What I know

I was speaking on the phone yesterday with a friend who is pregnant with her first child and talk turned to another woman who is getting well into her forties.

"I gather she's not interested in having kids," I said.

"Actually she's thinking about adopting," my friend replied. "She really wants to be a mom, but she's not so big on the baby stage because they can't talk, so she's thinking of adopting a toddler."

"Oh...well...I don't know if that, uh, makes it easier," I stammered.

And I didn't mean to sound disapproving, but perhaps I did because my friend rushed to respond.

"Well, I mean, she just thinks she could handle it better if the child could at least kinda articulate what they want," she said. "And good on her for knowing what she can handle, you know?"

And I made agreeable noises and changed the subject because I didn't know what to say. Or, perhaps more accurately, I didn't know how to say what I felt without sounding completely condescending.

What I wanted to say was that once my friend's baby was born she would likely realize how silly the notion that anyone truly invested in becoming a mother would blithely consider skipping a stage in their child's development because she's "not so big on it."

I wanted to say that if our mutual friend was ever fortunate enough to become the mother of an older child through adoption, it is likely she would mourn every single day she wasn't in that child's life, whether they could talk or not. I wanted to say it is almost certain she would ache with the longing to have known and loved that child even one day earlier.

I do not think I have discovered the secret to life because I have borne a child. I am well aware there are a lot of morons raising children and every day I see people who appear not to have had their consciousness raised to any great degree as a result of parenting.

But there are some things that even marginally thoughtful parents cannot escape learning and I don't know if those things can be fully appreciated by people who have never known what it is like to divert your entire life - every thought, every movement, every last ounce of your energy - to the benefit of another human being.

You don't get, for example, really get, the complexity of a human being's physical, intellectual and emotional development until you see it close up, unfolding before you on a daily basis.

You don't get that parenting is easy and difficult and fun and yet a massive drag, all at the same time. You don't really understand that mothering a toddler is both the same and different and easier and harder and more fun and less fun than mothering a baby, or a even teenager for that matter.

You don't understand how it can be all the same. And yet so very different.

I am not the smartest person in the world, but I do know that the care and devotion a child will require at any stage of its development cannot be predicted, compared or quantified: it cannot even be imagined.

Maybe I am condescending, but I know these things and neither of my friends do yet.

And that does not mean I am smarter than they are, but it does mean that I am a mother.

It was right there all along

A man travels the world over in search of what he needs

and returns home to find it.

Let him be

When I was a kid, I was a handful.

I craved constant stimulation. I got bored easily. My gaze was often fixed on future excitement, to the detriment of my ability to appreciate the present.

One of my earliest memories is of my mom sighing in exasperation and asking, "Can't you just be? Why do you always have to be entertained?!"

It's good to be curious, but a habit of gobbling up new experiences like they are chocolates can also lead to a regrettable restlessness that is difficult to reconcile with adult responsibilities. This I know: the most difficult part of becoming a grown up - if I can claim to be a grown up - was relinquishing my ability to spend every waking moment indulging myself in new, fun experiences.

So then there's Graham.

And he's a handful.

"And where are we going today?" is his daily refrain within five minuets of waking.

Graham rarely sits. He bounces from one activity to another. He asks to go to the playground just as we get settled at the water park. He cries to go on the swing just as he swooshes down the slide.

"I want to see Grandma and Grandpa!" he announces when we pull out of Oma and Opa's driveway.

"Can we go for an airplane ride?" he asks when he visits his float plane pilot Grandfather. And so we do. And as we soar together above the clouds I hear him pipe up from the back seat.

"Can we go for a motorboat ride now?"

I know this curiosity, this insatiable desire to continually be doing something else, something new, is part of being a child, but I still fear that he has inherited from both his father and me a tendency to gobble up new experiences like they are chocolates. I worry that his gaze is fixed on future excitement to the detriment of his ability to appreciate the present.

And while I have waxed romantic about the restless wanderings of my youth, my road to maturity was an especially difficult emotional journey: one I am not especially anxious to see my son embark upon.

It has taken me so many, many years to learn how to be content. I hope and pray that Graham will be a quicker study.

So what if he can't sing?

Neither can I.

The important thing about Rick Astley is that he's super loyal.

**EDITED TO ADD**

You have to click on this video of Patrick Dempsey!

The hottest thing ever.

There. Consider yourself Rickrolled.

Extra! Extra! Scandal-ridden DMD drops out of political race

I think the whole world is well aware that the United States is in the middle of a rather bombastic to campaign to elect its next president, but some of you may be unaware that Canada is also in the middle of a federal election campaign.

While Canadian politics lack some of the drama found in the U.S., I have observed one particular phenomenon with great interest, sadness and regret: former bloggers are dropping out of the race like flies.

Apparently it really IS true that what you post on your blog today can prevent you from becoming Prime Minister tomorrow.

This is bad news folks, very bad news.

This means that in the event that my quest for complete cultural domination necessitates a run for political office, I could be royally screwed. Once the press and my political opponents start perusing my archives, the true picture of DMD is going to emerge and it's not going to be pretty.

