Urban Suburban Mommy

Category Archives: The Struggle is Real

Not giving up the sports car

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When my husband and I first started getting serious and realized our lives were becoming intertwined, that we were working on a future, we had “The Talk.” We each had three deal-breakers that we made clear the other was never to push back about. One of my three deal-breakers was that I would never drive a minivan and would always have a sports car.

Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly a sports car, but my VW Jetta 1.8T GLS is the nicest car I’ve ever owned. It’s the first car I ever specifically picked, went out an bought, instead of just finding something I could afford and thought might not die on me too quickly. Heated leather seats, sunroof, kickin’ stereo with steering wheel volume and channel control – and turbo! It’s fast. Plus it’s easy to park – and parking is at a premium in the city, I can parallel park in the smallest of spots with this car.

I’m not bragging here, my car is a 2003. I’ve maintained it well and I just love it.

For all of the Baby Mum Mums the boys ground into the interior, the indelible impressions that the car seats have made in the leather, for the cupholder, which I’ve now got to replace a second time, because each of my children decided to tear the arms off of because they wanted to see how far they could flex. I still love this car.

Of course, I’m glad I had enough foresight to buy a four-door, because I couldn’t have handled a coupe with two car seats, but I can’t bring myself to replace this car. It’s my car from before kids. It’s fast and fun and fully loaded.

I also can’t bear the idea of unleashing my boys on a new car. I’ve moved past my shame of living out of my car some weeks, with not-quite-empty lunch bags, drink boxes, school work, bathing suits and an odd assortment of toys and wrappers scattered like mementoes of weeks gone by.

But my husband – he agreed to my sports car deal, he was happy to be the one to get the minivan.

He doesn’t see it as a loss of his before-child freedom, and he doesn’t see it as an admission that he’s been domesticated. He loves his minivan. He sees it as the best automotive choice anyone can make – it stores all of his gear, lets him cart around big numbers of people, and he can stretch out and have a nap. His only dissatisfaction is that he didn’t go for a model with stow-and-go seats.

The truth is, I do appreciate the minivan – for its functionality, of course. It is great at a drive-in movie. It’s perfect when each kid wants a friend over, or when we’re going out in big groups. It’s a dream for packing up and going camping and it comes in handy when I want to buy something oversized – hello IKEA!

But I’m still not giving up my sports car.

Bath or shower?

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bath or shower

I think my love of baths must be genetic. I have always been a bather. I would bathe for hours while I wrote term papers. I would take ‘bird baths’ – quick little baths instead of a shower – before going out. I’m a bath bomber, I’m a bubbler, I’m a three-reheater and I think my little muppets have inherited the bath genes.

We’re not the nightly bath type of family. Honestly, I don’t know who has time for that between playdates, swimming, karate, grocery shopping and homework. But I can never figure out whether baths or showers are better for the boys.

Showers are definitely faster but baths are far more fun.

I love a good, long bath, and so do my kids. But a bath turns into an hour of splashing and playing and toys in the water and a sopping wet floor. The problem is, I’m not comfortable leaving them in the tub without watching them.

[polldaddy poll=9214929]

They’re too big to bathe together – not too old, just too big. And I cannot spend 2 hours letting them bathe, one after the next. Showers aren’t their favourite, so they’re fast and easy, but the boys only put up with them grudgingly.

What do you do?

[polldaddy poll=9214932]

 

Domestically challenged

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domestically challenged

I’m not good at cleaning. It’s taken my husband about 11 years to figure this out – or at least accept it. He calls me “domestically challenged.”

Before you get all “What a chauvinist, why isn’t he doing the cleaning too!” let me tell you, the man is an awesome Urban Daddy, works 60-70 hours a week and cleans with me on the weekends. I find it hard to do two kids, a full-time job and all of the extracurriculars, plus cook, clean, shop and still have some ‘me’ time here and there. But the fact is, I am not a good cleaner. Some people are. Some people even enjoy it. Not me.

We had been together for about three years, and had been in our home for about a year. One day I called him and asked, “Honey, where is the broom.” I had spilled an entire box of cereal on the floor. His response? “It’s right beside the mop.” So I made the mistake of asking, “Okay, where do we keep the mop?” He hung up on me. So why did it take him 8 more years to conclude I was domestically challenged? The writing was most definitely on the wall.

We don’t focus on clean. We try to keep it not messy and accept that we are busy people and would rather devote our time to our kids than to cleaning. From time to time our house gets a bit – out of control. It gets beyond needing the basic dusting, vacuuming, wipe-down, and when that happens, I call in the troops. Our place isn’t that big and it is well worth the money to save my sanity – and his – by hiring someone to clean our home and get it back to ship shape so that our slow but inevitable descent into out-of-control can start anew.

The thing is, I’m too embarrassed to hire someone in my neighbourhood. I worry that if I take the recommendation from a friend or neighbour, that my cleaner may narc on me. Talk about paranoid – but I don’t want word of my domestic shortcomings circulating around the neighbourhood. People talk. I’d rather have them talk about my bad parking – but that’s another story altogether. So I hire a perfect stranger – which comes with all of its own problems. You never know if they’re going to do a great job. You never know if they’re going to take advantage. You never know if they’re even going to show up!

Fact is, I’m going to cut this rant short, because today, they DIDN’T show up and I feel obligated to go do the work myself.

Who am I kidding. I’m going to convince my husband to go out for the day while I make some calls to see if anyone else wants the job on short notice.

caffeine

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caffeine

We’re very different when it comes to caffeine, so let’s get into some coffee talk.

caffeine

Suburban Mommy Michelle tells it:

The most important thing these days for me is caffeine (I know I should be drinking green tea). This of course is what gets me through the day. I am not an addict but if I don`t do my 2 cups a day, it is a struggle.

