All Cliche Like

 As a general rule I hate chain letters. I actually hate a lot of things, but e-mail chain letters of any sort are usually pretty annoying. Mostly because I hate being told by other people what I should do. However, a very nice blogger over at modmombeyondindiedom decided that I was worthy of being tagged in this ambiguous question thingy, and since I love being paid attention to more than I hate being told what to do I'm up for the challenge, except that I am changing some of the rules.

Here are the rules:

You must post these rules.  Or not. I really don't care either way. If I tagged you and you think that I'm a total bitch for tagging you then I also don't care. Just ignore me. I'm used to it. Each person must post 11 things about themselves on their blog. Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post and create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer. But I just did 10. You have to choose 11 people to tag and link them on the post. Or 1 person, or 5 or whatever. I honestly don't follow 11 bloggers. Hopefully, someday I will have enough time. But for now I am pre-occupied with reading about nursing philosophy and theoretics. Trust me, I'd rather be reading the interweb. Go to their page and tell them you have linked him or her.  No tag backs.

Eleven Things About Me:

1.  I have an identical twin sister that is so funny she usually makes me pee my pants. I wish she lived in the same city as me so that we could hang out and hate people together.
2. I have a really stupid hobby and it is called scrapbooking. I even go on retreats. Although each time I go to one all the other women are fatter than the last time, so I'm starting to think that this may not be the healthiest hobby ever. There is quite a bit of fodder for making fun of people though.
3.  I like making fun of people. My friends, my family, myself, strangers. Maybe I'm being judgemental. Or maybe I'm being honest in a really funny way. Yes, that is a douche bag hat you are wearing, and yes it makes you look like a douche.
4.  I like one kind of wine: good wine. I have no other discriminating taste and I think that anyone who can detect hints of cherry is a total douche bag.
5.  Douche bag is my favourite phrase.
6.  I love the Real Housewives series. Except New Jersey (I don't understand what the fuck they are saying), Atlanta (I don't understand what the fuck they are saying) and Miami (I don't understand what the fuck they are saying). All the other ones are awesome. I'm just waiting for a Real Housewives of Calgary. You know there has to be some crazy mother fuckers in this oil town.
7.  I hate flying. Not because I have a fear of flight but because I cannot stand being around that many useless people for that long.
8.  My favourite sport to watch is baseball. I know, it really should be hockey but after watching with my husband for 10 years and still not knowing what the hell "off side" means, I'd rather just watch a game that I understand. Oh, and Derek Jeter is a hottie.
9.  Sometimes I think that I made a mistake by going into nursing and that I'm really just faking it.
10. I think that family is over-rated-now before my mother jumps down my throat I just mean that just because someone is family does not mean that you should have to put up with their bullshit. They should have to follow the same rules of respect that you would expect of your friends.
11. I really like gardening. I really like it because deadheading flowers and pulling weeds gives me the same kind of anxiety relief as picking at my face. Yes, I may have a small touch of OCD.


1.  Which celebrity would you like to have dinner with and why? I want to say something really deep and meaningful, but all I can really think of is Jessica Alba. My husband has had the hots for her ever since that angel show and I think it would make him so jealous.
2.  What is your biggest vice? Besides picking at my skin (not really sure if that would qualify as a vice)? Chocolate. I can't even keep baking chocolate in the house for Christ sake.
3.  What's your favourite Johnny Cash song? First off, I just need to mention that I hate country. It makes me want to barf in my own mouth. Johnny is not country though, right? So I'm going with Jackson.
4.  Beatles or Stones? I like that new Stones song they did about themselves..."Moves Like Jagger" or something like that. Oh, what? Wait. That isn't the Stones? Okay, then the Beatles.
5.  Red or Blue and why?I don't know what you are referring to. If it is skin colour, then I would rather be sun burnt than hypothermic, so red.
6.  Favourite SNL sketch of all time and why? Mike Myers as the hyper-hypo. Fuck, that shit still makes me giggle.
7.  The meal you would order as your last if you were on death row would be? Cold peel and eat shrimp with cocktail sauce.
8.  The song you find most repulsive.Anything by Celine Dion. She is not Canadian, she is French Canadian and yes there is a difference.
9.  Your favourite president and why. Okay, so being Canadian I'm not sure if I can properly answer this question. We never really learned a whole lot about the presidents in school, just about the industrial revolution and current events (so I maybe know something about the US from 1993-1996). But I'm going to say LBJ 'cause he has a super cool name, and I think he may have caused some shit to hit the fan.
10. Catch phrase you hate the most. LOL. This is the death of proper descriptive writing as we know it.
11. How you would've like the last Oprah show to end instead of how it did.Oprah is over? Did she die?

