My family and I are on a ski vacation, less than an hour away from our home. We had discussed going somewhere HOT, but once we crunched the numbers for our family of five to get away, it worked out to one month’s salary. Mine and my husband’s salary combined. After a morning spent debating whether or not we should do the tropical vacation, and looking for good deals to make it happen, I suggested to my husband that maybe we spend a week on the ski hill instead.

I’ve struggled a lot with winter in the past, so he wasn’t expecting that idea to come from my lips. I assured him that I was serious, and that it would be a great way to practice our skiing skills. We put our kids (and ourselves) in ski lessons on the week between Christmas and New Year’s, as we made a decision to take up skiing as a family, and what better way to get better at skiing than to spend a week up at the ski hill? (Side bonus: My boss gave us his cabin to use for the week. SCORE!)

In order to take this vacation, our kids are missing a week of school. This matter has been commented on by almost everyone we’ve talked to about our trip, or whom we’ve seen on the hill. The majority of the comments are just out of curiosity, and when I tell them why we’re here, they smile and tell us to enjoy. They also tell us how wise we are to hit the hill when it’s not the holidays (We pretty much have the hill TO OURSELVES). I’ve encountered a few negative reactions, which could have made me upset, but only made me laugh inside. Because, seriously?

Our kids are 5, 7, and 9. Kindergarten, second grade and fourth grade. We talked to each of their teachers before going away about homework and the reply from all three of them [paraphrased]: “Have fun! They can just read every day and we’ll get them caught up on math and such when they get back.” There was also a comment about how they may be missing P.E., but that’s covered by being on the ski hill.

We’re having a great week. Skiing during the day, reading and watching movies at night. It’s a pretty great vacation, indeed.

Have you taken your kids out of school for vacation time?

Today, my kid starts school.

She’s two and a half. And she’s ready. She’s very, very, very ready. She watches and thinks and learns, her little brain working furiously behind her eyes as she stares fixatedly at me whenever I try to thwart her plans for world domination.

It’s time. She needs more than I am able to give her. And it tears my heart out to say that. I’m a stay at home mom. Shouldn’t I be able to give her everything she needs? Shouldn’t I be the one to teach her, to sit with her and read stories, help her learn words, songs, movements, how to use scissors, sparkles, glue, paint, how to bake cookies, how to fold laundry, everything of importance in a two year old’s world? Isn’t that my job?

I’ve had to face the fact: I’m not entirely cut out to be a stay at home mom. Being Avery’s Mom is the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. She is a gift, a delight. And yet, am I the right person to provide her with absolutely everything? Is there room for teachers, for peers, for friends?  Especially now, when I have Work, and A Job, and it is getting harder and harder to balance doing that work and parenting, especially since she Dropped Her Nap (capitalized because every parent knows exactly what Kind Of Torture dropping their last nap is) and Thomas or Mr Maker has to fill that gap whenever I have a con call or a deadline. And that’s not the parent I want to be.

So now she’s two and a half, and I have a lot of work to do in the next two months, and it’s the right time for her developmentally and for me career-wise for her to start school. I know this. This is fact.

But still, when I take her in there with her little backpack, with two changes of clothes and indoor shoes and extra diapers and my phone number plastered over everything she owns, I will feel like I’m leaving my heart in that room.

Because I am.

We have really been enjoying our winter break.

I mean, really enjoying our winter break. In fact, winter break 2011/2012 may go down as being one of the best winter breaks we’ve ever had. Naw, we’re not spending it in Hawaii or on a picturesque mountain somewhere – heck, we haven’t even gone into the next the town.

In fact, we’ve barely left the house. It’s been perfect.

We grudgingly get dressed if company is coming or if we’ve (foolishly) agreed to go out visiting, but these last 10 days have been one relaxed, slow drawl of movies and games, books and crafts. When we’re not sleeping. We’ve been doing quite a bit of sleeping as well.

This is how our days have looked:

8:30 kids get up

9:30 I get up, get breakfast for the kids, get coffee for me.

10:30 the huz gets up (don’t worry, he’ll pay me back for this later), whatever movie kids were watching that allows me to sleep in, ends. Kids play. We drink coffee and read.

Noonish – lunchish

Afternoonish – bake, craft or go outside, depending on our mood. Nap with four year old (remember the payback? Here it is. Ahhh.)

Late afternoonish – wonder if we should have done anything more productive for the day.

Dinnertime – more often than not, with friends. This is when we get dressed much of the time.

Afterdinnerish  - games, another movie for the kids maybe

Too late – go to sleep after watching half a season’s worth of Californication episodes.

