guest post by chris

Today is farmer’s market day. I love farmer’s market day. My last book was Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan, (I highly recommend it) and Kgirl is currently reading the 100 Mile Diet, so we have a whole new level of appreciation for local eating. Maybe one day if I succumb and start my own blog I’ll rant about farms and corn and my teenage years spent working in the fields. I still won’t eat corn to this day. But it’s all corn, man.
Anyways, the point of all this is on my way to the farmer’s market I pass this sign outside the East York Civic Centre, where the market is being held.

Man, some civil servant has a mean streak. Somebody has cried because of that sign.

It’s tears and sad unicorns again after work, so Bee gets a ‘feel better’ freezy, and we go for a ride in the stroller down to Shoppers Drugmart for new diapers and milk. Which is were things started to go awry for the first time this week. See, maybe it’s all the pesticides from the cornfields I walked through, or something, but I can’t remember shit half the time. I mean, there is no long term, short term, or medium term memory. Just no work good.

The good people at Huggies see, have developed a numbering system, and as a backup, a colour system, just for dads like me. If you can’t remember the number, hey, maybe it’s the green one. Or the brown one. Number 3’s with a Green Square? 4s in brown? Bee was definitely in 3’s but did we graduate to 4’s? Brown doesn’t seem familiar. Or is that more of a tan colour? Do I know tan? Is that familiar or do I just think it’s familiar? Did I leave the front door open? ummm, crap.

It takes me a full 5 minutes of wracking my mentally blocked (challenged?) brain before I realize I have, in fact, a diaper on me. Well, on Bee to be exact, who is sitting in her stroller still sucking on her freezy. I’ll just take a quick look.

So at this point for all you moms in Shoppers, I am either the weird ‘call the cops’ guy trying to peek down a little girl’s shorts, or the inept dad who has never changed a diaper before, rather than the truth, that I’m mentally handicapped and civil servants make me cry. Complicating this is I can’t take her out of the stroller or I’ll never get her back in. Either way, I can’t see a number or a colour, and I’m quickly getting odd looks.

“Did you have a pooper, love?” I say really loudly. Ha. No one will suspect a thing.
“No poopers!” Bee says indignantly. Sorry, love.

Back to the shelf full of diapers. I bet it’s green, the number 3’s. They go from 17 to 28 lbs, and Bee is hovering around 24-25. So that’s got to be it. Except, the 4’s go from 22-36 lbs. what the fuck. Why the overlap?

Executive decision says the 3’s. I grab some milk, and on impulse some sliced turkey. Bee and I eat turkey cold cuts all the way home, where, I discover, we already have sliced turkey. And number four diapers.



guest blog by chris

Day 2 started off peachy. Bee woke me promptly at 6 am and spent the next half and hour ateempting to force feed me various books and toys until I finally agreed to get up and make her some breakfast. I left for work with Bee happily playing with our nanny and everything was rainbows and unicorns.

The phone rings at noon. “Can Cole (the 1yr old we share our nanny with, nanny sharing has worked well for us) have some of Bee’s super awesome rice? He doesn’t like his lunch.” Unicorns and rainbows, baby. I rule.

Until I get home.

Bee’s staring through our screen door crying her eyes out and wailing “want the mommy”. I scoop her up immediately, my poor girl.

Apparently she had been upset since Cole went home, which is normally preceded by mum arriving home. She's actually been okay with mommy being gone up to this point, but there are limits. Mum is now conspicuously absent, and Bee is way past the consolations of “she’ll be home later” & “we'll go get mum on the weekend” all the way to “meet robot mommy, she has a built in ice cream maker.” Wolves howl in the distance.

Still, she’s a daddy’s girl, and if I promise to take her to the park and give her a stale raisin bagel she will, in her words, ‘feel better’. The unicorns slowly poke their heads out from behind their rainbows and she’s tenatively feeling better. The park was all ours, her stale bagel was coated with sand, and we go up and down and up and down the slide over and over again. There was only the occasional protest as I tried to gently coax the formerly raisin but now everything bagel out of her hand.

Crisis averted.