  
Here are the 5 people I have tagged (I was pretty sure I couldn't do 11 and I was right): 

arrogant-sob
crappypictures
medicalcraponomics
Nursery Rhymes and Curse Words
thebeardediris

Here are your questions, should you choose to accept the challenge: 


1. Why do you blog?
2. Dream job:
3. Favorite Canadian (this is just a test-the answer is not Celine Dion):
4. Beer, wine or hard liquor?
5. Favourite book:
6. Reality TV as the death of well-written comedy and drama-discuss.
7. What do you talk to your spouse about once there's nothing left to talk about?
8. Favorite type of book:
9. First thing you would do if you won the lottery:

Happy tagging!

My Lovely Lady Bumps

This post is about boobs. Specifically, my boobs. So if you are related to me, if you could just stop reading RIGHT NOW, I would be grateful. If you choose to keep reading, I warned you. Breasts have never been a huge part of my life, and I mean that literally. On a normal day, wearing a sports bra, I have the same chest as Justin Bieber. The only time that I had even a semblance of a decent set of mammaries was when I was pregnant with the Kiddo. Did I appreciate those boobs? Never. While I was pregnant I was more concerned about the fact that my ass was growing exponentially faster than aart other part of my body. Post-partum I couldn't stop crying long enough to even consider that I finally had the chest of a grown-up. That and they were rock hard. Nothing like having concrete in your breasts (or milk) to make you feel like a sexless baby vessel. When I stopped breast-feeding there was some definite shape changes. Tube socks took on a whole new meaning. Also bananas. Bananas are a good description for the shape of post-milking boobs. Sexy. I actually dropped a cup size post-partum. Total fucking awesomeness. So here I am again. Pregnant. Finally. You know what it took? It took a lot of relaxing, positive thinking, and appreciation for what I already had. And yesterday I woke up to a unicorn on my front lawn shitting Skittles. Yeah right. For those of you who know me, or have read my very small blog archive, you'd know that getting knocked up has been a bit of a struggle lasting about 2 years. So very quickly: I'm very happy, feeling really great (on most days) and occasionally having minor panic attacks about having a second child. Okay, back to the boobs. Mine are currently huge. Huge by my standards at least. And people are noticing. And by people I mean the Kiddo. The husband may be noticing as well, but since he informed me the other night that he doesn't find pregnant bodies at all sexy he is not going to be seeing me naked for a VERY long time. I've also considered cutting on my long blond hair into a pixie cut and dying it black just to spite him. I'm sure that would do wonders for our marriage. Anyway. The Kiddo and I are at the Y, changing after swim lessons. The change room is packed. The Kiddo points to her nipples and tells me "these are my nipples" and because I've worked hard to make sure she know the correct anatomical name for her body parts I praise her. That's when I realize that she's staring at my own chest. Staring in a really creepy, old man way. And then she looks quite pensive. I quickly realized that there was a high probability of something uncomfortable coming out of her mouth so I tried to get changed really fast. But I had no chance- "Mommy?" "Yes, my very socially appropriate and never embarrassing daughter?". "WHEN I'M OLDER I HOPE THAT I CAN HAVE BIG NIPPLES LIKE YOU." Yes, the caps indicate that she was yelling. The whole locker room goes silent. How the hell do I respond to that one? Say thank you? After all, no one has every told me that they would strive to have my boobs. Instead I give her the most non-committal mother statement I can think of: "That's nice Sweetie. Now get your socks on." Unfortunately, that does not deter her from the conversation. "Mommy, why do you wear that thing on your nipples?". It's at this point that I realize that she actually thinks that breasts are called nipples, and I thank my lucky stars that my nipples are not actually as big as she made it seem. But I have no clue what to tell her. Why DO I wear a bra? I actually have no real practical reason. Do I tell her the truth? That I wear a bra so that no one can see my nipples through my shirt? Or that so my breast look like a normal shape instead of the rock-in-socks? So I think of why other people wear bras, who actually need to wear bras. "I wear a bra so my neck and back don't get sore". Right, like my double A cups are so heavy I can barely manage to keep my shoulders in line with my spine. Even when pregnant I can still pass the pencil test. I just bought a new t-shirt the other day. Girls, extra-large. And the large fit. "I wear a bra so my breast don't get saggy". There, much better. Now let's get the fuck out of here before I have to explain where babies come from. "Mommy, what does saggy mean?". That's when I realize that if I had just started with the truth I could have stopped this chat a few sentences ago. "Saggy is what happens when you get old and your boobs hang by your belly button". "Oh. Mommy?" "Yes Kiddo?" Please God, let this end. "I don't ever want to get old". No kidding. I don't ever want to get old either.

