The child

A mother's dream

2012-02-01T09:08:00.001-05:00

The first time I felt like I was a part of something greater than myself was when I had my first baby. That’s late I know, but most of my life before that was spent rejecting the people and places I was connected to. My childhood was peppered with varying degrees of turbulence so that by the time I was old enough to be on my own, I shut most of the world out. My therapist and I think it was a defense mechanism. We discussed my years of phone screening, my preference for email or the written word over face-to-face, my reluctance to participate socially in family functions and concluded it was an appropriate reaction to sometimes very inappropriate circumstances.

I remember with too much clarity the stress of my childhood.

Lately my four-year-old has discovered that he is a part of something larger than himself. Just yesterday he ran into the house bursting with excitement and announced that he had a special surprise for his “whole family”. In his hands he held a Dixie cup with four pretzel sticks – the last of his snack from the after-school program. He’d saved these for us. He could barely contain himself so we followed suit. We feigned enormous delight at being thought of this way, bit into our pretzels as if they were generous hunks of decadent chocolate cake, shook our heads with disbelief at the kindness of the act.

I love that Deaglan will not remember with painstaking exactitude his childhood. I hope that he will think back on it fondly but that it will be a blur, one long continuous ride, filled with

Love not pain.

Joy and only minor loss.

Kindness and comfort.

Giving not taking.

And the feeling of home, always home.

Thank you my friends for your wonderful comments on my last post. I still feel a bit raw from the boldness of my act - I mean who do I think I am posting so many pictures of myself for the world to see? And yet I received some wonderful messages from even my high school friends telling me it was okay, that they understood where I was coming from. And even the ladies at BlogHer ads gave me a nod. See up there to the right under the heading More from BlogHer - that's my post! Every few weeks they pick something and it increases my traffic, brings other bloggers to my site, shares my little stories with people from all over the world.

Kind of a thrill for an oddball like me.

And speaking of a short 40ish, slightly chubby Bengali woman giving fashion advice

2012-01-29T17:50:00.000-05:00

This morning on facebook, my sweet friend Kelly posted something that struck me:

"I'm reading Isabel Allende's The Sum of Our Days. She shares how author Anne Lamott told her that "writer's block" is nonsense, and what happens is that sometimes the well has gone dry and has to be refilled. Where do you go to refill the well?"

It resonated with me because lately my well has been dry. Oh it's not that the kids aren't doing documentary-worth things, or that my life is going splendidly perfect so that I have nothing relatable to share with you.

It's me.

I feel quiet inside, and a little uninspired. And also I've been busy settling into some new routines which I'll talk about later after I've had a chance to process the changes. And then there's this: Every once in a while it hits me that I'm just putting myself out there and suddenly I feel shy. And stupid. I imagine people from high school talking about me. Shaking their heads adding this to the ever growing list of reasons I wasn't popular. And then I realize how stupid that is and shake it off.

At times like this I feel torn too. I think about all the really important personal stuff I rarely write about here, out of fear; out of a need to keep some boundaries. Some of which I think is highly human, common to all of us. Sometimes I read someone else's blog and feel like a fraud. I wish I'd written their beautiful words, come up with their brilliant posts. Then I let my small self curl up in a blanket of envy and write nothing for a few days until I end up on the other side of the dry spell.

I do something I wouldn't have dreamed of in my twenties or thirties. I step completely out of my comfort zone and ask my husband to take a photoshoot of me in some of my work clothes because after I wrote this post, my friend Shannon told me I should post pictures of some of my outfits. Knowing full well that I will cringe at the images because my stomach is flabby and I sometimes feel like the equivalent of the brown Dolly Parton.

Clearly at these times, I also ramble.

Top: Winner's this past summer, Cardi: Suzy Shier three years ago, Faux leather skirt and necklace: thrifted, Shoes: Marissa

I'm not sure what this look on my face is about. Possibly I was cold by this point. Or my feet hurt. If it comes to me I'll let you know.

Blouse and vest: thrifted, Pants: Smart Set, Shoes: Marissa. Child's shoe: Mexx

Sweater: Urban behaviour over five years ago, white sleeveless button down: Suzy Shier ages ago, Skirt: thrifted, Shoes: Le Chateau several years ago

I'd be dangerous with a full night's sleep

2012-01-19T10:53:00.000-05:00

I wish I had been organized enough to snap a picture of Naveen this morning. He looked good enough to eat in this hand-me-down of Deaglan’s, a gift from Uncle Matt for his second birthday – his hair just the right amount of crazy, so that he kind of knew he had it going on. It’s hard to resent him for his nighttime antics when I can barely stand how scrumptious he is during the day.

This was Deaglan on his 2nd birthday

Last night when I finally laid my head down, I whispered a pleading prayer. Please God; I’d even settle for four straight hours. Just four hours. I’ve learned not to be greedy when it comes to sleep. I know there are far worse problems in the world than me not getting enough sleep because I gave birth to little people who prefer the night life.

