Urban Suburban Mommy

Author Archives: Alexis Nicols

How We Survived A Year Of Unemployment

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By now, you’ve heard the story of how I lost my job, house and sanity last year; an unholy trifecta and veritable s**tstorm that would level any normal person. But not this mama!

It wasn’t easy, but I finally see a light at the end of the tunnel and for once, it’s not a train.

If I can survive, anyone can. The hardest part? Finding moments of joy and opportunities for reflection and rediscovery. I don’t do “happy” well; I usually defer to b*tch panic, especially when I’m robbed of routine and, um… my house and livelihood. This past year forced me not only to change my idea of “normal”, but also my identity and my future. It was a lot of work, but here’s how I did it:

  1. I changed the monologue: Hi, I’m Alexis’ anxiety! Follow me on my path to total self-destruction as we examine every worst-case scenario!
    I was convinced that if I ever lost my job we would survive for exactly two weeks before selling everything we own and becoming hermits in a box by the underpass. In reality, we lasted much longer than I thought we would. I had some savings, a severance package and support to see me through the biggest hurdles. I worked hard to change the negative-speak and set realistic expectations. Without sounding too “New Age-y” and “#blessed,” I found the positives: our new house will be clean and dry, we will not starve, I will find a job!
  2. I cast a wider net: I started looking at a greater variety of opportunities. Contracts? Sure! Self-Employment? Why not? Part-time? Bring it!
    I’m now leveraging 16 years of knowledge in retail marketing, graphic design and communications into what I hope will be a successful new career.
  3. I started volunteering: Once a week, I spend several hours at a not for profit developing digital marketing assets. The additional skill sets look great on a resume and the finished pieces are perfect for my portfolio.
  4. I kept learning and networking: I’m a sucker for research. If there’s something I don’t know, I make it my business to learn it. I took online tutorials and courses at Udemy.com and Lynda.com. I read books about freelance careers and customer success. I joined MumNet and attended networking functions to grow my village. I signed up for career workshops, job fairs, and connected with people in any industry I was interested in. Everyone was happy to let me pick their brains and some of the meetings led to job interviews. Most importantly, the process of networking forced me to go outside and be in the world.
  5. I enjoyed more time with my kids: This should be at the top of the list. I took advantage of every opportunity to take the boys to and from school, to the park, appointments and walks around the city to discover the world and each other. I will never get this time back once they’re older, and the extra time allowed me to slow down and be with them rather than just herding them around and getting things done.

We’re a work in progress – still not gainfully employed, house isn’t finished yet (because, insurance companies) and we don’t know what the next few months will bring us, making it hard to make any long-term plans. The things I don’t know and can’t predict far exceed the things I know for certain. What I’ve come to is this: After 16 years, I lost my “safety net.” So I might as well take a chance, laugh a bit and above all, enjoy the ride.

 

When Life Gives You Bananas…

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I don’t bake very often.

Which is to say, I bake never.

Two weeks ago, for my sons’ bake sale at school, I bought three boxes of nut-free, gluten-free, sugar-free, flavour-free snickerdoodle cookies and placed them very deliberately into a container lined with paper towel. I pressed the tops of a few of them and crumbled one or two for effect. I neither confirmed nor denied that I had baked them myself, and they were a hit.

Don’t tell me I don’t make an effort.

Recently, I came across some very ripe bananas on my counter. “Self,” I said to myself, “why not make banana bread? Surely you can find a healthy, sugar-free recipe online!”

There are literally thousands of “healthy, sugar-free” recipes for banana bread on the Internet. As it turns out, I picked the one dud.

I don’t blame Pinterest exclusively for what happened next.

I’m a bit of an improviser (read: I cut corners), but with cooking you can usually get away with it. Don’t have peanuts for your satay sauce? Use crunchy peanut butter! No pine nuts for your pesto? Use walnuts or hemp seeds! Baking, on the other hand, is science. It’s alchemy. Miss one ingredient, and it’s crap. Use too much of something, and you can’t overcorrect – you’ll have to toss it.

I learned this the hard way.

