Self-respect? Funny. I had that once.

I've been working on my daughter's sleep pattern for a while now...basically, since she was born. Recently I've made some headway, mostly because she's old enough to be making progress despite my blundering efforts and also because I've managed to move her bedtime up significantly. It's still under development, though, and some mornings she ends up in our bed so I can coax the last hour or two of sleep out of her and not start the day at 5:30 AM.

This is not without hazards.

The most common side effect is my day does in fact start at some ungodly hour, when the sun has risen and therefore, in my baby's mind, crib time is over, but sleep is still required. It is difficult to sleep sitting up with a baby in your lap. At least, I find it difficult.

Another pitfall is that at night, when Cadence is snuggled safely in her crib in the other room, I dream that she is snuggled suffocating and crushed between our massive, unwieldy adult bodies, and I panic. I've managed to get this under control to the point where I gently pat down all the bedding, reassuring my semi-conscious self that I am surrounded by mere blankets, not squished baby, and then further calm myself by simply looking at the baby monitor. This is another work in progress, as Bob can attest to. On more than one occasion I have accused him of smushing our baby when, in fact, the "baby" I am feeling underneath him is his own stomach.

The worst hazard, though, is the morning poo.

Not hers, although that can be wrought with peril too.

No. I mean my poo.

Once upon a glorious time, my poo came on a predictable schedule, interrupted or disrupted only by the consumption of alcohol or irresponsible amounts of spice.

Pregnancy threw a fat wrench in that timetable; giving birth added haemorrhoids. I may write an entire entry on those painful bastards one day, but for now, the memory is too fresh.

So now, I poo whenever it strikes my bowels' fancy. I don't mean to imply I have lost all control of my pooing; just that it is not on a nice convenient schedule any more. And I've lost a bit of control. Some control. More control than I care to admit anywhere except a public blog.

Wait. What?

Sometimes the fancy strikes when I've just managed to get my darling angel back to sleep and she is finally, at last, after 45 minutes of whining and half-nursing and punching me, peacefully, adorably, beautifully snoozing on my lap.

And then I have to poo.

So bad.

Right now.

My mantra goes something like this:

I am the master of my own bowels.

I will not crap my pants.

I AM THE MASTER OF MY OWN BOWELS.

I will NOT crap my pants.

Meanwhile, I look desperately at the toilet, mocking me from a mere seven feet away. I begin to contemplate my options.

Can I hit it from here? Unlikely. Must consider an alternative.

I once successfully carried my baby on her nursing pillow to the washroom and did my business without waking her. It was a feat that Indiana Jones himself would admire. It is not likely to ever be repeated.

I can sometimes maneuver her onto the bed beside me without her waking and not only use the washroom, but do other stuff like attend to my personal hygiene and put on daytime clothes.  It's risky business though, and her sleep is so precious that it is only in a moment of dire need that I attempt this path.

A moment such as when I realize, as a fully functional, grown adult who generally takes care of herself, that I am not the master of my own bowels.

I have indeed crapped myself.

Then I am faced with the decision...

Accept what I've done and maintain the sleep?

Or shed a tear for my lost dignity, bite my lip in determination and move...that...baby!

At that point, really, it doesn't matter. Little matters when you are faced with the reality that you are steeping in your own fecal matter.

And on this very special edition of "Oops I crapped my pants": to add insult to injury, my dog had diarrhea and shit all over his fur, and I had to clean that up, and then my darling child dumped a load worthy of sonnets into her pants and I wiped that up too.

My life has indeed changed a lot.

Moral of this story: the family that poos together, stays together. Or at least has their butts wiped together.

What's Your Sign? Funny.

There was recently a by-election in Calgary and there is a provincial election coming soon.  Other people (I'm looking at you, brother bear) blog about politics at length, and are definitely better informed than I am about these things.

www.thecanerdian.ca/

You can check him out at this website.  He doesn't really look like this but he probably doesn't want his face all over my blog.

So I will not comment on the platforms, issues or promises of these elections.  Instead, I will be focusing on something much more important.

The potential for hilarity in candidate advertisement.

There are several avenues that could lead to Funnytown.

 

Just one route to this awesome, safe town.  Route 40.

Route 1: What's in a name?

My father, an avid participant in the political process (which means he will rant at length about various aspects of the political process, most often the basic idiocy of the general populous in their voting habits) informed me that I needed to move to a different part of the city in order to vote for his preferred candidate.

I wondered- is this candidate particularly qualified?  Charismatic?  Honest?  Intelligent?

 

Does he have distinguished facial hair?

The answer, it turns out, is none of the above.

I should vote for this person because his name is Happy Mann.  Alternatively, I can move elsewhere and vote for Prasad Panda.  Either way, I have my father's approval.  Hard to choose- happy or (pra)sad?  It's tricky.

