Month: December 2005

Okay, not really 300 reasons. But I noticed a lot of my favourite bloggers (Suzanne, Ann, Jen and Phantom, to name a few) have been taking on the question “why do I blog” lately, and I wanted to get in on some of that action. And then I noticed when I was cranking up Blogger that today is my 300th post! That’s 300 posts in about 320 days… and I was worried when I started blog that I’d have commitment issues.

So, why do I blog?

When I started blogging, it was like this: the camera went into soft focus, music swelled in the background, and I took blog in my arms and spun it lovingly through a field of daisies, asking “Where have you been all my life?” and ravaging it with kisses.

I’ve always wanted to write, and I’ve always been complimented on my writing. I got into communications because of my love of words, but somehow writing communication strategies and media lines on the latest government initiatives didn’t feel like a creative stretch for me.

In the beginning, blogging really was just about exercising that creative muscle. It was a chance to write often, in small doses and on various topics in a variety of styles. I can’t tell you how good it feels to write every day. Even more intoxicating is that elusive “ahhh” moment, when I catch just the right turn of phrase and know I’ve not only written something, but written it well.

I used to say I wanted to write, but I lacked imagination and could never think of anything worth writing about. Blog takes care of that – when in doubt, write about everything. Feeling cheeky today? Blog it. Feeling bitchy today? Blog it. Feeling alone and bewildered and overwhelmed? Blog it. Blogging is also an extension of the (some might say annoying) habit of mine to read out loud the interesting bits in the newspaper. I blog to say, “Hey, did you see this? What do you think about it?”

Just before I started this blog, I was at a friend’s house (Hi Kim!) with a bunch of friends, admiring their scrapbooks. I loved the idea of scrapbooks, had made them before they were so in vogue, and had tonnes of photos of the boys and stories to tell. And yet I could never seem to get organized enough to have the ideas, the time and the supplies together at once. Kim mentioned she scrapbooks because she sees herself as the family historian, and that’s a phrase that has resonated with me throughout my blogging ‘career’. That’s another huge part of why I blog – to capture the elusive bits of story we thread like beads on a string to make a meaningful whole out of the vignettes of every day life. It’s the story of my boys, the big one and the two little ones, and how I love them so.

And the whole feedback thing? Nah, that has nothing to do with why I am a blog junkie.

Seriously, who knew? Who would have ever guessed how intoxicating hearing back from people would be? I continue to be astonished at how many people drop by here on a given day, and how clever and witty and insightful your comments are. Almost a year later, and I am still amazed that you’re still here, still reading, still interested in what I have to say. I started to write blog because it felt so good to stretch that creative muscle, but I keep writing because I am truly addicted to the idea that every single day, people read what I write and occasionally take the time to write back to me. Wow.

So blogging is all about me. It’s the most self-indulgent thing I do, and it gives me validation in more ways than I can list.

But there’s this whole other element to blogging – being part of the blog community, and especially of the mom (and dad) blogging community. Blogging has bolstered me on bad days, and danced with me on the cloud tops on good days. Ann got it right when she said that “mother-bloggers are such interesting people. They tend to be smart, articulate, well-read, opinionated, and passionate.” In fact, that’s one of my only complaints about blogging – I wish I could have all of my favourite bloggers over for a dinner party some day, because I like and admire them so much and I think the conversation would have us rolling on the floor laughing one minute and weeping into our wine glasses the next – and yet I’ll probably never meet most of these people in person.

I may be teetering on the edge of hyperbole, but I have to say that blogging has made me a better person. I’ve learned a lot about myself, but I’ve also learned a lot from the parenting ‘experts’ out there – not the ones with the credentials, but the ones in the trenches, sending dispatches from the edge of hysteria on everything from potty training to Prada shoes and all points in between.

I blog because I can, and I blog because I can’t imagine what I’d do if I couldn’t.

I don’t mind sharing things. We have one car, and one cell phone, neither one of which I mind terribly not having exclusively to myself. We have one TV, and one computer. I share a lot of food – if it’s not the preschoolers hungrily eyeballing my sandwich, it’s Katie the dog. In general, I’m fine with sharing just about everything.

