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Gutsy Mommy

My husband thinks I pulled the ol’ bait and switch on him. Maybe I did, but it wasn’t on purpose, so I think better terms than bait ‘n switch would be “growing up” and “evolving.” I admit, I used to be way more fun: scuba diving, rising rollercoasters, public boinking, etc. Now my idea of a good time is farting in the bathtub. THE KIDS CHANGED ME, OKAY. There’s at least a slight chance I might die when I do something ballsy, and frankly, now that I have two rad childers I’d really rather not take that chance, however small. But I’m not a total snoozefest, dog gone it. I still live on the edge in lots of way. I make funny videos for CBC, for example. And according to the comments at CBC.ca/NL, I’m a foul-mouthed dirt woman. That sounds like fun, right? Check out my sixth video commentary to discover even more ways that this baby-maker is a risk-taker.

The question this week: Can you live on the edge after you have kids?

The answer: Helllllllllllll yes. Why, I’m on the edge right now.

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Happy Mother’s Day, Asshole.

Mother’s Day is to the mommy blogger as the fourth of July is to Americans, or as Christmas is to the people with a picture of Jesus over their bed watching them masturbate. I’m supposed to say something infinitely profound on this sacred day of the life-giving vagina invented by Hallmark to sell cards and those horrendous Pandora charms, and to make women with no children and dead mothers feel really shitty. But I said masturbate in my very first sentence, so the chances of me being all inspirational is unlikely now, isn’t it? The truth is — I’m tired. I got nuthin’. Except hemorrhoids. I got hemorrhoids. Bum grapes. A direct result of becoming a mother, ironically. But guess what? I have the cure. And as a Mother’s Day gift to all ye mothers who suffer from assteroids, I will now kindly share it with you.


That’s right. The cure for hemorrhoids is not an ointment. It’s not a magic pill or drink. It’s your very own digit (not your ring finger, preferably.) Just push those fuckers back from whence they dangle. In a nice hot bath where nothing really counts including peeing, finger your own bunghole. Stuff those unwanted underwear guests where the sun don’t shine. And then pleasantly relish the activity we moms so seldom get to: sitting.

Happy Mother’s Day to you and your asshole. I’m sorry. I’m tired.


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How to Pack a Diaper Bag

From the moment you hold that baby in your arms, she holds you hostage. That’s not a metaphor for her stealing your heart. She actually holds you captive inside your home. There’s just so much shit to do and pack and prep and feed with your boobs, it’s impossible to get out the door. To improve your chances of getting further than the driveway before sundown, buy a kickass diaper bag and pack that bad boy like a boss. Here’s a video I made about it for CBC.

This week’s question: Any advice for getting out the door with the kids faster?

Click HERE for my answer. (Warning: It may involve a pipe wrench.)


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Mommy Goes to Hot Yoga

My mom always told me to try new things no she didn’t. She said new things can kill you. I think she was talking about drugs but whatever, all I heard was stick to the usual, which is why I spent 25 years thinking orange cheddar was the only kind of cheese. Last night I tried something new anyway. A threeway with my husband and a ghost. But before that, I went to my first hot yoga class.

When I told Mom I was going to hot yoga, she replied, “What is a hot yoga?” I was too lazy to tell her the truth, so I told her it was a kind of warm yogurt. Which sounds kind of dirty. The thing is, I kind of expected hot yoga to be kind of dirty! Come on, you gotta admit “hot yoga” sounds pretty porno. In fact, you probably only clicked on this post because HOT YOGA was in the title and you were hoping to see some downward facing doggy style action, you big giant pedo.

But instead of grinding around on a mat and doing crazy crotch aerobics to Shakira, I got a chance to lay in my own pool of sweat that streamed endlessly from my big, stupid face.

Maybe it’s a ginger thing, but I only sweat from my face. It’s very attractive, obviously. I especially love the sweatstache, and the beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks like hot tears. Here’s a picture of me from about halfway through class.