See? Perfect. Seriously, I have not been bored or hungry at any point over the last 10 days. I weep to think that this will soon be coming to an end and that somebody will expect me to have my kids somewhere before 9am. I weep.

So, how has your winter break been?

It was a beautiful sunny long-weekend afternoon. The roads were busy, but not abysmally so.

When I drove past the first car on the side of the road that appeared to be having a toddler breakdown, I was sympathetic. The Daddy was holding the two year old up,  hovering his naked butt a foot above the ground. Either the kid was being stubborn, or Daddy was trying to ensure he was empty before putting him back in the closed confines of the car. Either way, I sympathized.

But the toddler-breakdowns kept coming, by the side of the 401. When I saw the 5th, I was bothered. Was something in the air?

I shouldn’t have tempted fate. Because an hour later, I was the person by the aide of the toad with a puke-soaked, sobbing toddler.

I have no idea what happened. She was fine before; she’s been fine since. But for 5 minutes on the side of the 401 in the middle of a traffic jam, she turned in to the exorcist with apple juice. And there I was, alone in the car with a vomit-covered two year old, a beagle, and an empty coffee mug. Oh, god.

For a brief moment, I cursed myself for not stopping to help someone else earlier; perhaps it would have cleaned up my karma (car-ma?).

Then again, what help would have been really useful in that moment? While it would have been good to have my husband in the car when she spewed all over herself, the carseat, the ipad, the car, everything in sight, I certainly wasn’t going to ask a complete stranger to clean up my kid’s puke. There are limits to what you can ask people to do during their random acts of kindness, after all.

Then it came to me.

Maybe from now on I will keep a road trip emergency bag in the car to give to people having obvious toddler emergencies. Contents:

• entire pack of industrial strength baby wipes;
• spare diapers – size four, which can be adapted to fit most size butts in a pinch;
• unisex toddler outfit in size and style versatile enough to work for a wide range of toddler ages;
• plastic bags for hermetically sealing garbage- and bodily fluid-soaked clothing (and also for lining soaked carseat until arrival at destination);
• pleasant but not oppressive air freshener for in-car use
• And a small flask of emergency vodka, for Mom and Dad. Oh, FINE.  We are driving after all. Instead a bottled water, can of Pringles and chocolate bar for the adults. In these moments, it’s whatever seems necessary.

This will be in the car and available for distribution to any roadside parent in need.

And because it’s a guarantee that as soon as I hand it out, I’ll need it, I’ll keep another in the car just for me. Just in case.

P.S. Turns out Britax car seat covers ARE washable. On cold, gentle cycle, air dry. You’re welcome.

10 days.

10 days I am in England.

Without my child.

It’s a really long story. We meant to go for a month and take her. I envisioned walking through Hyde Park with her in the stroller; taking her in to Mamas and Papas on Regent street and buying adorable little outfits; taking her on trains and seeing the wonder in her eyes as we discover all sorts of new and interesting things.

But then every time we travelled this summer with her it went – not much else can be said for it – badly. Her routine, once disrupted, always turned to crap. Planned excursions to fun and interesting places turned into marathons of toddler torture, meaning lack of sleep, food throwing, generalized screaming and hell for her and everyone else. The thought of taking her on an overnight flight and managing her jet lag, then staying in a new place for a month away from our own surroundings no longer sounded attractive. It sounded hellish. She would have been miserable. We would have been miserable. So we changed our plans. The toddler was going to Grandma’s to get spoiled rotten while we travel. But because someone else was relying on our plans, I couldn’t cut my trip down to only a week. I had to be here for longer. And here I am, in London for 10 days.

Without my daughter.

I keep telling myself I need to appreciate it. I can stay out til all hours of the night. I can go anywhere without a stroller or a bagful of diapers.  I can eat a meal in peace and have a glass of wine or five. I can sleep as long as I want.

Heaven, right?

But then last night we went in to a restaurant and at the table next to us sat a two year old boy with his Thomas trains. He had Thomas and Percy and Sir Topham Hatt and he was driving them along the table top and it made my heart lurch.

I see a child running through the park with a frilly pink tutu, dropping and picking up her purple balloons with chubby toddler arms, and I cannot take my eyes off her.

We left her behind for a reason: in order to take a real pseudo-vacation.

But all I’m learning is that without her, nothing is really any fun.

If you have a blog, or even just read blogs, you’ve probably heard of a little conference called BlogHer. This is my fourth year attending it and while the size of it has grown exponentially, my reason for coming is the same now as it was then: to see my friends and have face time with them. For while relationships built online can be just as great (or even greater) than those built in your community, there’s just something about being able to hug someone (instead of typing ‘HUGS’), you know?