You know what I don’t like to share? My bed.

I love my bed. The winter flannels are a rich burgundy, thick and warm. The summer sheets are a soft navy cotton that holds just the right amount of coolness to keep them feeling fresh. Every night as I pull the covers up to my chin, I am grateful for my bed.

Who’s idea was it that when you get married, you forever give up your right to sleep in your own space? I mean, sure, there are times when it’s nice to huddle in the warm aura around the person you love most in the world. But when the person you love most in the world is snoring like a trash compactor or twitching like an angry marionette, a bed of your own doesn’t seem like too much to ask for.

The boys each get a room of their own, why can’t I have one too? Hell, I’m the one paying the bills.

For most of the last couple of years, I’ve been spoiled. About the time I was six months pregnant with Simon, Beloved decided that the spare bed was a good place to spend the night. (I felt like 300 lbs of cranky water retention, my internal thermostat was toxic with hormones and I had restless legs. I wouldn’t have wanted to sleep with me either.) After Simon was born, Beloved stayed out of the room to avoid the commotion of nightly feedings on the half hour. Only when Simon was around 16 months old and sleeping more often than not through the night did Beloved find his way back into our bed at night.

Problem is, I got kind of used to having the whole bed to myself. I don’t want to share. It’s MINE!

Unless we start building additions in the attic, a room of my own just isn’t going to happen. I have, however, been seriously toying with the idea of two beds in the master bedroom. It’s plenty big enough – I think the bedroom is bigger than our living room, and most of the space is just open floor right now. We could probably comfortably fit a whole extra double bed in there and still have room to spare.

Is it weird that I spend so much time thinking about this?

I mean, if we get separate beds, do they have to match? Would we have to buy coordinating headboards? Should we get the same bedding for both, or complimentary bedding? What if we got a couple of twin beds and a king size comforter, then we could just push them together in the morning to look like one big bed for when company comes over.

Would the kids get teased on the playground because one day they let it slip that mommy has a bed and daddy has a bed and ne’er the two shall meet?

When I was a kid, I remember my grandparents had separate beds. Do I have to wait that long? Surely I’m not the only one who covets her own covers at night.

I’m so very reluctant to get political on blog for a number of reasons. First, because I’m mostly bored to tears by the endless punditicisms during an election. Second, because I always fear that my brain is not big enough to contribute a reasoned, well-considered argument on the subject simply because I scan and take in a lot of information, but I have the retention skills of your average pool skimmer. Finally, because I really think choosing between Stephen Harper and the Liberals is a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. And yes, I switched from party to person on purpose.

But now one of the central election platforms seems to be child care, and I have some opinions on that subject. Get a fresh cup and settle in, this might run long.

For the benefit of our outside observers, the basic promises made to date are as follows. The governing Liberals, widely believed to be lying, cheating fat cat bureaucrats living large at the expense of the average joe, have promised $5B over five years for a “nation-wide system that embraces the shared principles of quality care, universal inclusiveness, accessibility and an emphasis on development and learning.” The Conservatives, led by the truly frightening Stephen Harper (imagine George Bush, but right wing-ier and less charismatic – yikes!) have promised $1200 per year per preschool child for the family to ostensibly pay toward day care fees.

In theory, I like the Liberal’s concept the best. Spend more money to make universally accessible, quality day care. Except, of all the Canadian families I know who have children in daycare – all of them, virtual and IRL friends – only one family I can think of uses a day care centre. The vast, vast majority of families use in-home daycare which is unlicenced, unregulated and will be completely untouched by this promised funding.

For us, what I call “institutional” daycare (that used to be a slag, now it’s just a term of convenience) wasn’t even an option, because there is only one daycare centre in the entire city of Ottawa, the nation’s capital, that accepts children one year of age or younger on a part-time basis. It was also prohibitively expensive.

