Postcards from the Mothership

Catchy title, eh?

Sometimes I have to turn over rocks and scrape barrel bottoms to find blog material, and sometimes things leap out of the newspaper and holler “Blog me!” This is one of the latter instances.

Last night in Toronto, performance artist Jess Dobkin hosted the first-ever Lactation Station Breast Milk Bar at the Ontario College of Art and Design gallery in Toronto. Any interested passers-by were welcome to try a 3 mililitres (about 2/3 of a teaspoon) sample of pasteurized human breast milk, donated by six lactating mothers.

Quoted on canada.com, the artist (who says she herself had trouble nursing her one-year old daughter) said her intent was not to stir up controversy, but to “create an environment that’s welcoming, and I welcome people’s interest and curiousity.”

While I must admit my first reaction was “Ick!!”, I do like the idea of opening up the conversation. I was incredibly curious about breastmilk and nursing before I had kids of my own, but was shy about asking any of my lactating friends anything but the most cursory questions. When considering future parenthood, the idea of nursing was always something I strongly believed in but was more than a little freaked out by.

What I can’t imagine is drinking, or even tasting, anybody else’s breast milk. For reasons I’m not sure of, the idea disturbs me on a fundamental level. I had no problem tasting my own milk (I’ve always thought that episode of Friends, where one of them said it tastes like canteloupe, was right on the money), and the boys seemed to enjoy it. After an exhausting, frustrating, and painful start (both times) I nursed Tristan for 10 months and Simon for more than 16 months.

Despite the artist’s intention, the Lactation Station performance has stirred up more than a bit of controversy. Last month, there was an outcry when news broke that the exhibit would be the recipient of a $9,000 grand from the Canada Council for the Arts. Yesterday, the performance prompted Health Canada to issue an advisory about the dangers of buying human breast milk over the Internet or directly from individuals, as breast milk can transmit HIV and other viruses, alcohol, bacteria and other pathogens.

In the end, I give kudos to anyone who encourages thoughtful debate on something as important, and yet often still taboo, as nursing. But I think I’ll pass on my free sample, thanks.

What do you think?

This past weekend, I was looking for a quick wardrobe fix to get me through the summer heat and I had gone out looking for a simple knee-length skirt when I found myself looking seriously for the first time at ‘skorts’. I’ve always found both the word and the concept of “skort” a bit absurd, to be honest, but one in particular didn’t have the fake skirt panel in front and divided legs in back but instead looked like a skirt all the way around – a skirt that just happened to have little bloomers sewn in like the hot pants from the 1960s. I actually thought it was a skirt when I brought it into the changeroom. I tried it on, and despite the extra material, I liked it immediately. The hem falls to two or three inches above the knee, but the straight cut and stretchy material (god bless lycra) are forgiving and it looks sharp enough for work with a blouse and nice shoes.

The problem is that now that I’m wearing it, the ‘skort’ part feels more than a little weird, like I’m wearing boxer shorts under my skirt. There’s just too much material down there. And what exactly is the point of those knickers sewn in there, anyway? I just don’t get ‘skorts’… the only reason I bought this one is because it so closely resembled a skirt and was a stellar 40% off the regular price.

If I had one signature piece of clothing in my 20s and early 30s, it was probably a plaid, kilted mini-skirt. I loved them, was pathologically unable to resist them, and had at least five versions hanging in my closet in colour palettes from black and gold to burgundy and teal. While I may have been self-conscious about a lot of my other body parts, I was always more than willing to show off my legs.

In the last year or so, since I realized that my post-pregnancy 10 lbs weight gain was going to be a permanent feature, I’ve gradually become more shy about baring my legs. Instead of moving into shorts at the first hint of a spring breeze, it was well into early summer before I hauled out the shorts this year, and even then I’ve moved from a shortie-short to a walking shorts length.

And because everything you see on TV must be true, I have also taken to heart the sign at the beginning of What Not to Wear that admonishes “no miniskirts after age 35”. My lovely plaid kilts, in addition to now being a full size or two too small, are also no longer age appropriate. It’s heartbreaking, really, but bitter as I am, I guess I can see their point.

What do you think? Are there some things you don’t wear anymore because you are a woman (or man) of a certain age? Have you taken out your belly-button stud? (Oh, how I wanted one of those when I was 24 and freshly divorced!) Weight issues aside, what do you think of the ‘no miniskirts after 35’ rule? Is there such a thing as too old for certain styles?

Over the last year and a half of blogging, I’ve seen a lot of conversations the ‘mommy wars’. In five years of mothering, though, I don’t think I ever actually felt judged by another mother about my parenting skills – until yesterday.

