A few nights ago I saw a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in a few years, and discovered she is pregnant. It’s her first child and I was super happy for her, it’s great news.

Also, I think I showed amazing restraint in that I asked only a few questions about her plans and totally did not offer any advice. At all! I know! No horror stories of births gone wrong, no tales about stitches and swollen legs, no warnings to “sleep now, because you’ll need it!” I was all rosy cheeked and happy and supportive – as one should be.

It was extra hard because we were getting together for the purpose of planning a reunion that we’ll be co-hosting on the August long weekend here in Ottawa. And her due date is just 10 days before the reunion.

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Okay, I admit, all mothers are different, all babies are different, and every combination isn’t exactly like my own situation. Some moms are made of tougher stuff than I, and are able to attend social events with a week-old baby. I myself definitely could have done it with Gal Smiley – her birth was a breeze, and I was an old hat at motherhood by then, nothing phased me. Even Little Miss Sunshine, who was a C-section, was a pretty easy addition to the household and I was up and about after a couple of weeks of recovery.

But the Captain. Oh, the Captain.

Nothing against him – from all accounts he was a pretty easy baby and we had a relatively easy time with the breastfeeding and diapering and all that. But our first baby was still such a huge, epic, massive change to our lives, something no book or movie or anecdote from a friend can prepare you for. Women often spend a lot of time worrying about and preparing for the birth, which I totally understand, but then it can be quite a shock when they hand you a living, breathing, screaming, pooping baby a few seconds after labour is over and you realize you have absolutely no idea what you are doing.

Our friends would ask us how we were doing those first few weeks, and Sir Monkeypants and I used to say in all seriousness that it was like having a bomb go off in your house. The whole world was changed, destroyed, and we were fighting to deal with the fallout. There was a massive range of emotion that we were unprepared for. There was an incredible amount of stress as we zoomed up the steepest learning curve of our lives.

I pretty much spent the first four weeks after the Captain was born either a) crying in the nursing chair with my shirt open, b) sitting in the rocker in front of the TV with a sleeping baby in my lap, with my shirt open, crying, or c) sitting gingerly on a massive pillow at the table while I tried to shovel muffins in my mouth, with my shirt open, crying. I don’t think either the Captain or myself wore anything other than pajamas for the first six weeks.

And the first time I had to take him out of the house – gah. It took me an hour and a half to pack up and get ready, to arrange his sleep schedule to fit into the right break, to make sure he was changed, fed, changed again. To pack a bag with a hundred diapers and wipes and changes of clothes and everything else I might need in case of a post-nuclear winter. Eventually I got to the point where I had a diaper bag packed and ready to go by the door, and I could grab it and the baby and be out the door in 15 or 20 minutes. But those first few times required planning and packing on the scale of an Everest expedition, and made it clear that the days of cavalierly dashing out the door were behind us.

Of course there was good stuff too. There’s the way they change every single day, the way they make eye contact with you in a way that makes you feel like the most important person on earth. The way they smell and the way they cuddle right into you with no hesitation and the way their little socks are so so adorable. But even that stuff changes you, and instead of being able to have conversations about work and movies and politics with people at, say, a reunion, all you want to talk about is your birth story and how your baby made the cutest little smile yesterday and how their poop was shaped like the Eiffel Tower, which you think is a sign of sure genius.

It changes you, parenthood does.

So while I do admire my friend for planning to attend three days’ worth of dinners and boat cruises and city tours with her week-old baby – I really had to bite my tongue not to issue any warnings. And maybe she will take it all in stride, and everything will be super easy, and she’ll throw on some pre-pregnancy clothes, toss the newborn in a sling, and party the night away.

But I’m thinking the bomb exploding is the more likely scenario. Good luck, honey.

So here’s what happened. Our laundry room is the same room as our mud room, so there’s usually shoes scattered around on the floor. Yesterday I did a load of sheets and towels, and I put the dirty laundry on the floor for a moment while I took some wet stuff out of the washer. Then I picked up the load and put it in the washer and washed it on warm; later I moved it wholesale (I was rushed) into the drier where it was dried on medium.

When I was taking the clean laundry out of the dryer I discovered a shoe had gone through the load.

It was one of Gal Smiley’s crocs. I laughed because it was kind of funny and fitting for my scatterbrained, hurried kind of day. But I figured crocs are fully waterproof and indestructible, so no harm, no foul, right? If anything, she had a nice clean shoe. So I put it back in her cubby with the other one.

Then, later that day…Gal Smiley tried to put her shoes on, and complained that they no longer fit. Turns out this happened:

\

WHA???

Did you know that crocs, apparently, shrink when exposed to heat?

