Mother Fumblers, Unite!

Posted on May 13, 2012 by Mother Blogger

Dear moms, mums, mommies, mommas and mudders. Happy Mother’s Day.

Shag the roses and pedicures, I think it’s time we mothers give one another a gift: some good old-fashioned honesty.

It’s time we told the mother frickin’ truth: WE ARE ONE JUDGMENTAL BUNCH OF PRICKS.

You know it’s true. We look at other mothers and roll our eyes at their utterly ridiculous parenting choices. I know this is true because I’ve heard it, and I’ve done it. But mostly I’ve heard it. Because I’m better than that. Mostly. Starting now.

“She put THAT on her kid… to wear to CHURCH? Repent, hillbilly!”

“She takes her kid to CHURCH? Good luck explaining the dinosaurs later, cross hugger.”

“I can’t believe she lets her kid talk to her like that. I’d have the mouth smacked off it.”

And forget the parenting; how critical we are of one another’s looks! As if our bodies haven’t been through enough, as if we weren’t expected to visually satisfy every penis-toter within a ten-mile radius, we have to also endure the scrutiny of our fellow babymakers.

“Look at the mom jeans on missus. You sure she had the baby already? Looks like they left the twin behind.”

“Look at the MILF. Spends more time on her hair and nails than with her kids, clearly.”

Strict or easygoing, fat or thin, religious or hellbound, we just can’t win. None of us. And we only have ourselves to blame. We are dicks without dicks.

We are mothers, for Christ sake! The half of the species that’s supposed to be made of love and sugar and clouds and pubes of the endangered giant panda! We’re pathetic.

And our cutthroat nature just doesn’t make sense. No matter who or where we are, we share the exact same challenge every day: to keep our kids alive and happy and, hopefully, not hating us. Shouldn’t we be hugging?

Let’s face it, none of us really knows what we’re doing. Because we never really know how the kid is going to turn out! Try as you may, your heir may still end up a debaucherous, sadomasochistic, cross-dressing, Nazi shit eater. (Ok that was extreme. But it’s Mother’s Day, I can say what I want. Honey – more tea with lemon! And why are there only 3 chocolate chips in this pancake? GAWD!)

Besides, there’s more than one way to skin a kid. Or raise a cat. Whatevs.

And there is no cookie cutter mom.

There is the mom who stays home and raises her kids. And there’s the mom who goes to work to make money to save for Disney World so when the kids get tired and cranky she can stand in front of the Magic Kingdom wielding one of those big turkey legs like a mace and scream, “I paid for this fucking trip you little bastards, now suck it up or the mouse gets it!”

There is the mom who thinks In the Night Garden is a creepy acid trip of a children’s show. And there’s the mom who thinks it’s pretty darn sweet. (Mother Blogger + Iggle Piggle Forever.)

There are moms who stare in awe at their beautiful sleeping babes. And there are moms who do this:

One thousand one... One thousand two...

There are moms who had difficult birthing experiences. And there are floosy skanks who didn’t.

There are moms who sing classic lullabies to their babes, and there are moms who sing stuff like this: Sweet Child O’ Mine

There are moms who co-sleep (how stupid?), and moms who let their kids cry themselves to sleep (how cruel?). #DamnedIfYouDon’tDamnedIfYouDo

Some moms make their kids colour inside the lines. And some moms are fun.

There is the mom who has undying patience. And there is the mom who goes into the next room and counts backwards from 20 while breathing into a brown bag so she doesn’t choke a bitch.

There are moms who don’t attempt breastfeeding at all. And there are moms who have school-aged kids who wash down their half rack of ribs with a swig off the ol’ tit.

Some moms are MILFS, and some moms have moustaches for optimal stash-stroking decision-making. “Why yeeees, (stroke stroke), I think I will sign Max (stroke) up for soccer this year (stroke stroke). Stupendous.”

Bottom line: No two mothers are created equal. Some have lived charmed lives with silver spoons and lucky ducks all in a row. And some are products of their own twisted childhoods, now just doing the best they know how without crapping their own pants. We’re all just trying to make it with the tools we’ve been given. I know mine could use some sharpening. I could also use another screwdriver. (Honey, we’re out of orange juice!)

Yes, even Ghetto Mommy pushing a stroller with one hand and holding a cigarette with the other, en route to play the slots in the back corner of Mr. Jim’s Pizza. Have mercy on her too. Some of her brains fell out with her teeth. Show her some understanding and, who knows, she might just cash out earlier and buy some vegetables for supper. Compassion is a powerful thing.

Truth is, we’re all twisted up in one way or another. Human pretzels in every shape, size and colour. The irony? It’s probably your mother’s fault. But it’s her mother’s fault. And her mother’s. And so on. The original blame ran down the leg of this mother:

: mharrsch / Foter

Beyond being inevitably screwed, we share another common bond – we are all some child’s mother. The queen of his world, for all time. Nobody else truly gets this but us.

So let’s do one another a solid, sisters. Let’s cut each other some slack. (Not a vagina joke.) Today, while you’re loving and appreciating your own mother, show some respect for other mothers too. Mothers you don’t even know. (And yet you kinda do, don’t you?) Nothing says “we’re in this together, little mama” like a high five. No words, just palm on palm slaptastic action. Do it. Up top.

We’ve had no trouble opening our legs. Now let’s see if we can do the same with our minds.

Put down the gavel, Judge Judy. We’re all just women fumbling blindly into the Great Unknown, our doe-eyed youngsters in tow, hoping and praying we deliver them to the future in one piece. Two at the most. (Max, put down that chainsaw before you break something!)

