Let them eat quiche!

My dad is really, really tired of hearing about poo and all things associated with poo. Baby poo. Baby farts. Baby diapers. Baby poo. Baby pee. Yellow poo. Brown poo. Yellow poo with green flecks. Poo that seems thicker after a couple of meals of formula instead of breast milk.

Poo, poo, poo.

Well, today, three of my peeps and I talked about baby poo, baby farts and baby diapers and there was no daddy-o there to say "enough already! Can't we talk about something other than bowel movements?"

We did talk about other things: Daycare, naps, strollers, exercise, jobs, university, first babies, second babies and breastfeeding but we were also free to talk about the p-word.

Every Wednesday morning, a group of us get together with trainer Tracie Smith-Beyak and exercise our buns off. I've talked about Tracie and her Kingston company, BodyNow4Mums, here before but I wanted to pay homage to her again - tis the season to be thankful.

Since I joined her power walking/conditioning group in October, I've felt and seen my body change. My baby tummy is flatter. My legs feel stronger and I can lunge with the best of 'em. Sure, I've also been exercising on my own but I always crap out when I'm going solo. I skip that last set of crunches or decide to cut my jog by 10 minutes but you can't pull a fast one when you've got Tracie watching over you.

This week, I went to the gym to go for a run. Usually, when I've been inactive for a few months - or, nine months when I was pregnant - I can only run a three-minute race. Seriously.

This week, I power-walked for five and then ran my heart out for another 15 minutes and then power walked for five more minutes. In total, I covered almost two kilometres and burned 200 calories. I chalk it up to my Wednesday power mornings.

But something else important is happening on Wednesday mornings: Us gals are bonding - not just over babies but feeling the burn. And this week, we gathered at one of the women's houses for quiche, muffins, French toast, and gab.

One of the women in the Wednesday morning class told us all a story about being out in Kingston and seeing a sad and exhausted-looking new mommy. She said the new mommy confessed she didn't have any friends with babies and felt very alone. The woman in my class gave the new mommy her phone number and said to call at any time.

I've been there. My two best girlfriends also don't have babies yet and so there have been times I wanted some company - just someone to say "Hey, do you share your bed with your baby?" or "How much did you spend on your baby jogging stroller?"

So, to all you new mommies (or soon to be mommies who'll be ready to work out in a couple of months) visit Tracie's site, e-mail her or give her a call and see if one of her classes work for you. (Christmas present, wink, wink.) And come hang out with us.

This is my way of reaching out to those of you who need someone to listen to you - and won't judge you if you do want to ask about poo.

Once the winter BodyNow4Mums term starts, we're going to hang out after some of our classes - a chance for mommies to talk, chill and eat quiche.

Plus, I make a mean cracker and cheese plate you really don't want to miss.

There might be more(or not)

Boobs in the bathroom

Listen up, non mothers.
I want to preach to you: Enjoy your ability to do whatever you want, when you want.

Your life (and I know because I used to have it) goes something like this: "Like, hey, BF, wanna go away for a romantic weekend?"

"Sure, lovely lady. Let's go."

"Great. I'll just pack some orange chocolates and a change of underwear and we're off!"

And then you get in the car and you leave.

Here's how it works with a baby: "Like, hey, BF, wanna go away for a romantic weekend - say, maybe in six weeks?"

"Sure, lovely lady. Let's go. We just need to see if your mom can babysit that weekend. Will you be able to pump enough breastmilk? Will we take the carseat to your parents? You need to start pumping now."

"Great. I'll just pack some breast pads, the playpen, his activity mat, the diapers, the bum wipes, all his outfits in case he poos through them, his soother, his Vaseline, his Fisher Price cellphone, his favourite stuffed green lion, his sleeping blankets, his nursing blankets, his diaper rash cream, all the stored breast milk, the bottles, the sterilized nipples ... "

The past few weeks were the most tiring in my life thanks to the breastpump. Yes, it's a genius invention. Without it, I wouldn't be able to leave Little Man. But when you're pumping for a major event - we were going away for 30 hours, which meant I needed 10 to 12 8-oz bottles of milk - you have to pump whenever the babe isn't eating.

So my day went something like this:

Wake up.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Feed baby.
Go to the gym.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Have dinner.
Watch CSI, while feeding and pumping, one on each breast.

I've heard breast milk described as liquid gold. Every drop you lose, it's like throwing $100 down the toilet. It's heartbreaking just to lose a drop, which is why I had many mini meltdowns during our romantic weekend away.

Here's the thing. You can't just breastfeed and then stop doing it for two days and because I was feeding and pumping so much, I'd become a Dolly Parton impersonator. You have to pump to keep your breasts from being engorged.