My whole body was wet with perspiration, but not because all my body parts were sweating. It was that whore called gravity, channelling south my river of salty face juice, which collected, conveniently, at Lake Vagina. I left home with 47 freckles and came back with 39, swear to god. And a pond in my panties. It was closest I have ever gotten to touching my lady taco with my tongue. Believe me, I have tried.

There may have also been some lactating going on. I really couldn’t be sure in the soupy mess. At one point, while bent over at the waist doing the human suitcase, I thought I tasted something sweet trickling into my mouth, but I’m told my sweat tastes like strawberries, so maybe it was just more sweat.

So let’s back this baby up for a sec. See, I was a hot mess even before hot yoga started. I WAS ILL-PREPARED OKAY? I can pack a diaper bag like a Hollywood nanny, but apparently I cannot handle a list of basic supplies: yoga mat, water bottle, towel.

I couldn’t find my yoga mat. I mean it’s huge and bright pink, how am I supposed to find that?

On the way downtown in the car, water spilled out of my water bottle and completely soaked my towel. I dried the towel with the vents in the car, continually steamed up the windows, and almost drove through Coffee Matters which is absolutely not a drive-thru.

And when I got to class, everybody whipped out their ginormous beach towels to cover their entire yoga mats TO KEEP FROM SLIPPING ON THEIR SWEAT, while I plucked out my lovely wee facecloth. It was a hand towel at best. A hand towel for someone with midget hands. No, midget hands are chunky. This towel was for mouse hands. Fidel goes to hot yoga.

My sister-in-law and niece snickered at my teeny towel. Bitches be neglectin’ to specify the size the towel should be when they invited me to this class and gave me THE LIST FROM HELL. But I dished it back by laughing at my niece who was totally unchallenged by these yoga poses, being all bendy and 18 years old and shit. Bah, sucks to be her. Bet she can’t wait to blossom into an old, rickety-ass fence and actually challenged by things.

Class started with everyone lying down like murder victims – body relaxed, eyes closed. I guess we were supposed to be releasing all our tensions. I was trying to remember what else I needed to buy on the way home, besides toilet paper. The sweat started pouring out of my mugshot right away, without even moving a single muscle. Clearly, I was in for some fresh hell. But it went okay, to my pleasant surprise. I held my own. I also held my own feet and widened my crotch an extra four inches. As if I needed a more gaping groin. (Insert pic of baby girl’s giant melon.)

Hot yoga might just be my jam. My hot, sweaty, strawberry jam. The place smelled like a spa in Switzerland. The floor was a cool, grey texture and I wanted to lie down on it immediately — like, in the porch, where people would trip over me, that’s how much I loved the floor. Instructor Tiffany was friendly and funny and didn’t say a word when I handed her my health form waiver thingy that said I had scurvy. And I managed the poses pretty well for someone who spent most of 2014 eating candy from the Bulk Barn to combat morning sickness. (Gummy worms make pretty babies so shut your hole.) I’m pretty sure I broke my ass doing the “prepare your anus” pose, like ya would, but I’ll be fine. I have a couple extra asses to fall back on, at least.


You Are NOT Six Years Old Today

Nope. No way. You are not six. I don’t believe it. You fudged the numbers with your new kindergarten math skills. Just admit it now, evil genius, and spare everyone my ugly cry.

First day of school

First day of Kindergarten. Sept, 2014

You totally adjusted the pencil marks on the wall too, didn’t you? ‘Cause you can’t be four feet tall. Although the Longer Pants Fund does support your claim. As payback, when you’re six feet tall with sideburns, I’m still going to cuddle the shit out of you. You owe me.

Your face looks a little different to me every morning. Less round, more chiseled. Less baby, more boy. I count 28 freckles on your nose and cheeks. But you’ve probably counted more. Figures.

Dat face doh.

Dat face doh.