We have, in our community, a wonderful resource for parents of children under the age of six called an Early Years Centre. It’s funded by the province of Ontario, and each community’s centre is a little different, but mostly they have things like a toy lending library, a schedule of parenting courses, often a daycare centre, and the part I always loved: a drop-in playgroup. I loved the drop-in at the Barrhaven EYC so much that before I lived in the community, I’d drive 10 km just to bring Tristan in when he was a toddler. They have high quality play sets, like fully equipped kitchens, dress-up clothes, puzzles, train and lego tables, and a crafts centre. Each drop-in ends with a story and song circle.

When Simon was a newborn and Tristan was a busy toddler, the EYC was a lifeline for me. I’d put Simon in a sling or bjorn carrier, or even leave him under a mobile on a soft mat in the babies-only section, and follow Tristan around as he burned off energy and played with the other kids. The staff were well-educated and helpful, and would happily entertain Tristan while I sat with my back against a wall and nursed Simon. Tristan christened it the ‘ladybug playgroup’ because of the big red ladybug on the mats in the crawling baby section. I’ve often encouraged Beloved to bring the boys there during the day, because they always loved it and always napped well after a morning of play with fresh toys and new faces.

In the year and a half since I’ve been on maternity leave, the EYC has moved a mile or so up the road into a new facility. I’ve booked off Mondays through the summer to have extra time with the boys, and since the skies threatened rain yesterday, I brought the boys in to try to recapture some of the old fun. Turns out, like in so many things in life, you can’t go back again.

The first thing that struck me was a plethora of new and strict rules. No matter what we did, we were breaking a rule. First, I got the evil eye for letting the boys play in front of the doors as we queued up to take a number to get in. (Only 30 people allowed, and when we arrived three or four minutes after they started handing out numbers, we were the last few to get a ticket.) Then I got an outright scolding for letting them be in front of the door again as we inspected a cricket to pass the time. Then Tristan got scolded for running through the door. Okay, I get a rule about no running, but by this point I was starting to feel a little prickly.

They read out a list of house rules, and we were informed that there was to be no carrying toys from one section to another. No lego in the craft area. No puzzles in the book area. No kitchen toys outside the kitchen area. We’re talking about a room full of preschoolers here, in a room a little larger than the average classroom, and they aren’t supposed to carry the toys around? Poor Simon was distraught when he couldn’t use the spatula and the wooden spoon in the big box of cornmeal. I’m just glad he didn’t do what he usually does – fixate on one object and carry it around like a talisman everywhere he goes. (He actually shoplifted a yellow plastic spoon from the Children’s Museum last time we were there, because I forgot he had been carrying it around with him all morning. I’ll bring it back the next time we go, I promise!)

We had to fill out a registration form, and as I completed the form, one of the staffers and I chatted. She asked why it had been so long since I had been back to the EYC, and I mentioned working full time but that I had been encouraging my husband to bring the boys. I wish I were exaggerating when I tell you that her whole demeanor changed when she realized I was not a stay-at-home mother. She looked from Simon to Tristan, both happily engaged in separate play areas, and I swear I could read on her face that she saw a direct correlation to their high-spiritedness and my working. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt judged for working outside the home, and it was like a shock of cold water.

So I was feeling a little tense to begin with, and every time the boys showed any energy or spunk or enthusiasm, I felt like the two women staffers were giving me the evil eye. Sometimes it seems like my boys are a little more wriggly and noisy than their peers, and I worry about it. They aren’t bad, they just exhuberant, and in Simon’s case, relentlessly curious. So when I raised my voice because Simon wasn’t listening to me telling him for the third time not to dissemble the aquarium while I tried to complete the registration form and mop up the paint Tristan had dribbled onto the table, I was actually impressed with myself for not screaming outright. And when I say I raised my voice, I mean exactly that. “Si-mon,” in the singsong-y getting his attention voice, followed by “Simon!” in the abrupt, I mean business voice, followed by “SIMON!” in the are-you-deaf-or-just-ignoring me voice. I hadn’t even made it to the “SIMON!!” you are risking imminent death voice.

That’s when one of the other mothers decided I needed an intervention, and she approached me using that calm, soothing voice that you use on angry dogs and people about to go postal. If she had approached me collegially, with laughter and empathy, I would have likely welcomed her solidarity. Instead, she actually initiated the conversation, without even so much as a ‘hello-how-ya-doing’, by asking me if I’d ever taken any parenting courses on how to speak to my children. I was floored, and so taken aback that I could only sputter. I was far more polite to her than I should have been, and listened patiently while she recommended a course and two books on the subject. I managed to disentangle myself from her to ‘help’ Tristan with some markers, and spent the rest of the morning actively avoiding her.

In the end, the boys had a great morning and were resistant to leaving. After speaking to no-one for the entire morning except the two judgemental women and feeling more than a little like a social leper, I was more than happy to get out of there, and told Beloved when I got home that I would no longer pester him to bring the boys back.

