The wheels on the bus
I once hopped onto a bus, deposited by fare, and started to look for a seat. But blocking the entire aisle was a gigantic plastic kiddie car — complete with kiddie inside. Parked next to the kiddie-car was a stroller — with a baby inside.
I gave the mother a pissy look for blocking the whole aisle, and had to squeeze past the parade of tot-vehicles by holding my bag over my head and slipping around a poll.
You have a baby, you need a car … right? So you don’t drive everyone else on the bus absolutely crazy!???
This concerns me, because you see, Darling Husband and I are a one-vehicle family. He drives me to work every day, and I usually bus home — as his hours are ever-changing, and his work is far away. This system works for us, for the most part. Sure, there are times when I bitch about having to take l’autobus, but I (usually) put on my big-girl panties and deal.
But throw a bambino into the mix, and I begin to worry. Sure, I can handle the bus (most of the time). And sure, I won’t be commuting every day with a baby. But how will I get anywhere with a baby? Like … the mall, to buy more onesies???
I used to look at people on the bus, crowding the aisles with their strollers and kiddie-cars and diapers bags, and think, Ughhh. But if circumstances don’t change, that could be me crowding the aisle.
Please move aside, people — my child’s annoyingly-large kiddie car needs to make a three-point turn!
A new kind of drinking game
Over the years, I have played my fair share of drinking games — everything from F–k the Dealer to King’s Cup.
But I was never prepared for the “drinking game” that begins in your mid-20s … and doesn’t end.
I’m not sure if it has a name, but let’s call it Maybe Baby. Here are the rules:
- Go to a bar with a girlfriend (or several).
- When she orders a glass or wine or a cocktail, you order water, juice, or pop.
- Her eyes will widen and she’ll say, “You’re not drinking? Have a drink!”
- You smile and refuse.
- She will persist, whining that she does not want to “drink alone.”
- You offer up a lame excuse (headache, stomachache, early morning meeting) for not drinking.
- She will sulk, then spread the pregnancy rumor faster than you down your OJ.
Whether you like it or not, this game is pretty much unavoidable when you reach the magical age that people start to suspect you could be knocked-up.
Even if you were never a big drinker, people will suddenly take “not drinking” to be a potential pregnancy giveaway.
Sometimes this game is annoying, and other times it’s damn fun. Until you really are preggers, all you can do is drink if you want to drink, and don’t drink if you don’t want to drink. People are going to talk, so you might as well do what you want!
P.S. This game comes in especially handy when you are around the in-laws and want to make them happy. Nothing cheers my mother-in-law more than when I stick to water — it gives her hope I might be preggo.
The knocked-up knockers
Darling Husband has discovered the magic of knocked-up knockers.
A colleague of his is preggers, and DH came home one evening and commented on her new melons.
“They’re really big, but she’s not fat yet. Like in the stomach,” he mused over dinner.
I suppose I am a cool wife (?) because I didn’t bat an eye.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that happens,” I told him. “Your boobs get really big, even in the first month or two. But it happens before your stomach starts to grow, so you just look really hot for a while.”
DH is intrigued! Score 1 for Team Preggo!
Extreme Rat Race: Mommy Edition
Some jobs are more dangerous than others. And by “dangerous,” I don’t mean there is the potential for physical harm. I mean professionally dangerous … the worst kind of all.
Because I’m hungry right now, let me explain using a charming food analogy. Let’s say, for example, you work in a cake shop — because let’s face it, YUM. So one day you stop in the middle of frosting a delicious six-layer torte, put down your icing nozzle, and trot off on maternity leave.
Many moons later — a few months, a year, etc. — you trot back in, pick up a spare icing nozzle, and begin frosting a dozen cupcakes. Yeah, some of the techniques might have changed — there could be a new way to make edible daisies — but the basics are the same. You are back, everything is fine, cakes for all …
This is quite a sugar-coated example, ahem, but honestly, it is not that easy with most jobs.
When I worked in the media, I saw women work straight up until they went into labour, and return to work within a few months. They were serious about not being replaced, or losing their “spot.”
Because, let’s face it, we’ve all seen women come back from mat-leave only to be dumped in a different role or department, because “things changed” while they were off. And what can they do? Nothing, except learn the new position. The company legally has to hold your job, but that doesn’t mean your responsibilites — even any of them — need to remain the same.
These colleagues dumped their babies — some of them only a few months old — into daycare or with babysitters, just so they could return to work and get back in the action.
I used to look at these women and think, “Why was she so eager to get back? Why didn’t she want to spend the whole year with her baby?” But in the same breath, I also though, “Damn, now that she’s back, I will get fewer of the good assignments.”
With the career I have now, I know it is not as competitive as the media, but it is no cake shop. When I go, there will be an ambitious little girlie trying to take my place — and my glorious office, complete with three windows (only one of which looks outside).
The question is … will I care if I lose my place in the game? Or will I have found something much more important?
P.S. I hope this blog is not offensive to cake-shop workers. Really, you are stars. Those icing flowers? Totally, totally irreplaceble.
Construction site chic
I WANT: Robeez Soft Soles “Digger” shoes
One of my few mother-friends on Facebook was raving about Robeez shoes, so I looked ’em up, and there are pretty damn cute!
This pair of little “Digger” shoes caught my eye, as Darling Husband has a passion — yes, passion — for heavy machinery type things.
I thought that yellow thing was a bulldozer, but the description seems to be calling it a “digger.” Is that really a technical term? Either way, precious!
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