You’re a big brother now! I’ll never forget the epic smile on your face when they put Rae in your arms at the hospital. And it wasn’t because you were up past your bedtime.

Max meets Rae, 8:30pm, December 23, 2014. She is 15 minutes old.

Max meets Rae, 8:30pm, December 23, 2014. She is 15 minutes old.

“Brother is here,” you say when she’s crying. I guess you’re cool with her name now. You wanted so badly to name her Diana (because Wonder Woman) or Barbara (because Batgirl).



You were a good fella when I was pregnant. You’d shovel the snow off the deck when you got home from school.

My hero.

My hero.

And at bedtime, you’d place your hand on my belly and we’d laugh at Rae’s roundhouse kicks. “Cool,” you’d say. Then, “You can go now, Mom. You’re taking up all the room in my bed.”

You are articulate and polite, with no bad words in your vocabulary. None that you use anyway. Yesterday you started laughing in the car because you were “thinking of a word that rhymed with duck.”

You coordinate your outfits to look like your favourite superheroes. You insisted on wearing your shiny black “Batman pants” when they were an inch too short. Last week, they up and vanished into the night. Weird.

Max Murphy is... THE FLASH.

Max Murphy is also… THE FLASH.

It’s been a hard year on the health front. Lots of doctor appointments and unpleasant procedures. I realized how brave you are, and how fiercely I love you. And I was so proud when the pediatrician asked you your favourite food and you said, “Kraft Dinner.”

Getting a scope to check out his insides. :(

About to get a scope to check out his insides. :(

You caught a big trout in the spring.

Le grand poisson!

You love to swim. And you’re a scoring machine at hockey. One day you netted 23 goals, according to your highly questionable tally. Dad has successfully molded you into a Habs fan. The morning after a game, you can’t wait to ask him who won and “what was it to?” I suppose you’d manipulate those scores too if you could.


Your favourite pastime is video games. But frankly, I’m a little tired of hearing about “Angry Birds Epic” and fighting about “screen time,” so now that you’re six (supposedly!) how about you pick up bonsai or soap carving or collecting belly button lint.

Your teachers say you’re very mature. Perhaps you could employ this attribute when you discover a new vegetable on your dinner plate, or when I kick your butt at Chutes and Ladders. And maybe you can stop asking “What’s for dessert?” after every meal, even breakfast. Once and for all, the answer is: banana.

Sugar freak

Sugar freaks

You want to be a Master Builder when you grow up. I’m looking forward to my new house.

We need stock in Lego.

We need stock in Lego.

You lost your first tooth in February. You went to school with an apple and came home with an incisor in a baggie and a note from the teacher.

I’ve watched your artwork go from colourless stick men to detailed rainbow people. You bring home a new family portrait almost every day. I hang them all over the house, even though I look like Predator. Rae looks like an upside-down beetle. In last week’s portrait, you had drawn her on top of the dog’s head.

Far and away my favourite piece of artwork, ever.

Far and away my favourite piece of art.

I love making you laugh at bedtime, when your body is floppy with giggles and your eyes sparkle in the glow of your Star Wars lamp. You can fudge the numbers as much as you want, mister – get older, taller, bigger, frecklier – I plan on making you giggle and sparkle to infinity. Deal with it.

Dad reading you one of your favourite books.

Dad reading you one of your favourite books.

You are always asking questions. How many days till the weekend? How many minutes is an hour? You’re trying to understand this whole Time thing. So am I. And listen, birthday boy sneaky pants number fudger – if you figure out a way to slow it down, let me know.

Someone stop the clock for the love of god.

Someone stop the clock for the love of god.


It will never be enough.

It will never be enough.

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Clothes Minded

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Mouldable mini human

There came a time when the mouldable mini human I had been dressing up like a Gap ad (FYI, that’s not slang for my vagina) became a five-year-old fashionista with his own terrible ideas of what to wear.



