Thank goodness for Girls' Night Out. I don't know how I would survive without it. Not only am I a social creature by nature, but I'm also terribly bad at doing one thing for a lengthly period of time (except for the following: not drinking, not using drugs, not being productive, and breathing). Between the time I awoke Friday morning until about 10pm Saturday night, I did a bad job at the one task I was permanently assigned: parenting.
Spawnling is a fortunate little demon, as he can get away with a lot of things on account of his high cuteness to badass ratio. Being more cute than badass is a trait most other babies posess. The Spawn, however, likes to keep it fairly balanced. Cute? Absolutely. Badass? You don't know the half of it.
Sir Spawnling of Evilshire proclaimed that he would come down with a fever on Thursday. This was very nice of him, considering it was the second fever he's had in his little life and, like the first time, he waited until we were going to the doctor's before coming down with it. He's very thoughtful, my Spawnling. Must be my genetics. By Friday he had dropped the fever in lieu of a runny nose. He had come down with the same cold the bigger gremlins had (and Gutsy still has).
He then decided he wouldn't sleep until I went to bed on Friday night. Now, normally he's a fab sleeper, so I wouldn't be complaining. He was also very accomodating, sitting contentedly on my lap for the most part while we watched no-life-television (as in 'I have no life because I'm watching t.v. on a Friday night').
None of this would have been an issue had Geekster not committed himself to helping a friend move all day Saturday. So other than a bit of restless-sick-baby-beside-me sleeping, I had no break from parenting for two solid days.
Meanwhile, Jobthingy and Fly were eagerly awaiting 6pm. Why? Because that was the time I had penciled in to give them their Maven Time.
... You know, Maven Time. Time with me, The Maven. I'm one of People magazine's 500,000,000 most beautiful people, after all. I got an honourable mention on their website. Just keep scrolling down. You'll find it there. Number 498,768,194.
At 5pm Geekster came home, I zoomed out the door faster than you can say 'I didn't know fat girls could run that fast', threw a moody baby in the van, got my stressed-out self behind the wheel, turned up Justin Timberlake and made my way out for Girl's Night.
It's not like we do anything terribly special. After feeding me grapes on a suede chaise, we had dinner, lattes and cookies. Cranky baby turned into happy, hyper baby. Jobthingy and I ooed nad awwed over Fly's beautiful belly. She's has also failed miserably at the role of infertility goddess, as she's only a handful of weeks away from providing me with a suitable female for Spawnling to marry in 25 years (unless, of course, he prefers rainbow flags and leather hats. But she still needs to put Smudge on hold until we know for sure).
Anyway, I came home feeling significantly less like taking a nice, warm nap in a running car with the garage door closed. I love parenting, but I need to not parent for at least a couple of hours in a twenty-four hour period. The faster baby Spawnling figures out that heeding my need for mommy time earns him the privilege of having his love bought in the form of sugary sweets and new bikes, the better. Until then I will have to rely on my friends to provide me with hugs and laughter when I'm ready to shave my eyebrows in a fit of Pink Floyd-like insanity.
Speaking of feeling good about myself, here's what I've learned: I'm getting more self-confident. Well duh, I'm The Maven. I ooze self-confidence, right? A picture of me sits right next to the definition of self-esteem in the Webster's dictionary. Well, at least that's where the photographer told me it was going. He also gave me $75 and said I could keep the short shorts.
There's a really lovely mom that to comes to playgroup. I invited her over to my place for coffee a few days ago. I got the house tidied up, looked around with the sense of pride I generally get from taking care of the place I live in, and welcomed her in.
She entered, looked around and asked for a tour. 'Oh, this is really cute!' she said. 'If you don't mind me asking, what's the square footage here?'
... Cute? Square footage? ...
She continued: 'We looked at a place just like this one in your neighbourhood. Same floor plan and everything. Except it had an extension on the back. Like a solarium-type thing. But I felt it was too small for us.'
... *blink* ...
Sometimes I want to say things and they seem like a good idea at the time. For example, I might see someone at the grocery store and want to tell them how interesting their hair is. By interesting, I mean I would never, ever wear it on me, but it looks good on them. That sort of thing.