Here’s a shot of the underside so you can see that both of these shoes are supposed to be the same size. SUPPOSEBLY, as Joey Tribbiani would say.

The smaller one now is even too small for Little Miss Sunshine, which means the shrunken croc shrunk over two sizes down. That is a LOT of shrinkage. I can’t believe that I have never heard about this danger before.

Poor Gal Smiley is like one of the cranky stepsisters. No matter how she shoves, her foot ain’t getting in there.

So sadly, I think we have no choice but to invest in a new pair, and for me to be a little more careful about what’s getting scooped into the laundry. In the meantime, if anyone has a kid with really, really small feet, I’d be happy to shrink the other one for you and create a matched set.

Edited to add: Apparently this shrinkage thing is a known issue, but some people actually use it to their advantage by purposely heating their crocs, wearing them warm, and letting them shrink up until they are custom moulded to their feet. Who knew?

Dance! Show! starts Thursday. TOMORROW Thursday. 8 p.m. BE THERE.

Now taking bets on how long it takes before I break down and can no longer contain the commentary. MUST. BLOG. ABOUT. DANCE. SHOW.

Why do I even fight it?

I just love the way my three kids use the word “versus” as a verb. Do your kids do this?

Like, the Captain might say, “Remember when the Ottawa Senators were versing the New York Rangers?”

Or Gal Smiley might say, “You know that kid John from school? My soccer team was versing his team on Monday.”

Or Little Miss Sunshine might say, “I want to play that video game where Dora is versing Swiper.”

SO cute. Every time one of the three of them has soccer, we just know it’s going to come up. Sir Monkeypants and I wait on the edge of our seats and as soon as one of them says “We were versing the red team,” we can’t help but giggle a little bit in delight. Unfortunately our big smiles have clued the older kids in to the fact that something here is not right. I think the Captain in particular is in danger of losing this particular tic, which is sad.

Also cute: Little Miss Sunshine calls Firefox “Terry Fox.” She will come over to my computer, which has a Firefox icon in the bottom left, and point to it and say, “Is that your Terry Fox?” Or she’ll see me working on a website and say, “Are you using your Terry Fox?” Or she’ll ask, “Can I play video games on your Terry Fox?” SO CUTE.

And here’s another little peek inside the four-year-old mind: she has somehow blended Little Caesars with Tim Hortons and some book she read that had a character called Tiny Tim, and now when she wants pizza for dinner she asks for “Tiny Tim for dinner.” That one took us a while to figure out. We try to use it with a straight face but rarely pull it off.

It’s almost like we have our own little secret language. I love it!

If you’ve been having trouble commenting on this blog or any other WordPress blog, it’s because WordPress.com has introduced some controversial rules about anonymous commenters. You can read a rather hilarious description of the new rules here.

In other news, thanks so much to everyone who expressed concern about me and my shingles (now playing seven days a week, twice on Sundays!). I’m doing absolutely okay. I didn’t realize until I made that post that most people with shingles really suffer. Mine is the most mild case ever – a very small patch that is already halfway to healed. A little Advil and hydrocortizone and I was well able to function normally. (Well, except for the big QUARANTINE sign I had to wear around my neck.)

Lately we’ve had some issues with Little Miss Sunshine being, shall we say, rather fluid with the truth.

There’s two facets to her dishonesty. One one hand, she’s doing this weird thing where she denies having said something she JUST said. For example:

Me: Would you like juice or milk?

Her: Juice.

Me: pours juice

Her: I said, I want milk!

Me: No, you said you want juice. Do you want milk?

Her: I said, I want both. makes “Duh” face

The second thing she’s doing these days is inventing fanciful stories about things that never actually happened. Like so:

Her, while riding in the back seat of the car: I just saw the museum!

Me: That does look like the museum, doesn’t it? But really it’s just a school.

Her: I have been to that school before.

Me: I don’t think we have, no.

Her: Yes, once my teacher took us there. It was a field trip and we rode the bus and I sat with Emily and Tamara. And my teacher said, hold on tight over the bumps! And we did and it was SO funny. Then we got to the school and the teacher had brought everyone apples and granola bars! And we had a picnic on the lawn, and then we went in and saw a concert. And Elmo was there!

And so on.

Lately we have begun trying to correct her when she denies having said what she said, Sir Monkeypants and I will gently remind her that it is okay to make a mistake or change her mind, but it is not okay to say you didn’t say something when you definitely said it. So far she is not taking to this kind of correction very well – she gives us her stank face and stands by her story. We are flirting with the idea of upping the ante with a trip to the naughty step. It’s not serious now but we both think it’s important to enforce the idea that she can trust us with the truth.

