My love for Barack's love

Do you want to know why I love Barack Obama?
Yes, of course, he handily defeated Sarah Palin, who's the worst kind of woman since she thinks she has a right to speak for every single woman in the United States with her pro-life nuttery, but that's not why I love him.
I love him because he loves his wife.
Way, way more than I should, I hear boyfriends/partners/husbands make disparaging remarks about girlfriends/partners/wives. They tell intimate secrets that I would be mortified to know is out in the public domain and they make inappropriate comments to other women.
I don't ever want to hear again that it's OK for men to look as long as they don't touch. Yes, fine, look, but don't tell me you're looking.
What I rarely hear and see from men are public declarations of love and PDAs. Think about it: When's the last time you were out with a group of friends, and one of the couples just spontaneously kissed? Grabbed? Hugged? Gave the bum a little squeeze?
I think Obama's warm marriage makes him appealling to women. He looks like he wants to kiss Michelle, unlike the staged Al and Tipper Gore face smushings we had to deal with in 2000.
On Tuesday, a beaming Obama brought Michelle and his two daughters out on stage in Chicago to make his acceptance speech and within a minute or two, he was professing his love for all the world to see and hear: "... I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart, and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on the train home to Delaware, the vice president-elect of the United States, Joe Biden. And I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years the rock of our family, the love of my life, the nation's next first lady Michelle Obama."
Now, if Obama can get up in front of the world – the world – and declare that his wife is "the love of my life" can't you send your honey some flowers at work? Grab her as she's leaving the office for lunch and plant one on her? Send her a card in the mail, just because? Take out an ad on your local newspaper to say her short hair looks nice. Blog about her? And then, most importantly, boast about it to your buddies?
As Barack Obama would say: Yes, You Can!

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Three Tiny Christmas Shopping Blog Tales - All From The Same Day

Christmas Tale No. 1

I'm buying 37 Christmas cards at once. One for my mom. One for my dad. One for my mom and dad together. One for my brother. One for my son. One from my son for his grandparents. The list goes on.
As I'm picking out cards and rating their cry factor - cards at my house that score at least a 7.5 out of 10 will elicit tears from my mother. An eight also gets a high five from me to my brother or father and vice versa. A nine deserves a tackle. How'd you out do my card?! And a 10? Well, I'm not sure Hallmark has made one of those yet.
As I'm choosing cards (and let me just say I've picked some doozies this year) an older woman comes up to me and watches me as I rock Little Man with my foot while he's in his car seat. "How old?" she asks. "Just over three months," I say. She stands there. Staring, staring, staring, staring at my baby ... Finally, she whispers "I'm sorry. It's just that I want to be a grandmother so much." She crawls away, whimpering. I make a mental note to call my mother and tell her she's a good grandma.


Christmas Tale No. 2

I'm in an electronics store buying an Xbox game for my bro.*
I pick out of game. I've got a $59.99 treat in one hand and Little Man in the other. I head to the cashier.
The cashier, an older man, probably in his 50s or 60s, smiles and says: "You know you have to be 17 to buy that game? Can I see some ID, please, ma'am?"
Ah, he must have been blind but it made my day.
He also made me a teenage mommy.


Christmas Tale No. 3
Back to the card store: As I'm rummaging through the cards trying to see if there's one that says "Merry Christmas to my personal trainer" - and why not because there are ones for the paper delivery boy - I spy on a couple in their 30s who are having one heck of a time buying cards. The man is bragging about how, when it comes to cards, he can pick a good one. The woman is wandering around, questioning his decisions. Finally, they separate for a few minutes and the man discovers a section of the store where all the cards play songs. He picks one up and opens it to hear the song. He smiles and closes it. Opens it again to hear the song. He smiles and closes it. This goes on a number of times. Finally, his wife reappears and tells him she doesn't think they should waste money on cards that play music. "Well, this one was going to be your card anyway," he says. She tells him she hates the fact that every year they buy their Christmas cards for each other together.
Together?!
Wow, holy romantic.

*Note: Xbox game may or may not be for my brother. Can not say for sure on the grounds it may incriminate me and ruin Christmas Day.

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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?

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Yes, they're real

Sorry, I've been too busy to write fabulous posts the past few days. The BF whisked me away for the weekend. Sordid details to come in a day or two. But I can say this: This is me and the girls, all dressed up for a romantic dinner.

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