Everything was fine until I started getting creative. I thought that if four bananas make it moist, then a cup of applesauce would make it even better. And hey! Why not cut down on cholesterol by substituting the third egg for egg whites? No measuring cup? No problem! Since I didn’t know the difference between baking soda and baking powder, I decided that neither were really necessary. Flour is a powder, right? I just used more flour to compensate for the extra wet ingredients. I ignored the nagging feeling as I mixed everything together, noting how it wasn’t actually turning into batter so much as paste.

Oh man, I thought. Recipes are for suckers. I’m a baking maverick, beholden to no recipe. Ain’t no set of carefully executed rules gonna chain me down!

I baked it for the allotted 50 minutes. It bubbled and churned, but never turned golden brown. I began to worry when, after an additional 30 minutes, it had glazed over but continued to bubble. How can a solid do that? Finally, after nearly two hours in the oven, my creation had started to turn a faint brown at the outermost corners.

Done!

I pulled it out and set it on the rack to cool.

It fell onto the rack with a heavy plop. It was oozing. It was a mess. Dave looked horrified. “I’m not eating that,” he said. “No way.”

Just to prove to him that it was fine, I scooped a hunk of under-cooked, oozing (steaming, piping, freaking hot) banana goo and chewed. And chewed. “See?” I managed through careful mastication whilst burning off a layer of tongue skin. “It’s delish.”

It’s a miracle that my jaw wasn’t glued shut. We watched each other carefully, looking for signs that the other was bluffing. My mouth started to tingle. I couldn’t feel my tongue. Finally, I retched and spit it out. “Yeah, enjoy that.” The next morning, I threw it out.

I learned two valuable lessons that day.

One: Husbands have a line in the sand, usually where there’s a possibility of being poisoned.

Two: Leave the baking to Betty Crocker.

 

Raising Boys and the Art of Poop

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I’m raising three boys. I married one, gave birth to the other two.

Before you label me an emasculating nag, let me just tell you that my husband is an awesome father and partner, and he routinely scrubs the finish off of my plastic cookware, at least he’s doing the dishes.

Also, he once tried to fix an electrical outlet with a butter knife. While the power was still on. So, that’s what I’m working with.

The trajectory of learning to raise boys was not so much a curve, but rather an abrupt drop that plummeted to the depths of sanity, with me shrieking all the way. I have a sister. My mom has a sister. My maternal grandmother had two sisters.

“Girl” is a language I’m familiar with.

My husband prepared me for raising boys in bits and bites; by the time I was pregnant with my first child, I was ready to have a toilet seat perpetually raised, a trail of clothing on the floor (presumably, to help him find his way to the kitchen) and an affinity for sports. My husband was rebellious and untamed back in his day (he specifically asked that I not mention the time he stole a street cleaner, so I won’t.) We thought we could anticipate and be prepared for anything our boys threw at us.

As it turned out, we were dumb.

Boys are encoded with baffling behaviour and unexplained rituals. Every time I catch up, something new comes along. If you have any insights on the following, I’m all ears:

Mess:

Imagine a dumpster fire. Now it’s in your living room. My home is a constant eruption of indelible markers, old food, new food and toys that are designed to break the sound barrier and the human spirit. I don’t need a nanny, I need a priest.

Smell:

I’m not talking about the obvious shaboomie in the diaper after taco night. I’m talking about the pervasive, insistent aroma that follows my boys around. Nate’s natural smell seems to be yogurt and dirty running shoes. And sometimes poop. Which leads me to…

Poop:

My kids are obsessed. They talk about poop constantly. They think it’s the most hilarious word in the English lexicon. Nate has even developed a highly sophisticated language whereby every other word is “poop”. It took a while to crack the code, but now we watch Frozen together and happily sing along to “Let It Poop.”

Danger:

If there’s a way to climb something, dangle from somewhere or perch precariously on something that’s not meant for climbing, they will find it. The calm, centred, nurturing Mama inside of me says “They’re just testing their boundaries. Let them explore.” The part of me that’s attached to my face screams “For the love of GOD get off that scaffolding before you break your neck!”

What I couldn’t have known, what no one prepared me for, was the utter love and devotion my boys have – for me. While I was busy falling in mad, deep, crazy love for my kids, I hadn’t noticed that they were doing the same thing. Of all the “boy stuff” I was unprepared for, that surprise was the most welcomed.

Will “Mom” for seeds

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There are 48 hours till Mother’s Day, and I’m running through midtown Toronto looking for seeds.