But I stop myself. I have a minuscule amount of tact that has grown a little with age. I've honed this ability with great precision over the years, learning from past mistakes. For example, never tell someone that the town they grew up in and are still living in is 'quaint'. 'Quaint' sounds nice in books, but it's best not to let it leave your mouth when describing something dear to someone else.
It's the same as, oh, I don't know, perhaps telling someone their house is cute, but too small for your family of three - even with an extension on it - when you're speaking to someone with a family of five.
In my youth I might have been insulted by such a thing. But I realized a long time ago that these comments aren't meant to be mean-spirited. Either it's a genuine, clueless comment by an otherwise thoughtful person, or it's a stabby-jabby-knifey-backy comment made by someone who is insecure about something and needs to feel better by putting someone else down. Either way, it has nothing whatsoever to do with me, my house or, shockingly, its square footage. Instead I laughed and vowed to blog about it.
So, this lovely girl whom I otherwise adore immediately became Square Footage Girl. I knew I had to write about her, but it was even more obvious once we had the playgroup's moms' night. It was at Square Footage Girl's - or Square Foot as I now think of her - home. A semi, just like mine. About the same age, about the same subdivision-awful quality, but significantly larger. It has pretty much the same number of rooms, but bigger and more extravagant. Her decor is similar, but nicer. Her cleanliness reigns supreme. It looks like it's out of a bloody catalogue.
She gave everyone the grand tour of her gorgeous home. All the ladies were impressed and remarked on her keen sense of decor. She smiled, said thank you and, once she realized many of the other women also lived in semi-detached homes, asked the ever-important question 'If you don't mind me asking, what's your square footage?'
She seemed terribly pleased when it was shown her house was the largest.
Her husband, upon his return to their comparatively palace-like abode, also went on to ask people what their square footage is.
Apparently this is a very important question. Most important when your place is bigger. Which is probably why I don't tend to ask.
See, I know we have a small house by most standards. But you know what? I really like it. It's bright, it's happy and definitely has its charm. It's most certainly cute and definitely on the smaller side for a North American family of our size.
I guess I secretly revel in the idea that if we really, really wanted to, we could live in a much larger home. We just don't feel like paying that much. After all, bigger house = fewer lattes. See the quandary? These are important things to think about.
So, Square Foot can sit happily in her seemingly enormous estate, proudly displaying its wide-open rooms.
I, on the other hand, will be sitting down a lot more than her, as I have far less square footage to sweep, mop and vacuum.
Neener neener.
Spawnling is a fortunate little demon, as he can get away with a lot of things on account of his high cuteness to badass ratio. Being more cute than badass is a trait most other babies posess. The Spawn, however, likes to keep it fairly balanced. Cute? Absolutely. Badass? You don't know the half of it.
Sir Spawnling of Evilshire proclaimed that he would come down with a fever on Thursday. This was very nice of him, considering it was the second fever he's had in his little life and, like the first time, he waited until we were going to the doctor's before coming down with it. He's very thoughtful, my Spawnling. Must be my genetics. By Friday he had dropped the fever in lieu of a runny nose. He had come down with the same cold the bigger gremlins had (and Gutsy still has).
He then decided he wouldn't sleep until I went to bed on Friday night. Now, normally he's a fab sleeper, so I wouldn't be complaining. He was also very accomodating, sitting contentedly on my lap for the most part while we watched no-life-television (as in 'I have no life because I'm watching t.v. on a Friday night').
None of this would have been an issue had Geekster not committed himself to helping a friend move all day Saturday. So other than a bit of restless-sick-baby-beside-me sleeping, I had no break from parenting for two solid days.
Meanwhile, Jobthingy and Fly were eagerly awaiting 6pm. Why? Because that was the time I had penciled in to give them their Maven Time.
... You know, Maven Time. Time with me, The Maven. I'm one of People magazine's 500,000,000 most beautiful people, after all. I got an honourable mention on their website. Just keep scrolling down. You'll find it there. Number 498,768,194.
At 5pm Geekster came home, I zoomed out the door faster than you can say 'I didn't know fat girls could run that fast', threw a moody baby in the van, got my stressed-out self behind the wheel, turned up Justin Timberlake and made my way out for Girl's Night.
