Graphakery: Irony

Another in an occasional series of fake graphs based on semi-real statistics.

The book, incidentally, was If I Have To Tell You One More Time … by Amy McCready.

So far I don't hate it, which is more than I can say for pretty much every other parenting book I've ever read (read more about my first reactions here).

Bathtime Confessions, Part Two

Last week I noticed a funky funk in the bathroom.  That is to say, noticed and dismissed it, until the smell got to the point of absolute unignorability, over the course of the day.

So it was that I ended up on my hands and knees, literally sniffing every bathroom surface I could reach. 

The bath and shower were okay, so it wasn't a drain thing.  I had half-assedly cleaned the toilet that morning, so that usual suspect was out.  I actually put my cheek on the cool tile floor and sniffed around the base of the toilet, just to be sure -- all clear.  The floor was fine and so were the vents.  The smell seemed isolated to the small pedestal sink, which was worrisome (see earlier drain comment).

And that's when I realized that the source of the smell was, in fact, a small baby washcloth wadded up in the sink, in a jolly rubber duckie print that belied the unholy stench emanating from its soggy self.

And THAT is when I realized that the reason this normally sweet-smelling scrap of fabric was jackfruiting up the whole room was because earlier that day I had used it to wash under my arms.  In lieu of a shower, which I hadn't had time for.

Not that day, nor the day before.  Not, in fact, for the previous five days, and the only reason that one happened was as the happy ending to a rare visit to the gym.

The joys that motherhood brings are, truly, too numerous to mention.  But not having time for -- or, more accurately, running a quick mental cost-benefit analysis and willfully deprioritizing -- bathing?

That stinks.

(Note: Model in photo is not me, not by a long shot.  For starters, I have much fatter hips and much hairier pits.  And I always had butterflies and sparrows shoot of of there, back in the day, not lame-o flowers.)

Graphakery: Sunscreen

This will be the first in an occasional series of fake graphs based on semi-real statistics. 

In my cookie-eating defense, I always remember to put SPF eleventy-billion on the kids.

Are you mom enough?

Time magazine really, really wants to know!

 

I posted my own thoughts on my personal blog (post: Yes I am, now kindly f*ck off) but I'm curious what other mamas have to say about this cover. 

The alleged bad parenting trifecta

1. We're at McDonald's for a late breakfast.  That is supposed to be bad.

2. The kids are watching TV.  Also apparently bad, especially when you consider that the older kid is pointing to said TV, excitedly exclaiming that the title screen he sees is for Toopy and Binoo's "Peanut-Butter-Bot."  He is correct.  Not because he can read, but because he has seen it THAT many times.

3. The baby has her feet on the table.  Cute, but not to be encouraged.

But you know what?  The kids are happy and mama is relaxed (and happy).  Nobody's hungry, nobody's bleeding.  Suck on that, granolahead.

Bad Blogger, No Posty

Yeah, I got nothing. 

But it's been several days without posts and that is sad-making.  So in place of original insight and creativity, I offer you someone else's.

From Rants from Mommyland:

I identify strongly with this list, with the following exceptions:

• Our basement is too full of stuff for there to be any kind of sleeping surface available;
• We have a dishwasher but it's not hooked up yet (kill me kill me kill me);
• I wish I showered as often as a prisoner;
• I am actually, honestly, truthfully, usually able to go to the bathroom alone;
• The only reason I'd want to find lost earrings is so that I can sell them for cash;
• I would totally take the maid; 
• And the Lexus.

It's not bad, it just feels that way

Here in Canada, families of young children receive something called the Universal Child Care Benefit. 

It comes from the federal government and totals $100 per kiddo -- ostensibly it exists to offset child care costs but you show me a daycare that charges $1,200 a year and I'll show you a friendly yellow lab that knows how to operate a can opener.

For the first year, I use the $100 to cover baby-related costs; after that, it goes directly into an RESP.  So it's not like I'm spending it irresponsibly.  And I still get the payment via paper cheque, because I like the purposeful feeling of depositing money at the bank. Knowing that all families get this money, and remembering that I've been paying income tax in some form or another since I first started to work at age 13 makes it pretty much a guilt-free transaction.

Except when I'm late for book club, and I rush into an unfamiliar LCBO to grab a last-minute bottle of wine, and when I reach into my wallet for some cash, I pull out a big ol' Government of Canada cheque. 

It's not bad -- heck, if I needed more help from the government than just the $200 a month it would still not be bad -- but it would have felt a lot better if I'd been buying, for example, diapers, and not, for true example, prosecco.
 