In 2003, when I started back to work after my maternity leave with Tristan was done, it would have cost in the neighbourhood of $800 to $1000 per month, per child, for full-time care in a daycare centre. We ended up finding a neighbourhood grandmother who took care of Tristan with her five-year-old grandson and a half a dozen before-and-after school kids after an exhausting and disheartening search. When we moved later that year, I had to start my search all over again, and ended up paying a third-party company $100 just for a list of referrals to people offering daycare in our neighbourhood, whom I had to then interview and do background checks on myself to find a suitable match.

While Tristan and Simon are treated as members of the family, there are relatively minor issues that come up from time to time that make me question (agonize for sleepless hours) whether Bobbie is the best possible care provider for them, but the simple fear of having to start over from scratch in the search stops me from even considering making a switch.

As it is, we pay $30 per boy per day. We have no written agreement, and what to do about holidays, sick days (hers or theirs), vacation time, changes to the schedule or any other issue is worked out on an as-needs basis, negotiated politely while I put the boys’ boots and coats on at the end of the day. This flexibility is what I gained from not using a formal daycare centre, but is also turning out to be the Achilles heel of our relationship.

So in theory, then, I should like the Conservative’s plan, which would put an extra $100 per child in my pocket each month, regardless of whether the family uses child care or not. It is basically an extension of the Child Tax Benefit we already get from the government, except it is not income tested, meaning everyone (rich or poor, urban or rural) gets exactly the same amount. When I walk through my neighbourhood and see the half-million dollar homes and think they will get the same $100 as the single mom supporting her three kids who lives next door to me, I can think of more than a few problems with this scheme.

Scott Reid, the Liberal’s director of communications, got in a lot of trouble this weekend for saying that the Conservative’s promise was problematic because it could allow parents to use their child-care benefits to simply buy “beer and popcorn.” I have to say, I said more or less the same thing myself when I first heard about it. This is a token and meaningless amount. Would $1200 a year make it easier for anybody to make the decision to stay home rather than work? Only somebody who was already on the cusp of being able to make that choice already, I would imagine. And $100 a month barely covers three days of daycare out of the average month for us, and I know for a fact we have one of the more affordable arrangements.

I’m not impressed. The idea that affordable, accessible and regulated day care has become a national election issue should have me dancing with joy. I should feel the validation of finally being a significant demographic, of finally being able to contribute meaningfully to the conversation of politics. Rather, I’m left feeling disheartened and disillusioned.

This is the best our national leaders can do?

My dearest bloggy friends,

Thank you SO much for your votes. The results are in, the votes have been tabulated and I couldn’t be more proud.

You voted Postcards from the Mothership the third best new Canadian blog this year! We missed taking down Rick Mercer by a vote or two (okay, so I was mathematically eliminated from the top spot by noon on Thursday), but I’m beaming proudly nonetheless.

(And if I’ve got you trained to drop by every 24 hours and vote, you can keep up the good work at the Weblog Awards through December 15. I’ve already been mathematically eliminated from the top spot by She Who Blogs, who has more readers in a day than I have had since day one, but I am still honoured by each and every vote!)

Special congratulations to my fellow finalists in both the Best New Blog and Best Personal Blog categories. I was honoured to be in your company!

Really, thank you. When I started blogging almost a year ago, I had no idea what I was getting into. I figured I’d write a bit, maybe a few friends would read it, and I’d have another hobby to add to my list of endless projects always cluttering up my brain – but at least this one didn’t also clutter up the basement! When I started blogging, I barely even read any blogs – and now I can’t remember what I did without them.

Blogging has also spread through my circles of friends like a virus – Nancy, Yvonne, Sharon, Anna, Jen, Jon and my most darling UberGeek were all friends of mine in real life before they were clever bloggers. And I could go on for about a week listing the wonderful people I’ve met through blogging, but if you need a short list I’m so lucky to have ‘met’ Dean Dad, Marla, Jen, Suzanne, Phantom, and Renee. And I’ve met (without the quotations) Ann, Andrea and Andrea, who are even more lovely in person than they are in their blogs.