A Peasant Surprise

Posted on May 6, 2012 by Mother Blogger

Blogging earns me zip. I could have ads on here, but they’d only take up space where beautiful words – or profanity, whatever – could be.

Even the HuffPost pays me sweet fuck all. My only rewards are your love and affection.

But sometimes there are little golden surprises, like a 10-dollar bill discovered in last year’s winter coat.

Last night, I received a Newfoundland and Labrador Arts & Letters Award – for a story I wrote about warships of the Imperial Japanese Navy.

I’m kidding. It was about motherhood. But it’s not my usual humour. Even though I won for Short Fiction, “Growing Things” is the painful truth. (Psssst: Ms. Bobbi French, my Canadian Weblog nomination in the “humour” category might be about to go down la toilette. C’est la vie.)

But ever true to my brand, you will be pleased to know my 1,725 word count contains “breast,” “mucus plug,” and yes – “vagina.”

Despite the whole vagina thing, I know my dad would be proud. Yes, the story is about him too. It always is, isn’t it? He would also be tickled pink to know it earned me almost 58 cents per word. Cha-ching.

Let me know what you think. Because your love and affection are still my greatest incentives to keep this fruitless gig on the go.

growing things

The usual double-stomp of rubber boots on the front bridge. The whine of the screen door. Then in he burst, bucket in hand, eyes wide with childhood.

He was beseeching us to guess before he was halfway in the house, his first word lost in the flowerbed.

“…how many I got t’day!”

I could hear them knocking around in the salt beef bucket, like billiard balls rumbling in the belly of a pool table. Potatoes. Maybe seven or eight. Tiny and pitiful and good enough for him.

“Five!”

Five reasons to not wait for anyone’s guess.

The scholar emerged from muddy plaid and took his place on the couch, entombed by paperbacks and the first draft of a novel. He took a pen from his pocket, opened his notebook to the back cover, and made five short strokes: four straight-up and one diagonal slashing victoriously through. I could hear it from across the living room.

Ten years ago, I would have rolled my eyes. When other dads were skilled fishermen and farmers, mine was master of the metaphor and MacBeth. I was ashamed. Now, I just pretended to be. To treat him the same. To keep things normal.

His thumb was not green but grey with the smudgery of sonnets and sermons. But potatoes were another form of poetry, willed from dead space with living, breathing enthusiasm. His hands were meant to turn pages, not soil, nor fat cod drying on Fogo flakes. At sixteen, he boarded the ferry – to grow his vocabulary, a family, and a scattered stunted spud on a less isolated patch of land.

We were both growing things now. Me, a baby. Him, a tumor. Both feeding off our bodies, getting bigger and stronger and ready to ruin everything. I hurled deals into the great beyond – Take this, let me keep that. But I kept getting rounder, which I took as a big fat forget-about-it.

A grapefruit had been growing in dad’s bowel for ten, maybe twenty years. Like a story unfolding while the protagonist’s back is turned; he realizes his role midway through the final chapter.

The unluckiest kind of cancer: the one with no symptoms until it has its own postal code. The day they cut it out was the day I saw its replacement – wiggling around on the screen like an upside-down beetle. Three inches of terrible timing.

The size of a new, pink eraser, found on the floor of the high school hallway, now at home in my sweaty palm. When I was a little girl, dad would take me with him to fetch a book he had forgotten, or make copies of an English quiz on the giant Xerox machine. I’d snoop around the musty staff room and its glorious towers of paper. Steel typewriters were sentinels on every desk, glaring at me with snaggy, metal teeth, warning me to keep my hands to myself. Before we headed home, dad would find a scribbler and stick it in my pocket. Jackpot. I hoarded them in the bottom drawer of my dresser, rarely making a mark. Blank pages were pressed silk, too easily ruined by an imperfect thought or dangling participle.

Here in my hand now – a photo of my own child. A surge of reality turns it to sandpaper, scratching my fingerprints off until I’m nobody special.

One soul would enter stage left, the other exit stage right. Would they cross paths, brush shoulders, share the space long enough to sprout something forgettable. Or would they pass like dandelion snow on the wind, miss one another by a breath that may as well be a lifetime because, either way, they’re strangers. For nine months I waddled around and wondered, trying to believe in miracles, occasionally pondering what would happen to the order of things to come if I threw myself down the stairs.

I remember when these stairs were carpeted orange shag. I’d stomp up to my room, propelling all my teenage angst downward through my body into each stupid step.

“Don’t be so opprobrious!”

I drove him to his vocabulary’s edge. Once, after I had slammed my bedroom door with tectonic-plate-shifting rage, he came up to my room, took the drawers out of my dresser one by one, and dumped the contents onto the floor, then left without a word. I wrote an apology with fancy glitter pens.

I’m sorry. With a sad face in gold metallic ink.

I was a sad face on a prize pumpkin perched on the edge of his bed when the doctor said the second surgery was a flop. The only hope for a cure, flushed away with my mucus plug. The young surgeon said he still had hope, but I could smell a rotting plum down the hall and the stench of bullshit in his every word. The dead-end news was a rusty trowel in my gut all the way to China. Dad just stared out the window, smiling at the crocuses poking through the patchy March snow.

I lay in a tub of scalding water, silent and numb, a massive earthworm making waves beneath the taut skin of my belly, reminding me I was still alive.

Dad lived in a fortress of paper, bookmarks jutting out to trip those who would disrupt him. I’d approach gingerly, extending a story to be graded. He’d put down his book or journal or pile of essays on Julius Caesar and turn to accept my loose leaf, feigning interest in my fat, curly typography. He’d speed-read my meager work, his lips and eyebrows fox-trotting around his face, mesmerized by my genius.