Full disclosure friends, as it relates to matters of baby sleep, I can only assume I’m doing it all wrong. A few months ago Shaune confirmed this when he stated bluntly: You know what we have here don’t you? We have ourselves a perfect case for Supernanny.

And while my immediate reaction was to defend – insist that the only reason Deaglan had been sleeping with us these past few months was because he’d endured enormous changes, that soon he’d be back to his own bed, and the only reason I still couldn’t bear to let Naveen cry it out was because the last few times I did, he was legitimately sick and in need of me so how could I know for sure – I realized that he was probably right. We likely did need some tough love from a reality TV parenting guru.

Because I’ll be honest, I dread bedtime.

We’re constantly devising ways to get our kids to sleep through the night. Alone in their own beds if possible. However, a few weeks ago when I finally coaxed Deaglan back to his own room, ranting about how cool his race car bed was, pointing out how ecstatic his fish were to see him, his temperature spiked to a scary place so that it was easier to pull him into bed with us, keeping the fever in check.

And Saturday night, defeated from the multiple wake-ups with Naveen all week, Shaune asked me full of hope: Isn’t there an herbal remedy we can give him to help him sleep? Oh I know it’s wrong to wonder if there was a safe way to sedate your child – but we’re exhausted friends!

I laughed and rolled my eyes but made a mental note to Google it later.

Fashion blogs to my rescue

2012-01-11T14:34:00.000-05:00

I think about my wardrobe a lot. I mean all the time.

Truth is, Monday comes in a hurry and it’s no small task coming up with five outfits for the work week. Five ensembles that make me feel good.
And thin.
Oh and confident
But comfortable too.
Modest, stylish, age-appropriate yet current.

Let me tell you, for me, this is a job in itself.

From the looks of my closet and jam-packed drawers you might think there shouldn’t be a problem. Shaune is of this mind set. He wears a shirt and tie to work every day in the winter and a golf shirt the company provides in the summer. Each morning he chooses from six or seven dress shirts, a dozen or so ties, and always pairs them with black pants. He then slips into his black loafers, company jacket and off he goes.

It’s just not that simple for me.

For one, I like clothes; I like them a lot. Finding an affordable dress in a flattering cut can improve my mood for an entire day. A new scarf gets me downright giddy. And also, I’m not evolved enough in social situations to feel wonderful on the inside even when I’m not happy with how I look on the outside. Don’t get me wrong, at home with the kids, sweats and a tee shirt suit me just fine. I’ve had some of my favourite compliments on my lounge-wear.

But at work, the dress code is semi-casual. And although people have taken this to the outermost edges of its definition, sometimes to frightening places, I mostly wear dresses, skirts or pants, cardigans and blouses, heels or boots and always earrings, bangles and scarves should they be called for.

Lately though, I started feeling tapped out, wearing the same few items in very mainstream ways. Shopping for new stuff was the only way I could think to add depth to my get-ups but since daycare and before and after school programs are leaving us virtually penniless each month, I turned to the internet.

And it delivered.

I discovered the world of fashion blogs. Did you know there are stylish, savvy young women just giving away this information for free on their blogs? Talking about colour wheels and scarf tying? Posting daily pictures of what they’re wearing, shopping tips and how to take advantage of thrift stores?

Oh glorious day. I finally have a stylist!

But be warned my friends, most of these women are childless and thin. Most have not witnessed first-hand the ruins birthing babies can leave behind. Don't get caught up in Oh I'm not gonna look like that in those pants. Because I'll be honest, I did search for a 40ish, slightly chubby, short Bengali woman offering fashion tips but to my great disappointment came up empty.

Here are a few of my favourite sites.

Wendy's Lookbook - this enviously thin, beautiful woman also created several tutorials on youtube. I just love this one circulating on Pinterest.

Kendie everyday - I found Kendie's blog first. I love her taste and she shops in places even I could afford. And hooray, she also incorporates thrifted items into her outfits.

Good life for less - this lady offers great colour matching advice and I don't mean matchy-matchy.

Feathers and freckles - I am stunned (and inspired) by the amazing pieces this woman finds in thriftstores!

M loves M - I want to hate Mara because she's tall, gorgeous and put together, but I can't help but find her adorable.

9to5 chic - This woman's wardrobe is completely out of my price range but to-die-for nonetheless.

Life lessons 2011 edition

2012-01-06T10:26:00.001-05:00

Last night as my feet crunched down on the snow covered sidewalk, the cold air no longer affecting me because I’d reached that point in running where I felt almost invincible, like I could do this all night, I realized Jhumpa Lahiri was right in her short story A choice of accommodations when she said that after the second child the marriage disappears.

Each of you is constantly trying to find time for yourself in the name of self-preservation. Five minutes without the crying. Thirty minutes to zone out to TV. A few stolen moments to read a page or two, maybe write a quick post. Life becomes a series of relays – I’ll chop the vegetables and make the rice, and while you put the stir-fry together I’ll run errands. You start bath time and I’ll do the reading.

