Rebecca Eckler is one of Canada's most talked about newspaper columnists, the author of Knocked Up: Confessions of a Hip Mother to Be, which has been translated into nine languages. Also the author of the bestsellers, Wiped!, Toddlers Gone Wild, and Rotten Apple, the first in a YA series. Random thoughts on life in the competitive world of modern mommyhood. Blog will be loved by trendy mothers who still feel, or often feel, that the most important word in "mommee" is ME!

Friday, March 31, 2006

Stupid Quality Time

So, tomorrow I'm leaving to Arizona, to spend a month on a "working vacation." And I'm freaking out.

Why? Because The Dictator isn't joining The Fiance and I for one week. One whole week! She'll be staying behind with Nanny Mimi, so The Fiance and I can spend some stupid quality time together. And then Nanny Mimi will get on a plane and bring The Dictator to me!

Ok, I know it's important to spend quality time with your partner without The Baby, and I want to, I do, it's just that I already miss The Dicator so much. And we haven't even left.

The first time I left The Dictator was when she was about four months old. She spent a night at my parent's house. I called them every 20 minutes. "So what's she doing now?" I'd ask, when I called. "She's still sleeping." I would call back, twenty minutes later, and ask, "So what's she doing now?" And they'd respond, "Still sleeping."

It felt like three months had gone by, by the time The Dictator returned 14 hours later.

But now that The Dictator is like an actual human - she speaks! she has serious bowel movements! - I know I'll miss her so much, that I actually am aching for her already.

I met a woman, in a pool in Hawaii, on vacation last year, who left her baby after three weeks! It was her second child, so I guess she was a tad more laid back in leaving on a vacation alone with her husband, even though her child was only 21 days old.

And, my best mother friend, who has four children, says she didn't leave her first born alone, even to go out for an evening for a year. By her fourth child, she was going out after a week, without her baby.

But I'm going to try and enjoy the "quality time" with The Fiance. I'm going to try to enjoy the fact that I'll be able to sleep in and not worry about The Dictator crying out at night. I'm going to try....

In fact, the last three nights, in preparation for leaving The Dictator, I've been sleeping with her in her bed., much to the dismay of The Fiance. I know, I know. What can I say? When it comes to leaving my baby behind for a week, I turn into a real baby.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Hand Holding

I have a soft spot for three things: Old people, pug puppies, and babies. Actually, I have a soft spot for cookie dough cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory...but maybe that's more of an obsession.

Last night, The Fiance, The Dicator and I were wating to cross a street to go to a resturant. As we were waiting for the light to turn green, this adorable white haired couple (age 80 and 85 at least) stopped me and asked if they could talk to The Dictator.

(It was really nice of them to ask, almost like asking, "Can I please pet your dog?")

"Of course," I said. "Don't worry. She doesn't bite. Well, not always." (OK, I didn't say that last part.)

This very eldery couple asked The Dictator her name and her age and The Dictator answered, "Rowan and I'm wearing green socks." I could tell that this elderly couple were enamoured with her. And that made me proud. And I was also proud of The Dictator for not calling them "poo poo heads" as she's been calling people lately.

Then I watched this elderly couple walk off, holding hands. It almost broke my heart. I said to The Fiance, "Look! They're holding hands! Isn't that so cute?" To see people that age (really, they looked to be almost 90) holding hands walking into the evening, made me feel good about life.

That's what I want. I want, in 50 years, to still be in love enough with my partner to hold hands walking down the street.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

My Baby's Butt

Ok, I love my baby's ass.

I swear, it's her cutest body part. She runs around the house naked sometimes - it's a game we call "Naked Baby: - and I look at her little bum and I'm like "yum." (hey, that rhymes!)

Every day I ask The Dictator, "Can I bite your butt?" Ususally, she says yes. Then she makes me bite the other cheek. Sometimes she even says, "Bite my butt!"

There's just something about baby's bums and thighs that I just want to....bite!

I'm pretty sure there's no etiquette out for asking my friend's if I can bite their baby's bums. But sometimes I do.

My friend Kama's 7 month-old son, North, is at that chunky monkey stage....that stage where they blow up because they're eating a lot but not crawling or walking yet. And I just want to squeeze him all over. His cheeks are so puffy that I kept poking them. Then Kama took North away from me.

Now, while I think it's more than ok for me to nibble on my own baby's ass, I don't like when other babies want to nibble on me.

One of The Fiance's colleagues son was at this awful licking stage, and would like everything and everybody - including me.

I'm not sure there's any etiquette either for telling a person you really don't really know all that well, "Can you please tell your son to stop licking me, because it's grossing me out."

So I told her son to lick The Dictator instead.

Anyway, back to The Dictator's perfect ass. I always want to take pictures of her ass, but don't. Because I wouldn't want any body at, let's say, at Kodack, to think that I'm, you know, as weirdo.

I wish my ass was as cute as The Dictator's.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

I'm such a sucker!

I blame it on my friend Kama.

I ran into Kama when I was out for dinner the other night. She was wearing these awesome full-length army pants. Of course I asked her where she bought them. She said, "Aritzia."

"Did you get them recently, or are they from last year?' I asked, because there's nothing worse than complimenting someone on something they're wearing only to find out they bought it in 1988. Or in Paris.

"I just got them this week," she told me.

So, of course, I took The Dictator with me to Aritzia the very next evening because I was salivating to get the pants. Sure enough, they had one pair of the army pants left - exactly in my size! Yippee! Life was so good!

Until it wasn't. I also saw this yellow Wonder Woman t-shirt I loved, that I was going to buy. Then the Dictator said, "Me want Wonder Woman shirt! Me want Wonder Woman! Me want Wonder Woman shirt!"