A Little Bit of Pee Pee, A Little Bit of Poo Poo

It always, always comes down to poo. No one can escape it, and if you try you just end up with one hell of a stomach ache. I wish though, boy do I wish, that I was only ever responsible for my own poo. Because, let’s face it, dealing with other people’s poo just stinks.

The Kiddo and I were recent guests at a good friend’s house for a playdate. I was having a pretty good time. Drinking tea, catching up, talking about other people and judging. You know, the usual fare for a playdate. My conversation about the Real Housewives of Vancouver was just getting rolling, but I could not concentrate because somewhere, someone’s child was screaming bloody murder. This child was carrying on like she was being made to watch the McLaughlin group on repeat. You know that whole Darwin hoopla about survival of the fittest? Well, I failed. I am not the fittest. My genome is going absolutely fucking nowhere. Because while that child was screaming all I could think about was why one of the other mothers’ didn’t go attend to her child. I seemed to have missed the class in prenatal education where they tell you about how mothers are able to recognize the cries of their own child. Yes, it was The Kiddo, MY Kiddo, who was screaming.

I go downstairs into the basement expecting blood. But there was no blood. There was poo. There was poo on the bathroom floor and the Kiddo was standing there screaming at the poo. I cleaned up the poo. Easy. Simple. No sweat. But no, this poo was not just a floor poo. It was a back of the pants, back of the underwear 100 wiper poo.  There was poo on the princess dress the Kiddo was wearing. My daughter shit on another little girl’s princess dress. There was poo on the socks. There was, surprisingly, poo in the toilet. Now, I’m no stranger to cleaning up other people’s excrement, and not just because I am a mom. In my other life I am a nurse, and as any nurse will tell you, poo is a part of the job. I have cleaned up a patient who hadn’t shit for a week and then exploded one night at 1am. I have scraped poo-encrusted socks off of a patient. You can guess what the rest of him was like. Here’s the thing though: in the hospital you are equipped with many an anti-poo tool.

1. Gloves
2. Warm wipes
3. Clove oil to block the smell
4. Scissors to cut off poo clothes
5. Help
6. Face mask
7. Monetary compensation (i.e. not hugs and unconditional love)

And if it’s really bad you just bundle everything up, blankets and all and throw it in the garbage for housekeeping to burn.

I start in on the Kiddo. I manage to get the dress off but in the process smear crap all the way up her back to her shoulder blades. I try stepping her towards the bath but every step she takes more poo falls onto the floor which results in more screaming. Because apparently the worse part of this is that the floor is getting dirty. I wrap the raped princess dress into a ball of shame and look around for some cleaning supplies. I have half a roll of 1-ply toilet paper, a box of tissue, and a low flow toilet. Stupid, dumb, fucking environmentally friendly toilets. Stupid David Suzuki. That thing was just daring me to clog it. So into the bath the Kiddo went. I looked around for a wash cloth. There were tons. All white. Fuck. So I used my hand. I used my clean, bare hand to wipe the poo from my daughter’s butt. Finally she stopped screaming to point out to me that “there’s lots of poo floating mommy”. Yes, my Kiddo was clean but the tub was not. I herded the delinquent poo particles to the drain, again with my bare hands.

Everything finally looked clean. I checked for a towel. There were tons. And they were all fucking white. Fuckidy fuck fuck fuck. Poo is sneaky. The chances of getting that white towel dirty were pretty high. But I had had enough. I wrapped the 10 000 count Egyptian Snow White Cotton towel around the Kiddo and hoped for the best. We went upstairs where I kindly explained to my friend that I would be taking the princess dress home to “repair” some “damages” and asked if I could borrow a full set of clothing. Because what good mother goes out of the house without a change of clothes?