And in the midst of it I see that resistance is my enemy.

Instead I practice surrender. I stop asking why. Why on the last day of Naveen’s antibiotics does Deaglan suddenly have a fever? Why on the rare occasion the baby is sleeping through the night does my mind race, leaving me to toss and turn all night long?

I pick two things to get done instead of bemoaning that I never have time to do anything. I celebrate the seemingly inconsequential like finding time to get my eyebrows shaped, organizing a shelf in a cupboard I’d been meaning to get to.

I find peace in laundry, sanity with the vacuum cleaner. I remind myself that this is what there is. That the prayer isn’t please God transport me to an easier time and place, it’s oh hey, I see why this is right and good.

And when the day is long, blind to joy, I stay close to the couch and go easy on myself.

My sister's bird found his way to my shoulder. It was not unlike having a small child constantly attached to you - lovely and irritating at the same time. Oh who am I kidding - it was kind of creepy.

Naveen finally let someone cut the back of his mane. He was sporting a mullet for the last few months. I'm just loving this neck, those ears.

I'm joining my friends Rach and Sara today for Life Lessons.

De-Christmasafied

2011-12-28T14:27:00.002-05:00

Am I the only one breathing a sigh of relief that it's over? That there's nary a hint of Christmas in our home? Not a sno-globe or candy cane in sight? Yesterday Shaune and I scrubbed it away, swore if we never heard another jingle bell it would be too soon.

Although there's a lot to do like build an addition on our house to accomodate the stockpile of new toys the kids received from their overly generous relatives, I've decided to sit down, watch the snow finally fall. There's been a lot of visiting and I don't know about you, but I take mine with plenty of breaks in between.

And while I don't like to focus on the material gifts received during the season, I can't help but tell you about the ones that touched me most. Like the toy vacuum cleaner Santa left for Naveen. Only during phases of sleep has he been without it. He walks around all day, holding it lovingly, chanting its name va-koooom.

There's also this drawing from Shaune's sister Katie of our little Naveen. Such a beautiful likeness of our Hoover-lover. She used one of the pictures in this set as her model.

Here's my winter mantle. The plate in the frame belonged to Matthew, just one of his everyday dinner plates. There wasn't much to take, very few memento-like things in the pile of his things in my parents' basement.

I've enjoyed looking at it, thinking about him.

And I'm itching to rearrange furniture, change up the curtains, get a new look. It happens every year around this time, when the rooms look suddenly emptier, cleaner. I see the possibilities again. I bought this beautiful vintage oval mirror (below) for $5 at a garage sale last summer.

And here's the drawing of Deaglan on the other side of the window. Sorry about the blurred photo. Katie did this one three years ago. That lady knows the way to my heart.

See the brass lamp below? I found two of them on the side of the road last year. Yup, garbage-picking. Only, Shaune didn't roll his eyes this time. He kind of liked them. Hello??? What's not to like - they were free! I'm just dying to spray paint them. Maybe the same blue as the dinner plate. What do you think?

You were born just after midnight

2011-12-23T18:37:00.001-05:00

Dear Deaglan,

One morning, a few weeks ago, as you were heading downstairs with your Dad and Brother so I could get ready for work, you turned back toward the bed where I sat, looked at me.

“Kiss?” you asked tilting your head. And then you blew me one.

“Can I have a real one?” I asked, closing my fingers around the imaginary. You ran to me, hugged my neck and kissed me. I was smart enough to see my life as it really was in that moment. Even though I'd been up through the night with Naveen, even though I was dead tired and dreading the day ahead.

I saw real for one moment.

I saw that I was truly loved,
and I felt complete.
I saw that I was needed,
and I felt purpose.
I saw that we were raising you right,
and I felt accomplished.
And I thought about how you, one little person, only here four years, could define me this way.

I remember when you were born; the doctor announced that I had given birth to a toddler. “Welcome Magnus,” she joked. You were a big boy, refusing to come out even ten days past your due. And when they brought you to me, I was incredulous.

“This is you?” I asked. “You are the one?” And you let out a cry, as if to respond. “Yes, mama, this is me. I’m the one you’ve been waiting for.”

It was the day that changed everything, the day I no longer felt the loneliness that had plagued my orphan-self. You smoothed dull the pain of having lost so much so young.

And I reacted as a lioness might, growling when anyone came near you. I was possessive because I couldn’t figure out how it had happened. How someone so breathtaking could belong to me. My life had never promised such gifts. I’d wandered around empty and resigned myself to this fate. But you were glorious and perfect, things I’d never equated with myself.

You heralded the re-birth of me.

And so on this day can we celebrate you and me? You for bringing me joy and hope, for allowing me to re-live childish wonder, for teaching me who I really am, for letting me watch you unfold. For being proof that God does beautiful work.

And me, for embracing motherhood in all its splendor, for wanting more for you than I ever had, for realizing my love for you is never-ending, for striving to be my best self. For knowing how blessed I really am.