As for the storytelling, I used to find it amusing but now I am somewhat worried. I think this kind of fanciful dreaming happens sometimes in kids (although our other two were firmly-planted reality-addicted kids who would never, ever have come up with something so ridiculous). I’m trying not to crush her creative spirit. But I do wonder what, exactly, she is telling her teacher at school about me. SHUDDER. So again, I’m starting to think about having some more serious discussions about truthiness.

What do you think – phase she’ll grow out of, or dangerous warning sign of future grifter?

Long time readers of this blog may recall that back in 2010, Little Miss Sunshine was diagnosed with molluscum contagiosum. It’s a kind of rash caused by a virus that looks like little white pimples – my mom said when she was a kid they would have called them boils. They’re tiny little things that swell into slightly larger little things with white pearlized tops. Eventually they get big enough to pop open and a bunch of ooze and a hard centre come out (highly contagious at this stage, by the way), then it bleeds like you’ve cut an artery for a day or two before finally drying up.

Most kids who get it get one spot; a “bad case” might be five or six spots. The Little Miss had, at one time, more than 50 spots, with new ones cropping up all the time. They spread from her armpit down her arm and side, then onto her stomach and neck, and eventually she had a few on her leg as well before the tide turned. I’m happy to say that the last spot finally, finally broke open and then healed a few weeks ago. We are CONTAGION FREE.

Or, we were.

A few days ago I woke up with a super, SUPER itchy rash on my lower left hand side. I figured, allergic reaction. Or maybe bug bites. But it got itchier and itchier, and eventually started to hurt in a stabbed-by-a-thousand-needles kind of way. Gal Smiley, who was always deeply concerned about catching the molluscum contagiosum (which no one else ever did, by the way), kept asking me if it was contagious, and I kept assuring her it wasn’t.

But it turns out it is shingles.

Which is a manifistation of the chicken pox virus.

Which is contagious to people who have never had chicken pox.

Which includes my entire immediate family, including Sir Monkeypants.

So now I’m walking around with my abdomen swathed in the World’s Biggest Bandage, alternately dying of itching and stabbing pain, and fretting about giving my whole family a horrible disease. Quarantine for Mommy!

A few years ago a friend of ours I’ll call “Glenn” (hi Glenn!) got The Gout. And we all mocked him, because that is an Old Man Disease, and clearly his days of fun in the sun were over, he may as well learn to play bridge and drink tea and move to a retirement home. And now, here I am with the shoe on the other foot (is that a saying? I feel like I messed that one up), as I have The Shingles, which is also an Old Lady Disease.

It’s really amazing how fast your body betrays you once you cross that 40 line. I have to say, now that I’m here I kind of wish it would get it over with and just commit to being actually old. Having to deal with PMS, pimples, 10% unruly grey hairs, and The Shingles all at once seems like Just Too Much. Really, body, we cannot be all ages at once. We CANNOT. Commit!

I spent this morning working at the book fair at the kids’ school.

Overheard:

Preteen Girl A: Ooh, The Lucky One by Nicolas Sparks!

Preteen Girl B: That’s a movie.

Preteen Girl A: I know…this is the book it was based on.

Preteen Girl B: So why read it? I’m just going to watch the movie version.

Sigh. So sterotypical, Girl B, so stereotypical.

My husband and I were both into reading as kids. We were the kind of kids who snuck under the covers at night with a flashlight and a novel, who thought they were totally fooling their parents with their surruptitious glances at the book on our laps under the dining room table. We were the kids who would rather sit inside on a warm summer day because the glare of the sun on our books make it hard to focus.

I remember my mom yelling at me about ten times a day to PUT THAT BOOK DOWN and come and do something useful, or engaging, or physical.

Now I’m at the other end of things – I wish our kids were readers. Actually, Gal Smiley shows early signs of possibly enjoying reading, we have caught her sitting with a comic book or even a short novel a few times lately, all without prodding. Then Sir Monkeypants and I make mad hand gestures at each other and mime how EXCITED we are to see one of our kids reading, but of course we can’t make a big deal about it, but it’s a BIG DEAL. Do you know how hard it is to mime out how long do you think before she is ready for Lord of the Rings?

But the Captain. Oh, the Captain. He is a guy who is Not. Into. Reading. In general, he’s not into schoolwork – always rushing to get it done as fast as possible, with the minimal acceptable effort. He’s passionate about Lego, video games, The Clone Wars, and kicking everyone’s butt at Sorry. Reading? Not so much.