Not just any seeds. “Basil, mama,” came the edict from my oldest boy. “I want to plant basil. And sunflowers.” Right. No problem.

Only, it seems there aren’t any basil seeds in Toronto. Canadian Tire, nope. Home Depot, zilch. I even asked the convenience store lady to check her stockroom to see if there was anything that hadn’t germinated yet.

I’m not allowed back in her store.

Sunflowers are another challenge. Apparently there’s no demand for flowers that reach six feet tall in a city choked by condos. But my kid wants great, flowering behemoths on the tiny Juliet balcony of our two-bedroom rental.

Did I mention there are two more days till Mother’s Day?

It doesn’t matter. The day will be spent making everyone pancakes while slurping lukewarm coffee, opening handmade cards that I helped create, then carrying on, business as usual. Traditionally, there’s a meltdown around 3-ish. This year, the boys are two and five, so it’s anyone’s game.

I know the score. I don’t expect anything super special on Mother’s Day. We don’t go out to a restaurant because, kids.

 

“Mother’s Day” is a misnomer, kind of like “work/life balance” and “equal pay”. In my home, it’s a vague, esoteric term that acknowledges the woman who does roughly 90% of the work for 10% of the credit.

Here’s the weird part: I don’t care.

No one “Moms” for the glory. It’s the most thankless, exhausting, frustrating, maddening, rewarding job in the world. Who willingly subjects themselves to miniature despots and tiny tyrants without the promise of a paycheque or, at the very least, vacation pay? Moms do it willingly, joyfully, sometimes more than once.

If a grown-up asked me to make him scrambled eggs, then promptly threw them on the floor like I was trying to kill him, I might just reach for a baseball bat. “Momming” is different than loving. Of course I love my kids. That’s why they’re still living here.

Mother’s Day is less about me, and more about what I represent to my kids, beyond “the help” or the ATM. I am their safe place, their unconditional love and their biggest cheerleader. Every day I wake up with anxiety and feelings of inadequacy. And every day I push past it and keep my kids happy, healthy and loved. I “Mom” pretty hard.

So Nathan wants basil and sunflower seeds. He wants to put his hands in the dirt and dig and water something and watch it grow. He wants to hold “real alive” worms in his hands and tell me how they dig tunnels under the ground so the plants can thrive. So this weekend, he’ll plant and I’ll watch him grow.

What a great Mother’s Day present.

Answering the call of the wild

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So you’ve decided to go to the bathroom by yourself. You know as well as I do that your kids will turn your home inside out in the time it takes you to post a blog (ahem), but congratulations on taking a giant leap of faith.

Presumably, your children have graduated from teeny tiny helpless beings who either had to be buckled into a bouncy seat in the bathroom while you showered, or contained in a high chair while you prepared a meal that was ultimately thrown on the floor. If they can amuse themselves or each other for five minutes, you have a clear window of opportunity.

Suddenly, you hear a noise. Here’s a 5-point checklist to determine if you have enough time to click Add To Cart:

1. A single shriek/scream/yell:

Pause, and listen. Do you hear another one? Does anyone have panic in their voice?

No?

Congratulations. You can now finish typing a morally outraged response to someone’s anti-vaxx post.

2. Laughter:

There’s nothing I love more than the sound of my children laughing. Unless the laughter is at my expense or because they’ve discovered how to access or break something. In my home, hearing a child laugh either means they’ve uncovered something witty on YouTube Kids, or the older one has encouraged the younger one to draw stylized poop motifs on the wall with scented markers.

You have two choices: stay put and finish Candy Crush, or investigate. Proceed at your own risk.

3. A pattern of screaming/silence/crying:

The silence means that your child is drawing breath for the next round. Children did this in prehistoric days to alert their parents to their location. Or drive them away. If there’s more than two in a row, you can assume there’s bodily damage. Today just isn’t your lucky day.

4. The tattle:

Preschoolers will intentionally insert themselves into an elaborate play-by-play of events that are none of their business. It’s maddening. Imagine sportscaster Paul Romanuk describing the hockey game, only instead of shouting “He shoots, he SCORES!” you hear “He pooped on the FLOOR!”

