Lucy, fresh from a free BBQ at our local legion with my parents. She came home covered in ketchup (what a surprise, being my daughter), carrying Canadian flags for Eric and I, and Canada stickers on her red shoes.

When I put her down for nap, she spent a good 45 minutes in her crib singing various renditions of Oh Canada.

The sporadic fireworks popping off all day mean poor Spencer Dog is a wreck. For the past six months or so, he’s become terrified of them and thunderstorms. So the past few weeks of incessant afternoon showers, and the last few long weekends he’s spent either stuffed between the toilet and the wall in our downstairs bathroom (WTF? Small space = comfort?), hiding behind the furnace in the basement, on my feet under the computer, or in a closet. He shakes and pants and his eyes bug out of his head. We feel so bad for him.

Eric and I have spent the day cleaning and packing and doing laundry in prep for the cottage. It’s so much work to go, but so worth it once we get there.

Posts will be light for the rest of the week, as Internet access is almost non-existent (translation: it depends on if we can hijack borrow a nearby wireless signal) — but tune in for the obscene popcorn recipe and the top 10 things kids stick up their noses.

• Lucy has an awful diaper rash. Like she’s crying out in pain when we try to wipe her. Poor thing. An early morning poop on a sleep-in day combined with all this heat and humidity created a bad environment. Luckily she’s doing better this morning, and we sent her to Julia’s with some zinc cream.
• Let us all send Jen O. some sympathy as she battles a belly measuring PAST her due date, and that time known as “None of my Clothes Fit the Belly Anymore,” also known as, “Why Can’t I Just Come to Work Nekkid?”
• Know what $213.07 will buy you at the vet’s office? An exam, thermometer up the (not mine, thankgoodness) butt, needle, heartworm treatment and every inch of your clothing covered in dog fur from one freaked-out, shaking Spencer Dog. I don’t blame him: The last time he was there, he earned the knickname The Baconator, came home comically stoned, and now all the vets know him as That Dog
• Driving home from the vet’s, Eric said the words French fries. Do you want to know what we had for lunch today? Peanut butter on toast, marble cheese, spicy oven French fries, fruit, and maple cookies. Pregnant women don’t joke about food. Ever. (upcoming story about this tomorrow…)
• Speaking of food, for dinner tonight we’re having pulled bbq chicken sandwiches with tangy cheese (ok, ok, it’s Cheez Whiz) on onion buns, with tomato and cucumber salad that includes herbed feta cheese and Greek dressing. I may have been thinking of this all day. Well, since the French fries, anyways…
  
• We were disappointed — but not terribly surprised — when our local Farmer’s Market was not yet open this Sunday, even though it’s opening is labeled as June. I can’t wait until we can walk over and get local produce again. Is anyone else counting down until strawberry season kicks in? Don’t forget you can find local retailers and markets on the Durham Farm Fresh website
• Do you know what third-party administrators do? Four interviews later, and I still don’t. Yargh. Also: help.
• Look! It’s my Golden Girls!
• Best sentence via email today: “Drunk monkeys randomly typing at a keyboard would require less editing.”

• I need red socks
• Hi, Daddy
• Where Doggie* go?
• burp Cuse mee
• More rainens**, please
• Take Papa get books?
• I see Daddy soon
• Daddy work
• Daddy blow nodse
• Daddy boogies!
• Lucy need yogort***
• Big hug, Papa?
• kiss Papa?
• I seep***** Doggie
• I seep Zack******
• I seep Boo-Boo
• I seep Carrots******
• One, two, sree, four, five, SEX! seben, eight, nine, ten
• Bye, Daddy!
• Again dance Doggie?
• Doggie up!
• Dance!
• Here you go, Mama
• Mama got big ouchies dere
• Give Mama ouchies kiss bedder?
• See Papa soon?
• Oh-KAY!
• Mama go pee-pee?
• Mama go BIG pee-pee!
• Whaz zat?
• Whooz zat guy?
• Lucy no hit Doggie
• Sorrem, Doggie kiss
• Biiiig hug, Doggie
• I see birdies!
• No Goggie******* lick!
• Mama fix?
• No-okay?

* stuffed Doggie, **raisins, from Raisin Bran cereal, ***yogurt, ****sleep, *****stuffed Zebra from the Easter Bunny, ******stuffed orange bunny as a birthday gift, whom she named herself, *******Spencer

My baby toddler child is talking.

Day 11: 29 Days of the Everyday

Did you feel how cold it was yesterday? I walked Spencer last night around 8 p.m., and I’ve never seen his little stubby legs move so fast without running. I’m not joking that my face hurt by the time our 8-minute walk run to the end of the street and back was over.

I stumbled (fogged glasses) inside and demanded a fire.

Eric obliged. Because he’s awesome like that. Also, there is something macho, rather cave man, about arranging paper and wood and burning them. My husband takes great pride in his fires. I think it’s all he can do not to stand up and beat his fists on his chest.