It's not like we do anything terribly special. After feeding me grapes on a suede chaise, we had dinner, lattes and cookies. Cranky baby turned into happy, hyper baby. Jobthingy and I ooed nad awwed over Fly's beautiful belly. She's has also failed miserably at the role of infertility goddess, as she's only a handful of weeks away from providing me with a suitable female for Spawnling to marry in 25 years (unless, of course, he prefers rainbow flags and leather hats. But she still needs to put Smudge on hold until we know for sure).
Anyway, I came home feeling significantly less like taking a nice, warm nap in a running car with the garage door closed. I love parenting, but I need to not parent for at least a couple of hours in a twenty-four hour period. The faster baby Spawnling figures out that heeding my need for mommy time earns him the privilege of having his love bought in the form of sugary sweets and new bikes, the better. Until then I will have to rely on my friends to provide me with hugs and laughter when I'm ready to shave my eyebrows in a fit of Pink Floyd-like insanity.
Speaking of feeling good about myself, here's what I've learned: I'm getting more self-confident. Well duh, I'm The Maven. I ooze self-confidence, right? A picture of me sits right next to the definition of self-esteem in the Webster's dictionary. Well, at least that's where the photographer told me it was going. He also gave me $75 and said I could keep the short shorts.
There's a really lovely mom that to comes to playgroup. I invited her over to my place for coffee a few days ago. I got the house tidied up, looked around with the sense of pride I generally get from taking care of the place I live in, and welcomed her in.
She entered, looked around and asked for a tour. 'Oh, this is really cute!' she said. 'If you don't mind me asking, what's the square footage here?'
... Cute? Square footage? ...
She continued: 'We looked at a place just like this one in your neighbourhood. Same floor plan and everything. Except it had an extension on the back. Like a solarium-type thing. But I felt it was too small for us.'
... *blink* ...
Sometimes I want to say things and they seem like a good idea at the time. For example, I might see someone at the grocery store and want to tell them how interesting their hair is. By interesting, I mean I would never, ever wear it on me, but it looks good on them. That sort of thing.
But I stop myself. I have a minuscule amount of tact that has grown a little with age. I've honed this ability with great precision over the years, learning from past mistakes. For example, never tell someone that the town they grew up in and are still living in is 'quaint'. 'Quaint' sounds nice in books, but it's best not to let it leave your mouth when describing something dear to someone else.
It's the same as, oh, I don't know, perhaps telling someone their house is cute, but too small for your family of three - even with an extension on it - when you're speaking to someone with a family of five.
In my youth I might have been insulted by such a thing. But I realized a long time ago that these comments aren't meant to be mean-spirited. Either it's a genuine, clueless comment by an otherwise thoughtful person, or it's a stabby-jabby-knifey-backy comment made by someone who is insecure about something and needs to feel better by putting someone else down. Either way, it has nothing whatsoever to do with me, my house or, shockingly, its square footage. Instead I laughed and vowed to blog about it.
So, this lovely girl whom I otherwise adore immediately became Square Footage Girl. I knew I had to write about her, but it was even more obvious once we had the playgroup's moms' night. It was at Square Footage Girl's - or Square Foot as I now think of her - home. A semi, just like mine. About the same age, about the same subdivision-awful quality, but significantly larger. It has pretty much the same number of rooms, but bigger and more extravagant. Her decor is similar, but nicer. Her cleanliness reigns supreme. It looks like it's out of a bloody catalogue.
She gave everyone the grand tour of her gorgeous home. All the ladies were impressed and remarked on her keen sense of decor. She smiled, said thank you and, once she realized many of the other women also lived in semi-detached homes, asked the ever-important question 'If you don't mind me asking, what's your square footage?'
She seemed terribly pleased when it was shown her house was the largest.
Her husband, upon his return to their comparatively palace-like abode, also went on to ask people what their square footage is.
Apparently this is a very important question. Most important when your place is bigger. Which is probably why I don't tend to ask.
See, I know we have a small house by most standards. But you know what? I really like it. It's bright, it's happy and definitely has its charm. It's most certainly cute and definitely on the smaller side for a North American family of our size.
I guess I secretly revel in the idea that if we really, really wanted to, we could live in a much larger home. We just don't feel like paying that much. After all, bigger house = fewer lattes. See the quandary? These are important things to think about.
So, Square Foot can sit happily in her seemingly enormous estate, proudly displaying its wide-open rooms.
I, on the other hand, will be sitting down a lot more than her, as I have far less square footage to sweep, mop and vacuum.
Neener neener.