I assume the innateness of tattling is also evolutionary and was once prudent to survival, but it’s doubtful that any of those Tattlesaurus Rex’s made it to adulthood. Tattling can totally work in your favour, as long as you use it like a newsfeed to determine if an objectionable action by a sibling is benign or involves dropping heat.

5. Silence:

This can mean one of three things:

A) They’re playing quietly together in perfect symbiosis. Document the moment and enjoy.

B) The rapture has claimed them. Consider an afternoon of Real Housewives and chocolate-covered pretzels. They’ll be returned to you soon enough.

C) You should prepare for mutiny and total destruction on the other side of the door. Add Lord of the Flies and The Art of War to your reading list.

Momologist, Alexis Nicols

Alexis Nicols is a marketing specialist, actor and freelance writer. She lives in urban Toronto with her husband and two sons, but is definitely suburban at heart. She regularly dodges the slings and arrows of parenting boys, considers herself a connoisseur of stretchy pants and hopes that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a train.

For more musings from a mom who wonders when everything below the neck went National Geographic, visit her blog: stopstopcomehere.ca

Kids’ stuff I wish someone would invent

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If you’re like me, you have all the time in the world to daydream about how easy this parenting gig would be if you only had a (fill in the blank).

For every step forward in the “useful kids’ crap” category (see Gro Clock), there is a giant leap backwards (see Child disassembles Gro Clock with the accuracy and precision of a bomb specialist.) I’ve gone one step further and leaped so far out of the box that the items listed below can only be found in the realm of science fiction. Still, a mom can dream, can’t she?

1. A feat of engineering that keeps bathtub water IN the bathtub and off the floor.

Perhaps an invisible force field or a film that keeps water where it belongs. I’d even try sonar that prevents children from turning the tub into a wave pool like a Kraken on, well…crack. So far, I’ve tried a garbage bag and a clear storage bin but as of yet have been unsuccessful.

2. A baby/toddler/pre-schooler-to-English translator that plugs directly into your ear.

Imagine – no more figuring out which cup they want, no more wondering why your child is crying for the eleventy-hundredth time (in the past hour). “Nooo!” becomes “I would gladly play with that parent-approved, educational toy.” At the very least, if no translation could be found, the ear plug would pump in the soothing, dulcet tones of Enya or Yanni Live at the Acropolis.

3. Food that instantly becomes whatever your child wants.

Chicken fingers? No problem. Oh, you changed your mind? Bam! Macaroni! Bonus points if every dish magically has four times the nutritional value of my preschooler’s current diet of plain hamburger buns and air.

4. A magic bed.

I’m probably the only parent alive who has problems with her children sleeping in their own bed (or sleeping at all), but bear with me. If someone created a bed that could transport my child to Slumberland and keep him there until the sun actually rose, I would literally just give that sorcerer all of my money. Note: I would also accept a mattress that cuts the bedtime nonsense down from two hours to twenty solid minutes.

5. Toys that don’t lose their pieces.

Or have sharp edges. Or get caught in an air vent. Or up a child’s nose. Or don’t require batteries. Or cause dents in a child’s skull when his younger brother clobbers him with it. So, basically a sponge.

6. Liquid patience.

If only there was a magical liquid that could soothe a mommy’s frazzled nerves and transport her feelings of rage and inadequacy to a far-off place. I would name it after the sound it creates when it first passes the lips: Merlooooooot……

Note to self: stop by the liquor store.

My 5 Bargain Hunting Tips for Moms

Posted on by Posted in Urban Suburban Mommy .

I remember the first luxury bag I ever purchased. I paid cash from the back of a panel van in a deserted Shoppers Drug Mart parking lot. It came in a grey dust bag marked “Chahel”. That night, my cat clawed it to death. Thinking back on it, I’m thinking: a) it wasn’t a real leather bag, let alone a designer one, and b) my cat thought I was dirt.

While I’ve evolved from a traditional hunter/gatherer, the instinct to seek and find remains unchanged (I’ve also retained the sloping Cromagnon brow and slack jaw.) My search for pretty things has always been tempered by a restricted budget. Rarely do the two intersect. However, as I grow older and (marginally) wiser, I’ve found ways to circumvent the wallet drain by bargain hunting. While my curated collection is unenviable by Kardashian standards, it satisfies my love of lovely (and affordable) things. Here’s a list of my fave haunts and awesome sites. Now get shopping!