Later I call Kgirl, and tell her we miss her. Kgirl misses us too, but Bee wants to go to sleep.
goodnight bee. goodnight unicorns. goodnight robot mommy.



guest blog by chris


Yes that’s right its daddy/daughter week at thekidsarealright blog. It’s just me and bee. Completely and utterly and with no one else alone. And our cat.
Which is fine, as it’s been scientifically proven by scientists using science that dads are way more fun than moms. See graph for details.

As part of daddy/daughter fun week we went to monarch park, which like most parks on weekend mornings, is traditionally dad filled. Which is fine with me, because for the most part, dads are not chatty. Mums for some reason always want to turn it into a social event, but I respect the park for what it is, a place to eat dirt. Bee doesn’t want to know your kids name, she wants your shovel. And I don't really want to know either, because I also want your shovel. And there are swings.

Lunchtime met with my first single parent non dirt meal. I don’t count breakfast, because breakfast is usually my thing with bee in the mornings anways. So for lunch I had to forge brave new territory outside of add milk to cereal. I ask Bee what she usually has, to which she answers “Ice Cream”. I think this is really irresponsible of my wife to feed her ice cream for lunch everyday, but okay. After ice cream, I decide to break with Kgirl’s suspect meal plan, and make grilled cheese sandwiches, which were a huge success, if a little long in coming, as it had rained and the bbq took awhile to start, so I guess the ice cream was good filler. Did I mention my entire meal plan for the week centers around the bbq?

Anyways, emboldened by my nutritional triumph over kgirl’s lunch policies, for dinner I make salmon, (on the bbq) and decide to try to make rice. I’m hesitant to do this, as it requires measurements and cups and the stove. I tried to make blueberry pancakes awhile ago, and that went apocalyptically. (never cook for a pregnant woman who demands pancakes you don’t have, the first 3 stores don’t carry, have never made before, and looks like a crepe when finished)
I push past the mental scarring, and add the 2 ¼ cups of water to the pot, take some deep breaths, find a different pot that actually holds 2 1/4 cups of water and empty it into that, bring it to a boil, add the rice, fight back the tears and let simmer for a half hour of internal anguish.

And success! Rice and salmon and mostly thawed broccoli later and it’s all hugs and hoorays from Bee! Well, it would of been, but she was watching Dora the Explorer during dinner, and she was pretty zoned out. I rule. Everybody dance!

so to sum, day 1
injuries sustained - 0
meals ruined - 0
breakdowns - 0
breakdowns (meal related) - 1/2
fun - 200%


Starting Sunday, Chris and Bee will be on their own for a week. Seven days.

I have not been away from Chris for that long in the 8 years we’ve been together, and I have never been away from Bee. Not for one night. Never. I like us being together, and while yes, I could probably deal with a weekend of just me-and-Chrisness, with Bee safely situated with a grandparent or two, I don’t want to leave her for this long. I like going to sleep with my loves, and I like waking up with them. I feel like missing 7 days of Bee will mean that I miss a million smiles, a million funny things that she says, a million ridiculously adorable renditions of ABC or The Wheels on the Bus or her newest hit, Old MacDonald. A million Bee things that I like my day to include.

Bee will be ok. She might have a few tired, rough moments, but she loves, loves, loves her daddy, and I have every confidence in Chris to take care of things. And of course, I’ll speak to them every day, perhaps offer some coaching on meal planning, and hopefully not be in tears when I hang up the phone, but no guarantees there. These days, toilet paper commercials make me cry.

(Deep breath) I can do this.

The flipside, of course, is that I’m leaving only to head to a very different tough situation. My brother and me are going to see my dad in Florida, my sisters having been there a couple of weeks ago. I can’t wait to see my dad; I miss him terribly, but this is not going to be our normal trip to Florida, full of sand and sun and shuffleboard and smiles. Don’t quite know what we’re in for.

(One more deep breath)

I’ll let you know how it goes.

these kids will be alright



Remember how I said that I was feeling particularly emotional during this pregnancy?

Well, today I hate everything. How’s that for emotional?

Here’s what I’m hating:

- The fact that the guy who sits next to me (who, out of good faith, a respect for privacy and a fear of being dooced, I have NEVER spoken of here, no matter how tempting) took 3 desserts with lunch, plus a banana, and now there are only oranges in the g-d fruit bowl and a chocolate cupcake sitting on his desk. I may take it and go eat it in the bathroom.