“Well done, daughter!”

He made his mark in just the right spot; never the same thing twice. I’d have another tale for him within the hour. And a sandwich made with every possible ingredient in the fridge, including his own tomatoes he grew out back in the greenhouse that used to be the dog pen.

*****

Dad’s stitches were closing around his decaying liver, and my eight-pound mass was ready for harvest. But nine days past my due date, I was still holding him in, making time stand still, delaying this and whatever else was about to rock my world. We’d all live off this hope, this little black and white ultrasound picture in my purse. It’d be Christmas Eve forever, the anticipation of good things bringing more joy than their arrival and the sinking knowledge that it’ll all soon be over.

By day ten, I was overthrown by the sheer animal urge to bear down. And then there he was: the living, breathing proof that time had passed, things had grown, change was upon us. He was sucking vigorously on the air, searching blindly for my breast. He had just broken my vagina; now he wanted another piece of me. Fast-forward a few months and he’d be laughing hysterically as they lower my father into the ground.

He found his home in the hollow of poppy’s chest where I spent many a morning reading storybooks to the bass drum of his heart. Both their faces: perfect calm. Like they knew something nobody else did. The moment swept me away, then dragged me back to earth with a crushing smack of irony: here is the man I will bury, holding the boy who will bury me. Less than an inch of flesh and flannel lay between brand new and irreparably broken. There was a fucked-up beauty in it; I see it now. The meaning of life, colliding in a little blue blanket.

The summer sun let us forget if not heal. Inside, organs were quietly packing it in, ready to call it a life. Outside, we pretended we would all live forever. We danced around the cancer, almost thankful for the bastard because at least we had fair warning. A neighbour had dropped dead with a massive heart attack, lying on the floor in a pool of things left unsaid.

Dad finished his book and grew strawberries, small and pale but sweet. And I grew to love my child, our distraction from the truth, our one perfect thing. Dirty diapers, ceaseless crying, sleepless nights: it was pure joy because it wasn’t grief.

By October, the leaves were falling faster and the sands in the hourglass followed suit, swishing by like the beach was finally calling them home. But dad was slowing down, the pain in his side making it difficult for him to walk. He took his meals on the couch with a dishtowel on his chest for a bib, the checkered cloth enabling a feeble game of peek-a-boo, the boy pulling himself up from the floor to pull away the rag.

“Boo.”

Each time, poppy was still there, to both of our surprise.

I retrieved a notebook from my bottom drawer, unperturbed after all these years. I flipped the pages past my nose. Typewriter ribbons and mildew. The sweet aroma of a simpler time.

The slanted garden sank into a morphine slumber, crab grass filling in the spaces like it was never there. I collected his poems in a banana box; the colour of the paper whispered the age of each piece – from parched sunflower gold to new lily white.

I christen the little notebook. How do you spell eulogy? That looks right, but not next to the word dad.

*****

A green, die-cast train comes to a halt at the base of the casket, a boy crawling after it, grunting with glee. Four feet above him his grandfather’s hands are folded upon one another. They look odd without a book, or a pen, or a bucket of something plucked from the earth. His face is sunken and clay-like and not his own, but he is surrounded by his favourite things so I know it’s him: books, flowers, trees at each corner of his coffin in rich forest green, and people – their faces proud and kind and resilient.

I pick up my boy who chortles at the sight, blissfully oblivious to the colossal shift that has just occurred beneath my feet. There he is and here he is, the bookends of my existence. The front pocket of my boy’s overalls, where a frog should be, is the perfect size for a notebook.

I imagine the casket brimming with tiny potatoes, their gnarly eyes following me around the floral wallpapered room.

Size Matters

Posted on April 26, 2012 by Mother Blogger

In advertising, the word “big” often comes up. Big trucks, big taste, big service, big impact. The only things we don’t want big, it seems, are our asses and glasses.

Sure, “big” is overused. But sometimes it just works.

It certainly worked when someone gave Tom Fitzgerald his legendary moniker.

This morning, just a short time after Big Tom died of heart failure at the age of 39, this message appeared on K-Rock’s website:

“We’d like to thank Tom Fitzgerald for helping the word ‘BIG’. Before Tommy, Big was just another word. A word they’d put in front of ‘deal’ or ‘savings’. Tom quickly owned that word. He was larger than life. The irony of Tom’s passing being linked to his heart isn’t lost on anyone. He was truly full of love and he shared it with all of us.”

The funny thing about the word big is – it only works when it’s true.

With Tom, it was very true.

And I’m not talking about his physical presence, although he did have a jolly stature that just begged to be bear-hugged.

I’m talking about his personality. On the radio. And off the radio. Big Tom was Big Tom, always. I didn’t even know the guy, and yet I did. We all did. His voice was distinct. His laugh was earth-quaking. He was fun. Big fun.

Fun gets a bad rap sometimes, often clumped together with things like irresponsibility and carelessness. But Big Tom had it figured out – fun is everything. EVERYTHING. In work, in sports, in parenthood, in life. Big Tom’s laugh injected fun into our lives via our dashboard stereos every morning as we drove our lazy asses to work. His Saturdays in the Shed were a local sensation; he took music requests from the skeetiest callers in the province and treated them all with respect. Sometimes he even shacked up in the shed for days on end to raise money for charity.

Back during my single days, he hosted karaoke at the Sundance. He never failed to haul my friend Trudy up on stage for a duet. If it wasn’t Paradise By the Dashboard Lights, it was Love Shack, or Summer Lovin’. She could never resist. His love of music and lust for life were contagious.