So this is the story of our romantic night:

Fishnet stockings clung to my legs and my green satin skirt, which I wore on our very first date, twirled around my knees every time I walked over one of Toronto's heating vents. Very Marilyn Monroe. For the first time since August, I'd done my makeup and I put on my prettiest, little black shirt. My hair was done and I'd even put on my dangly earrings (see previous post for photo).

We'd gone to the theatre district early so that we could have a long dinner, the three-hour kind we used to have before baby. We found a little dark Italian place, Verona, and got a small, intimate table at the back of the restaurant.

For the first time in a year, we ordered a bottle of red wine, a Kingston Estates Shiraz. I felt pretty and happy and I was loving the fact I could indulge in a lot of wine, knowing I didn't have to feed Little Man for the next 18 hours.

We shared our favourite appetizer - escargot, these ones done with shredded bacon, some shallots and onions.

The BF had gnocchi and I had mustard seed-crusted sole on top of a mushroom risotto.

The whole night I felt like we were in a Stars Wars movie. There was a force field around us and no one - not coworkers, not friends, not family, not mustard poo diapers - could touch us. We were invincible and invisible. And it was wonderful.

After dinner, and much intoxicated talk, we walked to the Princess of Wales Theatre to see Chicago, starring Backstreet Boy Kevin Richardson. I loved him since I was in university. He was my favourite boy. (His favourite colour is teal blue). But truthfully, I wished we had skipped the show and just stayed in our own Little Italy because the show wasn't that good and the BF makes my heart skip much faster than an average pop singer trying to pull off the role of razzy snazzy lawyer, Billy Flynn. (Played by Richard Gere in Chicago, the movie with Renee Zellweger and Catherine Zeta Jones.)

After dinner, we made our way to Bluepoint Oyster Bar for another BF and Sarah tradition: After dinner drinky drinks and creme brulee. (Not as good as the dessert at Clark Day's Aqua Terra or Jason McMillan's at the Athlone Inn in Gananoque but still lovely.)

Our creme brulee and chocolate martinis came to our table and I excused myself.

It was time, I guess you could say, to slip into something more comfortable.

By more comfortable, I mean smaller, less heavy boobies.

I took my purse with me and headed to the bathroom at Oyster Bar.

Thankfully no one was in there.

I went into the stall and faced the toilet. I rested my purple purse on the back of the toilet - yes, it's dirty but I was buying another one that weekend anyway - and pulled out the pump.

I straddled my legs over the toilet and began to pump.

I had to give myself a little motivational talk to get going because what I was about to do was heartbreaking: I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

Usually when you pump, there's a little container or bottle on the end of the pump.
This time, there was nothing.

I started to pump and the breast milk started to flow - straight into the toilet.

I must have pumped at least a cup, or a cup and a half, into that toilet.

As I stood there, watching my liquid gold being flushed away, I laughed at the fact that everyone else in the restaurant who saw me saunter away from the BF and head to the ladies room, thought I was going to freshen up. Add a little lipstick. Maybe fix my hair. No one could have imagined me in the bathroom splashing baby food all around the toilet.

And just to add insult to injury: When I was done, and I had tucked the breastpump back into my purse, I tried to flush the toilet.

Nope, broken. I had to stand there, in that dark stall, and stare at my precious, precious milk just floating there, so sad. So alone.

The chain had obviously come off the toilet's stopper in the tank because the handle had no pressure.

Well, I obviously wasn't going to lift the tank lid off and fix it so that I could flush it.

Do you know what kinda sick things people do in Toronto bathrooms?

There might be more(or not)

Stuffing The Bra

Kids under the age of 18, listen up.

I've found the boy for you.

He's cute, he's sweet and he didn't blink when I hijacked a change room at SportChek from the BF the other day and ran in with a massive bag full of discounted Halloween Smarties and breast pads.

We'd gone shopping to get a jump on Christmas shopping.

Halfway to the mall, I started to think, "Darn, I feel thinner. My breasts feel smaller. Yup, all that working out is working out for me."

Then, I realized that for the first time since Aug. 30, I was without my pads.

I'd forgotten to tuck the oh-so sexy breastpads into my bra.

"Do you think I could take my socks off and stuff them in there?" I asked the BF.

His look said, "NO. NO. NO."

(It's not as if I haven't done it before around the house when I've been too lazy to go all the way back up the six steps to our bathroom but this was out in public. It seemed too risque. Still, don't tell anyone.)