1. Starbucks

I love a good strong brew. My order: usually a Grande but sometimes a Vente Soy Cappuccino. A bit of cinnamon and chocolate sprinkled on top, and yes, 3 sugars. (I know, bad).

Starbucks gives me a really good pick me up.

2. Nescafe French Vanilla – Brewed at Home

Admittedly, every day I do drink my huge cup of coffee at home. My guilty pleasure is a cup of Nescafe French Vanilla with soy milk and a teaspoon of stevia. It’s not as strong as a Starbucks brew but provides a good jolt for at least the morning.

3. Aroma

My number one favourite place to get my caffeine injection is Aroma. Again, like at Starbucks, I usually order a large Soy Cappuccino with the cinnamon and sugar. I love, love, love the flavour and Aroma coffee keeps me going for the whole day.

Urban Mommy Elisa tells it:

I wish I’d never given up caffeine, life might be different now if I still had the little pick-me-up to get me through my day, but I don’t do caffeine. Truth is, I MISS IT!! I like mint tea well enough, and sometimes I’ll go for liquorice tea or even ginger lemon, but the truth is, I love coffee. I drink decaf. And I put up with my fair share of people asking why I even bother. But I love it.

1. Starbucks

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I have a hard time turning down a grande decaf latte. I love it with soy milk. Or just a plain old decaf Americano. I like my coffee black and unflavoured, unsweetened. Even when I drank coffee, I drank it black.

2. Decaf Nescafe

My love of decaf instant coffee horrifies people. I keep it in my desk drawer and there’s always a jar at home too. I find most places that serve decaf (except Starbucks) have burnt, stale, old disgusting decaf sitting on the burner, and it’s generally pretty pitiful, awful-tasting stuff. So I stick with instant. But not just any instant coffee. Nescafe is delicious. And when it’s warm, if you put Nescafe, water and ice in the blender or bullet (yes, I’m a huge fan of the Magic Bullet), it froths, like a fancy five dollar frappé.

3. Any indie shop

I try to go local when I can, so I’ll step into any local café and try their coffee. Because I drink my decaf black, if the bean isn’t good and the coffee isn’t fresh, there’s no forgiving. It’s really the acid test for how good a café really is. But the independents do try hard and I’ve seldom been disappointed.

We don’t have anyone to talk tea with you – so we’ll keep this post all coffee. We would love to hear about your own caffeine-inspired recommendations.

[polldaddy poll=9169655]

 

Ah-Choo. I’m sick. Nobody cares.

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i'm sick

I’m getting sick.

im sick. nobody caresMy nose is running, my eyes are droopy, the tissues are tucked into my sleeve. Everyone keeps telling me to slow down and look after myself. Feel better, they say. Take some time for yourself, they say.

DON’T TELL ME – TELL MY FAMILY!

For some reason, these boys, the husband, nobody seems to realize that I’m not just sick, I’M SICK. They say the right things:

“Mommy, are you sick?”

“Mommy, can I get you a kleenex?”

“Honey, take it easy.”

But then the laundry piles up, the homework doesn’t magically get done, they still expect to eat, for the dishes to get washed and for karate class, swimming and playdates to ensue.

I feel like I’m living in some weird Twilight Zone where sick is all in my head. Well, actually, it is all in my head. Pardon my language, but if I get any more snotty, I’m going to have to withdraw my RRSPs and invest in Puffs. Thanks gawd for Puffs Plus with lotion. This was a genius invention. One word of advice: Do not skimp on the tissues. The lotion – it makes all the difference.

So mom marches on, Puffs in hand, and sleeve, as I decontaminate everything I touch because the only thing worse than having to survive motherhood with a nasty cold is having to live through the horrors of sick children or, dare I say it, the dreaded man cold!

I’ve gotta pee!

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i need to pee

How many times a day do you hear “I’ve gotta pee!”

And it’s contagious. If one needs to go, the other needs to go. Not at the same time. Not when it’s convenient. In fact, they have to go when it’s least convenient. They’ve gotta go when the food arrives at a restaurant. They were fine a second ago, but now that you’ve got to the front of the line at the [fill in the blank with any city office – passport, drivers licence, parking tickets] and they just can’t hold it for a single second.

Sometimes I wonder if ditching the diapers was really in my best interest…

But what about us? What do you do when you need to pee. It starts in your brain: I gotta pee. You insist – as you argue inside your own brain – that you can wait. You can hold it. You don’t need to go. Well, you don’t need to go that bad.

Says you.

You know very well that you need to go – that bad – because since giving birth (the second… third  time) you’ve got little to no bladder control. There is no difference, no degrees. You either don’t have to go, or you have to pee like Niagara Falls is pressing against your pelvic floor.

I looked it up. You’re supposed to be able to hold 14 to 20 ounces of urine for about 5 hours. With a Starbucks Venti coming in at 20 ounces, and a hair-trigger bladder muscle, we never had a fighting chance.

None of us have peed with the door to the bathroom closed for years. One of the littles needs you most just as you drop trow. There will be yelling, there will be screaming. There may even be another adult in the house, but it will not result in a closed door.

You pee fast and you go.

But what happens when you’re out? You’ve waited until you could get to a clean public bathroom – and that is about as much bladder control as you can muster.

Now, add to that the fact that you may have a baby strapped to your chest. And this baby may be hungry. You probably have one or two other littles that both want and need something completely opposite to what you need.

Now imagine all of that, but with an outhouse as your only outlet, because you’re a good parent and took your 4-year-old apple picking because you are trying to keep going with a newborn.

Um, yah. Sorry M. I just can’t get that one off of my mind. File that under “Things only another mother can understand.”