Big Tom wasn’t pretending to be someone else to make money or get famous. He was using his God-given talents – essentially, just being himself – to do exactly what he was meant to do. If only everyone were so lucky.

Given the fun he brought to his fans, I can only imagine what a great dad he was to Sophie. He talked about her on the radio, which is why I knew her name when I saw them together a few weeks ago.

I was at McDonalds watching Max run around in the PlayPlace. I was sitting outside the big window, as many parents do. Big Tom was sitting right beside me with a woman (his ex-wife, I believe), watching Sophie climb and slide. I wasn’t listening to their conversation, but I could scarcely tune out their chatter and laughter. Maybe it was the toddler-mama sleep deprivation, but I started to think I was peering through the windshield of my car. For me, the sound of his voice was synonymous with the radio. He was mesmerizing. Hypnotic. Unforgettably so.

When a person is so full of life, it is hard to fathom that that life has ended. It’s just not possible. I mean lazy people, boring people, miserable people – sure. But not Big Tom. Surely if the Grim Reaper showed up at his door, he’d take one look at that smile and walk away, defeated. Probably even smiling. “Not so grim now, are ya?” Big Tom might say, followed by that boisterous chuckle.

I guess that’s what happens when you’re big. The more room you take up in people’s hearts and minds and morning routines, the emptier the space feels when you’re gone.

The bigger the voice, the more resounding the silence.

The shed is a lonely place today. Rest in peace, big guy. You done good.

Happy 448th Birthday, Uncle Will.

Posted on April 24, 2012 by Mother Blogger

Nobody knows for sure when the bard was born, but our best guess is April 23rd – today, in 1564.

My dad was a high school English teacher, taught Shakespeare for 30 years. He swung a wooden sword around the classroom to keep everyone on their toes. At the supper table, he feigned – of all characters – Lady MacBeth. I grew up wondering where “the damned spot” really was. And if dad was really a girl.

I studied English at university. I took a class called Shakespeare. It was all about Stephen King. I kid. It was a play a week, and poetry too. I used Coles Notes to fill in the gaps where I partied instead of studied. ‘Tis better to party than not.

I’m no Shakes Scholar. But what can I say, I have a damned soft spot for the stuff.

I can run the category in Double Jeopardy.

And here’s what I read to Max tonight.

He calls it “Nomeo and Julien.” Shakespeare for toddlers. Beautifully simple illustrations with less than three words per page. No Coles Notes required. ”When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.”

Happy birthday, William Shakespeare. Thank you, dad. And everyone else who loves and shares the written word (and I don’t mean texting): “I can no other answer make, but thanks, and thanks.”

Who knows, in 448 years they could be talking about me. In the inspirational words of the beloved bard, fucken A.

Max, Most Sportsmanlike Toddler Ever. NOTTTTTT.

Posted on April 22, 2012 by Mother Blogger

Max hates potatoes.

He hates ‘em baked.

He hates ‘em mashed.

He hates ‘em french-fried.

Okay that last one’s a lie. Damn you, Ronald McDonald.

But the rest is true. He hates virtually all forms of potato. He won’t even play with Mr. Potato Head.

But when someone’s passing him a hot one – you know, during a game of Hot Potato at a birthday party – he will cling to it like sour cream on a chive.

At a birthday party last weekend, Max was one of seven kids, all aged five and under, sitting on the floor playing a game of Hot Potato. Now normally during Hot Potato, you want to get rid of the darn thing; pass it to the next kid as quickly as possible, because if you’re holding it when the music stops, you’re out.

But this game of Hot Potato was essentially the game of Pass the Parcel, where the prize is wrapped a dozen times and passed around, a layer of paper removed each time the music stops by the kid holding the goods until there are no more layers just sweet victory. Except in this case, the prize beneath all that paper was, well, a potato. So we called it Hot Potato. It just felt right. And it’s way more fun when the kids think it’s going to burn their hands.

But not when my stage-four clinger is in the circle. Apparently Max likes to feel a good, deep burn. The sought-after spud would come to him and, despite all pleas to pass it to the next eager child, he just could not let it go. Parting is such sweet potato sorrow.

At one point, the music stopped just as I intervened to flick the beloved tuber from his grubby paws into the hands of the next child. If we did a slow-mo replay of the action, it would show that it was indeed in Max’s hands at the moment the music stopped, but it had been there for the last two to three bars of music! It should have been halfway around the circle by now. In fact, it should be halfway around the neighbourhood, in a pot up the street next to a few carrots. The next kid got to take off a layer of paper while Max kicked and screamed and sobbed, spudless.

Last time there was this much fuss over a potato, it was 1741 Ireland.

I could chock it up to the terrible-twos or almost-threes. Toddlerhood is an emotional time. But here were a handful of kids, all around Max’s age, and he was the only one freaking his freak. I was so proud, so very proud.

But I didn’t let this potato drama boil my water. Instead I thought, How do I fix this?

Do I yank him from the circle as punishment for misbehaving? Show him that if he can’t play properly, he doesn’t get to play at all.

Or do I sit down in the circle with him and force him to do what is required of this game (and this life!) so he sees what’s happening and, hopefully, learns? I mean maybe it’s all a bit confusing for my little guy: This irresistible mystery package is plopped into his empty hands, and then, in a fraction of a second, he’s expected to give it up to the next guy.

If I were at Neiman Marcus and the sales lady said, “Congratulations – you’re our millionth customer, you win this Gucci purse! Here you go. Uh, oh wait, no, you’re our 999,999th customer, sorry, my bad. Could you pass that cherry red genuine leather luxury handbag with the gold hardware to the nice lady behind you, please?”