While my Bad Moms team members Emma and Karen weren’t able to make it, Catherine, Katie, Shannon, Annie and myself have all descended upon San Diego for BlogHer ’11. You better know that there will be SHENANIGANS. Also, hugs.

Some people don’t understand why I would travel so far away from home to visit with people I MET ON THE INTERNET, but hugs factor aside, it’s just a great treat. I get to see cities I haven’t seen before, have adult conversations with people about topics that we’re mutually interested in and have a break from being “Mom.” It makes me an even better Mom when I get back.

Will we be seeing any of you lovelies this weekend in San Diego?

I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time.  As a parent, I mean. (Oh, who am I kidding. I don’t know what I’m doing at pretty much anything.)

I muddle through most days, and up to now, as long as everyone’s alive by bedtime I often consider the day a raging success. But that was before my daughter turned two and suddenly developed what they call A Personality. And by Personality, I mean “screams her raging fool head off at the most insignificant of perceived slights.” Suddenly, I feel like I’m in over my head. Completely Drowning in Twoness. And I need to figure out a way to survive, because I am utterly ill-equipped to figure this out on my own. So, as I do for most things in my life, I turn to books.

Books, books, more books. Parenting books. Books on training this or that behaviour in to or out of your child. Books on why praise is good. Books on why praise is bad. Books on discipline. Books on play. Books, books, a thousand thousand books.

And here’s the thing: with every book I read, I nod wisely in agreement. In each one, the logic is infallible. Because in case you didn’t know, if you get mad at your children, give them guilt trips, tell them that they have to do something “because you said so”, or basically anything your parents did when they were raising you, then your children are essentially doomed to become axe murderers. Their Way, says each book, is the only way to ensure your children are successful – and that they will still call you after they move out.  And of course, every time, I get sucked in.   Aha, thinks I! This is the method, the way to raise wonderful, well-adjusted children, children who know the value of both work and play, children who are savvy yet empathetic, children who relish learning and treat others with kindness and always help clean up after dinner not because they have to, but because they want to.

The only problem is? Every book contradicts the next one.  Praise them, because positive reinforcement is good! Don’t praise them, or they’ll become praise junkies!  Use time-outs, because they are good! Don’t use time-outs, because they are bad! And on, and on, and on.

But it kind of doesn’t matter. No matter what the parenting technique, I manage to fail at it. Just after I finish reading Po Bronson for the 17th time, I still put the book down with my head full of resolve and then I start unloading the dishwasher and my two year old comes over and starts pulling out dishes and handing them to me and I can’t help but say, what a good helper! And then my brain is wracked with torment, wondering if I’ve scarred her for life.

It’s hard enough dealing with all the ways in which I vowed I wouldn’t parent like my parents. Now I have to make sure I’m not parenting like…. well, like me. Because apparently, no matter what I do, I can totally find a book that tells me I’m Doing It Rong.

How did you figure out how to parent? Did you find any books that helped, in retrospect? Let me know. I probably already own it.

I like getting away from the daily grind as much as anyone. I really enjoy solo trips away with my husband whenever we can coerce/bribe someone into watching our three kids, and he and I both take solo excursions away with our friends (See you at BlogHer?). In the past few years I have also enjoyed taking trips with my entire family, meaning kids included. Yes, enjoyed, not just survived.

When my kids were all pre-schoolers (I had three kids in four years), road trips weren’t my favourite. My kids are all pretty good-natured but there were always diaper blowouts and pit stops and snacks and restless legs and whatnot. Now that my youngest is stating Kindergarten this fall (!) traveling as a family has been fantastic. We even took everyone this past January to Disneyland and I have to say that it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. It was no vacation, mind you (See: Laying on a beach and reading all day long), but we packed a whole lot of adventure into seven days.

As for road trips, we can now aim for places further than three hours away. This is the second summer in a row that we’ve left our home in the Okanagan area of B.C. and rented a cottage in Cannon Beach, on the Oregon Coast (I’m typing this from the table in our home away from home). We decided to take a different route this time and drove down through the middle of Washington State and then over to Portland for two nights. On that first day, it was an eleven-hour trip, including meal/pee breaks. The trip went fine, partially because the kids have new DSi’s for the trip, partially because they like to read and also to take photos (they have their own cameras), partially because we have a DVD player in the van and partially because they can all tell time. We could tell them that our next stop was in, say, 30 minutes and they were happy with knowing what the plan was. My favorite quote for that day was when I was giving my husband directions to our hotel. My daughter asked how long it was until we would be at the hotel and I replied, “About ten minutes.” Then she said, “I like minutes! Hours take so much longer.”