So, because I'm such a sucker, I picked up a size small black Wonder Woman shirt, along with my yellow one, and said I'd buy it for her. But no. Oh no. That wasn't good enough for The Dictator. She wanted to wear it RIGHT NOW.

Because I'm a such a sucker, I ripped off the price tag and tried to put it on over her shirt. But no. Oh no. She made me take off the shirt and undershirt she was wearing, in the middle of the store, and put on the Wonder Woman shirt, which reached down to her ankles.

Ok, yes, you might think that I'm spoiling her. And I guess I am.

The problem was that a saleslady recognized me, when I walked in, saying, "Hey, are you Rebecca Eckler?" I regretted saying I was, because that meant I couldn't be mean to my child or have her having a friggen temper tantrum, because what if this saleslady went out and told all her friends, "Rebecca Eckler was in and her child was the Devil and she was so mean to her and wouldn't buy her a shirt."

So, yes, I undressed my child in the middle of Aritzia, bought her a Wonder Woman shirt 18 times too large for her. But at least she didn't throw a fit.

And, hey, it will fit me. So maybe it was worth it, because now I'll have a black AND yellow Wonder Woman t-shirt. All I know is that the next time I go to Aritzia, I'm going solo.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Chew! Don't Swallow!

I'm a little late blogging today, because I'm in the middle of finishing the sequel to my book, Knocked Up: Confessions of a hip-mother-to-be. The sequel will be called Knocked Down. It will be in stores in 2007.

And it's taking me a little longer than I expected to write, because I have mommy brain - which means I have memory loss, and can barely remember my own name. I can't, for the life of me, remember what happened after The Dictator turned one. Anyway, that's my problem, not yours. Sorry to bore you.

Moving on to more interesting things...

Two days ago, The Dictator told me, "I want bubblegum."

I'm like, "Do you even know what bubblegum is?"

How the heck does The Dictator know what bubblegum is, considering I don't ever remember chewing bubblegum in front of her and it's not like we have any bubblegum in the house. Maybe I haven't been paying attention enough to Barney. Does Barney chew bubblegum?

But I promised The Dictator I'd buy her bubblegum if she peed in the potty. (I'm all about bribing) And she did. So I had to take her to Shopper's Drug Mart to buy her a pack of bubblegum, because a promise is a promise. And even though The Dictator can't remember what she ate for dinner, two minutes after finishing her dinner, she remembered my promise to buy her bubblegum

"Bubblegum now please," she kept saying.

I bought a pack of Trident bubblegum. The last time I bought Trident bubblegum was probably when I was 8 years-old. Anyway. Once we got home, I gave her half a stick and, I swear, I've never seen anything cuter than her chewing gum.

Then, suddenly, she stopped chewing.

"Where's your gum?" I asked The Dictator.

"I don't know," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Obviously she swallowed the gum. I guess she didn't quite understand the instructions I gave her, which were, "Chew. Only chew. Don't swallow. Just Chew. Do not swallow. No swallowing. Just chew."

I gave her the other half. And, again, watching her chew was so overwhelmingly adorable, I almost cried. Until she suddenly stopped chewing.

"Where's your gum?" I asked The Dictator again.

"I don't know," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

So, apparently, The Dictator knows what bubblegum is, but she just doesn't understand the concept of what to do with bubblegum.

At the very least, I guess I should be grateful she didn't spit it out into my hair.

P.S. Please take a look at all the mommy businesses listed on the side of my blog. There's some good stuff there. Anyone out there invented bubblegum that little ones don't swallow? Just wondering.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Potty Mouth

This morning, I received what I thought was a Fear Phone Call.

In the days way, way, way back, pre-Dictator that is, The Fear Phone call was a call made to friends, or received from friends, after a night of drunken stupidity.

At 11 a.m. this morning, my cell phone started to vibrate. I glanced at the number, like I always do before picking up, only to see the call was being made from my house. Except I wasn't at home.

Which either meant that someone who had my very personal phone number had broken into my house. Or that it was Nanny Mimi.

Now that I'm a mother, I have that full-fledge paranoia thing happening. Any ring after 10 p.m. means bad news. Any call from the house in the middle of the day to my cell phone = bad news.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" I immediately said into the phone. I had The Fear.

"Rowan just pooed in the potty!" Nanny Mimi said, in the same excited tone she used when she told me, three weeks ago, that her boyfriend proposed.

That was the first time The Dictator had done that. Of course, it warranted a call. Of course, she'll be getting a present. Of course, it was the most exciting news since I learned that Rock Star was being filmed again.

We've been pretty relaxed about the whole toilet-training thing. The Fiance ordered a book from Amazon, called, "How To Potty Train Your Child in 26 seconds," or something like that. And that's pretty much where we've stopped.

My main problem with these types of books - and, truthfully, I have heard they work - is that it would take me five weeks to read two hundred pages. And these books are always two hundred pages. If I'm reading anything aside from Goodnight Moon, it won't be a bible on toilet training.

The fact is, you rarely see 12 year-olds walking around in diapers. So, obviously, every child eventually learns how to go on "the potty" one way or another.

Speaking of potty, I've been wondering what are appropriate words for toddlers when it comes to going to the washroom. I use the 'S' word as much as anyone - though a lot less in the last two years - but I don't exactly want to hear that word out of The Dictator's mouth.

Yesterday, The Dictator pointed at my chest and said, "Big boobs." Then The Dictator pointed at her own chest and said, "Little boobs."

It wasn't a big deal. She went through all the body parts like that. "Mommy big hands. Rowan little hands. Mommy big feet. Rowan little feet." And on and on.