Waaaaaaaaaah. I’d be heartbroken. And I’m not three years old.

So I opted for plan B. I sat down next to him in the circle, cradled his sticky hands in mine and proceeded to facilitate the receipt and passing of the stupendous spud. I also refrained from making inappropriate jokes like, “Idaho who’s gonna win this game!”

Each time the potato made its way around to Team Ginger, I plucked it from Max’s death grip and passed it on at lightning speed; I didn’t want him holding it when the music stopped, not even to take off an upper layer of paper. If he got to take off one layer, there’d be no stopping the human vegetable peeler from hitting pay dirt. And plus, the potato is hot, remember? “Toss that tuber, kids! Save your fingerprints!”

But lo and behold, despite my fast-handed action and good intentions, the little frigger won the game. The music stopped when the potato, now barely concealed by a thin layer of pink tissue paper, was fair and square in Max’s mitts. Turbo Ginger’s maniacal laughter broke through his tears. It was terrifying.

Victory was the worst possible outcome. Today’s lesson in Toddlerville: Have more hissy fits, get more stuff.

Damn it.

He unwrapped the final layer of paper and there it was. He had no idea the potato-shaped parcel that we were all calling the hot potato was really a… wait for it… potato. Kids are so wonderfully dumb.

The long-awaited prize looked him in the face with a hundred gnarly eyes and said, Surprise, kid. What’d you think I was – a truck?

What the heck?, Max thought.

Then, Ah well, Idaho who’s gonna give this a go.

He traded in his potato for a real prize, of course: a pair of wind-up fish that swim around in the bathtub. He didn’t let the precious cargo out of his sight for the rest of the day. They were donated organs on ice, en route to the operating room.

A second game quickly ensued, but this time I ejected the spud champ. I couldn’t risk the greedy bugger winning for a second time. It would go right to his potato head.

How the Eggheads Stole Easter

Posted on April 7, 2012 by Mother Blogger

Ah, the glorious Easter story.

They rolled the stone away from the tomb to reveal… a giant Cadbury Crème Egg! Alleluia!

Then they rolled away the egg to reveal… the body of Jesus! Dead? Hell no. He was in a big dirty sugar coma. That’s not dried blood on his hands; that’s the remnants of a chocolate-covered marshmallow Peep.

And contrary to popular belief, he was not wrapped in the Shroud of Turin. He was wearing a big pink bunny suit.

In fact, that wasn’t even a wooden crossbeam he lugged through the streets on his shoulders last Friday; it was a jumbo Toblerone bar. Just for you. From Jesus. You’re welcome.

And His disciples… Now I know they’re usually depicted as men with beards and flowing garb, but they were actually not men at all. They were fluffy yellow chicks in gardening hats.

I’m sorry, Jesus. Thanks for the sacrifice that miraculously inspired a holiday steeped in milk chocolate. How would I get my fix (and fat ass) without you?

It’d be just heavenly if chocolate were the extent of it. But Easter has become a second Christmas. Pray tell, when did this happen?

As an advertising gal, I know how it happened: the onslaught of mega brands like Hershey, Hallmark, The Gap, Disney, Lego, Nestle, and Nintendo. Combine that with our ever-growing human desire to see, taste, experience and own everything on earth and you’ve got a billion-dollar industry built entirely around a bloody bunny. Yesterday morning, I saw the face of a jackrabbit in my grilled cheese sandwich and got $17 for it on ebay.

But when did this Easter mania happen? Well, the bunny legend dates back to 17th century Germany. But even growing up in the 1980s, I don’t remember the holiday being this big of a fuss. And take it from me – an Easter baby. Born three days after Easter Sunday, I was the icing on the Jesus Cake. And speaking of cake, my birthday often fell around Easter, so my birthday cake often looked like this:

My birthday outfits were geometric nightmares in pastel. This one even came with a set of bunny ears. (And an arsehole.)

Whatevs. All I know is – Easter was no biggie.

I guess over time the evil geniuses seeped it into our social consciousness and before we knew it “chocolate,” “clothes,” and “crap” came before Christ in our list of Easter “C” words. Out with the Prince of Peace, in with the Reese’s Pieces! C is for crock of shit all around.

Now that I have my own egg-seeking candy muncher, other moms are asking me, “What are you doing for Max for Easter?”

As eggnostic as I am, I’d be quite content if they were inquiring about our righteous resurrection rituals. I wish they were asking me which letter in the word E-A-S-T-E-R Max would be holding in the church pageant. I mean, my answer would still be “we’re doing nothing.” (I tried to reenact the crucifixion once using Mr. Potato Head but his hands and feet kept falling off while I was driving in the nails.)

But no, what they’re asking is – what am I buying Max for Easter? To which I can’t help but utter a bewildered, resounding HUH???

It kinda goes like this:

“So what are you giving Max for Easter?”

“Uhhh, I dunno. A wedgie?”

“Oh.” (You horrible mother.)

“Why – am I supposed to give him gifts for Easter?”

“Well, you don’t have to. But you know, some parents (good parents) give their kids candy eggs, chocolate bunnies…”

“Oh yeah, I could do that. They sell that stuff at the liquor store, right?”

” …and clothes, toys, bikes, video games…”

“Shit, son! The Easter Bunny really goes all out. Is this revenge for Santa sporting that fur-trimmed suit? Should I put up a tree and set snares under it?”

By now, she has already hopped away from my miserable sarcasm. I deserve it. If I were smart, I’d simply reply, “Oh you know, I’m having a egg hunt like everybody else.”