I mean, right off the hop, the media will trumpet the fact that I have already declared myself unsuitable for political office.

And then it's gonna go downhill from there.

First the pundits will look into my take on social issues.

The right wing will dismiss me as a sniveling Liberal, admitting as I have to, plotting a revolution against the establishment and questioning authority at every turn.

The left wing is going to peg me as a raging fascist who would force kids to cut their damn hair and legislate against parents trying too hard to be hip. Also? I have no compassion for America's sweetheart mom and therefore no heart.

Once they start digging up the dirt in my personal life, I'm going to be all but finished. Where do I start?

I have proudly admitted that I am a big, fat liar who lusts after men - boys, really - young enough to be my son. Also, I am addicted to tabloid sleaze and continually enjoy an inner dialogue about how everyone I encounter is stupid and ugly.

I'll be lucky someone doesn't spirit Graham away after news of my parenting skills - or lack thereof - are made public. Let's see: I hit my child and exploit him for money. I park him in front of the television, expose him to my grotesque nakedness and harbour deep-seated fears that I might harm him. I didn't even bother to take him out for Halloween last year for Gawd's sake!

The idea that I may have inadvertently torpedoed my political career is really upsetting. I mean, for you, more than for me. Now, in all likelihood, the free world will never know rule under Don Mills Diva.

And that's a shame, it really is.

And you know what?

I blame it all on Graham.

Very chocolatey dairy, wheat and egg-free cupcakes

I really hate including the word “free” in recipe titles.

It just sounds so negative - like glass-half-empty thinking. What would be a more positive recipe title be? Full of Delicious Chocolatey Flavour Cupcakes? Or maybe Chocolate Bursts of Flavour Cupcakes?

At any rate, Saturday was my dear friend’s son's second birthday. For something different, the little guy blew out candles that sat in a giant cupcake cake, consisting of cupcakes set on a 5-tier cake stand! It was spectacular!

Well, for almost everyone.

Click on over to Don Mills Diva Recipes and Reviews - LeeAnne has a yummy recipe that everyone can enjoy!

Buying clothes? Beware the mom zone

Sometimes I think one of the hardest things about being a mom is resisting the siren call of stereotypical mom clothes.

And by stereotypical mom clothes, I mean clothing that doesn't take too much effort, clothing that celebrates comfort over style and function over form, and clothing that, if I am truly honest with myself, I would not have been caught dead wearing prior to giving birth.

I'm not trying to be a smart-ass: it really is hard.

We moms are tired and rushed a lot of the time. Time and money are tight, but our bodies? Not so much (not mine anyway).

And I think that drinking in the silky skin and shiny hair of our children - our beautiful children - goes a long way towards satisfying our inherent need to feel the presence of beauty in our lives.

And that's not necessarily a good thing.

Click on over to my column at Better Than A Playdate to read about which items of clothing are strictly verboten for this diva...

Love among the ruins

Yesterday I confirmed to myself two things that may already be obvious to most people.

The first is that once an almost-three-year-old gets wound up, it is almost impossible for him to switch gears, even if he wants to.

The second is that one day, if I can just be consistently patient and loving, I will likely see a reasonable human emerge from the wreckage of a thousand toddler tantrums.

I was in a rush yesterday morning, as always, and gave very little thought to the fact we were out of soda crackers. And so, as we headed out the door to the baby sitter's, instead of handing Graham his normal snack of three - always three! - crackers, I substituted a piece of fresh, toasted bread smeared with peanut butter.

The meltdown started slow, but soon built to epic proportions.

"I want my peanut butter crackers mommy. Peanut butter crackers."

"There are no crackers left sweetie. Have some bread. It's delicious. Yum, yum! Mommy will get more crackers later."

I forced my voice to sound cheerful as I buckled Graham in his car seat, but my heart was sinking. I knew where this was going. I was tired. I was late. Again. I was burdened with worry over a loved one's recent illness.

"PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS MOMMY! PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS!"

Graham's rage was in full force by the time we pulled out of the driveway. He cried. He flailed. His screams reached ear-splitting volumes.

And I lost it.

I burst into tears.

"Please Graham! Please! Please just stop treating mommy like this!"

The sobs were louder and more anguished than either of us expected; louder and more anguished, certainly, than the situation warranted.

But a funny thing happened.

When I looked in the rear view mirror, I saw something flash across his still raging, tear-stained, face. Compassion? Regret?

He screamed louder.

"BE HAPPY MOMMY! I LOVE YOU MOMMY! I WANT A HUGGY!"

My heart lifted and my tears dried up almost as quickly as they had appeared. Instantly ashamed of my dramatics, I cooed to him.

"Mommy is okay sweetie, don't worry. It's okay."

I turned and I smiled right at him. And I realized that Graham couldn't smile back. He wanted to, but he couldn't.

Arms flailing, tears flowing, voice at a furious pitch, he was past his anger over the crackers, but remained trapped in his almost-three-year-old body. He was powerless to instantly switch gears in the manner that we adults take for granted.

