Moshi, Moshi?

One of my greatest friends hails from the Land of the Rising Sun. The Japanese are humble, proper, crazy human beings. I have enjoyed sharing some of my friend's Japanese traditions with my daughter. She owns two kimono and her name hangs above her crib, written in professional Japanese calligraphy. She has showered us with heartfelt gifts and friendship over the years, and has shared her culture with our family. Our lives are better for having Fumiko.

We Canadians say, "Hello?" when we answer a call, but the Japanese have a special hello reserved just for these occasions. One day Fumiko said, "I can't wait until Eve can say, 'Moshi, Moshi?' when I call". Ok, we're on it. Like a cheap lounge singer in a smokey bar, we are now taking requests.

The telephone answering greeting has evolved from, "Ahhhh?" to "Hahhhh!" to "Hiiiiiii", to "Mo' Mo'". No, Eve, "momo" in Japanese means peaches. That's not the nickname I wish for you to have.

I think that the "-shi" part of "moshi, moshi?" is going to be a tough one, linguistically speaking. We're just going to have to be patient until then.

We were at a friend's baptism and my cell phone vibrated. It was in my purse, on the pew, and it buzzed just enough so that Eve could hear it. She put her hand to her ear and looked at me and said, "Mo! Mo!".

If you call me, and I answer, "Moshi, Moshi?", I haven't landed in the loony bin yet. I am simply trying to encourage a special multi-lingual treat for a special friend.

What DOES an Elk say?

Daddy's a hunter. In our house hangs evidence of elk, moose, bear, caribou and deer. In our freezer it's much the same story. We eat Moose-a-dillas, strogan-elk, and various other versions of the standard family favourites. Wild meat is something that is consumed in our house on a semi-regular basis. I think there's something primal and satisfying in watching your family eat that which you have killed. When we first started dating, I was presented an offering of breast from a grouse that was just shot, and mushrooms that were picked that afternoon. It was a "chicken" stirfry to remember.

When people are coming to our house for the first time and ask for directions, I tell them the street name and then say, "It's the one with the moose rack in the carport. You can't miss it."

When we were preparing the nursery for the impending arrival of the little munchkin, we decorated the walls with teddy bear versions of sheep head mounts and bear skin rugs. In the stairwell hang the real things.

Which brings me to our little princess, who is starting to learn animal sounds. Her daddy used to tenderly pluck her from her crib after her nap, and walk her down the stairs, pointing at the animals and telling her their names. "That's a caribou. That's an elk."

For those of you who are not familiar with the sound of an elk bugling, I can only describe it as a shrill, throaty shriek. Perhaps it's not the sound you would expect to come from a beast as grand as the elk. It does, however, translate into a nice high pitched yell when imitated by a one-year-old girl.

While most North American kidlets start off with "Cow says Moo, Chicken says Bok Bok", our daughter will shriek on command when you ask her about her favourite animal... the elk.

She does a mean chicken too, but it's just not as impressive or original.

Here's Your F'n Birthday Cake

Me: "What kind of cake do you want?"

Him: "I don't need a cake."

Me: "Well, I KNOW you don't NEED a cake. But what kind of cake do you WANT?"

Him: "Don't worry about a cake."

Can I get away with this? Can I omit a cake for his birthday? What message does this send to the world? To his inner psyche? No, dammit, I must provide cake. Plus, let's face it, who doesn't like cake?

Me: "No, we have to have a cake. We have people coming for your birthday supper."

Him: "OK. Black forest cake."

Me: "Do you want a home made black forest cake or a bakery black forest cake?" Please say bakery, please say bakery.

Him: "One from the bakery. Do people even MAKE black forest cake? I've never heard of a home made black forest cake."

Nor will you ever, my friend. Nor will you ever.

I dodged a bullet there.

The other day he wanted chicken pot pie. OK. I can do this. Chicken pot pie, you say?

My kid doesn't sleep for a few hours in the morning and a few hours in the afternoon. It's pretty random and it varies day to day. Even if I put her down to nap at the same times each day, some days it's only a cat nap. Some days it's full-on slumber.

So here I am, rolling out pastry with a kid on my back in her MEC back carrier (thanks Courtney).

The chicken pot pie was delicious. We loved it. Deep down I cursed the fact that he was working and didn't get to witness the monumental struggle to get the damn pot pie into the oven.

Next time he wants chicken pot pie, it could very well be Swanson's.

*note: To soften the blow of these stressful culinary incidences, I like to casually tell people what I am making for dinner that night. "Yeah, I made a home made chicken pot pie for dinner." No big deal.