Product Review: Red Rose tea

I write this post full in the knowledge that I might get the boot for confessing that I drink Red Rose tea.  I have a feeling the other writers know better, and drink better.

But I like Red Rose tea, and here's why: it's impossible to oversteep a cup of this stuff.

You can carefully prepare your mug (visual inspection: no stray bits of ramen glued to the sides), insert the teabag, pour in the boiling water, and let it just sit there.  For, like, hours.  While you change diapers three or four times, check Facebook repeatedly (today's favourite hot-button topic: vaccinations), consider whether dinner should be comprised of KD and hot dogs or canned baked beans and hot dogs ... you get the idea.

Two hours later, you remember that you made yourself a cup of tea ... and that not only is it now cold, you've left the tea bag half-floating in it like some kind of angry iceberg in search of Leo DiCaprio vehicle.

But fear not!  You had the foresight to choose Red Rose!

So add your sugar and cream, and drink it up, buttercup.  No need to start all over, no need to bother with that pesky microwave.  You know all subsequent efforts are gonna be cold before you get to them, anyway.

Parenting, Pinterest ... conflict of interest?

Full disclosure: I'm on the fence where Pinterest is concerned. 

I'm inclined to think that Pinterest is like power: can be used for (self-congratulatory) good or (competency-comparing) evil.  We've already got so many other things to blame ourselves for, let's not add gee-dee toilet paper wreaths to the list, is what I'm saying.  Unless toilet paper wreaths really make your day, in which case I full encourage you to wave that freaky bum wipe flag.

I do agree with Jaimie's community tagline, though – in my head, it's a manifesto; can we make it a manifesto? – namely, "Parenting rarely looks like a Pinterest board."

Maybe you don't know what Pinterest is … and if that is so, oh MAN, do you ever need Pinterest.  I can almost guarantee that the rock under which you are living could use better lighting, fresh new window/crack treatments, maybe an inviting area rug or two (ferns are scratchy and those spore things on the underside scare the living crap out of me).  I invite you to check out the site, and forewarn that you are likely to lose 100 or so hours of your life to it.  But you owe it to yourself to get a little educated about the hottest social media property since Jesse Eisenberg's pet project.  Before your own mom sends you an invitiation.

To honour this blog's manifestagline – see what I did there? – I thought I'd outline in greater detail some of the ways in which parenting does not look like a Pinterest board.  I'll get you started with five.  Feel free to top up the list via the comment section below.

5. Pinterest is rife with projects requiring something called Mod Podge.  Best I can tell – and I used it on this project – Mod Podge is a fancy name for white glue.  Here are three things you can do with fancy white glue: make a custom doormat, funkify a suitcase, create the unholy union of margarita and candleholder.  Here is one thing, a staple feature of parenting, that you cannot (should not?) do with fancy white glue.

4. Pinterest is also a repository of some amazing vintage finds.  I love, love, love 50s-era styling, but that era was not flattering to children (seriously, does that baby not look like it would promise to never, ever poop again if you would just please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TAKE OFF THIS BERET?!).  And if you think Pinterest can win with more modern kids' clothing?  You would be wrong, friend. 

Okay, I think Jaimie's beef with Pinterest relates mostly to the kid-focused pins.  Here are two parenting-incompatible issues I take with the site:

3. Pinterest assumes that your children like having crap all over their hands.  That ear-splitting shriek you assumed was your neighbour being stabbed?  That was my toddler when I had the audacity to think he might want to play with shaving foam.  He did NOT want to play with shaving foam.  He didn't much care for the mess-free version, either.

2. Pinterest assumes your children understand the difference between edible and inedible play objects.  I'm lucky in that neither of my kids developed a taste for rainbow rice, but I'll admit that I watch them pretty closely while they play with it, lest my 10-month-old end up riding in the back of an ambulance like some kind of gluttonous post-nuptial pigeon. 

That brings me to the #1 way in which parenting does not look like a Pinterest board:

1. Pinterest is pretty.  It is not sleep-deprived, it is not moody and hormonal.  Pinterest is infinitely patient; it does not snap at toddlers who preface every statement with "I don't like …"  Pinterest wouldn't know post-partum depression from link rot.  Pinterest does not have cracked nipples.  Parenting involves all manner of disgusting bodily fluids – Pinterest does not (unless there is some kind of hard core kink board I haven't stumbled across yet). 

But they do have this in common, and I would be remiss if I didn't at least acknowledge it in passing: Pinterest and parenting can both inspire you, and as much as they can drain you, they can, in the blink of an eye, fill you up again. 

Parenting rarely looks like a Pinterest board … but sometimes it does … and that's magic.