The actual view from a room at the Westin Habour Castle. (As green screen as it may look it is 100% accurate.)

This past weekend in Canada was the Victoria Day long weekend, fondly known as May 2-4 where, for the most part, people set off fireworks in their backyards and scream until one o’clock in the morning.  We take our long weekends very seriously in Canada and usually find ourselves wrapped in bacon by Monday morning.  But, instead of hitting the highway, this time we decided to stick around, avoid the cottage traffic and putter in the garden.  It was magical and reminded me how much I love Toronto.  So, when I was offered a weekend stay at the Westin Harbour Castle for Mother’s Day I had a similar feeling…staycation? No drive?  zero traffic?  Avoidance of laundry?

Let’s do it.

The best part was arriving at our destination which was approximately a 10 minute drive from our house and my five year old, who is used to lots of long road trips, saying “That’s it?  We’re here? ”  I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved.  But then she received her own exclusive kids club backpack and her own room key which prompted her to demand that we “live here forever.”  I found it pretty cute that my two year old also received her own room key: You know, just in case she felt like staying up and partying with the other babies.

The view from our room was spectacular.  In fact, I may go as far as saying that it may be the best view in Toronto.  A clear uninterrupted view of the lake and Toronto Island isn’t something that you get every day.  Or ever.

Let it be known that I have a thing for hotel rooms.  There is something about a hotel room that makes me want to instantly put on a thick hotel robe (which I did), order a pizza (done) and then request an in-room movie (Wanderlust – put the kids to bed first. Although the nude scene with the senior citizens is educational it would just involve too many questions that I’m not quite prepared to answer.)

I also check out every square inch of the room like I’m about to buy the place.  Here is my hotel room wish list:

1. Spacious: If the hotel room isn’t as big as my own bedroom then I have to wonder “Why am I here?”
2. A comfy bed, preferably with enough comforters and pillows to make me feel like I’m suspended in mid-air.
3. Good shampoo and conditioner.  I can’t even describe to you the amount of pleasure I receive out of free quality hair products.  If I owned a hair care company I would get into the business of making hotel products.  It’s the best advertising ever.
4. Random bathroom accessories.  Forget the sewing kit.  This isn’t the 50’s.  Bring on the q-tips and the spare nail file!
5. Dimmers for lights: Please people it’s a HOTEL ROOM.  I need mood lighting for reading Oprah magazine while wearing a robe and eating pizza.
6. A nice iron:  I can’t believe I’m even saying this but it’s true.  I never iron anything at home but once I get to a hotel room I turn into a regular Martha Stewart.  My clothes look perfect. But no, I’m not going to sew anything.  I have limits.
7. A gigantic remote control: the bigger the better with a giant red button that says ‘power’.  You know?
8. Amazing shower pressure: needs no explanation.
9. A phone that immediately hooks me up to a friendly front desk staff or conceirege.  I have a lot of questions for the time when I eventually get out of my robe.
10. A great view:  Really a metaphor for life.

And of course the knowledge that there is a pool.  Ahhh…pool…  More on that in the next post…

A big thanks to Westin Hotels & Resorts for sponsoring this campaign. Click here to see more of the discussion.

Check out previous posts by Allana:

How To Be Mom Enough

A Mother/Daughter Moment

Hunter-Gatherer-Warrior-Mother

Follow Sam and Allana on Twitter (Allana is obsessed) and Facebook

Check out our pals from Babble Voices on – Facebook!

Just in case you didn't know how to lift a baby.

I was originally going to call this post “Can Everyone Please Shut Up?” but then I realized I was ovulating which means I really shouldn’t be allowed near a computer or anywhere close to a youtube video that might make me express emotion.

I get a bit…let’s call it “testy” when I ovulate.  I talk to myself and have imaginary fights with people that are quite raging.  This is all good, because I can at least recognize what’s going on.  On reflection, I should really invest in a shirt that says “Please don’t come near me unless I gave birth to you.”

Which brings me to the subject at hand.  And please keep in mind I am ovulating and my body is yelling, “Bitch, fertilize me!” and I’m yelling back, “NO.  I’m shooting a TV series and I need to squeeze myself into a confining cop uniform until November!”

So.  The Time Cover.