Mother, I'm Not Simple-- I Just Can't Talk Yet

At the tender age of 12 months and 24 days, my daughter can tell me entire sentences without technically saying a word.

Years ago, I heard of babies that could sign before they could talk. This whole idea enthralled me and I always thought that if I ever had kids, I would love to teach them sign language.

While I was expecting, I was waddling through Babies R Us. I waited in line to use the bathroom/"Family Room" for what seemed like FOREVER. On a book shelf was a book about baby sign language. I waffled back and forth on whether I should buy it. I had already bought several books about babies and pregnancy. Did I really need another one? I am painfully cheap, but that's a whole other blog. Get over it, Stacey. Buy the damn book.

We started with a few basic signs. The big one, was of course, "milk". When it's your only food source, this one little word can express hunger, thirst and comfort. Today we have a limited but vital vocabulary of signs. We are trying to keep it simple and effective.

This morning my daughter signed, "More milk please." It's downright baffling. When speaking her version of each word, it comes out more like, "Mo' mmmmi zuzeez", but when these words are accompanied by sign language, there is absolutely no doubt in what she is trying to say.

It's giving us a clearer window of understanding into her language development. We have invested minimal effort in this "project", and have enjoyed the return immeasurably.

I encourage everybody to pick up a book and learn a few signs. You will not be disappointed.

I expect that when she is a teenager, she may yearn to give me a few choice gestures, but by then it won't be cute or amazing anymore.

If It Really WAS a Genie, There Would Be No Dirty Diapers at All

I was apprehensive at best whilst carrying the child. What would motherhood be like? How tired WOULD I be? How would I manage to balance the housework and the cooking and the errands and the sleeping and the baby-tending? Did I have time to scrape dirty diapers and then wash them? More accurately, was I willing to devote precious time to such a task? The answer was a resounding, "Heck, NO".

There is no diaper service in this town. When someone told us that it would be a great business venture, the hubby laughed/choked.

Enter the Genie. It has been THE BEST, most frequently used piece of baby-related paraphernalia, hands down. We bought the Diaper Genie II after reading reviews. My only complaint about the Diaper Genie II is the fact the refills are pricey. We stock up when we see them for $5 each. But walking into the room where our kid sleeps and NOT smelling you-know-what is worth it to me.

When you are emptying the Genie, be mindful of assaulting yourself with a massive puff of air from the bag. Like a friend of mine said, "My husband says it's like someone letting a massive fart go right in your face".

I cut up the rings off the top of 6-packs so that some bird doesn't get entangled. I am getting a composter for fruit and vegetable peels. I donate unwanted shoes and clothes before I throw them out. Dear environment, please give me this one frivolous massive deposit. I'll get ya next time.

Apparently, One is NOT the Loneliest Number, Harry Nilsson

Do you know that song? "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do...."?

We recently celebrated my baby's 1st birthday. It was special. It was memorable. It was the greatest day ever, because of the people who love her and lined up to show it.

We had 65 well-wishers. Yes, you heard me right. 65. Have you ever seen that show on TV called "Party Moms"? Crazy over-involved mothers spend thousands upon thousands of dollars to please their spoiled princesses, trying to keep up with the Joneses. This, however, was not the case of the birthday of Eve.

Of those 65 guests, fifty-something of them were family. This family is huge and crazy and fun and close. It was a blast.

One of Eve's grandmas owns a restaurant, so we held the party in the restaurant during the daytime when it was closed. Cousins and aunties decorated, a friend made a fantastic Hello Kitty cake, and the hostess/grandma cooked. The mommy ran around like a crazy fool, and the Daddy got called to work and didn't make it. 65 people and no Daddy!!!!!

You can say, "no gifts", but really, people will still bring gifts. We have a small house. We certainly do not feel the need to be collecting 30 or more gifts for a one-year-old. This child's toy box is already bursting at the seams. I would sit on it to close it like I would an over-stuffed suitcase, but there would be a myriad of "Tickle-Me-Elmo" giggling, "Yoo-ki-doo" singing (a Yoo-Ki-Doo is a mechanically snail, btw), Alphabet Duck reciting, and Sheep Bah-ing.

I laid awake trying to figure out how to tactfully ask people to donate money to the Haiti Relief fund in lieu of a gift. It just wasn't coming together. I asked my one friend who is the expert on "Is this weird?". I could tell that she thought it was weird.

So here is the solution that I came up with: I requested to the mother of each little one (under 5 years old) that instead of a gift, they bring an age-appropriate child's book. Instead of a goodie bag full of choking hazards, each child would leave the party with a book to enjoy at home. It was a hit. Before we opened gifts, I played Santa Claus and walked around with an arm load of gift-wrapped books.

