Eliciting a Reaction, or, You can't always get what you want the nice way.

So I woke up this morning, as usual, and went through my routine. Changed Ender's diaper, fed the fish, started up a pot of coffee. Played with him, set him down for a nap and watched some indie cartoons, he woke up and I climbed the stairs to wake up Mike.

As Mike watched the boy and I made breakfast, Mike rubbed his face.

"I'm so tired." This of course, as the person who had been up three more hours than he, evoked my ire. "I wonder why I'm so tired?"

"Well you slept plenty."

"Maybe I'll take a nap."

"Maybe you're tired of being a dad." I snapped.

Oh my.

Why would I say such a thing?

I think we all have had experiences of saying nasty things we don't mean. This particular thing flew out of my mouth so quickly that I had no chance to backpedal. I continued to make my pumpernickel eggs with a hat on them in silence. And then we ate. Silently.

While we silently ate, cleared our dishes, and took showers, I had time to think about why I would say such a thing. A lot of the time, I am tired of being a mom. It's one of those things that because mommyhood is a constant flow, you repeatedly feel as though you need a break throughout the day and it makes you think, 'wow, if I wasn't a mom, I would just be sitting on my butt reading that book that is collecting dust on the dining room table.' This is a lie, of course. If I wasn't a mom, I'd be at work. Or school. Either way, that book would be collecting dust. As the verbose, emotionally attuned female I am, I feel the absence of Mike's rhetoric on the subject. Is he tired of being a dad? I believe so. If not, then he is a superhuman of emotional resilience.

I think I said something so nasty because I wanted him to say, 'yes, yes I am tired of being a dad. I'm not actually tired. I just need a break once in a while.' and then I would say, 'I'm tired too. This is hard, isn't it?' And then we would bask in the glow of mutual understanding. We would feel connected, based on the fact that this thing we're doing is really, really hard.

Admittedly, I approached it all wrong. I'm not sure why on earth I feel the need to say things to elicit reactions from otherwise placid, and well-adjusted people. Is it that I like to push their emotional buttons? Press them to their boundaries? Maybe it's that the world can seem so incredibly passion-less, my mind tumultous in comparison, and this is my levelling mechanism to pull them into my misery, my joys, my disappointments.

I can wax philosophical all I want, either way I feel guilty. After I apologized, and apologized again, and we discussed our boundaries and our exhaustion, and Ender grabbed at our faces as we hugged (my nose in his left hand, Mike's lip in his right) I knew that I couldn't promise it wouldn't happen again.

After all, I got what I wanted, didn't I? It's hard to avoid doing something negative when it achieves the hoped for results. Until I find a more constructive way to elicit emotion from the male gender (or hell, anyone for that matter) I will continue to fall back on old habits.

But I'm sorry. Being a tired mom is no excuse for being a bitch.

Polenta and mohawks, oh my!

You know when you make something and it's just so delicious that you have to share it with everyone you see? Well, I see you, dear reader, and you need this recipe:

Polenta Vegetarian Lasagne
1 package ready-made polenta
1 can spaghetti sauce with two cloves garlic crushed and mixed in (because spaghetti sauce is boring otherwise)
1 cup mozzerella cheese
1 cup parmesean cheese

Cut polenta into long strips, and layer with spaghetti sauce, mozzerella and parmesean. Repeat until casserole is filled. Bake, covered with tinfoil for 30 minutes at 400. Remove tinfoil, and broil until cheese begins to bubble and brown.

Yum! Vegetarian and soooo delicious. I dislike corn as well as lasagne, so that's saying something.

Today I got myself into some retail therapy and feel ten million times better. I bought some cute dual colour stockings, which I saw on Andrea's blog and just had to have. Also, a pencil skirt, batwing sweater (all in black of course, because I am so exciting) and two tank tops. I went to American Apparel with the hopes of injecting some colour in my wardrobe. Alas, no such luck. I guess I just have to rely on my hair.