On the way home the Kiddo went on and on about how much fun she had at her friend’s house. Apparently, shitting on the floor and having someone else clean it up is her idea of a good time. Seriously. My life is an episode of Jackass, minus everything except the poo.

Parenting Lesson Number 1: Don't be a Moron

For those of you who know me in real life you know that I can be quite political at times. So you would maybe expect me to do a post on the upcoming provincial election. Well, it's not going to happen. Why? I like to try to be funny. This election is not funny. You know what is funny? Watching parents at the Y try to shower their kids post swim lessons without getting wet.

I see swimming as a life skill. As such, my husband and I decided to start our kiddo in swim lessons early. At 3 months. This involved one of us holding the baby and singing "I Had a Little Turtle" in chest-high, lukewarm, pee water while the same baby looked around in a daze. At about a year this progressed to one of us holding the toddler in chest-high, lukewarm, pee water while the same toddler screamed to swim alone and was generally uncooperative. Fortunately, my kiddo has always liked being in the water. Until a moment of complete and utter stupidity by her parents.

Last summer we were at a family cabin up north. Up there they name lakes things like "Cold" because, well, the water is fucking freezing. This cabin has a septic system with a shower and running water but I have yet to actually use the shower in the last 10 years or so. Not because I prefer to be rank and oily, but because I prefer to pretend that I am roughing it by bathing in the lake. There is nothing in this world that is a better hangover cure than jumping into 60F water. Your ovaries may recess into your thoracic cavity but you are awake and ready to drink again.

On the kiddo's first day or so out there the water was nice and calm. She let us wash her hair and was super awesome and cute. She managed to lure us into a false state of parenting bliss where we could do no wrong. We were the Duggers of Canada. Three days later she needed a bath again. Yes, three days. The water was a bit rough but we were confident that this could not fail. Wow, were we wrong. We got the soap in her hair but she wouldn't lean back for us to rinse it out. In a moment of pure moronic naivety I told my husband to just dunk her under. And he took that time to actually listen to me. He hadn't listened to me in 12 long years but suddenly I was the hair washing expert. So he dunked her. Let's just say that her reaction to this made the Massacre at Tiananmen Square look like a Canada Day parade.

It was quite evident that we had scarred her for life when every single bath after this resulted in huge tears and freak outs. Like hyperventilating, Real Housewives yelling tantrums. Welcome to post-traumatic stress disorder. It took us 6 months of excruciatingly painful therapy sessions (in the bath tub) in order for her to just get her hair wet without incident. I thought that the best way to treat this PTSD was to get back on the horse and put her back in swim lessons. Un-parented swim lessons. Jesus, I just don't learn.

First class I pretty much sat on the teacher's lap. Kiddo cried for 30 minutes straight while all of the other well-adjusted kids did perfect back floats and smiled and laughed and waved at their size 0 mommies. Second class I was asked to sit with all of the other parents with a pane of glass separating me and the kiddo. So I sat there for another 30 minutes now listening to all of the size 0 mommies tsk tsk about that sad little girl who just would not stop crying. Finally, after about 4 weeks she started to actually enjoy the class. She still failed, but she had fun failing.

So this session I enrolled her again, in the same level. First day I decided to prepare the teacher. I pulled her aside before class and explained that the kiddo was scared of water because of a traumatic event and that it is best to work really slowly with her.  I go and sit on the edge by the pool and wait. The teacher gathers all of the kids. Goes over the rules. Takes the kids to the pool edge. A couple of the kids look like they might pee their pants. A couple of the other kids look like they wish they were at home watching TV. One kid is already crying. I look at the kiddo. She looks as me, smiles and jumps in the water. And proceeds to spend the next 30 minutes following every single instruction. She is the next Michael Phelps. Seriously? Is she trying to screw me over?

got milk? start pumping!

My original plan for this week's post was to cover an example of "How Not to Parent" based on my own truly marvellous mothering techniques. So I was thinking about all the smart and witty thinks I would write while on the StairMaster at the gym, listening to my iPod and reading the last version of some Canadian parenting magazine. I know, I'm super-woman. Well, I almost fell off the StairMaster when I started reading a piece on breast milk donations. So I changed my mind. I will cover my huge parenting fail another time.

So there are Facebook sites where you can post that you either have breast milk for donation, or that you need breast milk (hopefully) for your baby. Great idea, right? Say you are the mom in need. You FB the donor, set up a meeting time and place and then go pick it up. For free.