Each baby opened up their very own book and was easily entertained while Eve opened her presents.

The party was on Good Friday, so we hid some Kinder Surprise eggs for the older kids, which kept them busy too. The party was HUGE, but it was simple and it was fun. Hot dogs, Pizza, Fruit Kabobs and cake. We're simple folk.

Eve's 1st birthday was one of the happiest days of my life. She was surrounded by people who care about her. Friends came from Victoria. Family came from Calgary. They all made the trip to show her that they want to be part of her life. I took that little girl in my arms and walked around the room with her, and I watched her face intently as she realized that she recognized each and every person in the room. She has so many relationships with so many great people already. This brought tears to my eyes.

We are so lucky.

Next year, I'm flingin' the kid a Hot n' Ready pizza with a candle in it.

Dear Health Canada, You're Killin' Me

Feeding your baby is the most natural thing in the world. So it should happen naturally, right? WRONG.

In the magazines and complimentary books published and distributed by our tax dollars, the new mother is cradling the new bundle of joy at her bosom with a look of serenity. She looks far away into the distance, cherishing the most beautiful and intimate bond between mother and child. Somehow this just doesn't equate to me, with purple bags under my eyes and a haggard ponytail/bun atop my head, juggling the baby from side to side and wincing in pain.

Throughout the pregnancy, one is bombarded with the sentiment that "Breast Is Best". The pressure to nurse is intense. I fully understand that nursing your baby is beneficial to the child both physically and emotionally. But if it's so darn important, why didn't anyone tell me that it would be the most difficult part of being a new mom?

I read books. I looked up information online. I watched video animations of faceless cartoon babies latching efficiently onto their mothers. For us, it was just not so simple.

Thinking back to all of those times in my life that I felt sorry for the women whose nipples always showed right through their t-shirts, I now realize that there is a great equilibrium in life. Sure, they cursed their fashion challenges revolving around their pointy nipples, but when it came time to feed their babies, they had 'er made in the shade.

I don't feel the need to elaborate in detail the challenges that I faced during the nine months that I nursed my daughter. I mean, let's be honest. There's a limit to graphic content that even I must respect. I will say, however, that if you have sat in agony while nursing your baby, maybe even cried during the feedings, and had your own personal battles of temptation to give up, you are not alone.

Eve's dad came to me with a bottle of formula and practically begged me to give in. It was tough to watch us struggle. I refused to give up. There was, to date, nothing in my life that I really really wanted to do that I had given up on. I wasn't about to start now.

It took me about four months to get to the point where feeding the baby became "routine". Up until then, it was a big ordeal. Then one day I realized that it was working, and it was not a monumental task as it had been in the past. Feeding the baby 8-10 times a day for 4 months equals about 450 times. Maybe sheer repetition was on my side.

Once the kid grew her bottom teeth, there was wincing. Once the top teeth came in, there was pinching which eventually evolved to biting. And that, my friends, was the beginning of the end of nursing for this mom.

We went till nine months. Health Canada recommends to breastfeed until the age of "2 years or longer".

Ahem.

What A Let Down

Have you ever heard that the sound of a crying baby can cause your milk to "let down"? Apparently the female body is wired to provide milk to the distraught and hungry children of the world. Just ask Salma Hayek.

This phenomenon of random involuntary let down was one that stayed in the back of my mind throughout my days of nursing. I was terrified of having an "accident" somewhere.

I decided to get a much-needed hair cut one day. I left the baby at home with her Daddy and headed to my regular salon to my buddy/stylist. It was great to see her. We visited and laughed as she non-judgmentally combed out my one big dreadlock that had formed over the last 5 months of wearing a ponytail 24/7. Eve's Auntie also worked at that salon so it was nice to sit and socialize and not wipe any noses or bums.

As we chatted, my stylist said to me, "Is it just me, or did I just hear a baby crying?" I too had heard the sound of a baby and wondered if I was just going crazy. I had been away from my kid before and thought I had heard her crying. It's yet another weird motherhood-related phenomenon.

"I heard it too," I said, "and it sounded like Eve." We shushed and strained to listen for the source of our hallucinations. We heard it again.

Eve's Auntie was in the staff room showing video of Eve on her Blackberry. This isn't the first time that family has made me look crazy, but that's a whole other blog.

I left the salon with my dread-free head held high, my wallet forty dollars lighter, and a warm sensation in my chest from comraderie and laughter.

My shirt was dry. I recommend the Lansinoh breast pads. They're thin and discreet. Some of the other brands have an anatomically correct nipple built into them which I find to be weird. I mean, just one more thing I have to worry about-- do my breasts look googley-eyed?