Andrea Mulder-Slater

By Andrea Mulder-Slater I was born with a full head of hair. I’m talking about the kind of tufts that would look right at home in an advertisement for baby hair gel... if babies used hair gel. Looking back, it’s entirely possible my penchant for hair product first began when – as a toddler – I styled my locks with oatmeal. By the time I could ride a bike, the only way to contain my mop was a tidy, at-home-mullet, courtesy of mom. Fortunately, as a kid, I had no real concept of what it meant to look good. In fact, rummaging through old family photographs, one might assume I grew up in a house without mirrors. Or reflective surfaces of any kind.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Minimalism is hard. And yet, it’s all the rage. I mean, everybody’s either doing it, or thinking about doing it. This includes dyed-in-the-wool hoarders, forward-thinking hamsters, and anyone who lives in a tiny house. Even I’ve ( almost) embraced the trend. For example, I know people who have watched Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things on Netflix and I own The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up . I’ve also held all of my belongings and waited for them to bring me joy. (And let me just say, Marie Kondo, that’s a lot of pressure to put on a pair of 99 cent socks rescued from the depths of the last chance sale bin at Old Navy.)

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Every once in a while, I lose my mind. And then, I buy glitter. I never know what will trigger the purchase. Sometimes it’s hearing a Depeche Mode song at the grocery store while I’m picking up string cheese. Other times it’s the absence of coffee cream in my refrigerator. Mostly, it’s nostalgia - or amnesia - brought on by lack of sleep. And Pinterest.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater A few summers ago, my 90-year-old neighbour was over for a visit when she spotted a list I had left on the table. “You are far less reserved than you appear,” she said. “I can see it in your handwriting.” Find out exactly how I feel about cursive in the classroom, by reading an article I wrote for CBC. Read it here...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I grew up in the 1990s. Ok, I also grew up in the 1980s. The thing is — when I was a kid in the 1970s, money was tight and we didn't have a ton of extra cash available for buying store-bought treats. Cakes were reserved for birthdays (and were always homemade), ice cream was a once or twice a year delicacy and the closest I came to Popsicles were the delicious frozen chunks of apple juice nestled in our ice cube trays.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I’m an oatmeal girl. I start my days filling up on a bowl full of hot steel cut oats, flavoured with a touch of salt and butter. Sometimes I get wild and crazy and throw on a drizzle of honey, a handful of raisins and a few almonds. My daughter – on the other hand – is not an oatmeal girl. At least, she isn’t one anymore. As a baby she gobbled up the stuff, but that was before she discovered she had options. And while her breakfasts today are nutritious (fruit, vegetables, yogurt, cheese), I’ve always hoped that her love of oatmeal would return. Here’s why…

*Warning: Contains Graphic (Dirty Bathroom) Images by Andrea Mulder-Slater I was over for coffee at my friend’s house on the weekend when another friend dropped in. And because all three of us have kids under seven, the discussion quickly turned to the merits of baking soda. “It’ll take that craft paint right off your window.” “It worked wonders on the bathtub after pink dye leaked out of a piece of fun foam.” “Baking soda is great, but it has nothing on vinegar.” And with that, Rachel proceeded to tell us about a magical vinegar-based Pinterest potion she uses to rid her bathtub of soap scum.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I love the online health food store because where else I can place an order for Vitamins B, C and D while lounging in yoga pants and eating chocolate - snapped into bite-sized pieces because fewer calories – without being judged by 25 year old yogis drinking beet juice behind the counter. These chips are organic Sasha. I'm hurting myself if I don't eat them. Then there are the random free samples offered at time of checkout. Once I received a minuscule tube, inside of which was just enough eye cream to moisturize my fingertips. Then there was the tiny bottle of zinc ointment, which - to this day - I still carry around in my purse. Not long ago, it was a trial size teeth-whitening system, including magic minty toothpaste. Because I’ve always been curious about people with glow-in-the-dark incisors, this freebie made me a little more excited than usual.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I was a kid, I broke my wrists. A few times. In fact, I was so good at collecting casts in the emergency room, I once fell and sprained my left wrist while my right arm was wrapped already in plaster. Falling off a chair, scratching my back while jumping into a pile of leaves and slipping on a pillowcase while running down a hallway are just three of the ways I wounded myself when I was between the ages of 5 and 7.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I've been eating (mostly) gluten-free for about four years now. It all started after I had my daughter. During pregnancy, I had three basic cravings: vanilla (steamers, milkshakes, pudding), french fries (McDonald's) and saltine crackers (Premium Plus). In fact, during my first trimester, I gorged myself on anything and everything wheat-based. By the time my baby was born, I was back to eating in a healthy, balanced way. But, I had developed a penchant for breads, cookies and crackers.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater The hour-long drive home from the hospital where my daughter was born was fraught with danger. First, there was my perineum (if you have to ask, you just don’t get it). Then, there was the night sky, which meant that for the first time since her birth, I was unable to keep constant watch over my infant. The bumpy road and unfamiliar sounds and smells led to the overwhelming realization that I was in need of another painkiller and had exactly zero experience keeping a miniature human being alive.

“Lemme out! Lemme out! Let. Me. OUT!!!”  My 6-year-old was shrieking as she madly fumbled with her seatbelt in a desperate attempt to flee the vehicle. She, my husband, mother and I, had just returned to our car, parked on a small town street. It was late - past 10pm - and the sounds of the post-symphony gathering we had just departed, covered the damp grass like a blanket. As my husband helped my daughter into her booster seat, my mother spotted something scuttling up one of the black sweaters I had elegantly draped over the front passenger seat headrest (in case of a late July flash-freeze). Because the flickering streetlight on the corner provided a less than satisfying glow, the only opportunities to see inside of the car, were during the brief moments when the doors were ajar. “There,” my mother urged, “A tail.”

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Dear feet, I’m sorry. I mean, here we are in Florida and there you are, completely and totally naked. But here’s the thing. I forgot your warm-weather shoes at home. In the closet. As you know, our exodus from the snow-ravaged north was rushed (what with the back-to-back storms heading our way) and as a result, so many things were left behind. My favourite black Capris, that cute sunhat I ordered online, the poolside read I had picked out specifically for this trip… All of it, forgotten. In the cold. So here we stand, on this gorgeous salty beach, next to my happily barefoot daughter. Exposed.