But I just can’t be anybody else.

“Oh, I’m having an egg hunt. An egg hunt so world-class, with eggs so skillfully hidden, they’ll appear on milk cartons. You’d need to give the house a colonoscopy to find them. They’ll be missing so long, authorities will issue a turquoise alert. Nancy Grace will be yakking about it for months. Bloodhounds will hang themselves, worthless and defeated.”

Which to her sounds a lot like, “You foolish, foolish twit of a woman.”

And hey, maybe it’s better to be a foolish twit of a woman than a miserable prick of a mom. I dunno. Pass the jelly beans.

Max will be eating eggs during Easter. But most of them will have sprung from a chicken’s twat. He’s not even three years old! One chocolate bunny contains enough sugar to send Turbo Ginger on a Boston Cream Marathon.

Sorry, I’m sounding crazy. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of Easter fun. But baskets brimming with clothes, toys, gadgets… Seriously, people? You’re giving your kids all this stuff… for Easter? For God sake, I just found a pine needle in my arse crack because we just had Christmas, like, five minutes ago! The house still smells like fu*ken fruitcake!

Yay, the baby Jesus is born! I think I’ll go spend an Almighty fortune on gifts.

3 months later…

Yippee, Jesus is risen from the dead! I think I’ll go crucify my credit card.

I mean I guess I get it: Christmas and Easter are about love, shown to the world by the son of God. So, to honour that greatest of gifts, we show our love by giving one another frivolous junk. Yeah, that makes sense.

Admit it, runny babbits – Easter is just another reason to overspend and overeat and overindulge your children with crap to make up for your shit-brick parenting. What would Jesus think? Tsk tsk.

Imagine how many kids out there, rustling through the backyard grass in their new Easter clothes (WTF) in search of little foil-wrapped eggs, don’t even know who Jesus is.

At least there’s hilarity in it all. Easter at the mall is a riot. Parents line up with their kids to get their snap taken with the Easter Bunny. A couple months ago, they sat on the lap of a creepy old man in a red suit and ratty beard. Now it’s time to get cozy with some sweaty guy in a rabbit suit made of pure evil. Here’s a photo of my friend’s twin boys, Will and Jack Cross. And a bunny who will haunt my dreams ’til July.

And check out this one. The sweet daughter of Mo’ Blo’ reader Roxanne, and a bunny who should have kept some of the candy for himself. I think it’s safe to say this one’s not a cottontail.

So, eggheads, what other Christian holidays can we go to hell with?

We have this dry period around summer. How about we have a Noah’s Ark Day and give our kids expensive watercraft? Every child needs a Sea-doo.

Let’s have a Mary Magdalen Day and have all the little girls go around drying people’s feet with their hair. That’d be super cute.

And we just gotta have a Jonah-And-The-Whale Day. We’ll have some dude dress up in a whale suit and make our kids sit in his mouth.

Hey you, up there in the peanut gallery!

Posted on March 13, 2012 by Mother Blogger

This mommy blogging thing is hard. Shut up – it is! [Insert big giant pouty face.]

Now I know it’s not brain surgery.

Or rocket science.

Or fishing for crab in the North Atlantic.

Or grooming unicorns.

But it does come with it’s own diaper bag of challenges.

The biggest challenge? The hatred. You know, the heckling… from the peanut gallery.

See, “mommy blogger” comes with a stigma. You know it’s true. I mean surely any woman sharing her stories about parenthood on the Internet must be pathetic and self-obsessed. She can’t possibly have a life beyond the diaper pail. Like, GAWD – does she really think the world gives a sweet shit about how sweet her kid’s shit is? Spare me the drama, freak-show mama. And, for Christ sake, get your fat ass off the computer and go fold some laundry or something.

I’ve thought all these things about mommy bloggers I’ve stumbled upon online. They’re a dime a dozen, and some of them really do make me want to throw up in my mouth. And if their blahggery is riddled with typos and poor grammar, I want to cut my head off and shit down my own neck. But hey, writing poorly is better than smoking crack well, right? Respect.

A recent report from The Onion captured perfectly the reproach for the mommy blogger:

[A first-time mother] has registered with the web service WordPress for the purpose of blogging the severely underdocumented experience of child-rearing.

“Now I’ll be able to preserve for posterity every detail of this magical time in my life and in Kaylee’s, recording every decision that affects her as well as all of my personal thoughts and reflections on the process,” Baldritch told reporters Saturday. “At long last, persons wondering what valuable insights fertility has imbued me with, or just wanting to see pictures of my precious Kaylee, will have a one-stop resource in cyberspace.”

Baldritch estimated the odds of her updating the blog twice a week for three weeks and then abandoning it at zero.

I laugh because it’s true. Many mommy bloggers are writing about how blessed they are, and how magical motherhood is. It’s annoying, and kind of a big fat lie. But hey, some readers savour that sappy drivel. So if you don’t like what you read, take your eyeballs elsewhere. To motherblogger.ca, for example. (High fives – you’re already here!) I talk about the same kind of stuff, but with way more words that start with F and rhyme with luck. And somehow, that makes me kind of totally rad.

But even when you do it differently and, dare I say, better – people still hate on you. And look out if you actually have a point of view. Bad mommy! Bad, bad mommy!

Seriously. When my Broken Vagina article hit the Huffington Post, I got so many contemptuous comments, it kept me awake at night. I tried to count sheep, but every wooly bastard would pause midway over the fence, look me straight in the eye, and say “Baaaaaad mommy, baaad baaaaaaaaaad mommy.”