Happy birthday then.

To you and me, my big boy.

Love Mom.

You and me over the years .

Internal dialogue

2011-12-18T11:11:00.002-05:00

I’ve been trying to get my Christmas stuff done in the evenings. It’s taken its toll on our nightly routine. Usually I read to both kids each night, but for the last week or so, I’ve scurried them to bed with just a kiss and cuddle. It’s done me no good because even though I’ve been able to check off my to-do list, the guilt has left me feeling unaccomplished.

My mind has conjured up all sorts of images to provoke me:
Scenario one: My teenage kids in remedial classes because they haven’t caught onto reading
Scenario two: Deaglan and Naveen - members of an illiterate delinquent gang.

Whipping myself this way mentally is so easy and effective. But this time I fought back. I started in the basement:

It’s not like I’m shooting heroin, I reasoned. Imagine the repercussions of that.

But my mind would have no part of this, Oh give me a break, you’ve never even smoked pot, that’s a ridiculous argument.

Okay, I countered, it’s not like I’m leaving them each evening to hang out at the casino, gambling the mortgage away.

Listen lightweight, my mind reproved, you wouldn’t know your way around a blackjack table even with a guided tour; just admit that you’re a failure as a mother, you’re selfish and put your own needs before your kids’.

I changed tactics then.

No, you listen to me, I demanded, I am doing the best I can with the time I have. Stop bullying me.

You have gray hair and a flabby stomach and-----

Hush!

Silence.

____________________________________

Shaune took 183 pictures of the kids for our Christmas card. Most of them turned out like this. In an effort to get the kids to cooperate, I'm ashamed to admit I was spitting out things like:

Deaglan smile and look at Daddy and you can have chocolate!

Deaglan! Look at Daddy and stand beside your brother, or you'll get a time out!

Deaglan, stay there, we're not finished yet, stop making that face! Okay that's it, I'm gonna let Santa know to skip our house!!

There were only three usable photos. We went with this one. And yes, that's a medicine dropper Naveen's got in his mouth.

You have to pick your battles.

Keeping my ego in check

2011-12-10T10:56:00.001-05:00

We had Deaglan’s birthday party at our local children’s museum last week. It was the first time we invited friends; up until now we’d celebrated his big day with family only. And I didn’t want to have ten kids and their parents over to the house.

We picked the Super Science package where TJ – a teenager working for the museum performed a few basic science experiments, with the birthday boy as his assistant. Because the audience was four year-olds, the highlight was definitely the rocket ship built out of an empty film canister, Alka-Seltzer and water. At one point when the TJ blew up a balloon with baking soda and vinegar, the kids sat unimpressed waiting for the climax.

“Should I do the rocket again?” he asked seeing that the chemical result of mixing baking soda and vinegar was lost on these young thrill seekers. He regained his magician status when he showed this tough crowd how to make slime from corn starch, food colouring and water.

There was pizza and cake and lots of spilling. I was reassured that expensive though the party was, I wouldn’t be spending half my day cleaning.

And also? Most importantly, I learned that I need to stay out of Shaune’s sightline when he’s got the camera. Because it’s not doing me any good to look at some of the shots he got of me.

I just realized they spelled his name wrong. Still the cake got a good deal of oohhing and ahhhing.

So this picture isn't too bad. I guess I need to outline the rules of catching me in a shot to Shaune. Rule number one: I must be photographed with a cute baby well placed on my body. Does he need this reminder every time??

Is anyone benefitting seeing me from this angle? I'd say no.

Shaune, you couldn't have aimed the camera a little more to the right? Awww C'mon!!

I will say that looking at these pictures keeps me grounded and humble. There's no chance I'm feeling smug or better than you!

My lame DIY Christmas projects

2011-12-05T19:59:00.001-05:00

This season is blurring by don't you think? I haven't done my Christmas cards, or tiptoed into the neighbours yard with the scissors yet. We decorated the house but lord help me if anyone decides to drop by. I'd have to come up with an elaborate story about how our house was ransacked by wild thieves while we were out.

Naveen's gone ahead and turned into a toddler without my consent. I'm chasing him around like a desperate fool, begging for kisses, or even a chance to nibble his neck. But he's got no time for me, busy getting into the cat's affairs, or grating on Deaglan's last nerve, and falling head over heels for his Dad. At daycare he only associates with other 18 month olds, he's so over infants!

And because he's everywhere, I've done most of my decorating out of reach. As you'll notice there's a bulb-y theme. I've gone to town with bulbs and hot glue.

See the tiny tree up there? While Deaglan was finger-painting a couple of days ago, I asked him if I could guide his hands on my canvas to make a Christmas tree. The bulbs were Naveen's little fingers.

Do you mind squinting when you look at this red bulb wreath? Or at least not judge me because there are tiny ribbons of hot glue criss-crossing over the surface? Do you know the strategy it takes to use the glue gun while Ole Reachy-Fingers is around?

