Leah has been nominated for a National Magazine Award for Humour and would have been nominated for many more if the association had not eliminated the category because they’re mean.
Dear “Shabby Chic” Cottage Held Together Mostly by Petrified Mouse Corpses: I’m writing to tell you that despite a lifetime of being told you’re the Ultimate Canadian Experience, I’ve decided that you, cottage, are crap.
While I adore my only child, there’s still a certain chill that crawls up my spine every time Ben starts calling out in a singsongy voice (you know, the kind you hear in horror movies with children who do terrible things): “Who-o-o wants to play with me?”
Yes, it’s true: they’re procreating.
Tomorrow is when all the unwashed masses enter into a blood feud for spots in city-run classes and summer camps. It can be a grisly business, friends, but if you follow this fail-proof plan, you just might come out alive.
So, once upon a time in the olden days, they tried to kill us. A bunch of stuff happened, like fighting and death stuff, then some magick (#lit!) oil burned in the holy temple for eight days. It was a miracle and now Jewish kids get to celebrate saving the temple (#goals!) by eating foods fried in magick oil like potatoes and well, mostly that’s it.
Come October, Jason and The Hockey Monster We Spawned will be donning their Montreal Canadiens jerseys and cuddling up on the couch in front of the TV for six months, while I grumble, ignored, in the background.
Parents are waxing rhapsodic about how this method is actually working for them. But there are so many more effective ways you can remind yourself to be a better parent and just how terrible of a parent you currently are.
“Honey, you know I’m not good at… these… technical things!” I sputter, on the verge of tears.
“Here’s the thing. I don’t have BOOBS,” says my husband, Jason.
While this cocoon of domestic bliss sounds like a good idea, as every mom who has seen her birth plan melt down into a juicy orgy of garbage fire, sometimes your best-laid plans don’t have a way of working out.
Don’t be afraid, hungry, angry Meghan—the mothers of the world are with you. And we have some new-mom advice.
We find a less precious, modern stiff-backed number at a hip Queen West furnishings store. I drag Jason to Crate & Barrel over his protestations that this was clearly evidence that his life is over. Nope, none of those comfortable couches will do either. We start to despair that the détente will ever come to an end.