Am I really going to engage in this conversation?  Because truthfully when I saw the cover, although I reacted in a few different ways, I thought to myself I am not getting involved in this ridiculous conversation.

But now I am (have I mentioned I’m ovulating?)

"That right...now stand on the chair...I know this is weird but we are selling magazines here young man. Okay great, now look to camera. Can you smile while you breastfeed? Because that would be better for us." Art Director, Time Magazine

First, I laughed, mostly because the kid was standing on a chair with a ‘wtf?’ expression on his face.  There is no doubt in my mind this child has never breast fed while standing on a chair before.  This has art director written all over it. Then I felt jealousy over the fact that the mom doesn’t need to engage her knees to breastfeed.  In my world there was no limb not in use.  I got so used to not having use of my arms and legs that I learned to change the television channel with my forehead.  And lastly, I felt bad for the mom on the cover. As a person who has experienced press in my life I know full well the sinking feeling you get in your chest when you realize that they chose a picture you don’t like or quoted you in a way that isn’t exactly what you meant.  Maybe she liked the picture but I can only assume the *gasp* that escaped her lips when she saw the title “Are You Mom Enough?” on the front cover.  That’s just embarrassing, and believe me, not something they told her in advance.  I don’t care what kind of parenting technique you subscribe to, no mom wants to look like an asshole on the cover of Time magazine.

So.  Have you answered the question?  Are you mom enough?

Damn straight I’m mom enough!

I just bench pressed a stroller and threw in a few reps of a full diaper genie.

My dishwasher works just fine.  But I decided to hand wash every dish with soap that I made myself from dandelions and air dust.  How’s that for organic YO?!

I just started reading my two year old “War and Peace” – she hates it.  She cries every night begging for a book about a cow or a talking turtle but I have to ask her, “Do You Want To Be Kid Enough? Do YOU?”

She looks at me blankly.  Quite similar to the way I continue to look at that Time magazine cover.

Maybe I’ll shut up now. Care to join me?

p.s. Time Magazine.  It’s on.  I ovulate around the 17th of every month.  For your own safety, do not engage me or throw peanuts in my direction.

Check out previous posts by Allana:

A Mother/Daughter Moment

Hunter-Gatherer-Warrior-Mother

What Moms Should Never Have To Put Up With: The Worst Relationship Ever

Follow Sam and Allana on Twitter (Allana is obsessed) and Facebook

Check out our pals from Babble Voices on – Facebook!

Is she jogging? Or running away from uncomfortable questions?

I’ve been wanting some one-on-one time with my five year old lately.  And for anyone with two or more children you soon realize these moments are precious and more often than not, too far and few between.

So last night I put the baby (she’s two, and yes, I will be calling her “the baby” forever) to bed before my older daughter so that she could stay up for some alone time with me. And since lately she’s been asking questions like:

“How did you and Daddy met up?” and “Where did you find each other? On the street?”

I thought I would take her down memory lane with a stack of extra wedding photos that I have yet to put in an album.  She loved looking at Momma in her wedding dress and Daddy looking mostly fearful and in shock.  She was able to point out various relatives and good friends that we share our life with.  All was well, as we cuddled on the couch until she asked:

“Where am I?”

I explained, with a loving squeeze, that she was just a twinkle in our eye at that time.

“I was in your EYE?”

“No honey, you weren’t born at that time.  Mommy and Daddy were just getting married. It was like a big party before children.”

“So you had a party without me? Why?”

I continued to flip through photos to show her how there really weren’t any kids there at all.  Until I came across one and had to explain to her that, well, okay there were a COUPLE but that’s only because -

“So you invited that baby but not me?”

“Sweetheart, you were just a seed at the time – “

“A SEED?”

“No, I mean an EGG, in Mommies belly, uterus actually, ovaries to be exact.  An unfertilized egg”

“What is…un – ferti – lized?”

“It’s ummm…like how we feed the plants in the front yard.  We need to fertilize them so that they can grow.”

I don’t even know what I’m talking about at this point as she stares up at me glassy eyed and confused.  I try and change the subject by showing her a photo of me with a flashlight in my dress.  It doesn’t work.

“I would have liked to come to your wedding Momma.”

“Tell that to my parents!” (Hahaha – young children love inside jokes about the ramifications of having children before marriage when your parents are strict Irish-Catholics.  Good one Allana!)