Maybe it’s just the new culture of this particular EYC, but I’m disappointed to lose something that we had so enjoyed. I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised that it took this long for me to come face-to-face with this kind of bias, or how much it bothered me. It drives me crazy that I’d let the opinion of a couple of strangers undermine my confidence in my own parenting skills.

I think I’ll stick to playdates with friends from now on.

For a change of scenery, I’m blogging over here today.

I’m watching America’s Got Talent again. (I know, I know – I can’t help myself. It’s been on three weeks and I’ve mentioned it three times already. What can I say, I’m hooked. It’s like chips and dip – I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help myself, especially when there’s no other worthy distractions around.)

Leonid the sparkly Slavic sword balancer with the pink wings (!) has just skipped across the stage after an emotional plea that actually left me choked up. Really. I blame my hormones.

Actually, it’s something the previous contestant said that resonates with me. He was the rather disturbing looking contortionist-guitar player, and one of the judges asked him, ‘What would make you learn how to do something like this?’

He shrugged and said, ‘I just need the attention, I guess.’

Yep, that’s why I blog. I just need the attention, I guess. Hell, that’s not just why I blog, that’s my life!

But really what I’ve been thinking about is that I need a special talent like that. Not so much the contortionist guitar player, but what about the guy who balanced the stove on his face, or the guy with the parrot hiding in the pretty coloured scarves, or the guy with the flaming bowling ball and the scorpion in his pants? I mean, really!

Everybody should have a parlour trick, a hidden talent, something you only do after two or three beers that always impresses people the first time you do it but annoys the hell out of your significant other, who knows when you haul out that tired old trick that it must be nearly time to find your coats and shoes and get the hell out of there before you decide you are best buddies with the other drunk guy in the corner talking to the plant.

Not that it would earn me a million dollars, but people always seem impressed that I can clap with one hand. (It’s a lot of fun to get a whole dinner party table waving flapping their wrists around, trying to do it. Dang, now you’re never going to invite me over for a dinner party, are you?)

And I can do that lipstick thing that Molly Ringwald did in The Breakfast Club, but now that I’ve breastfed two babies and my 34Ds have become 34 longs, it ain’t so pretty to see anymore.

What’s your hidden talent?

Starting this month, the Canadian government will be doling out the cheques for the new Universal Child Care Benefit. That’s the $100-a-month credit, for each child under age six, that the Tory government seems to think gives families some sort of ‘choice in child care.’ Right.

I have to be careful here. The prime minister is my boss, and I don’t think it’s too clever to crap where I sleep, so to speak. So read these words not as written as a civil servant, but as ranted by a working mom of two preschool boys.

I’ve always thought that the $100 Universal Child Care Benefit (UCCB) allowance is nothing but a practically meaningless token amount. And it annoys the hell out of me that it is so inequitable. Because the benefit will be taxable to the lowest income earner, a single parent family, a two-income family, and a two-parent-single-income family will all get different amounts.

After taking into account the income tax that will have to be paid, and the elimination of the former low-earner supplement to the Child Tax Benefit, of the original $1200 per year you will only be able to keep:

$641 if you are a two-income family earning $40K a year;

$768 if you are a single parent with an income of $20K a year;

$951 if you are on welfare; and,

$971 if you are a one-income family earning $250K a year.

(See the Caledon Institute’s excellent essay for a detailed analysis. I took these figures from their report.)

Isn’t that lovely? The upper-class one-income family, which most likely does not even use child care, gets more than $200 a year more in net benefits, per child, than a working poor single parent.

And then, as if that weren’t a bitter enough pill to swallow, the media this weekend reported that childcare centres across the country are hiking day care fees just in time to benefit from the new allowance to parents. Some centres are hiking fees by as much as $75 a month, which leaves parents with a net deficit at the end of the month. One daycare centre operator wrote a letter to parents, saying, “[the daycare centre] would like to be a part recipient of those funds which are to be used for day-care purposes.”

This isn’t about, never was about, should not be about working parents versus stay-at-home parents. If the government wants to hand out this half-assed, poorly planned reward to the voters who were naïve enough to elect them, fair enough. Call it the “thanks for electing us” benefit, then. To their credit, they did change the name of the credit from the Choice in Child Care Allowance to the Universal Child Care Benefit, which is only mildly instead of completely patronizing and insulting. Because it’s far from universal, and has little or nothing to do with child care.

If the government wants to make a meaningful financial contribution to the families who are paying for child care, they should consider changing the tax laws so the highest income earner in the family can deduct the child care expenses, for starters. And then they should go back to the drawing board to find a real way to make child care accessible, reliable and truly universal. We’ve got a long way to go.