It took me a couple of days to realize – this is the way it goes. A friend and coworker of mine gave me some perspective:

“Your writing didn’t suddenly become awkward, unfunny or mean-spirited just because it now reaches more people. The factor that has changed has been the volume of readers via HuffPost, and the accompanying proportion of nutjobs.”

Nutjobs… Oh, of course! From the peanut gallery! Now it all makes sense.

So I thought I’d take a moment to reply to a few of the nutjobs and naysayers – even the anonymous ones with the extra mouth where their balls should be.

To the lovely woman who said she wanted to adopt Max to save him from his cruel mother – check yourself before you wreck yourself, Mrs. Mott. Even the HuffPolice thought you went too far and deleted your comment. Too bad, because I was really pleased with my counter-reply: “You can have him for 20 bucks and a six-pack.”

To infertile Myrtle, thanks for the reminder that I should be more thankful to have been able to conceive at all. Sounds like your uterus is not the only hostile place on your person. But you’re exactly right. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to let Max out from under the stairs.

To the chick who found my K.D. Lang joke “highly offensive,” newsflash: I don’t really intend to buy pink clothes for my would-be daughter so she won’t look like K.D. Lang. And holy homos – K.D. Lang is GAY? I thought she just dressed like a dude. (Read: I love gays.)

To the commenter who said I should no longer be allowed to breed, I’ll have you know – I love my child. I love him almost as much as I love shoes, chocolate cake and green apple martinis. So there.

To the self-declared 100-pound superfreak with the tips on how to eat properly while pregnant – thank you, Calista Flockhart. Next time I get knocked up, I will be sure not to fill my body with “McDonalds and lies.” For the record, my pregnancy craving was grapefruit juice, but who would have laughed at that?

To the fella who called my article “hackneyed tripe,” I noticed that remark was, like, your 100^th HuffPo comment that day. Wow. Troll much? I bet you used the term “hackneyed tripe” a bunch of times too, didn’t you? You so clever, Trollin’ Trevor.

To the handful of whack-jobs who called me cruel and cold, I’m not really going to use my new baby as a pillow. Way too lumpy.

To she who accused me of being “completely obsessed with my body image,” I’m sorry about your cankles. I make fun of my saggy nips and flabby ass, but it’s not because I’m vain; it’s because people laugh at saggy nips and flabby asses! And the merchandise is really not that manged. Don’t be hatin’, unskinny satan.

To the terrible speller who said I talk about motherhood like it’s a “game” – Really? Motherhood is not a game? Dang, all this time I thought I was playing Hungry Hungry Hippos.

And to the two mean-spirited local writers who poked fun at my “mommy blogging” – don’t be so mean, b’ys. And don’t be so dumb; if I ever see either of your names on the cover of a book, I’ll be sure to pick up a copy – and put it back down.

When I blogged about the Nicholas Winsor murder, I had nimrods coming out of the woodwork to defend their imprisoned pals. They were googling keywords around the murder and winding up at my blog, I guess. Hooray for search engine optimization? To the commenter who insisted that one of the alleged killers – a gun-toting drug-pusher, if not a killer – is a “good guy,” oh yes, I’m sure he was. But forgive me for not asking him to babysit on Saturday night.

I’ve heated the pee of a few cross huggers with my agnostic discourse. I’m pretty sure the Pope has me on the Illuminaughty list. Vicki Murphy – listed right before Sinead O’Connor, and right after Madonna, alphabetically.

Even my own mother has scolded me for my vulgar verbosity. Maybe one day I will realize she was right all along; I should be more delicate with my diction. But I can only be who I am now and know what I know now, and right now I know one thing: I am a mother, but I am not my mother.

I’ve been accused of being cruel, crass, insensitive, judgmental, anti-feminist, feminist, and misinformed. Clearly, to be a writer, especially one writing about the sacred vocation of motherhood, you need to have a really, really, really thick skin. Really thick. Like, Alan Thicke.

My sharp-tongued prose is not for everyone. And that’s okay. I choose to say things that make some people cringe. I choose to open myself up to ridicule; my cup of ridicule runneth over. If the maniacal musings of the Mother Blogger are not your cup of tea, put that teacup back down, yo. Move along to the next tea party. It’s all good. It’s nobody’s fault. Some things just don’t fit.

But in putting myself out there, come hell or high water, I also get a whole lot of love. Many of you keep coming back for more and that’s why I keep on keepin’ on. And truth be told, sometimes the haters are the first ones to return because I’ve stirred up something in them they dare not admit. Muahahahaha… [witch cackling fades out]

Here’s the deal. If you’re caught up in the hyperbole and profanity of my momglish, if it seems all I do is cuss my life and vent my frustrations about my irate toddler, please know: my son is my life. This is my therapy and your entertainment, if you’ll have me, as I search for meaning in the mayhem of motherhood. (The therapy and the entertainment are both FREE, I might add.) And I trust that when Max is old enough to read alladis, he’ll see the value in it too. Through all the bat-shit crazy, he will see, without a doubt, that I loved him so. Loved him so much, I documented all our zany adventures together for all time. And bravely took the peanuts in the face all the while.

Charleton Heston once said to Lawrence Olivier, “I’ve finally learned to ignore the bad reviews.”

“Fine,” Olivier replied, “now learn to ignore the good ones.”

Oh yeah, give it to me baby.

Posted on March 2, 2012 by Mother Blogger

Hello Halifax, my old friend. Dalhousie: Class of 2000. Apparently you can get a decent job with an arts degree. I’m here on business. And no, my meetings are not at Ralph’s Showbar. (Those are called meatings.)