“Well Momma, I’m going to invite YOU to MY wedding.”

“Thank you honey, because I’d hate to have to bust in and make a major scene.” (Ha! Allana bats another “this joke is flying over her head” out of the park!)

“Momma, I’m confused…”

“I can see why.  What do you want to know honey?”

“Why do you have a flashlight in your wedding dress?”

“Because it was 4am.  And well…how about I answer those questions later?”

Is the year 2027 a good time?

Get EOTS in your mailbox!  Subscribe

Follow Sam and Allana on Twitter and Facebook

Check out previous posts by Sam and Allana:

When Is It Okay For Your Kid To Quit Things?

Samantha Bee Made Me Eat My Placenta

“I’d Rather…”: The Lengths That  Mothers Will Go To Avoid Their Worst Nightmares

There Will Be Blood

Breastfeeding Can Suck

Check out our pals from Babble Voices on – Facebook!

Welcome to the world, Quitter.

Sam’s Story:

Allow me to introduce myself to you: I am a quitter. I ‘quit’ things. There is virtually no extracurricular, no tough-as-nails math class, no sports-ball based endeavor, that I didn’t, at some point in my childhood, simply throw up my hands at and walk away from.

Inspirational words, right? Yeah.

Drink them in.

Was I raised to be a quitter though?

Oh yes, most definitely.

When I was a kid, no one ever made me do anything. Want to take ballet? Oh wait — don’t ballerinas have to go upside down sometimes? I don’t care for that. How about piano? No thanks. My teacher smells like meatloaf. All right then, let’s try this: How about watching television from the crack of dawn until the dark of night with a cat sleeping on your feet and a bowl of Sugar Crisp balanced precariously on your lap the whole time? Perfect.

It’s nobody’s fault really. People just didn’t know back then that a steady diet of disco records and staring out the window at the other children playing in the sunshine all summer long could cause their children to become little mini Rip Van Winkle’s. (That’s me. I’m the Rip Van Winkle.)

But, in the end, you know what all that quitting did to me? It made me determined not to raise my own quitters. And this is slightly more … um … complicated than I thought it would be.

Because my daughter really doesn’t like any of the extracurricular fun-time classes I put her in.

GO MARRIAGE!

After how many years of doing one particular thing can you call yourself an expert? Five years? Maybe ten? How about thirty?  Well, I’ve been married for 9 years. No days off. No sabbatical to a cabin in the woods to consider my research. Nope. Just full on, every day. Married. And being that married requires an enormous amount of intense questioning and follow-up analysis from both parties involved. Questions such as, “Any chance you did the laundry?” and the even more complex, “Can you pick up toilet paper on your way home from work?”

And further analysis and/or statements such as: “I am out of clean socks.” And, “I can’t believe you forgot the toilet paper.”

It can’t always be sexy good times. Even Ice T and Coco must turn to each other on some nights and say “Do you just want to go to bed and read books?” Okay, bad example. That scenario is doubtful.

Back to toilet paper. There is nothing sexy about it. And sometimes being married just means working together to convince your toddler that lettuce isn’t coated with burning acid or perhaps tag-teaming on encouraging potty time talk with your children:

“Did you go poo? Go poo poos? No? No poo? Why no poo?”

Hand-slap trade-off:

“Time for poo? Let’s go poo. Good job on the poo!”

If you could solidify a marriage on poo alone I’d be renewing my vows every second week.

But at least I know this: I believe in marriage, in being intensely loyal, in having someone’s back and knowing that someone has mine. And in being vulnerable beyond human comprehension with one single person: my husband.

I also believe in marrying someone who can make a good smoothie. Balanced nutrition is severely underrated.

In addition, I gain perspective from the wisdom of other married folk. Like these ones below:

xo Allana

p.s. Go Marriage!

Ssshhhhh ...

"Silence is a very good tool. I wish I had used it sooner in my life." - Margaret, married 45 years

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

Get EOTS in your mailbox! Subscribe

Follow Sam and Allana on Twitter and Facebook

Check out previous posts from EOTS:

There Will Be Blood

What Moms Should Never Have To Put Up With: The Worst Relationship Ever

Dear Children: ummm….Sorry?

Check out our pals from Babble Voices on – Facebook!

