end of Disney movies comes a happily ever after, doesn’t it?
When you find your prince, you find meaning in life, don’t you?
It’d be nice if those things were true. They aren’t. I thought they were. I made ignorant decisions and I hurt my family. I did these things because I genuinely believed that love conquers all, that love is easy and, if I just pursued my prince, everything else in my life would fall into place. I don’t want to tell Maia she can’t watch Disney movies. I love the thought of her dressing up as a princess and inventing her own fairy tales.
I just hope she comes to understand that there’s a reason they’re called “fairy tales” sooner than I did.