  1. Winners: love them or hate them, Winners has a plethora of chic finds and designer duds at every price point. Yes, you need to wear your patient panties. Yes, you need to hunt. Yes, you need to wear elbow pads and, the odd time, carry pepper spray. You can thank me when you find a pair of designer jeans for 60% off and there’s one left in your size. Winners.ca
  2. Facebook: I’ve joined local buy/sell/trade groups and have scored some incredible deals at a fraction of the price. Most sellers require pick up only, but because it’s local, you won’t have to go far.
  3. Thrift shopping: My favourite thing to do on my birthday? Spend an afternoon in Kensington Market. I’ve haunted that ‘hood for 30 years. From Exile and Courage My Love to Vintage Depot, the finds are one-of-a-kind. I found some of my favourite items there (Guess leather knee-high boots, “like new” for $35? Burberry trench for $85? Yes please!) If you’re skeeved out by wearing second-hand goods, just go for the Dim Sum and Vietnamese coffee.
  4. Sample sales: I used to work on a street in the west end that housed dozens of fashion distributors. About twice annually, they would release their off-season samples at ridiculously low prices. You can sign up for sample sale notices and quite literally fill your closet with high-end finds without the high-end prices.
  5. Haute Look: There’s a ton of member sites out there offering discounts on luxury brands: Zulilly.com, Overstock.com, etc. Haute Look is my favourite. It’s a veritable Nordstrom clearance rack. Premium denim, kids’ stuff, menswear and home décor (even beauty products!), this site has it all. They have an excellent return policy and all shipping is tracked. Hautelook.com

 

Boys and guns: How we survived without Kevlar

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My son wants a gun.

He wants a gun so he can “gun” people and “dead” them.

(The fact that he hasn’t connected the appropriate verbs to the nouns may or may not imply that he’s ready to have one.)

My son has been begging me for a ray gun at the local toystore, the kind that flashes seizure-inducing lights and emits blips and bleeps I can only assume were recorded in the fourth circle of Hell.

As the old adage goes, boys will be terrifying.

So far, I have flatly refused to bring any sort of weaponry into our home. In not-so-peaceful protest, he’s now creating ad hoc guns out of whatever happens to be around: a paper towel roll, a piece of paper, a stick. He used to love reading books and playing with his toy trucks and trains. Now he loves guns, swords and maintaining a pitch that could drown out a demolition.

So what gives?

What’s with the obsession with weaponry, makeshift or otherwise? I don’t subscribe to the whole “boys will be boys” theory. Not all boys are drawn to guns. We gave him a doll when he was younger (also a gun now.)

Am I raising a sociopath? Is the drive to be aggressive in a boy’s DNA? I conducted a bit of research, and I found a wealth of information by “Boy Expert” Michael Gurian. Here’s what I found:

  1. “Aggressive” is not necessarily “violent”: Gurian claims there’s no substantive link between aggressive boys and violent adults. It comes down to environment; so long as my energetic kids’ behaviour is channeled in constructive ways, I have every confidence that he’ll avoid jail time. He’s a human perpetual-motion machine, so we try to give him every opportunity to burn off his energy.
  2. The role of imaginative play: Imaginative play helps children understand and process their world. Many (nearly every boy I’ve ever met) are hard-wired to seek aggressive play filled with good guys, bad guys and adventure. Nate is constantly narrating elaborate action sequences that are informed by his favourite shows and movies (he also thinks he’s a Storm Trooper), or just from his own imagination. Playing with makeshift guns is just that – play. He doesn’t have sophisticated concepts of “killing” and “death” just yet.
  3. Testosterone: Gurian calls testosterone “humanity’s life insurance.” In my experience, my son has always played differently than his female cousins. According to Gurian, testosterone is responsible; it fuels the desire to be active, take risks, run around, jump, hit, yell – and pick up sticks and turn them into semi-automatic assault weapons.

So what do I do when my mini Rambo states “I’m going to gun you”? First off, any weapon-y looking devices that come into our house look like toys, not like real guns. They shoot foam batons, not bullets. I’ve also talked (and talked) to him extensively about the “game” of guns: don’t point it at people’s faces and no gun play with people who don’t want to participate. Apparently, I’m also doing the right thing by saying “I don’t like it when you talk about killing me.” As Gurian advises, “Be serene about this threat.”