So, I guess I’m here to tell you that if you are in the throes of babydom and the thought of extended trips with your kids sounds something akin to receiving fifty lashes with a wet noodle, there is hope. And you can escape the every day and come to places like this:

I’m not a completely abnormal Mom, for the record. I won’t be giving up trips with my husband or friends any time soon. Or ever.

This past spring my husband informed me that our oldest son was old enough to go to sleep away camp. In fact, he could have gone last summer, had we known he was allowed to register.

How is that possible? I couldn’t get my head around the fact that my son, my baby, could be dropped off at a camp in the middle of nowhere, to spend six nights in a cabin away from his family. Part of my bewilderment stems from the fact that where I grew up, we went to teen camp. I was fourteen the first summer I went to camp. He is eight. That is almost half the age I was when I first went to sleep away camp. The biggest part of my shock about him being “old enough” to go to sleep away camp is the fact that he is my baby. Have I mentioned that he is my BABY?

My baby is growing up,however, despite all of my wishes and prayers for him to just stay here awhile. Upon hearing that he could go to camp, he could not contain his excitement. Friends of his registered as well and the countdown began. He started packing three days before camp started, checking off each item from the camp list as he packed them in his suitcase. It’s all he talked about all the livelong day.

This past Sunday afternoon was D-day. He spent the whole drive up there with a happy smile on his face and as soon as we got there he ran off to explore. We got him set up in his bunk, took him and the younger two on tour of the camp, and then it was time to go. I probably would have lost my composure if his two siblings hadn’t beat me to it. Crocodile tears and cries of, “We’re going to miss you!” saw my big boy hugging them both and consoling them. As we pulled away I got pretty misty behind my sunglasses while thinking about my little dude in a big camp but I had to keep it together for the sake of my other two babies who cried for half of the (two hour) drive home.

Once they were in bed that night, all bets were off. I cried pretty good while my husband consoled me. What if he gets lonely? What if his friends don’t include him in something? What if he gets hurt? We’re not allowed to call and so I have no idea how he is or what he’s doing or if he’s happy or sad. We’ll find out this Saturday when we pick him up and in the meantime we’re just keeping busy to try to fill the hole that he left.

I know that this is a great experience for him and I’m 99% sure that he’s having an absolute blast and I guess I’ll just need to toughen up because next year I’ll have two kids gone off to sleep away camp. Hold me.

How about you folks? Do you send your kids to camp? Is it hard on you? Or is it more of a rejoicing feeling? (I tend to cry at commercials when it’s NOT that time of the month, so I may not be in the majority here.)

It appears to be the season to be on the road.

Her Bad Mother is paddling around in the middle of lakes, Motherbumper is nomming on lobster somewhere nearby and I am sitting in a hotel room in Halifax. (I am not, however, finding the Heavenly Beds so heavenly. Frankly I’m finding them rather hellish.) It’s vacation time at The Bad Moms Club.

Vacation isn’t quite what it used to be. In Ye Olde Times Gone By, ie. Back When We Were DINKs, a vacation was about flying to a well-researched, well-planned destination and laying beside the pool drinking overpriced yet delicious cocktails brought to us by obsequious wait staff, then staying up as late as we liked while having lingering dinners in picturesque settings, taking in a few too many glasses of wine, then tumbling in to bed in the wee hours because hey! There’s nothing to do until at least noon tomorrow!

Not so much, now.

Now, vacation is about scheduling activities around naptimes, finding kid-friendly restaurants that still serve good drinks and going to bed about half an hour after the toddler does because she’s going to be awake the second the sun rises in the morning (what do you mean, the windows in the hotel aren’t lined with tinfoil like her room is at home?!)

Still. Even though my handbag is now filled with cheese strings and baby sunscreen instead of tourist maps of trendy locations, I’m finding things about our “new” vacation reality that I never would have imagined. Precious moments. The things along the Halifax waterfront I always used to walk by and ignore I now see with new eyes. The delight of a toddler who sees a BIG! BOAT! and jumps up and down at the sight of it.  Now I will willingly stand in the 20 minute lineup for overpriced PEI ice cream because the payoff of sitting with a beaming child who can’t quite figure out how to get the entire scoop in her mouth is worth it. Today I’ll probably end up on a Theodore Tugboat boat tour of Halifax Harbour, listening to my kid shout FEEDOR!!! with glee.

I’m one of those lameass tourists I used to laugh at. And I would not have it any other way.