This also makes me happy, because my mohawk wasn't exactly turning out the way I wanted it to. Now, I've figured it out, so I can have super awesome hair every day. I just need the weather to cooperate.

A million little hands, and no naps.

How is it that Ender always seems to have one million little hands, ready to grab, twist and rip, but I only ever seem to have one? While he is not crawling or walking, he definitely has learned how to scooch his little butt around the couch and across (and off) my lap. This makes any time on the couch a constant wrestling session. Except, of course, when he is asleep. Then my precious little angel can be surrounded by a number of things that usually cause a hazard and a nuisance. Nail clippers, bank cards, cell phones. These are all things that you probably keep near on hand without thinking. Now I keep filing these things away, and then promptly losing them.

This morning I had what is called 'civil war breakfast'. It's really great. You take some stale cornbread (which I made yesterday with cornmeal and whole wheat flour, makes it more filling) heat it up in the microwave (not period, ha) and butter it, then you put some honey on it. Pour milk over the whole thing, so it's nice and mushy. You end up with this delicious sweet cornmeal type porridge stuff. It was great because I kind of overbaked the cornbread so it was very dry and not so great for eating. There are still leftovers though, after my civil war breakfast (which my husband refused to try, despite my prodding) so I suspect it will be served with the brown sugar and mustard glazed ham that just came out of the oven.

I've also been writing a screenplay. As of...yesterday. I don't really want to give away the premise, in case it actually gets made into some crappy university movie that I can show people some day. Either way, writing it has been interesting. It's actually a rewrite of a screenplay that I wrote while in university. It seems in the computer switches over past years, it didn't survive. It wasn't heartbreaking though. I remember it being strong in concept and weak in execution, so I was happy to have a chance to rewrite it and pep it up with my older, wiser, writer's voice. Writing a screenplay is very different than writing a short story. You can't use overly flowery language, or it sounds trite and horribly contrived. The key (for me) is to dumb down the language of the characters to an almost foolish degree. Then it sounds realistic and not like ten different Nicoles in different outfits acting out a drama.

I am extremely exhuasted, both in mind and body. The winter seems to just be dragging on. My baby carrier has not arrived, Friday being the last day before, according to Babyhawk, it is officially 'late'. Last night Ender woke at midnight and didn't go back to sleep until four, and then woke again at seven for good. Mike is napping before work. I wish I could nap. But I can't. I'm not sure why, maybe it's the coffee I desperately guzzled upon waking. Sometimes I just wish someone was around to take care of me, while Mike takes care of the baby. Someone to brush my hair and rub my back and tell me everything is going to be just fine, as long as I make it through this one day. One day at a time.

In response to my last (rather pathetic) post, my grandmother suggested I attend service at a Unitarian Universalist church. For those of you who don't know abotu Unitarians, I'll send you to this site, where people can explain what Unitarians believe much more succinctly than I ever would be able to. My grandfather was a Unitarian minister and I always enjoyed attending service there. I like how God is taken in the abstract, and its emphasis on social justice and community. I think that's what I need right now.

That, and a nap.

Wanted: Close Friend

I am a crappy friend. I always have been. I suspect this is a genetic trait because my mom is a pretty crappy friend, and my dad is a loyal friend, but one prone to frequent disappearances. We are all excellent friends to eachother, though.

I'm not really sure what makes a good friend. Were I to strive to become a better friend, I wouldn't know where to start. Frequent phone calls? Too annoying. E-mails? Too impersonal. I like to settle on text messages as a comfortable in-between space, but unsurprisingly, this means I don't see a lot of people. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have someone I could call to come over no matter what, to curl up with a cup of tea and have a good cry, or something.

Frankly, I'm not sure I even believe people really have friends like that at all.

There was a time in my life I went out of my way to be friendly. Still, it usually resulted in me having too much to drink and making self-aggrandizing comments to complete strangers and just generally making an ass of myself. The friends I have made are usually like me, and really too lazy to organize much mutual companionship. At one point I had a 'hub-friend' who I could count on to link me up with other friends and do most of the work, but he has grown up, gotten a girlfriend and now has better things to do.