A style that changed my “honey, I shrunk the hipster” aesthetic to something more like “honey, our kid is a homeless midget.” Joan Rivers would have a field day with Max’s wardrobe, if she wasn’t in a field.

Unless I want to fight over something as superficial as dumb stupid clothes, or bribe him into wearing what I want him to wear and thereby make me a shitty parent, I have to just let him be.

I have to let him step out into the big, cruel world in his Batman shirt and black, pleather pants that are an inch too short – that I meant to destroy 17 piles of laundry ago (damn it). I have to let him, because he’s not just dressing up like the caped crusader. In this outfit, he is Michael fucking Keaton, looking out from his bat cave all mysterious like in his leather-look clamdiggers, waiting for the flood that will threaten to wipe out all of Gotham City. But that flood will fail because the Dork Knight has a plan germinating somewhere in that mystical area where his pants end and his sneakers begin… WHERE SUPER LIVES. Basically, he loves this outfit. So I guess I love it too. FUCK.

And I have to let him wear this outfit EVERY SINGLE DAY. Because it’s still clean, and because “wearing the same outfit two days in a row is not socially acceptable” sounds really fucking stupid.

And when he asks me if Batman “sometimes wears really dark grey” because his black pants are suddenly missing (la la la whistle whistle) and he has these here grey ones, I say “yes, he sure does”, with a sigh. Because Batman does wear grey sometimes. The Lego Movie says so, which we’ve watched a thousand million times. And if I say he doesn’t, Max will know I am a lying bitch face. I mean of course I’m a liar, I’m the freakin’ tooth fairy for god’s sake, but let’s not use up the bullshit quota on this small time crappola.

And when he asks me to make a cape and sew it to the back of his Batman shirt to really complete the picture of the vigilante superhero whose cape seems pretty useless actually since he doesn’t even fly but somehow he’d be super lame without, I say “sure, son, I’ll get right on that.” Because consider the alternative: he could be asking me to make a human skin suit.

And when the bat apparel has finally vanished into the night and it’s time for a little colour in my super son’s super life, I have to let him wear his red pants and red shirt – and neon orange socks because he doesn’t have any red socks and these are the closest thing. Because in this get-up, he is THE FLASH. The scarlet speedster he’s been drawing non-stop for a year and has every red Crayola marker within a 10-mile radius dried up like Adam West’s yam bag.




So much variety.

And I have to grin and bear it at the birthday party where I know the other little boys will be in J. Crew khakis and button-up shirts, but my special guy wants to wear his green safari shirt (because today he’s Indiana Jones) with his navy sweatpants (because they’re fluffy and warm), making him less like Indy and more like the star of a 1986 episode of Land and Sea where Clyde shows us around the fish plant. Dab a little ketchup in the corners of his mouth and Max is rocking this party right.

All this, while in his closet snappy stonewash jeans, crisp cotton shirts, and knitted vests lie in wait, forever.

But hey, it’s all good. It’s wonderful, even. He’s showing the first signs of self-expression, making his own choices and not giving a shit what anyone else thinks as long as he feels super duper. If I don’t let him be who he is now, expressed with clothes and art and music and such, one day it’ll be his turn to say to me, from inside his cozy human skin suit, “Hey mom, what in the actual fuck.”

And then I throw myself down a well.

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X-Box Detox

Herein lies my debut video on CBC.ca/NL just as I always imagined — with my spectacular oak cabinets in the background. When I die of carpel tunnel from too much typing and chronic masturbating, I want someone to take these cupboards and make a casket out of them for me. And then I want you to burn it. And then burn it again.

This video was inspired by my junkie son, Max. I love him deeply, but if he doesn’t stop nagging to play the X-Box I’m sending him back to my uterus.

Click here to watch my first of many (sorry, sumabitch trolls) video commentaries on parenting. Because hey, parenting ain’t easy. Which is why my advice is always truly horrific.

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