Let Us Stuff Some Avian Butt-hole. With Thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mom.

I love this time of year. It smells like Christmas had an orgasm. Everything’s pumpkin-spiced (I’m wearing pumpkin-spiced pants right now… very breathable fabric… and, of course, I’m a sucker for a vented crotch). And colorful. And it’s a good excuse to unbutton your pants and binge eat harvested things with family and friends.

Thank-you #1: Thanks, Squanto, for bein’ such a beauty.

[Sidenote: the vented crotch thing was a joke. Or at least a premature assumption; perhaps if I ever tried on a pair of pants with a vented crotch I really would love them. But speaking of venting crotches: did I ever tell you that when my sister and I were little, mom encouraged us to not wear undies to bed in order to “let your porkies breathe”? This is hilarious for a variety of reasons. Namely, 1. we called it a “porky”. And, 2. I grew up thinking it was common knowledge that the goods were actually respiring down there. I couldn’t let the poor thing suffocate. And my mother encouraged this assumpion. So, Thank-you #2: Thanks for that, mom.]

It’s been a while since I’ve written so I have a lot of things to fill you in on. Things that I just happen to be very thankful for…

Thank-you #3: I am thankful for shit my dad says.

Lil M and I spent the better part of September home on da rock.

What was it like to fly with a six-month old?

Good question, italicized me! I have to admit, he’s one pretty cool little dude. I stole him from his crib at midnight to catch the red-eye, and the kid smiles the whole drive to the airport. With his eyes closed. I’m not joking. He smiled through security so adorably that the ovulating security guard volunteered to hold him while I got my things in order.

We boarded the plane first because having a mini-me makes you a “priority” boarder. Once in our seats, he just smiled and babbled and swatted at each passenger as he/she walked by. Then he slept the whole flight. He was a hit.

Anyway, so Newfoundland. Got to see ol’ dad / “Opa” (instead of “Grandpa” because it makes dad feel less old) who always inadvertently says hilarious stuff.

This time he was trying to describe the kind of bread he likes these days, but couldn’t remember the name…

“Ya know…vil-…fi…- vill-ah-gee…fil-ah-gee-oh…fil-ah-shee-o!” Fil-ah-shee-o? Like, fallatio with a pretentious accent? Hilarious. We razzed dad about fallatio bread for the better part of September. [Note: it’s Villaggio]

Dad’s other contenders for most hilarious comments usually come after a meal and describe how full he is. September’s newbie was, Oh Jesus, I’m a Fortune Bay punt!

Classic Opa.

Thank-you #4: I am thankful for a family that doesn’t judge.

Right after I had the baby, I was sort of a mess – physically and emotionally. I could go from sheer bliss to weepy neurosis in a matter of minutes.

My sister came to visit me when lil M was three-weeks old. She’s an avid worker-outer. She’d get up before six every morning to do yoga. Whereas I was getting up around the same time to feebly change my saturated boob pads and lady diaper.

Needless to say she was fit and energized and, in my sweat-panted opinion, pretty fashion savvy.

This one day we were heading to the mall with the baby. We were almost out the door when, suddenly, my sleep-deprived, hormone-laced brand of crazy emerged.

“Our condo is filthy! It smells like mutton dick in here!”

And with my coat and sneakers on I started frantically cleaning things.

Poor Jenn didn’t know what to do, so she decided to just stay out of my way and quietly put her shoes on. That’s when I saw her zip up her nice, high leather boots over her leggings.

And I nearly pooped in my sweat pants.

“Oh. Oh great! So now I have to change! If you’re gonna be all ‘looking nice’… I look like a homeless boy! And what is that fucking smell? This place is gross! I’m disgusting!”

Et cetera. It wasn’t pretty. I went off. Until suddenly (peaks and valleys, the ol’ hormones, eh?) I realized how ridiculous I was being and started to laugh.

And peed in our front entrance.

I used that as an excuse to spruce up my outfit. And by “spruce up my outfit” I mean I put on a long dress but kept on my toque and red sneakers. And scent of urine. I think Jennifer was wearing an “actual brand of perfume”. Pffft. Typical.

And of course my three-week old was in pajamas and not wearing a coat or socks. I realized this once we got to the mall. Even though it was snowing out. I also forgot the stroller.

“Just carry him”, my sister asked the demon possessing my body.

“No! I can’t ‘just carry him’. Oh, you certainly can, but I can’t. Look at me! I look like fucking Dennis the Menace. But fat. And on crack. People will look at me carrying an infant with no stroller and think, ‘oh my God, I think that homeless boy kidnapped a baby!’ They’ll look at you and think, ‘Oooooo, who’s that? Look at herrrrr. I like those booooots. Look at her carrying that baby without a stroller. Oh my God I can’t believe she even had, a baby, she’s so tiny! I bet she does yogaaaa! She looks like she’s all business-mom savvy, ya know? And let’s face it, she looks fun, right? I think I’m gonna start ditching my stroller more’…”.

[There is nothing sensible or rational about the hormone drenched shit that comes out of your mouth in the early post-partum weeks.]