I say all of this because I am attempting to become a better friend. Though I can't heal my born and bred crappy friend nature, I have my moments. I'm organizing a trip to Ottawa to see my best, most precious friend who has recently had a baby with his fiancee, whom I have not yet met. He has had a rough past couple of years, but seems to be in a good place and have his life on track. I can't wait to be there to celebrate with him. But he still lives four hours away, and no matter how much I try and reconnect with him, I am in essence very friendless.

At times I attempt a sprint of calls to people I know. It's practically painful to lift the phone, to make plans. My social anxiety natters away in the back of my head. Wouldn't you rather just watch tv? It says. They probably have something better to do. It only takes being turned down once for me to give up. I don't have the heart for rejection, and it is easier to stay at home with my son and do nothing at all.  My husband tries to soothe me with the information that it's not my fault, that society just isn't built for friendships like the one I'm looking for.

All this said, I am confident that one day I will put forth the effort to make friends with someone, and it will be fully reciprocated. She or he will live within ten minutes of me, and find me interesting, and will have just the right level of self-absorption so as to make me feel comfortable with my own. They will pop by my house unexpectedly, like in a sitcom. They will give me sage advice on fashion, matrimony and motherhood. They won't find me shocking, or distasteful when I swear like a sailor. Is that really asking so much? A kindred spirit in an age of individualism?

Filament, Protein, Glory

Today, Mike and I spent our day going to the Pacific Mall in Markham. For those of you who don't know of it, it's an enormous mall with teeny-tiny stores and is entirely dominated by the Chinese and Japanese culture. This is no Chinatown, it's a bona fide megamall, with every electronic device, herbal supplement and super kawaii hairbow you could ever ask for and want. Personally, I wanted a purse. Recently, my hair has gone through many changes, and changed hair means changed clothes, changed purse, changed outlook.

I change my hair a lot.

When I was younger, I wanted to dye my beautiful pristine blonde locks a shade of moody black. Naturally, my parents would hear none of this. Then, in highschool, due to an interest in modelling, all I had were some bland highlights and that was all. By the time I graduated, my hair was long, half way down my back practically, and incredibly healthy. Oh, to have the patience of those days return...

Since then I have been platinum blonde, midnight blue-black, purple, red, black, platinum blonde again, and now, red once more. The style has ranged from a marilyn-esque bob, replete with nights of bumpy curlers (ouch), to dreadlocks, and my current mohawk. Sometimes I cut it myself, sometimes I have it professionally done, and I have not made any connection with better results for either one.

So why do I change my hair so much? It's a good question. I'd like to say boredom, because that's the easiest answer, but that's not it at all. When I start to imagine changing my hair, it sets in motion my imagination. I think about the places I would feel comfortable with a new hairstyle, the places where I would get stares. I think about the clothes that I could wear with it, the way it would feel when I washed it. New hair changes everything.

I feel about hair the way I feel about makeup. If we were to take makeup out of its cultural context, strip it of all meaning, what is left? A bunch of women painting their faces. How cool is that? Like every day is a carnival. It's completely culturally acceptable to paint your face, and go about your daily life. Some days your face (granted, your eyelids) can be green, other days blue, or smokey black. Likewise with hair. It becomes a changeable aspect of your outward appearance. If you want to, it can become not a marker of your personality, but a marker of your mood.

Admittedly, this hairstyle is a bit of trainwreck. I didn't really know what I wanted to begin with, so it has involved a lot of haphazard hacking of hair in front of the bathroom mirror. I don't really have the time to spend in front of the mirror perfecting things anymore. There is a tiny man who sits on the carpet and looks at me like I'm nuts. There's nothing like the honest humility of a child to make you feel vain.

But you have to take the good with the bad, and in many ways, my neon-red mohawk represents where I am in life. A little shaggy, rough around the edges, loud, and not sure if it's up or down, curly or straight. If only everything could be so transparent.

