Winner of – Best Family Blog – from VUE Weekly 2017

The good, the bad and the spooky

BF

The good: Random acts of momness.

Whilst preparing our departure from a dining establishment, Elizabeth and I overheard some of the waitstaff talking about how cute the adorable baby was at table 15. We knew they were talking about our little fartstar because he is super cute. Also, he was the only baby in the establishment.

Just as they said that, the hoser started to yell to which I proclaimed to the entirety of the restaurant, “Don’t worry everyone, we are leaving.” At least the waitstaff laughed.1

We had the earth child in our infant carrier and as I was helping Elizabeth put on her coat, one of the staff reached over and started rocking  and cooing him. He immediately calmed and blasted out a few smiles. It’s those random acts of momness that give me faith in humanity. For the women who just decided to show a bit of love to some new parents, and those that just reach out to pay it forward in other ways, INTERNET HIGH FIVE!2

The bad: Stroller coaster

There needs to be some public discussion on stroller etiquette. Let me clear the air first; I worked at Mountain Equipment Co-op for seven years. I’ve sold quite a few strollers. I’ve fixed quite a few of them. I’ve modified quite a few of them. I know my way around those big bad bastards.

When going to a market or an area where you think that it might be a bit shy on space, or that walking room is at a minimum, please think ahead. If you can carry your infant in a sling or a Baby Bjorn or whatever-the-crap, do so. Don’t bring your double-wide death star stroller, slap your spawn on your hip and then use the open cockpit as a shopping cart. It’s ignorant. It’s annoying. It makes you look like a fucking n00b.

There are strollers that are slim and unobtrusive and highly functional. Strollers are the best invention since the Hasty Home Surgery kit, you just have to learn to use them right. If one benefits from a stroller whilst others don’t because of its gangliness, spacial grandeur and misuse, those people are doing strollers wrong. As my grandmother once said, “That’s why barns get burned down.” Alas, my barn burning days are over. I (sorta) promise.

There is an exception. If you have more than one child, do what you gotta do. Yours is a task that I have only read heroic poems about. Godspeed.

The spookyPull up a stool my friends

The poopsmith didn’t have a bowel movement for eight days. That is 50 years in adult time. Elizabeth and I almost called the cops, but then realized that calling the cops about our son not crapping for a while would be ridiculous. What we decided: Edmonton needs poop cops. Iveson, get on that shit (zammo).

In reality, breastfed babies can go up to 30 days with out having a bm. That is 300 years in adult time.

Sadly, I wasn’t home to experience the poonami as Elizabeth hogged all the opulent glory for herself. She said it was like peanut butter to which I said gross and she clarified that it only looked like peanut butter and then I said ok, but still looked at her with suspicion.

In the end (blammo) our little crap champ didn’t explode in a poonado, nor a poopocalypse, but healthily passed an appropriate amount of waste and manically giggles as he high fived himself (he did not actually do this).

Now I want you to take a second. Breath deep. Embrace your chi. Envision yourself in a meadow of pure light surrounded by crystalline butterflies. And think – nay – meditate, about what it would be like to not poop for eight days. Now, write a poem about it.

Editors Notes:

1 He didn’t yell.  He started to mumble in a way that let us know that he was about to ramp up to something that may be apocalyptic in its yelling finesse, or could just be a short and to the point baby cry.

2 This is just an example of the random acts of kindness we are starting to appreciate as new parents.  Another happened this week that I still haven’t wrapped my head around.  There was a knock at the door later in the evening as I was nursing Valdy.  The dogs went insane.  Trent was out. I managed to get myself together enough to answer the door.  A woman I had never met stood on the stoop with a small bundles of clothes.  She said her son was a bit older than Valdy, and she thought we could use some of the clothes that no longer fit her son.  She said she had seen Valdy at Halloween in his pumpkin costume with Trent.  I kept saying thank you, but forgot the important stuff like asking where she lives or what her names is.  Right now, all I know, is that a stranger to me offered us clothing, and we are so very appreciative.

3 Responses »

  1. I really would love to be a parent. Your stories Trent are both entertaining and friggin’ terrifying.

  2. The peanut butter diaper! I changed that, probably the only time I almost threw up in my daughter. Yes and she just sat there and giggled as I convulsed. Ah the memories

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