It’s tempting to reenact the ol’ downtown shuffle of my 18 — er, 19 — year-old-self. But none of my skirts are short enough. And I’m a little rusty at grinding Greek men. It just wouldn’t be the same.

Most of the old stomping grounds are gone anyways. Merrill’s? No more. JJ Rossy’s? Long, long gone. My university days are a distant memory; but a hint of cheap tequila on the Argyle Street air.

It’s just as well. These days, as a busy working mother with a toddler who wakes up every other night at 3am yelling “Apple juice!”, or “I like cheese,” or “Boobieeeeeees,” I have a whole other idea of pleasure.

And I have found it. Sweet solitary ecstasy. Right here in downtown Halifax.

I am going to straddle the chubby one, front right, in 3… 2… 1…

This blog post has been brought to you by the letter ZZZZZZZZZ

Aw, what a beautiful… baby? Is that a baby?

Posted on February 25, 2012 by Mother Blogger

All babies are beautiful.

And all their mothers are virgins.

C’mon Stevie Wonder, you know that just ain’t true. Look at your newbie. Yes, yes, he’s precious. He’s precious, based on the novel Push by Sapphire.

Seriously. Does your heir look a little queer?

Is your offspring looking a little off?

Is the son you grew kinda gruesome too?

It’s okay. Not every baby is a babe.

So what if Anne Geddes would put your baby waaaaaay in the background. Perhaps she would encapsulate your lil’ tyke in a big tulip with just his foot sticking out. She’d probably insist he wear the little wool hat… with the face mask.

Listen up, ye makers of ugmo minis: there is hope. Allow me to demonstrate.

This is Max when he was just two months of age…

My, that’s a cute… elephant.

My kid was a pizza with male pattern baldness.

A pimply pint.

The star of the first half of a Clearasil commercial.

Such cruel irony. I deliver this child drug-free and he winds up looking like a crystal meth junkie.

And check out those jowls — I had given birth to Winston freakin’ Churchill!

But boy did I love him. I mean, how could I not, with such a kick-ass impersonation of John C. Reilly. His first full sentence? “You must call me Night Hawk.”

I was recently contacted by a blogger in Oregon who had come across the shot above when googling “ugly baby.” First of all, yay for search engine optimization. Second of all, ouch. He was about to blog about ugly babies and apparently mine was the epitome of ugly to compliment his words, from all the ugly babies to be found on the World Wide Web. So he asked my permission to use the photo. I said yes, of course, as long as he included my url to drive a bit of Oregonian traffic my way. Check out his blog, Oh God My Wife Is German. His German wife (whose hilarious utterances are top fodder for his blog) had seen an ugly baby with its mother and said, “Her baby looks just like her, which is not a present.”

But my lil’ gremlin was morphing right before my eyes. Within a few short months, his acne cleared up, his hair grew in, and he gave up the crystal, cold turkey. (He’s strictly apple sauce now.)

Soon, my son was God’s gift to midget women everywhere. The little girls at daycare even started putting their phone numbers in his backpack. Of course, it’s impossible to figure out which order the magnetic digits go in, so he never calls any of the little floosies.

And this week, Sir Maximus Handsomest made his big debut in a campaign for GM Goodwrench. Check it out now: the funk soul ginger.

Score for Team Red, fo shizzle.

But don’t worry. I won’t let the fame go to his carrot-top.

And if Anne Geddes calls, she’s a little too late. The only flower that’s gonna capture Turbo Ginger now is the world’s largest and toothiest Venus Flytrap.

Love, in Spite of Ourselves.

Posted on February 14, 2012 by Mother Blogger

For many new parents, the romance goes the way of the placenta. Not me and my husband though, no sir. We’ve managed to keep the fire burning through the pandemonium of parenthood. For example, my husband shows his affections by slapping my ass and swinging his weenie around like a tassle on a showgirl’s tit.

Wow. Let me go slip into something a little more flannel.

When we were dating, he’d often tell me how funny and smart and beautiful I was. Now he warms the cockles of my heart with things like, “What’s for supper?” and “Is there clothes in the dryer?”

Oh yeah baby. Take it off. Take it all off.

Men! Why do they stop showering us with affection? Like most smart-ass husbands, Andrew would counter this question with another question: “Why do women stop riding us into the sunset like a cowgirl with a cause?”

Touché.

Time to get a clue, sucka-foo! After all these years, do you still not realize that flattery and fornication are attached at the hip? To quote the infinitely wise Antoine Dodson, “You are so dumb. You are really dumb. For real.”

Now, being a writer and mad as a hatter, I spend quite a deal of time writing at home, retreating into my own private Wonderland and ignoring Andrew for hours on end. A couple days ago, realizing I had been pecking away at the keyboard for an eternity and a half, I turned to him and said, “If I ever get a book published (you know, about motherhood), I will dedicate it to you for all your patience and support.” I was trying to start something sweet. You know, throw a compliment his way, maybe get one back, followed by some cuddling and afternoon delight. His tender, loving response? “The book wouldn’t exist without me anyway, because I’m the one who got you pregnant with my meat cannon.”

Give it to me baby.

I can’t complain. I’ve been laughing at the “meat cannon” for about 48 hours. Got me right in the funny boner. Never underestimate the disrobing power of a good chuckle.

And today, though I received no flowers or candy, I did discover this work of heart on the chalkboard in the kitchen.

Nothing but big ol’ hearts dancing in my eyes.

Happy Valentine’s Day, all you crazy couples out there, fully clothed or otherwise. Here’s a song for ya.