So Jenn carried him. But within minutes of being there, Lil M thought it best to shit up and down himself. In the only outfit I had for him. Jenn was in the middle of buying something so I took my shit-baby and ran to what I thought was the “nursing area” of the mall. It just looked like a wheelchair accessible washroom to me (it was).

I collapsed onto the toilet to nurse my pissed-off baby in his shit jammies. What was I gonna do? The only thing worse than the hot mess that is me carrying a newborn around a mall without a stroller/carrier is me carrying a naked newborn as such.

I will stay here. On this toilet. Forever.

I was startled from my public washroom reverie by Jenn knocking on the door. She saw that I was clearly broken and offered to go buy lil M a pair of pj’s.

Eureka! “Perfect! I’ll just buy him some new pjs! And I’ll go, I have the new mom instinct so I’ll find a store fast!”

Yes, I really said “I have the new mom instinct”. As I sat there on the filthy toilet with my tit hanging out and my infant caked in shit.

Jenn had the good sense to snap this pic as a little souvenir of the moment. You’re welcome.


[It is worth noting that quite literally on the other side of that toilet-paper dispenser wall is a nursing room. A nursing sanctuary, really. With dim lighting, zen music, a meticulous diaper-changing station, a giant flat screen tv, leather arm chairs, and a fucking sculpted hot-hair balloon protruding from the wall – its basket filled with beloved animal friends bidding you a warm welcome.

Whereas I had a second toilet set closer to the floor. That might be used as a footrest.]

To make a long story not as long, I sprinted to The Children’s Place, grabbed the first thing I found then sprinted back. It ended up being a $55 shark tank-top and shorts set with a matching sun-visor. It was snowing outside but at least the sun wouldn’t be in his eyes.

So thanks, Jenn, for fake breastfeeding my son with your knuckle while sitting on a public toilet as I went bat shit crazy. And helping me see the humor in it all.

Thank-you #5: I am thankful for songs that inspire you to sing along.

Katy Perry. Seems like a nice girl. I’m not such a fan of her music, though. Or so I thought…

Saturday I was driving to the grocery store for a missing ingredient. I was frantic because we were late for a Thanksgiving dinner. I was stopped at a red light and hopped-up on adrenaline. I rolled down my window. Nifty little number was on the radio that caught my fancy.

[“Caught my fancy”?]

I got the eye of the tiger… (Eye of the Tiger…hmmm.)

Dancing through the fire… (oooo, I like this. She means business! *thumb tapping*)

‘Cause I am a champion and you’re gonna hear me rooooaaar… (uh! I’m into this.*head bobbing, angrily lip synching “roar”*)

Louder, louder than a lion… (Yeaaah! What an inspirational woman-power tune, I’ve got goosebumps!)

‘Cause I am a champion…

Now here’s where Katy led me astray. I was pounding the steering wheel to reflect the explosion of my realization that I am, indeed, a fearless Goddamn tiger. And as I growled out that last line, I leered out my open window, music-video style.

There was a car stopped next to me with its windows down. And a family watching me.

Which would have been fine but obviously I thought Katy was going to reiterate that I am a tiger. “Champion”? Where the fuck did that come from? And it was one of those “realising your error partway through the error” situations.

So, indeed, I growl-yelled at the nice little family, I AM A TAMPON!

Thank-you #6: I am thankful for this pose


Because it instills so many emotions in its viewers. Nausea. Confusion (WTF is she leaning on? Air?). Irritation. Annoyance… It’s art, really.

I bust out this bad-boy many times throughout the day because I think it’s magical.

Thank-you #7: I am thankful for my over-stretched gray hat – which I may have showered in once – that has made two appearances in this post.

Thank-you #8: I am thankful for my first gray hair.


Because it means I’m still alive. And I think it makes me look wise.

Thank-you #9: I am thankful that my boys accept me, sack and all.

Lil M and his daddy, that is. I don’t mean to brag, but… Dey’re da bist! I’m one lucky gray-haired lady-in-a-hat.

You remember Maybel? (https://heatheronarock.com/2012/05/05/the-time-the-doctor-found-my-sack/) The bitch won’t go away, bless ‘er. My doc seems determined to keep taking her picture and, in my most recent MRI, we’ve discovered Maybel’s hefty. For my physio peeps, she stretches from T3 to T8. Which, to my non-physio friends, means she takes up this much space in the ol’ spinal cord.


We still don’t have all the answers, but we hope/assume she’s just always been there. I have had moments of panic about my mysterious spine resident. But my hunky baby-daddy reminds me daily of how strong and healthy I am and how, regardless, we’ll get through anything. Together.

That’s some Jack and Rose calibre shit. He melts my heart, that giant man of mine. *swoon*

jack and rose

I’ll stop there. Not because I’ve exhausted my thanks but because I’ve exhausted my wit.

Happy (Canadian) Thanksgiving, HOAR readers. May your turkey farts – and those of your loved ones – remind you of how much there is to be grateful for.