Alleluja, spread the cheer

Two days preceding the New Year of 2007, I had returned from winter vacation to my university town, Montreal. The entire city was coated in a thick layer of ice, as Montreal is wont to do, and I sat in my apartment trying to decide what to do while I waited for everyone I knew (including my boyfriend at the time) to return from their respective vacations. So I decided what any sensible twenty-something would do in my situation, that I would get a tattoo.

With ninety dollars in christmas gift money clenched in my apprehensive fist, and a crumpled printed off image in my pocket, I entered Tattoatouage, an ink parlour on St. Denis not far from where I was living. My experience of my first tattoo was very much like the experience of my first cigarette. I did it alone, with only my overactive thoughts as company. Surprisingly, they were able to take me immediately. I motioned to a girl in broken French that I wanted my image on my wrist in the same size. She obliged.

As she buzzed away at my wrist, she asked me the meaning of the tattoo.

"My belief in the apocalypse." I said staunchly.

"L'apocalypse?" She arched an eyebrow, and returned to her work with the same self-righteousness of most non-practicing French Catholics. It was weird, but obviously not weird enough to warrant further discussion.

Half an hour later, I had the omega on my wrist that will be on me until the day I die. Like most things, its meaning has shifted and changed over time. Now, its significance is more that things end. It's an important thing to remember, especially when it seems like you'll be sick forever or that you always fight with your partner. All things have an end, and with that comes a new beginning.

After getting my tattoo and sitting at home alone with it, chanting to myself how awesome it was, I decided to take a bus to Toronto so that I could spend New Years with friends. I packed a bag and headed out. I stayed at my friend Jimmy's place. We went to a very disappointing new years party, and then headed back to Jimmy's apartment to hang out for the rest of the night. Then a certain boy, whom I had met before, came over. We argued about philosophy, anarchy and post-apocalypticism. I proudly showed him my new tattoo, and he reciprocated, showing his tattooed knuckles from when he was a teenager.

Little did I know, that boy would be my future husband and father of my child. So I guess I can thank my tattoo, in a way.

I still believe in the end. I believe that the way things are as we know them are a very temporary state and that we should always be prepared. At the moment I'm putting together an emergency kit for my family. Before you say I'm crazy, you should note that Ontario recommends this. There's even 'emergency preparedness month', though I'm not sure which month that is. I'm sure when we see things like Hurricane Katrina, we think that it couldn't happen to us, but I'm sure they didn't think it would be them either. So here are some tips:

-have at least a three day supply of water on hand for your family. This means one litre of water for each person, each day. Look into proper storage techniques, and remember that water, like food, can go bad.

-a good thing to own is a crank radio, for when the power goes out. Some of these have reading lights too, but keep candles on hand for this purpose also.

-a book, or print-offs, on emergency preparedness. There is often no internet in an emergency!

-non-perishable food stuffs. Mayday makes rations that are good for quite a while, and meet your nutritional requirements. Also Mountain House has canned food that is good for thirty years plus, so you won't have to keep restocking.

-keep small versions of these objects in your car, and make sure your emergency kit in your house can be moved easily in case of evacuation.

I think in Ontario we really assume that nothing will go wrong. Tornados are rare, hurricanes nonexistant, and we aren't over any major fault lines for earthquakes. However, anything can happen, and with a family to protect, I believe it's better to be safe rather than sorry.

So on that note, I'll leave you with my favourite song by Band of Horses, which you can hear here:

The end's not near

It's here
Alleluia
Spread the cheer
And watch the millenarians
Throw a party for a thousand years

You won't see the pious praying
They'll be too busy flaying
All the martyrs with better ways
To stop the world decaying
If you call me I won't be home
I'm hiding from the kingdom come
They can't see everything on earth
With the satellites and the roving drones

This is why hell is underground
Like a reclaimed bad part of town
We don't want to lose our souls
We're the saints who don't want to be found

Teen Moms

For the last three (five? I've lost count) days in a row, I've been woken up at five o'clock in the morning by a steady stream of baby babble. I sleepily attempt to reposition him on the breast, to which he reacts with a barrage of tiny fists and kicks in the bladder. Then I need to pee. So I get up, groggy eyed, changing diapers with half closed eyes, cooing back at a grinning, hyperactive, increasingly mobile baby. I plop him down on the floor and stare at him play with a giant stuffed rhino. An hour later, he starts to whine and is asleep. On my lap.