I'm going to give you all a couple of minutes to think about this.

You find some random person on a social networking site, collect some of their bodily fluids, and feed it to your child.

What the fuck.

Keep in mind that I am not in any way referring to the regulated milk banks that do exist. You know, those places where they actually test the milk for pathogens and make sure to pasteurise it before consumption. And where babies who actually need breast milk are prioritised. Like compromised pre-term infants, and selected ill term newborns (straight from the Canadian Paediatric Society).

So again, secretions from a stranger, going into your kid's mouth.

On one of the FB sites 7 236 people "like" the page. Yes, I had to go look. And yes, it was disturbing.

Argument number one used by crazy breast milk lovers: people used wet nurses like a hundred years ago, so why is this any different? Okay, first of all let's actually cover the definition of a wet nurse.A wet nurse gives milk directly to the baby, thereby avoiding any sort of food-borne diseases. Second of all, it is no longer 1912. The infant mortality rate around that time in the States was 140/1000. For every 1000 live births, 140 babies died. To put that in reference, today's infant mortality rate in Canada is 4.9/1000.

Second argument: breast milk donation is a current practice in China and India. Yes, because THOSE are countries we should be modelling ourselves after. This is the current practice for a huge amount of people in those countries because those people are poor. They can't afford formula. See the difference?

Third argument: the milk recipients get a good vibe from those donors who they know are clean, i.e. no smoking, no drugs, no alcohol.  I'm not kidding, this was a testament from one of the mother's interviewed. She could just tell. Right. So what about HIV? What about Hep A, B or C? Because unless things changed from the last time I went out in public, no one with any of these diseases goes around wearing a sign around their neck telling people they have the HIV.  Oh, okay, but all mothers who are lactating understand the importance of providing a healthy breast milk monopoly diet to their offspring-they would NEVER do anything to hurt a child. These people need to pull their friggin heads out of the sand and get a clue. People are douche bags. Just because they don't look like a douche bag does not negate their asshole-y-ness.  Example? Aw, look at that adorable Tiger Woods with his beautiful wife and gorgeous kids. He seems like the best guy ever.

The fact that there are all these parents out there that would rather risk the unknown than formula feed their babies is mind boggling. Formula is not the devil. Formula will not scar your children for life. You being stupid and naive will scar your children for life. The Canadian Paediatric Society recommends exclusive breast-feeding for the first 6 months of life. Oddly enough, they do not endorse the sharing of unprocessed human milk.

If you really feel that strongly about providing free breast milk for those in need then concentrate your efforts on building a system to provide this service in a regulated and safe manner. You know, and maybe try to base your parenting on evidence-based practice, instead of using Facebook.

"That Kid is Back on the Escalator Again!"

I have a secret.

I don't like other people's children. Really.

Last week I was at a VERY child/family friendly office awaiting an appointment with my own kid in tow. There were about 5 children already playing when we got there. And by playing I mean running around screaming at the tops of their lungs and climbing on the couches. And no parents. Well, there were a few other adults in the waiting room but they were either not related, or they were distancing themselves from their devil spawn so as not to direct judgement upon themselves.  I forgot the best part. These kids were all older than 5. Why is this the best part? Because 5 year old kids should be able to play quietly and safely without scaring the shit out of my 3 year old. And if they can't, they sure as hell should not be left unattended. This state of chaos continued for about 20 minutes with the receptionist acting as a very ineffective parental substitute until a mother came out to pick up most of the posse. I could tell right away why these kids acted the way that they did: she talked to them like they were her friends. And that yelling and screaming in an office waiting room is cause for praise. It made me barf in my own mouth. I can't remember enough from my developmental psychology class what kids with these types of parents end up like, but I'm pretty sure it's bad. Not anorexia bad, but like syphilis at 16 bad.
Lest you feel as though my dislike is actually directed towards other people's children's parents please read on. Once Kumbaya-mom left with her PID-in-the-making kids there was one child left besides my own. Kiddo and I were calmly sitting on a couch reading a book when this kid, I'll call her Payton (like from Hand that Rocks the Cradle), came up and stood right beside me. I looked over at her and she told me "I'm sick" while she sucked her dripping snot back into her head. I could smell her rhinovirus, she was that close to me. How the hell do you tell a 7 year old to get the fuck away from you? I almost barfed again. Thank god we got called in to go next.