And here's my Christmas mantle. I collected all that milk glass garage sale-ing.

I saw this old window at the Grand Bend Flea Market back in May. Shaune rolled his eyes when I paid two dollars for it.

I'll bet he's counting his lucky stars he has a wife who has such vision! Actually, I got the idea from Pinterest, my heart flip-flopped when I saw this. I'm still not sure where the best place to showcase my version is. I've noticed some of my neighbours walk right on by without a glance. Can you imagine?

Dangerously close to unhappy

2011-12-01T06:25:00.000-05:00

I read somewhere that parents with children under the age of five are some of the unhappiest people in a population. This is one of those stats that can go either way for me. Tonight it teetered close to truth. Because I don’t know what I was thinking signing Deaglan up for skating lessons on a week night at 5:30 PM.

Picture this.

Me still in work clothes and heels, a bag stuffed with skates, helmet, and two happy meals slung over one shoulder, the camera over the other. A snotty faced Naveen squirming in my arms while I struggle to grip Deaglan’s hand as we bob and weave through an unlit, busy arena parking lot. When we get into the building it’s complete mayhem. There are families everywhere, the early-birds lucky enough to be lacing skates on kids who are sitting on the coveted benches, while latecomers like me stoop over a patch of floor, attempting to do the same and corral a runaway baby.

By this point I’m grouchy and overheated, irritated that Deaglan’s only focus is the happy meal toy. Naveen goes between running wild through the arena and demanding that I pick him up. When Shaune shows up, I’m overwhelmed with relief and the need to share my misery.

For the next forty-five minutes I cringe, recoil as my almost four year old with the help of a skating coach struggles to rise to his feet, on the ice for the first time, slipping down each time. I feel every fall, every thump. And when I don’t think I can watch anymore, convinced that in the next minute he will begin sobbing, beg to be taken to his parents, he starts getting the hang of it.

I watch as he takes tiny skatey steps, gets up without the help of the coach. And my mind changes. This isn’t so bad, I think. Maybe next week, since Shaune won't be able to come, I’ll try to find a sitter for Naveen.

Slipping and falling aside, you've never seen such adorable tiny skates and helmet.

This is the kind of shenanigans we're dealing with everyday since the tree went up.

Answers to your questions

2011-11-26T09:34:00.000-05:00

Sometimes after reading one of my posts, you ask me a question in the comments section; too often I don’t get back to you.

My time on the computer is limited especially when old Slappy-hands-Naveen is around. I open the laptop and suddenly he’s there, beside me, slapping at the keys. Because we have Vista, he sometimes punches a key that changes everything – I go from writing words to typing in squiggles and slashes. And I have no idea how to get back to normal without shutting down. By then, there is usually something else needing my immediate attention like a cat in need of rescue from a menacing toddler or a clean-up in aisle two because a certain three year old figured he’d polish the kitchen floor with his left-over milk. I know you’ve all been there.

So here are some answers to the questions I didn’t get to:

In my post about Deaglan’s first days of school where a teacher told him he was silly because he had a doll in his backpack, a few of you asked what happened after I sent the note. I never quite got to the bottom of it but I did discuss it face-to-face with one of his teachers. She was truly surprised that someone had said it, told me that he could have whatever he desired in his backpack. And a few weeks ago, Deaglan announced to my relief, that he loved his new school.

And as a follow-up to the last post where I wrote about my first parent-teacher interview, yesterday we got a beautiful hand-written note from the teacher proclaiming that already since we’d spoken Deaglan has shown tremendous improvement in his hand-raising skills. You know what made the difference? I told him a few mornings this week that if he knew the answer to a question the teacher was asking, he should raise his hand. I don’t think anyone had ever really explained that process to him.

When I wrote about the church a few of you asked me if I’d considered seeking out a new church. Such a good question. Truth is, I realized that for now, spirituality, community and charity didn’t have to add up to church membership. I’m not committed to this though – I’m leaving room for mind-changing. This past week we went to two funerals and it was lovely to see that both of my relatives were closely connected to their church families. It was evident each time when the ministers officiating had moving and personal stories to share about the person.

I did however, get an email back from the minister of the church I wrote about. And she apologized for not responding to my request to have Naveen baptized, she said she was sorry to have hurt me. However she emphasized that membership in her church did require attendance. She signed off by thanking me ahead of time for any monetary donations I might be able to give to the church! Again it confirmed for me that leaving that church was the right thing.

And, when I wrote this post, I was feeling a little put-off by the season ahead. But you know what? It’s sort of growing on me. Shaune and I made a decision to buy only a few gifts for the kids and make Christmas about what we do together. Each Sunday so far, we’ve done a little project. Here are the pictures of our Christmas village and gingerbread house. This Sunday we’ll put up the tree and decorate the rest of the house.

Finally, have I told you how much I appreciate you coming back and reading what I write? That your comments and connections are wonderful little gifts? My therapist asked me a few weeks ago why I write. I told her simply this:

It makes me happy.