- People who put vomitously cute birth announcements in the paper. I regularly troll for good names, and today I just could not handle the decries of ‘Our Future Maple Leafs/Blue Jays/Raptors/Argos Hall of Famer Is Here!’ And the first-person, brand-new baby narratives? Seriously. Those make me want to hurl. So do the announcements ‘written’ by thrilled big sister or brother. Trust me; they are not thrilled. They want to give the little worm back and get the spotlight back for themselves.

- Not getting the chance to eat outside at lunch. So now I just feel antsy, impatient, short-fused, and well, slightly negative. I am a petite fleur, people. I need my sunshine.

- Hypochondriacs. YOU are not freakin sick. You have a sniffle. Come here and let me stomp on your foot so that you have something to complain about.

- Doug Gilmour. For personalizing the autographed jersey that my friend won and promised to me, so that now I can’t possibly still accept it. This may not exactly be Doug Gilmour’s fault, but if you knew the story, you’d be mad that I couldn’t have the jersey too.

- The Second Cup. Because my very, very pregnant friend wanted a strawberry-lemonade smoothie and they are out of lemonade. (But I got a chiller and a different friend to split it with, so I guess I don’t really hate them. I just feel indignant o/b/o my pregnant friend.)

- That even my usual distractions can’t keep me interested. I know of many, many ways to waste time when I feel unable to focus. The Superficial is one. Craigslist is another. So is Martha Stewart. Today there seems to be absolutely no interesting gossip, scandal, garden party ideas or items for sale or barter. I want a new drug.

- Double strollers. I am months away from needing one, and already the process of picking one is frustrating me. Tandem? Side by side? They all seem so bulky, heavy and not user-friendly. At my not pregnant norm, I am about 107 lbs. Shlepping something that weighs half of what I do in and out of the car does not turn me on. Help me, double mothers.

- On-line parenting chat rooms. You people are a joke. Get a blog.

Mmm. Sweet, caffeinated chiller goodness is kicking in, and mood may be fading. But that’s not what this post is about. I’m quitting before things turn downright chipper.



A List

Pregnancy Pro:
My hair and nails are growing like crazy.

Pregnancy Con:
So is my ass.

Pregnancy Pro:
The nausea has passed.

Pregnancy Con:
So has my window of opportunity to get Chris to do my bidding because I’m too nauseous.

Pregnancy Pro:
I have a bump at 14 weeks.

Pregnancy Con:
It is the same size as my bump at 5 months with Bee.

Pregnancy Pro:
Reassuringly, this pregnancy has been almost identical to my pregnancy with Bee.

Pregnancy Con:
That means that I have shaky-leg syndrome, muscle cramps, insomnia and heartburn to look forward to.

Pregnancy Pro:
I pretty much know what to expect.

Pregnancy Con:
Oh god. I know what to expect.

Pregnancy Pro:
I have not eaten one dairy queen skor blizzard since becoming pregnant.

Pregnancy Con:
Can’t say the same about Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.

Pregnancy Pro:
Me and Chris have already decided on names.

Pregnancy Con:
A very popular blogger just took the girl’s name I’ve been convincing Chris to love for two years.

Pregnancy Pro:
Pregnancy makes me more sensitive and understanding than I am in real life.

Pregnancy Con:
My coworkers think I’m mental because I blubber over album covers and ad copy.

Pregnancy Pro:
You should see the jugs.

Pregnancy Con:
But if you touch them I’ll kill you, because they hurt like a sum’bitch.

Pregnancy Pro:
I’m not worried about labour or birth.

Pregnancy Con:
I still have to do it and it’s still gonna hurt.

Pregnancy Pro:
I am thankful, lucky and enjoying every minute of being pregnant.

Pregnancy Con:
I’ll have to be reminded of that when it is 30 degrees in August and I am as big as a house.

Pregnancy Con:
My friends and family will possibly get sick of me talking about this pregnancy.

Pregnancy Pro:
I’ll always have my beloved internets to yammer at.



