#14. This Moment: First Grocery Cart Ride

First Cart Ride

{this moment}

A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savour, and remember.

If you're inspired to do the same

leave your link in the comments 

then go to Soule Mama and do the same.

Don't tell me what to wear. Tell men not to rape.

Slutwalk is spectacular. 

The concept, the message, the conversations, everything. 

These days I am finding that there are too many people in the media who do not understand what slutwalk is about. It is not about dressing like a slut and marching around downtown. It is not about a subculture of women who want to flaunt promiscuity. It is not even fully about "owning the word."

It is about putting an end to victim blaming, it is about women standing up, standing together and saying "I am not asking for it, I am never asking for it and nothing I could EVER wear could mean that I forfeit consent. I am a HUMAN BEING."

I want to see women, mothers, daughters. I want to see fathers, partners, young boys. I want us all to stand together and send the message that our culture has been allowing the perpetuation of rape, sexual assault, sexual harassment - all of it - for too long by allowing words like "slut" to have any sort of power or sway. By allowing newspapers to comment on a woman's "revealing" outfit when reporting the story of her violation. Or by questioning the victim's choice to spend time in certain locations -jogging at night- or by choosing to have a few drinks.

The message needs to be clear. Rape is not okay. Rape is never okay. 

We walk together to say: 
All of us are sluts or none of us are, it doesn't matter. Nobody is ever asking to be raped. 

Photo Credit: We Heart It

Slutwalk in Edmonton is June 4th. http://www.yegslutwalk.com/ 

Will I see you there?

More from Farren Square on Feminism and Parenting

#13. This Moment: Turtle Face

Turtle Face

{this moment}

A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savour, and remember.

If you're inspired to do the same

leave your link in the comments 

then go to Soule Mama and do the same.

My Brilliant High-Maintenance Baby

I have a confession.

I think I might have a high maintenance baby. As I write this, he is attempting to take a nap because he is exhausted. Every 20 minutes he cries like he has seen the boogeyman and needs me to come to him and gently pick him up so that he can calmly fall back asleep in my arms. I lay him down, he sleeps peacefully, and 20 minutes later we begin again.

Play with me!

If we are having an in-house day, he needs me nearby at all times. He likes to look up into my face and make sure everything is hunky-dory. He wants me to read to him. He wants me to play with him. He wants me to sing to him, change his diaper, sit him up, lay him down, put him in the Jump-mo-tron, take him out, carry him around, nurse him, toss him around, bounce him, nurse him while bouncing him, and GOD FORBID if I try to sneak out of the room while he naps. He knows. It's as if he can smell that I've left.

Does all of this make my baby difficult? No! All of this makes my superfluous life difficult! Blogging is difficult, cleaning is difficult, keeping my etsy store fully stocked is difficult, showering is difficult, having a quiet cup of afternoon tea is really difficult.

But I refuse to think about the time I spend with Baby D as difficult. I'll admit that I have felt overwhelmed. I have felt completely burried by his needs and his heartwrenching little cries. I had to make a choice and the choice seemed clear:

If I can't change this situation, then I am going to change my outlook. 

No longer do I "suffer" through naptime, I relish in our quiet bedtime moments. No longer is Desmond feeling "fussy" he is particular and dependent - he needs one of us to help him feel alright. No longer do I worry about my dusty furniture, uncooked dinners, unfolded laundry. I cheerfully spend my days on the floor where he wants me, singing made-up songs about him and his farts and his toes and how much I love him. I joyfully wear him around the neighbourhood to keep him entertained. I happily stay home in the evenings, missing most of the adult fun my friends are having, just to splash around in the bath, give him a baby massage, and cuddle him to sleep at night.

People ask me if he is a "Good Baby" and I still say yes. Of course he is a good baby, all babies are inherently good. If you want to know my heavily biased mom-pinion, he is more than just good. He is spectacular and brilliant and so emotionally connected. And I'm choosing to enjoy every damn second of his baby brilliance.



Tell me I'm not alone. Do you have a brilliantly high maintenance baby?

#12. This Moment: Hammock Chillin'

Hammock Chillin' with Grandpa

{this moment}

A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savour, and remember.

If you're inspired to do the same

leave your link in the comments 

then go to Soule Mama and do the same.

Mom Voice and Stockholm Syndrome

Alright, my little bean. You've done it. You have successfully laid claim to my head and brain and thoughts and words. My vocabulary is shot. My spelling and grammar is worse. I can't keep an appointment or coffee date in my mind long enough to make it real.

My Captor

You have won. 

I'm absolutely, 100% yours. My heart belonged to you the first time I heard yours beating. But now you've won my smart-ass wise-cracking quick wit, too.

These past three days I've had the chance to hear my recorded voice in two different instances. On Sunday This Manic Mama posted a Mother's Day podcast featuring an interview with me. Today I showed Desmond's Babushka a video of me prompting him to say her name: "Babababa."

Oh, the mom voice. It killed me. It literally stabbed me in the chest with its vile high pitched tone and pulled out all my pride with its sing songy joy. Just know that if you are ever near a mom and she is pulling out that crazy voice - chances are she knows how terrible it is. Chances are she wishes she wasn't doing it in front of you. And chances are she won't stop. I won't stop. I know I won't - he loves the mom voice. And I am a sucker to do the things he loves.

Because the deeper I get into this heart-stealing, mind-controlling, head-over-heels love I have for my son, the more I realize that parenting is just a really intricate, intimate, and joy-filled form of Stockholm Syndrome. And damn if he isn't the most lovable captor.

#11. This Moment: Babywearing Downtown

Babywearing Downtown

{this moment}

A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savour, and remember.

If you're inspired to do the same

leave your link in the comments 

then go to Soule Mama and do the same.

We Hope for More Good Days.

It's easy to post about the good days. The giggles. The smiles. The day he said Mamama for the first time. The day he sat up unassisted for a good chunk of the afternoon.

It's worthwhile to post about the inner dialogue. The struggle to connect with other women. The desire to stay neutral yet supportive when all moms are doing their very best.

It is so difficult to post about the hard days. The hard nights. The hard weeks on end. It would be so lovely to paint motherhood with this lovely brush, a scene where one woman has it all together and nothing ever goes wrong.

But it isn't like that in my household. We have hard days. We have especially hard nights. We have weeks without sleep and hours that stretch on and on like molasses in the sun. Sticky and tar black, inescapable.

Couch Cuddling on a hard day.

I could blame teething; the rivers of drool and rashy red cheeks tell me to expect baby teeth any time now. I could blame his sensitive tummy; one slip up in my elimination diet and he explodes into painful little sobs. He goes back and forth between wrenching around in pain and then stiffening harder than steel, all while breaking my heart with his little baby cries. I want him to know I would fix it if I could. I would rather feel it ten times worse than he ever has just to guarantee that he never will again.

The good days, oh we float! We are like clouds, we drift over the day in a haze of love, marvel at the sunshine and rain happiness on the people around us. We laugh and tickle, we strut around unconsiously bragging about our love bubble.

But the bad days, we close the curtains. We try anything. We try everything. But mostly we rock and cuddle. We dance and we bounce. We sing quiet songs and say "Shh shh shh, baby, I know. I know."

And we hope for more good days.