(He may have done this once. But he’d kill me for telling you.)

And then we enjoyed a lovely, toasty night, taking turns sitting in front of the fireplace until our backs and butts were burning. I read my book (so good — thanks C.P.!) and Eric spent two hours sanding and gluing two pieces of plastic I’m so not kidding worked on his latest model airplane. Oh, and we ate chocolate (Easter Cream Eggs for Eric, Reece Peanut Butter Valentine’s Day hearts for me).

T’was a perfect way to end the weekend.

Sunday nights, pre-Lucy when I used to work outside of the house, were killer. By noon, I was crusty and grumpy at the prospect of another Monday and the end of our precious family time over. It used to ruin the end of each and every weekend.

Then I read that these feelings can be very common, especially if you are struggling at your job. One suggested solution was to make Sunday night a highlight of your weekend: Plan something you really enjoy (for us: visit with family, watch a movie). The goal is to help east the transition into the work week and make the end of the weekend less stressful with something exciting.

Two+ years later, and we still do this. Once a month we go to my father-in-law’s for dinner with Uncle Stinky and Auntie Jenni. The other Sundays we always have a nice dinner and dessert. Eric always has a Sunday evening glass of scotch. I never plan on doing anything that can’t be done from the couch (movie, painting my toenails, reading, crafts).

It’s one of the best practices we’ve adopted. Do you do anything similar?

Day 6: 29 Days of the Everyday

Spencer Dog, once the mighty furry ruler of Chez McDougall-Foster, is slowly accepting life as a peon. Don’t get me wrong: He still gets two walks a day, three small meals a day, plenty of treats, a rawhide bone once a week, a plethora of cuddles throughout the day, and a snuggle in bed with me in the morning. He just gets it now all around Miss Lucy’s schedule.

He is not suffering, although he will try to make you believe he is, what with the big brown blinking eyes and pressed back ears. Oh, the drama of a Jack Russell.

He is getting old, our Spencer Dog. He sleeps the vast majority of the day. He’s getting more needy, wanting to be on us all the time. He takes his time meandering up our slippery wooden stair case. His walks can be frustratingly slow. Sometimes it takes him a few tries to make it up on our bed, his favourite place to snooze (these may soon grace our bedroom, and not for any kinky reasons).

But Spencer’s spark is alive and well. He plays toys with us when the mood strikes (mostly in the evening during a rousing game of Ball House with Lucy), and still dashes across the backyard like lightening to show those squirrels who is boss.

He’ll always be our Practice Baby, our first child, my best friend, my boy Spencer Dog.

My friend Lauren, with the best 1-year-old ball-tossing boy ever, is struggling with what to feed her son who still has just two (but almost four) teeth. She does lots of pureed jarred food and finger cereals such as crack holes Cheerios.

Lucy got her teeth pretty early (and even had molars at a year old), and she was chomping away on all kinds of stuff by 12 months — so I’m of little help.

(Geez, flipping through my archives reminds me of those starting-solid-food days. Didn’t it seem like they were ALWAYS eating?!)

Outside of Baby Mum-Mums, thin wheat crackers he can gum (such as Breton’s), and teeny pieces of very soft/cooked fruit and veggies, I’m drawing blanks. Mixed pureed/slightly chunky meats? Cooked pasta?

He definitely has the chewing part down, as I watched him gnaw back some wee pieces of cantaloupe this week. It was hilarious to watch him concentrate so hard on it, his jaws chomping exaggeratedly with his brow furrowed, while Lucy was shoving chunks of it, cookie and yogurt into her face as fast as she could. What a difference a year makes!

Any of you parents of teeth-less babies have some suggestions on finger foods and more?

I’m assuming you’re all digging out from the mountain of snow that came down yesterday? CAN YOU HEAR ME UNDER ALL THE SNOW??

We enjoyed one of my favourite days as a family ever yesterday. We stayed inside all day in lounge wear and played and ate. I could do that every day. But then I’d be very fat. And smell perpetually like food.

It was so nice to have nowhere to go — we finished our Christmas shopping Saturday afternoon — and no one to see except each other. Lucy let us sleep in until 8:15, and we didn’t get dressed until almost noon. Aside from a minor meltdown around lunch time brought on by hunger, Lucy was a darling. I almost didn’t send her to daycare this morning. Almost.

Eric had to venture out in the afternoon, as Spencer had to go pee, and we could not open our back door because there was so much snow up against the glass. It would have swallowed the poor dog before he could stick one tentative paw in the white stuff. As you can see, we got so much that the snow completely enveloped some of our patio chairs, and the space between the table and the bottom of the umbrella. Now that’s impressive.

After Lucy went to bed, we headed out to shovel. And let me tell you: You really have no concept how much snow is out there until you try to lift it. And while I’ve previously claimed to like shoveling, last night I was cursing the bloody stuff.

When the drifts reach your waist? IT’S A SHITLOAD OF SNOW.