Happy Mother's Day to Kgirl (Guest Post By Chris)

Want the mummy!
Want you to give me cuddles and hugs, and tickle me, which you do with little or no prompting.
Want the da dat! No, other dat! Want the mummy.
Want to see you the second you walk in the door, or come down the stairs, or come out of the bathroom, or waking up from naps.
Want help mummy. No like the shower.
Want you to sing me all the songs you sing, and bunny song. No giraffe. Bunny.
Mummy cute!
Want up up up so that I can be with you no matter what complex task you might be performing, because everything you do fascinates me.
Want pandas. What panda doing? No like the rooster.
Want you to make all your uber healthy delicious meals, and give in everytime when I want ketchup and salad dressing on it.
Want booby.
Want to slowly grudgingly fall asleep in my favourite place, cuddled up on your lap, touching your face, just me and mummy and nothing else.
Want mummy wake up. Pooper.
Want only you at night, so much so that I want to be centimetres from your face at all times, with your arms wrapped around me.
Want the mummy.

Luv bumblebee and soon to bee!



I was going to let this birthday post be a pictures-only post – pictures, of course, being worth a thousand words and all. Paired with my inability to get out anything of substance lately, I thought that that would be a fitting tribute to you.

But even though a picture might adequately describe your sweet, mischievous smile, it could not describe the tide of happiness rising in my body when I am greeted with it, or the turn it can make a bad day take when I think about it.

And though a picture may illustrate the petite gracefulness of your 23-pound frame, it could never give voice to the comfort and meaning that the weight of your beautiful little body in my arms offers me. It could never tell of the peace that embraces me as I carry you, sleeping, into bed, reluctant to let you go.

I could post a picture of you mid-song, mouth wide but silent, arms caught in the action called for. But if I do that, only I would know that you were singing The Wheels on the Bus, and that your arms were going ‘round and round,’ and that they were the exact culmination of two years of developing coordination and preciously, joyously, looked more like they were pedalling a bike than moving a bus. And how could a picture describe the way you like to involve your parents in the singing of your favourite songs by shouting, ‘Mummy! Up, down!’ or ‘Daddy! Babies!’ dictating exactly who will sing the next verse, and exactly what action the next verse will take. And of course you reserve the right to change your mind, cutting one parent off mid-phrase so that the other may perform in accordance with your whims.

And no picture could ever show how quickly, enthusiastically and laughingly, we oblige.

Could a picture possibly tell of how much you’ve changed this year? Of how, though people say that a baby’s first year is the most transformative, I believe it was this year that brought the most profound changes; the most awe-inspiring, fear-producing, pride-inducing, changes?

Could a picture show you take your first steps, your first hops, your first sprints – your first real falls?

Could a picture show you speak your first words, your first sentences, your first stories – your first insistences that ‘Bee do it?’

Could a picture show you sleep in your own bed, put on your own boots, brush your own teeth – make your own choices?

Could a picture show how my heart broke when you cried as I left you those first few days I went back to work, and how it breaks a tiny bit even now as you practically push me out the door in the morning after blowing me a kiss and yelling for your daddy to hurry with your yogurt?

Could a picture show how excited I am that you are going to be a big sister? How very, very lucky that baby will be to have you?

Could a picture show how very, very lucky we are to have you?

yep, you sure are lucky to have me mummy

now stop blubbering and get back to work

Happy birthday, my sweetest, sweetest girl.



I am

A keeper of secrets
A giver of headaches
A cuddler of babies
And husbands when they wake

A wisher of things
That I may never be
‘Til I snap out of it
And say, ‘Nah, that’s not me.’

A sister, a daughter
A mother and wife,
A supplier of kisses
And coffee and life

Encouraging you
To stay for a while
Tho’ the dishes ain’t done
And the laundry may pile

A holder of horses
And purses and hands
An explorer of feelings
And far distant lands

Avoiding the issues
That may cause me pain –
Not recommeded,
Tho it does keep me sane

A writer of poems
And paycheques and notes
I turn sand into boulders
And tears into moats

Like a duck,
I let it all roll off my back
‘Til the weight of the water
Reveals a crack

Strong as I look
(and cute as a bug)
I could live on your smile
Your laugh and your hug

So stay close beside me,
We’ll get there one day
I’ve made it this far
And I’ve got more to say.


Lisa made me do this. Pardon the rhyming; I've been writing children's songs for weeks.

I did not want to be presumptuous enough to assume that any of you fine people would want to write poetry, so I didn't tag anyone. But if you do, consider yourself tagged, and let me know; I'll add a link to your masterpiece.