Sorry about the close-up of my bra strap.

Where's Naveen you may be wondering. He's napping - we were strategic in planning out our activities. Most of this stuff would have been on the floor if he'd been involved. Sad but so true.

This is the most intact the village has looked since we put it together. Deaglan finds it magical and insists on constantly changing it up, taking some of the pieces to bed with him at night. Shaune and I have been practicing our deep breathing and the art of letting go of the dream of having things "just so".

Stay tuned next week for pictures of my lame attempts at almost hand-made decorations as well as shots of the tree.

My first parent-teacher interview

2011-11-21T19:26:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend I seriously considered quitting my job, growing a garden and homeschooling my kids. I even Googled some simple pants patterns - wondered what could be so hard about sewing the kids’ clothes. My Grizzly Adams moment came after my parent-teacher interview with Deaglan’s teacher.

Sometimes I think our culture has gone to shit.

We’re too quick to push our kids out the door, short-cut them through childhood because it’s convenient for us. I see it all the time when people marvel over a baby who sleeps through the night straight out of the womb and shake their heads wondering what’s wrong with the one who fusses and acts needy. I get sidelong looks when people hear I’m still nursing Naveen – they make the typical jokes about the need to stop when the kid can ask for the breast by name. All of a sudden the needs of the adults have taken precedence. We expect our babies to work around our schedules.

I’m a little bruised from the parent-teacher interview – can you tell?

Deaglan’s teacher suggested that we encourage his independence in order to boost his self-confidence because when he’s sitting in circle, learning his letters and numbers, he never raises his hand to answer questions. She felt strongly that this was directly related to how we were [babying] him at home.*

Oh.No.She.Di-in’t.

She asked me if I thought this made sense. I was diplomatic even though my mind had taken the first left to crazy-defensive-mother-ville. I asked her calmly how he was doing in everything else. Oh great, he’s cooperative, sweet and peaceful, we never have to speak to him she raved. I told her that it wasn’t important to us to push him to attain some advanced status; we just wanted him to be happy and well adjusted especially in the face of such a huge change in his little life.

She insisted that we needed to work on building his self-confidence.

I resisted the urge to remind her that he was born on Christmas Eve, most of the kids are at least six months older than him, that he had just spent ten months in my womb not even four years ago, went from being an only child to the one who gets less attention just last year. That this time a year ago he was still two for Chrissake – TWO! That legally he didn’t even have to be in school for two more years. I didn’t scream that we were thrilled he was making it through the days without a nap and a meltdown.

I didn’t say these things to her. I know she was just trying to help. But I did notice that the next time Deaglan asked me to help him put on his shoes, I panicked a little, found myself wondering why he couldn’t figure this simple thing out.

And I hated myself for it.

*She didn't say "babying" but she sure implied it.

Here are the outtakes of our photoshoot with the auto-timer last weekend. We're trying to get just the right one for our Christmas card. Shaune and I couldn't agree on any of these, so we'll try again this weekend coming.

About Movember - can we set some boundaries?

2011-11-17T22:28:00.001-05:00

I don’t know about Movember.

Well it’s a great cause, sure. And why not come up with a fun way to raise money to support men’s health? Lord knows it’s like pulling teeth to get them to go in for check-ups on their own. Genius when you think about it - appealing to their sensibilities while raising awareness. Kind of like hiding the baby’s antibiotics in the ice cream.

But honestly?

Do you know the level of concentration it takes to make eye-contact with some of my male colleagues lately? Without laughing out loud or cringing? I mean shouldn’t there be some guidelines? Rules like if growing a moustache takes you from urban soccer Dad to creepy-looking minivan guy in a few short weeks, then maybe consider showing your support in another way?

And do I now need to have this same conversation with Shaune every November? That growing a moustache might not be one of his strengths? That those patchy little tufts of hair sprouting on his face when he foregoes shaving cannot accurately be called a stache?

I’m not saying only the Tom Sellecks should don facial hair. I get how freeing it must be to let loose, get wild, join the Mo brotherhood. I’ve been known to let my hair down. I’m the first one to slap down my two bucks on Denim Fridays.

But hey, you don’t see me squeezing myself into a pair of low waisted skinny jeans just because it's a good cause.

Movember.ca

I don't like Mondays (tell me why)

2011-11-14T20:20:00.002-05:00

Today was the epitome of Monday.

This morning both kids started wailing as soon as I buckled them into their car seats. Deaglan sobbed that he had a hole in his finger - needed a bandage right then while Naveen expressed his overall dismay with life by screeching at the top of his lungs. I’d already been experiencing what could only be described as the early onset of menopause – I’m sure there’s a technical term for it but it can best be explained with these two words – hot flash. And when I unloaded the kids for the first drop-off at Deaglan’s school, I made a crucial discovery.

My pantyhose were all wrong.