That’s me, Captain Serenity.

NOTE: After this post was written, Nate’s father bought him the space gun (pictured on the right.) Keep an eye out for my next post about how to bury a body without leaving any evidence.

Michael Gurian is an America marriage and family counselor, corporate consultant and social philosopher. He has published over 28 books, including: The Wonder of Boys, The Minds of Boys and Boys and Girls Learn Differently! michaelgurian.com

Unpacking unboxing: A YouTube phenomenon

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My kids are obsessed with YouTube Kids. That’s nothing new. Personally, I’m happy to buy a few extra minutes to eat food while it’s hot, do some laundry or answer a quick email. I’m vigilant about what they watch, and often watch videos with them (just because the app has “Kids” after it doesn’t mean it’s entirely kid-friendly, especially when your boys are collectively younger than a grade-schooler.)

Their latest obsession isn’t episodes of Paw Patrol or mini movies featuring the Minions. It’s videos of adults unpacking toys and playing with them. After conducting some research, I discovered that this phenomenon – referred to as “unboxing” – isn’t new. And if my kids are totally into it, then chances are yours are too.

https://youtu.be/Nflx3iRifEE

Borrowed from the adult version of unpacking new tech items such as iPhones or computers, “unboxing” videos feature adult voices, usually female and unnaturally enthusiastic, guiding viewers through components of unpackaged toys. Sometimes there’s just music, but my kids favour a fully guided tour. Often, the toys are arranged with time-lapse (stop motion) into a fully developed, if poorly scripted, plotline.

Theories abound as to why unboxing has become so wildly popular (The Google search term “unboxing” has increased 871% since 2010*) I’m not a psychologist and won’t overwhelm you with theories of the mind philosophy or cognitive development. I’m here to tell you that unboxing is weird, but it won’t mess up your kid.

It will all be ok, even if you don’t see any obvious value in it.

There’s a pejorative view of technology and its impact on childhood development, but I’m betting it doesn’t come from the 80% of parents who give their device to their children between the ages of 0-2**. The scape and scope of play is changing, but that doesn’t mean it’s all passive entertainment turning tiny, developing minds into mush. For me, there’s little difference between watching these videos with my kids (while they interpret and explain what’s happening) and reading them their favourite book 500 times.

Unboxing is exploratory and feeds into their innate desire to know what stuff is, how it works and what’s hidden inside. They’re no less inclined to explore their world just because there’s someone on YouTube doing it for them. For proof I offer my son Nate who, just yesterday, was very busy using my sunglasses to crack open a walnut to see what was inside.

At the end of the day, is there really any difference between watching a video of someone creating a play-based narrative and watching commercials specifically inserted between Saturday morning cartoons to hawk directed play? When I was a kid, we had Strawberry Shortcake, Barbie, Care Bears, and a whole host of other playtime friends. The implicit promise was the more characters and/or accessories you purchased, the more vivid your playtime experience would be.

My kids know the difference between “playing” and “watching”, and there’s no indication from either of them they’re going to give up playing with their own toys any time soon. Watching a video of a woman playing with a Peppa Pig “Mashem” isn’t going to hinder their ability to learn, create and play.

*cnn.com

** StreamCon, NYC, November 2015.

The many voices of Mommy

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I expected a lot of physical changes when I became a mom. For the most part, I wasn’t disappointed; everything that was once stationary went south for the winter, the travel luggage under my eyes is now a matching set, and I’ve generally modified my personal style and hygiene so as not to alarm anyone.

One thing I did not anticipate was my voice changing. Not that awkward change. Nothing has descended, there’s no extra hair anywhere (save the lone wiry hairs now sprouting from my post-menopausal face). But it has adjusted in both timber and tone in order to accommodate the parenting scenario.

For example:

1. Normal Mommy: Everything is status quo; I’ve had my coffee, the kids are dressed and ready for school, everyone is fed, and the eldest child is being particularly clever and/or witty. It’s a sing-songy lilt, cheerful and vibrant. Woodland animals perch on our balcony to hear me use this voice. I use this voice 1% of the time.