Look, I know kids are weird. I know that most of them don't possess the social skills that would allow me to be okay with them being within a 10 foot radius of my precious self and family. This is part of the reason I don't like them. The other part is because they cry, they smell, they drool, they barf, they pee, they poo, they drool and sometimes they are very snotty. And these are just their physical attributes. I haven't even mentioned the whining, the manipulation, the questioning and the attitudes.

This can be quite confusing I know, because I have my own kid whom I love (and sometimes like) very much. So much in fact, that I would like another one. But my kid is different. She's different because she's mine. And when she's standing next to me with mucous dripping out of her facial orifices I can tell her to back off, that Mommy doesn't like viral infections. When she starts whining I can tell her to shut up, just in a really nice way that includes taking away TV forever.

For me, other people's kids are like dogs. I am not a dog person. They cry, they smell, they barf, they pee, they poo, they drool and sometimes they are very snotty. But there are a few select dogs out there that I actually do like, because they are so well behaved that you don't even know they are there. So if the rest of the world could train their kids to be the next Best in Show I think the world, at least my world, would be a way better place.

For those of you who know me in real life I know what you're going to ask me. Yes, I like your kid(s). Yes they are always well behaved. Yes, they are super cute. Yes, everything they say is adorable and poet laureate worthy. And I'm sure you always feel exactly the same way about my kid, right?

"Little Kids Look Stupid On Skis. I Look Stupid On Skis"

In a moment of deluded grandeur I decided that my husband and I would take our daughter to the mountains and try out skiing for Family Day Weekend. Yep, Americans have President's day and (some) Canadians have Family Day. I feel that this day off in February is similar in reasoning for university "spring break" in February. The weather sucks, we probably have 2 1/2 more months of Winter left and the only motivation I have is to find the top of a really tall building to jump off of. To make matters worse, I just ended a sentence with a preposition.

Anyway, why would I feel the need to drive for three hours to take a three year old skiing? Guilt. Somedays I am okay with the fact that the only thing my daughter learned was the hot dog dance and that Mommy really, really, really wants to be left alone when she's pooping. Other days I am quite anxious about the fact that my daughter may grow up having no skills because she spent her entire youth watching TV and going grocery shopping.

For $92 I had my kiddo spend 1 hour outside on skis, either crying because her boots hurt, crying because she had fallen over while the instructor was busy with the other skiing retarded kids, or crying because her coat was zipped the wrong way. This fee also allowed my daughter to sit in the snack room crying because she just wanted to go to the daycare side and play with the dolls. All in all, a great way to spend Family Day. I cut my losses, moved her over to the daycare, found my husband and tried to put to use the snowboard boots I have worn once since buying them in 2008.

Instead of repeating the crying on Sunday we opted to do our own lessons. For the record, I have not skied since 1995.

We get on all of our gear and headed for the magic carpet-a truly genius piece of engineering. I'm sure all of you who remember your arm being torn out of the shoulder socket by the rope toe would agree with me. I was already sweating and I hadn't even gone vertical yet. We go up the carpet. The kiddo is having fun. We get off the carpet, the kiddo is not having fun. She cries. I try the mean mom approach "if you don't stop crying we are going to go home". Kiddo: "okay, let's go home". Fuck, I hate it when threats backfire. I try the understanding compassionate mom approach...ha, doesn't exist. Instead I push her across the hill and then position her between my skies and start down. All the time yelling "stand up, stand up! Lean forward, pizza, pizza, PIZZA!". We get to the bottom and she says "AGAIN!".

I can feel sweat trickling down my knees. And down my back. My touque is making my head itch so bad I want to vomit. All the other parents are staring at me because I'm not wearing a helmet. Believe me, a head injury might have been better than how I was feeling at that point. But I'm doing this for my kid. Up the magic carpet we go again. She's having fun. We get off the magic carpet, she starts crying. For the love of some god, I cannot win. We go down the hill. She laughs, and wants to go again. So we go again. And again. It now feels like we should be sitting in a bar for happy hour, but it's only 1130 am. I look at my husband. He also looks like he needs a drink and he's just been standing there taking photos for the last 2 hours.

The kiddo cries almost all the way back to the rental place. I do too.

I think TV as a bad habit is completely over-rated. Fuck outdoor activities. Next year we are going mall walking.