 

Happy Mann.  Not necessarily living up to his namesake.

Prasad Panda.  Also not living up to his namesake.  He is neither sad nor a panda.

 

A woman named Julie Hrdlicka won the by-election in our ward, and although we don't know much about her (a side note...it really, really bothers me when an election approaches and I have no information about the candidates.  I feel that if someone wants me to vote for them, they should provide me with good reasons to do so.) we definitely noticed her posters.  Mostly because of her last name, which gave us giggles every time we read it.

So I think that if you have a regular, boring name like "Steve Thompson" you should jazz it up.  Steve becomes Harry and Thompson becomes Johnson, and your boring name has become the source of much enjoyment.

Route 2: Nice face.

I bet that when people decide to "throw their hat in the ring", as they say (by the way- this is a ridiculous saying- and a good way to waste hats), they spend some time carefully considering how to pose for their posters.  Some people choose not to have their picture on their posters.  I assume these people are really ugly.  Or have no face.  This may not be fair.  A good deal of them might be of the belief that photography steals souls.

This woman's hat is in the ring.  But she seems to have a spare.  Also, her first hat appears to be made of an entire pheasant.

The people who choose to show us the goods, however, have to be aware of the scrutiny they will be subject to.  It is a safe move to go with the standard and inviting "smiling face" or the distinguished and mature "distinguished and mature" face.

This picture is not smiling, distinguished or mature, but it does come up on an image search for "pleasant face".  I beg to differ.

But that is boring.

I say, if you are going to plaster your mug all over the city (or a 14th of it, depending on what kind of election it is), you need to set yourself apart from all the other mugs.  You need to really go for it.

You need to make a face like one of these:

If that is outside your comfort zone, you probably won't get my vote.  But you might be able to redeem yourself in one of the following ways:

Wear an awesome outfit.

 

Hold something amazing and thought-provoking.

Um, yes please.  You have my vote.  Times a million.

Style your hair in an intriguing manner.

 

 

This last guy is cheating a bit.

Accessorize effectively.

 

I want- no, I NEED- all these things.

The best person for the job, however, will employ all of these strategies.

FOR THE WIN!!!

Route 3: Words of wisdom

Every good campaign poster has a slogan.  Or "platform", as they say.  No, this is not a small structure of wood placed underneath the poster to elevate it above the rest.  In fact, I think there are bylaws against that sort of thing.  There are many rules regarding how your poster must be presented, such as where it can be placed and how large it can be.
But you can write just about whatever you want on your poster, as long as it doesn't conflict with our regular laws.  So if your platform is "I am a butthead", I'm fairly certain that my limited personal knowledge and my five seconds of google research indicates that you are welcome to advertise that as much as you like.

He might not like it.

Now, I have not yet read a sign that has as amazing a platform as "I am a butthead".  I feel that the political process is lacking in this regard.  They tend to say boring stuff like "Putting Health Care First" and "Education Matters".  So pay attention, candidates: if you want this lady's vote, you better get crackin' on those slogans. 

Route 4: Where we come in

In university, a friend of mine made a large number of fake posters for the student union election featuring another of our friends.  The poster featured a number of my "winning strategies" for "election success" as outlined above.  It had a lovely picture of my friend, smiling like a doofus, his hair coiffed in such a way as to command respect, or at least resemble a soft-serve ice cream cone.  It had his name, which isn't funny in itself, but definitely was funny because it was his real name and since there was no mistaking who it was on that poster, everyone could make fun of him. It also had the position he was vying for- "VP Fashion and Beauty"- which is not a real SU position (but probably should be).  His platform?  "I will make you pretty".

He might have won, given the chance.

This was a highlight of my six years at the university.

Unfortunately, the friend who made the posters got in a fair amount of trouble and was threatened with, among other things, thousands of dollars in fines if he didn't remove the posters within a short period of time.  My opinion is that the SU had very little recourse, as these posters did not actually advertise for any real position in their election, but the posters disappeared mere hours later.

Ah, the man.  Always getting the little guy down.

Now, I have already admitted that I have limited knowledge of the bylaws surrounding the content of political posters, but I also did do at least five seconds of research which would lead me to believe that you can post campaign propaganda without actually being a participant in the election.  Of course, if this is not true, it is also my understanding that you can register as a candidate with a mere hundred bucks and a few signatures on a page.  With that power, you can post all the signs you want, as long as they don't obstruct traffic.

As long as you don't write your slogan on this cow, you are good to go.

The path to success is paved in hilarity, I assure you.  So go forth, good citizens, and give me a sign.

Moral of this story: No one in our riding has a funny name, so we're probably going to move.