2. FBI Mommy: This is fact-finding, investigative reporting mommy. It’s all business; not “loud” but definitely “assertive”. We need to get out the door. Where are your shoes? What do you want to eat for dinner? I put the emphasis on the last word because the men in my house function on brevity – we’re a bullet-point family. Use too many words and you’ll see eyes glaze over.

3. Clenched Mommy: By the time I’ve used this voice, something has gone sideways. Perhaps the eldest has refused my five thousandth request to get in the car or the thirty thousandth request to wash his hands after he pees. When I speak through clenched teeth, consider it a warning shot across the bow. The people I live with know they have roughly 30 seconds to autocorrect. During this time, other muscle groups may or may not be clenched.

4. Bellowing Mommy: I’ve had years of theatre training and voice work. As a result, I’ve developed a bellow that comes not from the diaphragm, but from the darkest recesses of my soul. The approximate volume is roughly a hybrid of foghorn and T-Rex; it breaks the sound barrier. I reserve this voice for imminent danger. We were at Centre Island one summer, and a much younger Nathan took off running towards the road – with a truck belching across his path. I let out a “STOP” – Nate stopped, as did the other 50 or so parents around us. I think the truck stopped too. And the birds. Bellowing mommy is for emergencies only.

5. Savage Mommy: I won’t bore you with this one. We all have this voice. Roughly the pitch of sonar, “savage” only occurs past the point of no control. I hate Savage Mommy, I avoid her at all costs. Most of the time, I’ll just remove myself from the situation and cry in the bathroom until it passes.

If emotional temperature can be indicated by tone of voice, I feel like I’m always running a fever. I try to stay in Normal Mommy mode as much as possible. Totally doable with two young boys, right? So how do you keep yourself even-keeled? What’s your Mommy voice?

Old Downward Dog, New Tricks: How I’m Namastaying Active with Yoga 

Posted on by Posted in Urban Suburban Mommy .

If you’ve read my previous posts, you know that 2016 wasn’t exactly my year. I won’t bore you with details from the dumpster fire that was my life, I will only say that 2017 brings new promises and better offerings.

About two months ago, I started doing yoga. Nothing spectacularly difficult, no stretching my legs behind my head or rooms so hot they could bake bread; just a weekly trip to the local community centre. The decision to participate in a physical activity went part and parcel with my new year’s decision to be more active, try something new and be mindful. As though my anxiety-crippled, hyper-driven mind was something I could turn off. I figured if I was going to be trapped in the fourth circle of cerebral hell, I might as well get some physical activity out of it.

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I never played team sports. Ever. I wasn’t coordinated, athletic or particularly competitive, and nobody wanted to coach that kid. After being told repeatedly that I wasn’t any good at sports and being chosen last for every team (track and field days were and remain my idea of purest hell), I just stopped trying. I did, however, get very good at coming up with elaborate ways to get out of PhysEd. I refined the art of excuses, coming up with reasons why I shouldn’t move my body and get active, which is fine when you’re in your twenties and can lose 5 pounds just by thinking about it. When I reached my 40’s, I realized that:

  1. a) I had to get active not just for my sake, but for my two young boys, who could out-run a cheetah and re-define the Doppler effect.
  2. b) Muscle memory only occurs when you’ve used your muscles in the first place.

Yoga is hard. Apparently, Namaste is Hindu for “I’m going to calmly and gently kick your ass.” Who knew that holding poses named after nature and cute animals could cause you to break a sweat? Oh, and you have to breathe. I’m still working on that part. I may have passed out once or twice.

And so we circle back to mindfulness. Yoga forced me to be in my brain in such a way that I had to focus and pay attention. I had to compartmentalize my thoughts and be present. You cannot, just cannot do tree pose if your brain has already jumped ahead to the groceries you need to buy or remembering to call the dentist. The only times I didn’t wobble or fall over were when I was focused, breathing and listening. After just a few months I was calmer, writing more and, to be honest, yelling less.

I have no aspirations to become a career athlete. There are no bus tours to an ashram in my future. I may never lap my kids at the park, but at least my back no longer hurts when I pick them up. I’ve found a form of physical activity that doesn’t hand out ribbons or require sticks, balls or pucks. I may not always look forward to going, but I’m always glad I went. Namaste!