Great.

So I get stuck here, dear reader. I get stuck on the couch and while I could put the baby down, I don't feel comfortable leaving him downstairs to sleep upstairs. I've never been woken by the baby monitor, and I am afraid the empty, fleshless sound of it wouldn't be effective in waking me. Because I'd just be blogging anyway, I'd rather do it with the heavy warmth of a baby in my lap. This does not erase the exhaustion though. It's picking away at me, this lack of sleep. By fifteen minute increments, I am becoming more of a zombie, who can't remember her phone number or postal code, who keeps hanging up her phone accidentally when people call.

Would you believe that this is the result of getting only eight hours of sleep every night? Yep. By all accounts I am getting more sleep than most of the population. I am a rare breed of person though, one that needs at least ten hours of sleep to function properly. It's not that I'm lazy. I've always been this way, and while I thought that being a mom would break me of my dependence on a good night's rest, I was sadly mistaken. Naps don't help, though I usually indulge in them every two days or so. I wake up with a dry mouth and a bad attitude that can only be fixed with sugary beverages and Mike allowing me to make some mean, consequence-free comments about his housekeeping. Most of the time, even to my sleep-deprived brain, that doesn't seem worth it.

So while the baby sleeps on me, I blog, I facebook, I do a number of things that only recently became verbs. I watch bootlegged television online that I wouldn't be caught dead watching if anyone were around.

Mostly, I watch old episodes of 16 and Pregnant, and Teen Mom on MTV.

For those of you who have never watched the show before, it follows pregnant teens in a docu-style around their daily lives while pregnant, and then as moms. It's astounding the way their families treat them, telling them how hard it is to be a mom and then just taking the baby for them so that they can go out and party all night long. Sometimes the revelations that these girls have are heartwarming. Most of the time it's just damn depressing.

So then why do I identify with teen moms so strongly?

I am by all accounts, a responsible mother. I go out to the bar probably once every two months, and even then my enjoyment is fairly muted. I am on the younger scale of moms, but still acceptably old. I have a partner who is emotionally and physically available for fatherhood. But there is something that makes me feel like I am a teen mom. Maybe it's the uncomfortable enthusiasm with which my friends approach my motherhood. Maybe it's the fact that I am the only one in my social circle that is married and a mom. Maybe it's the fact that I never really thought I would have a kid, and the culture of motherhood was so new to me. Or maybe, just maybe, all moms feel as lost and unprepared as teen moms do. Teen moms just get more shit for it.

I ask myself if I was a teenager doing this, how it would be different. I'm not sure that it would be, not from the inside out anyway. Mothering is, in many ways, an emotive process. One could argue that they are emotions that need to be developed, that adolescents are not prepared to provide. Certainly, Teen Mom portrays several moms not stepping up and remaining the vision of self-absorbed-teenagedom. Still, I see the emotions that were elicited by my having a child as ones that stand alone. I was not developing them until I became pregnant and I think this is something I would have felt regardless of my age. What would have been different would be the support that I would have available to me. Doubtless me and my mother would have argued about it, my boyfriend would have taken off, and it would probably be me and my dad (who I lived with as a teen) raising the baby. That would be damn hard to take, even now, with my hard won knowledge about phone bills, and a bachelor of arts.

I guess my point is, teen moms are probably as good as their surroundings. I think I relate to them because they're the few who aren't posturing about how their baby is 'so well-behaved' and 'sleeps through the night'. They are clear about their limitations, surprises and exhaustion. Like all of us, they need strong people to hold them up as they go through the most vulnerable experience in a woman's lifetime. Let's face it, without support, all of us are teen moms.