I physically only lasted an hour, and was embarrassed by how much I did. Oh, and our light-weight, ergonomic shovel snapped in half. These two elements meant we only got half the driveway done, and that was after Eric shoveled for almost 2.5 hours.

I somehow have to dig our other car out this afternoon to go get Lucy. If I can’t do it, Spencer better stretch those stumpy legs of his, because he’ll have to become the world’s smallest sled dog.

Yesterday I was out the door at 7 a.m. to catch a bus downtown Toronto for a work board meeting (I was out of the house! In dress pants! And fancy shoes!). I didn’t get home until after 4 p.m., which gave me just a few minutes to scoot home, put on my clunky winter boots, grab the grocery list, then grab Lucy.

After a long and rather frustrating shopping excursion (Deli counter teenager: “Tahiti? You mean like the country Tahiti? In a jar?” Me, incredulous: “No, I mean tahini, the paste you make hummus with.” And Tahiti isn’t a country, you twit, it’s an island in French Polynesia.) we make it home around 6.

A toddler, a ton of wet snow, and six heavy bags of groceries. Fun!

Eric is at his monthly model club meeting, so it’s just us girls and Spencer. I leave the non-perishable groceries strewn at the door along with our wet outdoor gear. We snarf down dinner. Lucy feeds various ornaments on the Christmas tree the plastic eggs from her new stove. We colour.

Just before 7, we head upstairs to get ready for bed. I open Lucy’s door to find four large, foul Spencer poops all over the carpet.

Apparently, the marshmallow snowman Lucy made on the weekend and Spencer ate on Sunday night (he got into a bag while we were out) made a repeat appearance.

This dog is going to be the death of me, if I don’t kill him first.

Lucy spent the night in her future room, what is currently a playroom. I spent the rest of the evening scrubbing up Poop Fest ‘07, putting away groceries and doing dishes.

If I haven’t said it enough here, I bow at the feet of work-out-home mothers. Last night was exacerbated by Spencer, but even aside from that, I was exhausted by the time dinner came. I have so much respect for all mums, no matter what your scenario is, but especially those who do it all while out of the house all day.

It was also a slap-in-the-face reminder of how much I should cherish the job I have. It might be a lot of work, and a lot of discipline and lonely at times, but I don’t know how I’d fare doing yesterday every day…

One fall evening in 2003, Eric and I were leisurely walking Spencer along the path behind our house in Ajax. I was grappling with this overwhelming urge to have a baby.

Society was whispering in my ear that it was the right time: We had a house in the suburbs, two cars and a dog. We’d been married just a few weeks. It Was Time, wasn’t it?

Luckily, Eric gently, logically and cleverly squashed that idea (too young, too poor, can’t we please have more sex first?). I’m so glad he did, because you really don’t have any idea how life changes with a baby, do you? No matter how much people warn you — and jeezus, didn’t I HATE people telling me this! — about the sleep deprivation, the constant need and supervision, the diapers and laundry and rocking rocking rocking and then chasing chasing chasing, you just have no idea.

And really, it’s not about the sleep loss and time, is it? Those are expected, infinite variables, ones you begrudgingly, painfully readjust your life around. After all, the sperm didn’t just appear at the egg’s door, knocking insistently, persistently, until she peeked outside with the chain across and Mr. Mighty-Swimmer busted inside. No, most of us threw open the door with a welcoming flourish and beckoned with tea and cookies.

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• We have entered the No Stage. Lucy, do you want breakfast? No-no. Lucy, do you want to have your bath? No-no. Lucy, can we change your diaper? No-no. Get you dressed? Take Spencer for a walk? Go to daycare? Put your socks on? Give Mum-Mum kisses? No-no-no-no-no-no. Eat M&Ms? Mmmm-hmm.
• I’ve had gray hair since I was 15, and now it’s…well, it’s bad. My father’s completely gray patch across his brow appeared in his twenties, and let’s just say I inherited it. Except all over. So I have to colour my hair often or it looks pooey — which is very time consuming, messy and costly. So yesterday I tried Nice and Easy’s Root Touch-Up, and LOVED it. Love, love, love. It’s just enough to do the most visible roots at the front, sides and top, and matched perfectly. Highly recommended.
• As cute as they were, I just could not bring myself to buy those polka dot hipster panties at Dollarama today. Deal or no deal, a lady has to draw the somewhere, no matter how cheap she is.
• Last night I got all my stickers (and note cards) organized, which felt so good. Then I spied Melissa’s plastic sleeves, and had to have some (thus the dollar store this morning — slow work week. HI BOSS!). Now, I will be even more organized.
• Speaking of which, didn’t those who came have a fabulous time at Durham Mom’s Night Out’s first scrapbooking night? The time zipped by while everyone dabbled on their projects, made fun of my stickers and bitched told glowing stories of our spouses and babies.
• I rarely use LOL, but this made me laugh out loud REALLY LOUD: Perhaps next year’s Easter card?

Hello, stick!

Do you see what the guilt does?

New glasses!