By the time I arrived at the daycare, sweating and irritated, my tights which were clearly sized for an eight year old, were just about around my ankles which is coincidental because so was my crying baby. He would not let me back-step out of there, would not be comforted by anyone but me.

And it was precisely then, that I realized he was missing a shoe.

I could have cried at the thought of retracing my steps – it was only 7:45 AM and I was ready to surrender. Thank goodness the other shoe was in the van but at my parking spot when it occurred to me that my parking pass was still in Shaune’s car- I drive it on Fridays so he can ferry the kids around- I did raise the white flag.

I’d love to tell you that it got better from there but in typical Monday fashion, its tiny pinpricks of annoyance continued to nick me.

No wonder they wrote a song about it.

Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments on the last post about Gramma Mac. She passed away this afternoon. All of her kids, grandkids and great-grandkids are in my heart today.

Iris Bride

2011-11-11T06:00:00.008-05:00

I finished Deaglan’s birthday party invitations last night. It was a process.

First I had to come up with a guest list – something he was of no help with. At the beginning of the week he told me the only person he wanted at his party was Naveen. I didn’t point out the obvious – that his baby brother would most likely always be at his parties, even those years he might not be welcome. But finally after sitting with his class picture, naming each classmate, we came up with a list. Next, I typed up a special note in tiny font to go into the invitations, printed those off, cut them small enough to fit inside the cards. And then I filled in the party details, sealed the envelopes and stuck them in his backpack with a note to his teachers.

Friends?

It was my whole evening.

It made me think a lot on parenting. How it can be such a thankless job. I thought about how usually it only becomes a hot topic when it’s done badly. But good-enough parenting? It rarely gets an honorable mention. I was in one of those moods last night.

I was thinking about Iris Bride.

Shaune calls her Gramma Mac. On Wednesday morning before work he drove the half hour outside the city to sit with her. He held her hand and stroked her hair, whispered things to her. He said I love you Gramma. You have been a wonderful Gramma to me all these years.

And in his own way, he prayed that God scoop her up right then, take her Home.

She’d been taken off of life support at the beginning of the week, dosed just enough to be considered comfortable. And yet she hovers here, ashen, weak, with no will of her own, just waiting. We mourned her last night, my husband and I. We wondered how it could come down to these last few days, these terrible grim days of waiting.

People had warned Shaune of her state, reminded him that this was not how he should remember his Grandmother. They told him that she’d been muttering things not usually in her nature, that she might not look like the woman he knew. But after he’d sat with her for those hours, kissed her sallow cheek, he told me that it wasn’t true.

This too is Gramma, he said. Maybe not the way we are comfortable knowing her, but this is what she is like at the end of her life.

She turned 93 this year, birthed seven babies, met her great-grandchildren. It’s easy to say ahh but she lived a full life. Knowing she’s laying there, in the Home, tubes up her nose, waiting; these words get caught.

I pray for your eternal peace, Bride.

Deaglan on Gramma Mac's knee on her 90th birthday.

Did I mention I'm 5'2"?

2011-11-06T09:54:00.001-05:00

I wish I could capture the scene we have each day as I’m getting the kids into their outdoor gear. I’m sure you would drive straight to my house and award me some kind of a trophy for not giving my children away.

I’d videotape it, although I’d not only be implicating myself as the crazy woman I turn into but it’s a full body job – my legs are needed to restrain Naveen while my hands put on his socks and shoes.

I’m not kidding.

And don’t even get me started on the laps around the house I do to catch Deaglan, threaten him with the worst punishment I can think of that won’t require intensive psychotherapy when he’s a grown-up, till finally, I can sit him still long enough to get his arms into his coat.

I have no idea why I’m not thinner than I am.

I mentioned something like this to Shaune yesterday – that I’d gained a few pounds lately. And you know what my husband said? Brace yourself because you’ll be relieved to know that although he does the cooking around here, he’s not perfect. He goes – “maybe it’s all the treats you eat at work.”

Can you imagine the nerve??? I mean how dare he??

Well I know it’s the treats but I was very comfortable in my sugary little cocoon of denial, thank you very much. How can I be expected to make it through the afternoon at work without chocolate almonds? Is it my fault that on Tuesdays our coffee cart only has one Sweet Marie square and if I don’t get there at just the right time I miss out?

And in all fairness to myself, I thought I was working-out just enough to break even. I even calculated the number of minutes I’d need to run, to afford each afternoon's pick-me-up. I was no math major but I really thought I had a foolproof system.

But then I had to go and remember that we needed batteries for the scale when we were at Canadian Tire last week. And just like that Cold-Hard Truth slapped me across the face.

Seven pounds since June.

Every time I doubt that they look alike, I get reminded that they actually do. On the left is Deaglan just shy of a year old. Look at how similar their little cheeks and mouth are.

Little punks, it's their dreamy cuteness that keeps me from holding grudges.

What I wished I'd written and Halloween pictures

2011-11-02T19:26:00.002-04:00

Lately there's been no time to write. Not even in my mind.

I hate that.