Oh yikes, here comes the hook to drag me off stage. This is what happens when I blog late in the evening after a busy weekend, and am feeling emotionally warm and fuzzy and well appreciated. Better quit now before I get maudlin!

Succintly, for a change: thank you, my friends.

I can’t help myself. I love Christmas music. I really do. I love the pop stuff, I love the traditional hymns, I love all of it. I especially love that Christmas gives me a whole new repetoire to sing at the top of my lungs, along with Old MacDonald and Twinke Twinkle Little Star and the few Wiggles and Thomas the Tank Engine songs I know, to keep the boys entertained in the car.

There was an article in this morning’s Ottawa Citizen about holiday music and how it affects consumer behaviour. I remember studying the ‘muzak effect’ in school, where grocery stores tend to play more up-tempo music to keep people moving through the aisles, whereas boutiques ought to play mellow music to subconsciously cue people to slow down and browse. The article said holiday music has a similar effect:

Hypnotized by their holiday favourites, Canadians are apparently better consumers with the aid of Bing Crosby and Co. than they are without. The browsing and buying process is slowed down, people’s moods are calmed, and their feelings about the retail environment are more likely to be positive.

Fresh off the thrill of seeing my last set of questions about music become a bona fide meme, reading this article was all the encouragement I needed to try my hand at a holiday music meme.

Favourite holiday Christmas songs:
Little Drummer Boy – David Bowie and Bing Crosby
Santa Baby – Eartha Kitt or Madonna
Baby It’s Cold Outside – (I don’t remember who’s on my version at home, but Louis and Ella do a nice rendition)

Favourite traditional hymn:
O Holy Night

Favourite Christmas novelty song:
Bob and Doug McKenzie’s 12 Days of Christmas
(Including the priceless lyrics:
On the 7th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
7 packs of smokes,
6 packs of two-four,
5 GOLDEN TOQUES!
4 pounds of backbacon,
3 french toasts,
2 turtlenecks,
and beer in a tree.
whew, this should be just the 2 days of Christmas, this is too hard for us!)

Favourite Pop Christmas Shmaltz:
I still love Band-Aid’s Do They Know It’s Christmas, mostly because it is evocative of my early teen years and the 80s in general.

Song that, heard once, will rattle around in your head like marbles in a steel tub for days:
Winter Wonderland

Christmas song that makes me feel very scrooge-ish:
Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer (really, why do they keep playing that song? What is even remotely amusing about it?)

Okay, so this was a lame meme – but it’s Friday and it’s been a long week of trying to think of new and entertaining ways to thwart Rick Mercer. Pony up – what are the best and worst songs for Christmas? What songs make you linger in a store? What makes you choose the biting wind and minus 20 temperatures outside rather than step into a shop and tolerate it?

It’s time to use this little soap-box of mine to do some real good for a change. There’s something that you need to know.

Take note, and spread the message: the names of Santa’s reindeer are as follows: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, DONDER and Blitzen. That’s right, DONDER. Not Donner. Donder.

As you might know, my last name is Donders. As such, it has been my lifelong quest to set the record straight and right the wrongs entrenched by Johnny Marks and Gene Autry.

Here’s a little history lesson for you. The poem “A Visit From St Nicholas”, commonly known as “The Night Before Christmas”, was written back in 1823 and is generally attributed to American poet Clement Clarke Moore (although there have been recent arguments that the poem was in fact written by his contemporary Henry Livingston Jr.)

The original poem reads, in part:

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on Dunder and Blixem!

As explained on the Donder Home Page (no relation):

In the original publication of “A Visit from St. Nicholas” in 1823 in the Troy Sentinel “Dunder and Blixem” are listed as the last two reindeer. These are very close to the Dutch words for thunder and lightning, “Donder and Bliksem”. Blixem is an alternative spelling for Bliksem, but Dunder is not an alternative spelling for Donder. It is likely that the word “Dunder” was a misprint. Blitzen’s true name, then, might actually have been “Bliksem”.