Seriously. Brush. Your. Teeth.

I am not totally proud of this, but also not un-proud.

In our busy lives there are Things That Need To Get Done NOW And If Anyone Dawdles For One Second The Entire Ponzi Scheme That Is Our Schedule Is Going To Collapse And Crush Us All.

And in the spirit of sticking, even roughly, to any kind of schedule, I will seriously go from “please brush your teeth” to DEFCON ONE in under twenty seconds.

Me: “Please brush your teeth.”

Them: (nothing)

Me: “PLEASE BRUSH YOUR TEETH.”

Them: (nothing)

Me: “That’s fine. Don’t brush your teeth. I’m just letting you know that if you don’t brush your teeth over a certain period of days or weeks that it’s going to be really painful when the dentist puts needles in your face and has to take out all your teeth because they’re so riddled with cavities.”

Them: “Would that hurt?”

Me: “It would be agonizing.”

Them: “Would there be blood?”

Me: “Tons.”

Cue: two worried looking children obediently brushing their teeth.

Like, for reals...

Dearest Offspring,

We apologize in advance.

This may seem like an odd gesture considering you’re all so young and not much has happened yet,  but this life is long and we are all most certainly going to be on a bumpy, yet exhilirating, ride.  And on this ride your mothers (either Sam or Allana) are going to make mistakes or things you perceive as mistakes (Which is more likely, lets be honest).  Regardless!  We want to say we’re sorry.  We are the new millenium parent and we are not above apologizing to our children.

We love you,

Your Mothers

P.S.  So SORRY, for all the stuff that is about to come and especially for these:

Sometimes you come across something that is just so brilliant that sharing it is the only option.

Thank you Nirvan Mullick for being the kind of person who is not too busy to buy a fun pass.  After watching your short film I don’t think I’ll ever just walk by a lemonade stand ever again.  And Caine, thank you for reminding me of the magical wonders that lay inside every cardboard box:

Don’t let today go by without watching this film:

Get EOTS in your mailbox!  Subscribe

Follow Allana on Twitter and Facebook

Read more of Allana at EOTS:

Dear True Blood: Thanks For Ruining Camping

Movie Reviews By My Kid

All Hail The Single Mother

Likey our friends at Babble Voices – Facebook!

Don't. Even.

The other day, someone called me a “dumb bitch” on Twitter. How rude, I thought…to be accused of being “dumb” by someone I don’t even know.

The other thing though, I mean the bitch part, I can get behind that.

It started me thinking about deep things.  Things such as: How Can I Teach My Daughters How To Be Proper Bitches Just Like Me?” But you know, the good kind of bitches.

Not the bitchy kind.

I was never a bitch growing up; I was what you might consider ‘a people pleaser.’ Which is to say, that I was not at all assertive, I was very shy, and I had a very hard time saying the word NO. Oh, the word NO. I love it so much now. Mmmm…”NO”

I was just practicing.

(But seriously, ask me to take time away from my family to join a zoning committee or bake 250 carrot muffins for any reason, or be the person at your upcoming school carnival who gets cream pies thrown at their face for five dollars…I’m so sorry. No.)

I shouldn't have to do your job for you, yogurt-makers.

There’s no problem that can’t be solved by yogurt.

At least, you might think that’s how I feel, given the twenty three individually sized yogurt cups currently occupying the entire top shelf of my refrigerator.

Yes, twenty three. And yes, I counted. (Full disclosure: one of those twenty three yogurts is actually more of a multiple serving sized tub. I was downplaying things to seem more hip and cool.)

God, I wish I actually liked eating it. I mean, my children sort of like it, but when I personally think of yogurt, the main word that comes to mind is: vomitous. As in, it tastes how I imagine somebody else’s vomit would taste, but with fruit-on-the-bottom. No amount of honey or freaky mix-in’s can ever compensate for that, and by “freaky”, naturally, I mean bananas. My mortal enemy.

(Sidebar: Dear Manufacturers of Yogurt. Why give up at the last stage of the yogurt making process? I have paid you good money. Please ensure that in the future you complete the final step and mix the fruit in for me. You have not left enough room at the top of the yogurt cup for me to do this comfortably myself. The next time you want to market something by making things more difficult for mothers everywhere, please let me know so that I can come over there and slap you. Best Regards.)