I was in a panic about the pads until we got inside the shopping centre and I saw the setup for the Santa photographs. Soon, I was thinking only about putting my Little Man on Santa's lap and having all the elves coo about how my son is a cutie patootie.

Soon, we were in shopping heaven until I felt that familiar sensation. It's a dull throbbing that signals the flood gates are about to open in a few minutes.

I left the BF in the sock aisle (sorry, kiddies but everyone gets a pair of socks for Christmas) while I ran to get new breastpads.

Then, I got arrogant. I checked my shirt. Nope, no saucer-size stains.

"More shopping!" I declared.

It was off to SportChek. It was buy one item, get one for 50 per cent off.

Just as the BF picked up a few things to try on, I felt it.

Niagara Crosbie Falls.

My shirt - just on the left side - was soaked.

"Ask the guy if you can try something on!" I said to the BF.

"Now!"

The nice sales guy opened the door for the BF and I rushed in with my bag of orange and black Smarties and one massive purple box of breastpads.

I don't know what he thought I was doing in there. I didn't have anything to try on so I can only assume he thought:

A) I was going in there to stuff my face full of chocolate;
B) I was trying to shoplift something;
C) I was looking for a private place to, well, toot. (Hey buddy, you smelt it, you dealt it);
D) I was a new mommy who, for the very first time, soaked through her shirt in public.

I thought when I came out, and the BF went in the changeroom to actually try on some clothes, the sales guy would tell us to come find him if we needed any help. Instead, the guy took an interest in my baby. (What teenage guy is interested in some chick's child?)

"Cute kid."
"Thanks," I said, crossing my arms so the spillage wasn't visible, making me look very hostile for a woman out Christmas shopping and holding a very cute boy.
"Boy or girl?"
"Boy," I said.

"Maybe he'll be a hockey player?"
"Nope," I said, "his dad and older brother play hockey. Too many practices and games. And it's expensive."

"It won't be expensive if he uses his brother's equipment," he replied.

OK, normally I'm all for the chitty chat but the guy had to see my boob stain and you don't really want to talk when you're dripping milk down your shirt. So I decided to shut him up.

"Actually, I'm really hoping my son will grow up to be a flautist."

"Ha ha! I win," I thought.

The sales guy looked at me and smiled. I thought it was time for him to walk away.

"That'd be great," he said, "I love music. I'm a big jazz fan."

I smiled to myself. Yes, this was perhaps one of the most awkward moments I've ever had, but I also realized that I'd either found the most suave teenage sales guy in all of Kingston or a potentially hot boyfriend for a sweet kid.

He asked me about my baby. Engaged me in a conversation about children's hockey. Likes jazz music?

How to find him? He's the kid with the eyebrow ring.

(And kid? Thanks for not making me feel all weird and stuff. I'll buy my next pair of running shoes from you.)

There might be more(or not)

Chocolate Baby Einstein

I really want one of those massive blowup snowglobes. You know the ones, little bits of fake snow, probably Styrofoam, blow around an inflatable bubble, while snowmen sit on a circling carousel?

There's about five of them in front of Canadian Tire on Gardiners Road.

The BF says we can wait until after Christmas to get one on sale for next year.

I think if he really loved me, and appreciated the fact that he does not have to breastfeed 12 freakin' hours a day, he'd buy me one.

Anyway.

That was an aside.

(If you loved me. You'd buy me one.)

But back to business.

The other day, while we were at Canadian Tire looking at outside lights, Henkel knives that are half price this week, and baby running strollers, we met perhaps the nicest, friendliest, most inquisitive sales girl.

I had three Advent calendars in the cart.

One each for the teenagers and one for Little Man.

"Ohmigod? Is that your baby? He's sooooooooo cuuutttee!!!!!!" she squealed.

"Ohmigod! How old is he? He's so sweeeeeetttt!!!!"

"Ohmigod! What's his name?"

"Ohmigod! Did you buy him an Advent calendar? That's so nnniiiiiccee!"

I smiled at the girl.

I'm used to strangers stopping me at No Frills, Canadian Tire, Starbucks, the voting station today, to tell me how scrumptious my babe is but this girl may win the prize for most interested.

"Ohmigod! He's soooo cuutteee!!!!!" she repeated again, as she followed us around through housewares.

"But wait a minute. Is he old enough to have chocolate?"

"The kid is two and a half months old, lady," I thought to myself.

Is he allowed to have Advent calendar chocolate?

Ah, no.

I smiled to myself as I left the store.

I probably would have wondered the same thing when I was 17.

OK, OK, I would have wondered the same thing last year.

But that doesn't make me a bad mother who doesn't deserve a snowglobe.

There might be more(or not)