"Be happy mommy! I love you mommy! I want a huggy!"

The refrain continued, but gradually quieted until his tone matched his words and his rage ran its course. When got to the baby sitter's five minutes later he was beaming and chewing on his toast.

I gave him his huggy, told him I loved him and continued on my way to work.

And while I drove I ruminated on that rather intense reminder of just how undeveloped a toddler's sense of reason and control really are.

It was a much-needed reminder that it is me, not him, who supposedly has the maturity not to let my temper or my frustration dictate how our day will go.

It was a much-needed reassurance that my son, despite his almost-three-year-old limitations, has at least some compassion and patience for a mother who still spends so much time confirming things that are already obvious to most people.

The power of good hair

Graham's latest haircut was a bit of a revelation for us both.

It involved none of the shenanigans of the past. He had trepidations, but the promise of a lollipop and lunch at Chez Ronald's (hey, he redeemed himself!) kept the tears at bay...


As the stylist clipped away and no tears were forthcoming, I realized that what I was witnessing no longer seemed like a rite of passage anymore: it was just a haircut - one of a handful my son had already received and one of dozens, maybe hundreds, he is likely to have in the future.

But Graham? I think he had a different revelation. And I think it was more along the lines of...


"Damn mama, I look goooood!"

Fumbling towards greatness

* I adore baby showers. I adore ritualistic aspect of them, right down to the silly games and soggy sandwiches. I especially adore the sense of community that envelops me when I reach out and welcome another life to the planet.

Fumbling towards greatness was the fourth post I ever published here, back when I had approximately four readers. I'm publishing it again as part of an on-line baby shower for two of my favorite dot comrades, due with their second and third respective babies in the next few weeks - Rebecca at Girl's Gone Child and Kristen from Motherhood Uncensored.

The shower involves posting favorite memories of the early days of parenthood and is sponsored by Beau-coup Showers and Gifts. Check out the button in the right hand-side bar for more info on how to participate and enjoy my trip down memory lane.*


Karen is a girl in my office who is currently almost 5 months pregnant with her first baby.

Frequently Karen will ask me about some peculiar twinge she is experiencing or about how I came to make one of the approximately four million decisions made about Graham’s care in utero and up until now.

I very much like this girl and I’m flattered that she seeks my advice so I try to dispense as many pearls as wisdom as possible in my most reassuring, motherly tone.

Hopefully she never discovers I don’t have a clue what I’m talking about.

Doesn’t she remember my office baby shower when I brought the house down by unwrapping a nasal aspirator and chirping brightly “You can never have too many pacifiers!”?

While sorting photos for Graham’s baby book the other day, I came across one that never fails to crack me up. It was taken as we prepared to leave the hospital after his birth.


There are a few things that strike me about this photo - one is that my hair looks surprisingly good for someone who has just given birth...but I digress. Mostly I am struck by the juxtaposition of utter contentment and barely-concealed terror.

Graham could not look more serene: sleeping peacefully, he is blissfully unaware that his very survival depends on the glassy-eyed people flanking him, both of whom appear to be fighting the onset of a panic attack.

I remember those early days well. We referred to Graham as our little yawning chasm of need. Everyone talks about how overwhelming new parenthood is, but the intensity of caring for a newborn is still shocking.

Surprisingly though, you figure it out pretty quickly. In some ways being a good mom is the hardest job in the world, in some ways it’s the easiest. For me it was several months before Graham truly seemed like he wasn’t part of my body anymore, hence tending to his needs, while incredibly exhausting, was as natural as tending to my own.

You just do it. You feed, you burp, you clean, you adjust, you rock, you coo, you protect, you love with a ferocity that sears your soul.

And one day you wake up and see what you have wrought and your heart is flooded to bursting with wonder.

How is it possible? Is it a miracle?

Yes it is.

And knowing that Karen is about to experience it sometimes chokes me up. She can ask me questions all the day long and I am happy, thrilled really, to babble on about how it was for me.

But deep down I know that when her own little yawning chasm of need arrives, so too will the answers she seeks.

Helping you fight big oil

Don't you hate it when you're enjoying a yummy banana muffin and you notice an oil slick on the napkin it's sitting on?

Yuck! LeeAnne wants to save you from that horrible experience by providing a recipe for banana muffins that are moist, but not full of fat. And better yet? They're dairy and (can be) gluten-free. Check it out over at Don Mills Diva Recipes and Reviews.

Move on over Mrs.Cleaver

I am a cliche.

There have been so many warning signs since Graham's birth - the working mom guilt, the typical middle-aged acquiescence to authority, the worrying about every little thing - but now it's official.

The proof? Last week, as a result of the aforementioned working mom guilt, I felt compelled to indulge in what is perhaps the most shopworn domestic cliche ever: the baking of the chocolate chip cookies.

Cousin Cailey came along for the ride...


And did her best to try and minimize shrinkage...


With mixed results.


If only I had known that becoming a cliche involved such delicious cuteness, I would have done it sooner.