In 1994, the Washington Post delved into the matter (sorry for the noisy link – it’s the only copy I could find online) by sending a reporter to the Library of Congress to reference the source material.

We were successful. In fact, Library of Congress reference librarian David Kresh described Donner/Donder as “a fairly open-and-shut case.” As we marshaled the evidence near Alcove 7 in the Library’s Main Reading Room a few days ago, it quickly became clear that Clement Clarke Moore, author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” wanted to call him (or her?) “Donder.” Never mind that editors didn’t always cooperate.
(…)
Further confirmation came quickly. In “The Annotated Night Before Christmas,” which discusses the poem in an elegantly illustrated modern presentation, editor Martin Gardner notes that the “Troy Sentinel” used “Dunder”, but dismisses this as a typo. Gardner cites the 1844 spelling as definitive, but also found that Moore wrote “Donder” in a longhand rendering of the poem penned the year before he died: “That pretty well sews it up,” concluded Kresh.

So there you have it. This Christmas season, make sure you give proper credit to Santa’s seventh reindeer. On DONDER and Blitzen.

It’s a matter of family pride.

Lest I trip over that fine line between good clean fun and celebrity Internet stalking (too late?) maybe we should talk about something else for a while.

I’ve got about half my Christmas shopping done. The good half. The “oh, what a great idea, it’s the absolute perfect gift for so-and-so, I can hardly wait to see his/her face!” Now comes the agonizing, clock-ticking, “I’ve got no friggin’ clue what to get for so-and-so and so I’ll just keep throwing money at it until I feel better about my choices” part of the shopping.

I know I make it hard on myself. I take my Christmas gift-giving very seriously. Each gift is carefully chosen based on an offhand remark from some time in the past 360 days, or a known favourite theme, or by divination, ESP and intuition. Gifts are balanced so that everybody gets a more or less proportionally appropriate gift value. I rarely give a gift I wouldn’t like to receive. In short, I drive myself CRAZY every year over Christmas shopping.

This is almost entirely my mother’s fault. (Sorry, Mom.) She has a knack for the perfect gift, and I have learned a lot from her. Mostly about excess, but also about how gift giving really is a covenant between two people. It’s an acknowledgement of how that person has touched your life, made a difference, been a friend. And because my friends and family are, for the most part, on the eccentric side, I find that my taste in gifts runs largely to the quirky and unique.

I like personalized gifts. We make a photo calendar each year, and have given photo mouse pads, coffee mugs and jigsaw puzzles. The boys are *almost* at an age where we can start substituting my handcrafted gifts for theirs (just in the nick of time, too – what’s cute from a four year old is a little odd from a thirty-something woman, and I’m running out of macaroni and glitter.)

I need ideas! What is the best gift you ever got? What is your favourite gift to give?

(I’m a bad, bad mommy.)

Time to examine the cold, hard facts of whom is more deserving of your Canadian Blog Award votes: the comedian, published author, TV personality, philanthropist and national cultural icon – or, well, me.

I think a head-to-head comparison will prove illustrious.

Rick Mercer: biting sarcasm.
Me: biting preschoolers.

Rick Mercer: mocks Americans.
Me: loves Americans. USA! USA!! USA!!!

Rick Mercer: high profile friends.
Me: world’s best bloggy friends.

Rick Mercer: supported by the deep pockets of the CBC. **
Me: unsupported. (Well, mostly.)

Rick Mercer: no blog comments allowed.
Me: lives for comments.

Rick Mercer: prone to rants.
Me: prone to rambles.

Rick Mercer: obsessed with Photoshop.
Me: obsessed with Google.

Rick Mercer: political satirist.
Me: potty satirist.

Rick Mercer: thousands of rabid fans.
Me: two fans, occasionally prone to drooling.

Oh look, I win!! (But you can go ahead and vote, if you were going to anyway.)

** Phew, it’s a good think I never signed up for Ad Sense. The pennies-per-month click-thru revenues would have probably exceeded Rick Mercer’s budget from the CBC and left me the underdog in this category.