It’s such a dicey thing, because this is one of those things that we desperately want him to take an interest in, but we know that if we push it, he’ll end up seeing reading as a chore and hate it even more. Others have recommended comic books to us, but he’s lukewarm about those too; he says he’ll read Star Wars novels if I buy them but it turns out to be a scam just so he can get the free Darth Vader bobblehead that comes along for the ride.

We had heard from several parents that the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan was The One that transformed their non-reader into a reader, so a few weeks ago I bought the whole set from Scholastic. They were nominally for bedtime reading – we still read to him before bedtime, and he LOVES that – but Sir Monkeypants had a secret plan to read him only some of the book, then encourage him to read the rest on his own. It is…sort of working. We still have to tell him that it’s reading time, and he is to go in his room and read now. But once we can convince him to be there, he will read (for the minimum required time) and enjoy the story (to a minimum degree). So I guess that’s progress.

What I really want is for him to discover the wonder of storytelling. To have his imagination fired up by stories that serve as the seeds for new tales to grow in his own mind. To devour books like they were chocolate-flavoured Pez and to come to us with complex questions like “what does ‘lackadaisical’ mean?” and “are any of my grandparents Greek Gods?” To curl up next to us on the couch with a book and then not be able to resist telling us about this funny part, or this scary part, or this sad part.

Is there a way to make that happen? Or is it just an inborn thing? Are some people born to read, and others born to travel lightly on the open road?

We’ll keep reading to him, and keep hoping. And make him read the book before seeing the movie, dammit.

I don’t want to delve too deeply into this, but here is what happened. About six weeks ago I got a job. It was going to be a work-from-home kind of thing, totally flexible hours, the kind of thing all stay-at-home moms dream of getting. It was fun and interesting and involved being paid for writing.

Then the company went under, and that was over.

I am doing okay with this, it’s a mental adjustment but I wasn’t attached enough to the whole situation to feel a loss. So don’t worry. It’s nothing that chocolate and a cup of tea can’t cure.

But now I find I am sitting on information, and it’s burning a hole in my pocket. Part of my job was to gather weekly info on what was happening in Ottawa that was suitable for families. Trust me when I say I know everything, every little thing, that will be happening in this city in the next six months.

I was thinking of making some weekly activity posts, just to get it out of my system. It’s kind of like the Summer of Awesome, but extended out to a Year of Fabulous. Plus, it would shake things up around here because lately I feel all I am blogging about is cooking and YouTube and how I yearn to be on Cash Cab (well, that series is mostly in my head – you’re welcome).

I’m mulling it over. Pass the chocolate.

Back in September, Little Miss Sunshine started ballet classes on Monday afternoons while the older two were still in school. I thought it would be a nice quiet hour for me, maybe read a book, maybe pop out for an errand or two.

But then came the first week. I was sitting in the waiting area with a magazine when I heard a sound from the studio right next to ballet class. It sounded like…tapping. Good tapping. Advanced tapping.

One thing I don’t mention much on this blog is that I am a tap dancer. I’ve been tapping since I was a child and I’ve taken classes on and off as an adult. I LOVE tap dancing. It is the only form of exercise I actually get excited about. It is one of the few things that make me want to leave the house. In fact, I am proud to say that I own this:

Oh yes, I am serious about tap.

So I asked at the desk, and it turns out that the tap class that is on at the exact same time as ballet is an intermediate level tap class.

For seniors.

But they’re good! Really good! Most of them have been tapping for years. Most of them tap at least twice, sometimes three times a week. And, they even have their own little dance troupe, with costumes and bookings and shows and everything. They are SERIOUS about tap.

So I begged them to let me into the class, and they said yes, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I love my tap class. It’s so much fun, and bonus: I get to be the young kid in the class. One lady in the first week asked if “what are you, about 20?” AWESOME. It’s one of the highlights of my week.

So last week, I came into class as usual and there was a new person in the class.

FRANCES.

Frances is a lady that used to be in my old tap class, a few years ago. I wrote a whole post about how awesome she is, because at that time she was already in her 70s and had just started to learn tap. I was in a class with other Mommy types and she was way older than us but still kicking up her heels in a kick-ass kind of way. Plus, I used to see her at the pool once a week when I took the Little Miss for a swim lesson, where she was doing laps with her husband.

I totally want to BE Frances when I grow up.

And there she was! In my new tap class! LIFE IS COMPLETE.

Of course she had only the haziest memory of who I was. It probably didn’t help that I assaulted her with glee and practically jumped around in her face. Frances! Frances! Frances! I care not. I will admire her from afar or close, as required.

The last few weeks, the Little Miss has been grumbling that she doesn’t care for ballet any more. TOO BAD KID. You will be going to ballet NOW AND FOREVER. Doesn’t she even realize that FRANCES is in my class now? I’m a lifer.