Earlier in the week I wanted to tell you about Naveen's favourite word - cup. It sounds more like cap when he says it. He's obsessed with them. Especially the ones we're drinking from. Shaune finally learned to ask for an extra one at Tim Horton's. It sure does let you enjoy your coffee more. He just walks around holding that cup and chanting capcapcapcap.

And the other day when Deaglan accused me of calling him names because I said "Quit dilly dallying," I immediately thought of you. I knew you'd all get a kick out of that one. Also it's November and I signed up for NaNoWriMo again this year. But you know what I did last night when I finally could sit down with an hour to myself? I sipped on a glass of red wine and read my book - House Rules.

Have you noticed my header?

I haven't even gotten around to taking any Novemberish pictures to put up there. Maybe this weekend. Here are some pictures from Halloween.

Gramma and Grampa came over on Sunday to carve pumpkins.

We snapped some shots before it got dark and drizzly.

We made it all the way around the block. Deaglan asked to go home after the third house. We persevered. And most importantly? Enough kids came to our door that there are no Reese Peanut Butter cups left.

I have no self-control when it comes to chocolate and peanut butter.

Don't tolerate intolerance

2011-10-29T09:52:00.002-04:00

At work a few weeks ago, Shaune was explaining a new feature on one of the cars he sells to a customer– the immobilizer theft-deterrent system - how it could prevent car theft.

“Oh you mean like if a big black guy with a gun were to try and carjack me?” the customer, a wealthy middle aged-man joked. Stunned, my husband rushed through his run down of the features and benefits of the vehicle, counting the seconds till he could get away from the man.

It’s the not the first time he’s been privy to people’s hateful comments.

After 9/11, when he was still in the restaurant business, customers often requested Non-Arabic cab drivers when they were too drunk to drive home. I’m not saying racism only comes out of Caucasian mouths – I hear terrible things said about the gay community by people of all colours on a regular basis.

I’m just grateful that my husband is appalled by these expressions of hatred. Because if you ask me, most of us are too tolerant of intolerance. I wonder how we’re ever going to teach our kids to stop bullying if we don’t stop it ourselves. Of course it’s easy for me to say -this revulsion of bigotry comes naturally to me; I’ve been a visible minority most of my life.

And that’s why I’m acutely aware of how rare and wonderful it is that Shaune is disgusted by society’s hatred of difference. It’s one of the things that tethers us together in this life.

That and his mad skills in the kitchen!

I fought the Church - well kinda

2011-10-23T21:52:00.001-04:00

Once in a while I embrace being a grown up. Like, lately, when confronted with an infuriating situation, I try to wait a little before reacting. It certainly doesn’t come easy but I always find that I have better perspective later when I do decide to take action. Often the anger is still there but it’s low simmering, not explosive crazy.

Today has not been one of these mature days.

When Deaglan was born, even though I’d been away from formalized religion for over twenty years, I suddenly had a profound need to find a spiritual community, do charity work as part of that community and expose my son to what I’d grown up with – a knowledge of the Bible and Jesus’ work.

The small United congregation around the corner welcomed us with open arms. We immediately began indoctrination classes since Shaune had never been baptized, and met the sweetest pastor-in-training, a gay ex-Jesuit monk, his partner and a group of other newcomers. After the ten week course, Shaune and Deaglan were officially welcomed into the Church through a beautiful baptism ceremony. Sadly this was the same time our beloved ex-Jesuit pastor-in-training was finished his schooling, and moved to his own congregation in another city.

We settled into church life but discovered that it was very different from what we’d imagined. First of all we didn’t like the regular pastor. She was odd, overly flowery and symbolic when delivering her sermons – we couldn’t relate. And there was no charity work, only church fundraisers. All the money went back to the Church. Also, most of the parishioners were a few generations older than us, there were no young families.

We stopped going to church.

But the Church kept sending us pleas for donations. And they called religiously (I meant that) to ask us for our time in the nursery or donations for the charity garage and bake sale. This went on for two years.

When Naveen was born I panicked. I wanted him to be baptized but didn’t want to start going back to Sunday services. We’d decided that we could continue giving to good charities without the backing of a Church; we could be a part of a community that wasn’t affiliated with formalized religion.

But because the Church continued to call us for money and for our time, I chose to make contact. I asked the receptionist to have the pastor call me, told her that I wanted Naveen to get baptized in their upcoming Father’s Day service. She hesitated. I asked her if there was a rule that we had to attend services in order for our baby to be baptized but she dodged my question and promised to pass the message.

It's been six months. The pastor never called.

And yet today in the mail (we retrieve our mail once a week), I received another donation envelope. Immediately I sent the Church an email. I asked them about their double standard – why we have to attend services to reap the benefits of membership when they have no problem treating us like members when they want our money.

I reacted in anger and it kind of felt great. I’ll let you know if I hear back.

Life lessons - stealing cookies edition

2011-10-20T22:11:00.002-04:00

During a break at a work meeting today, I surveyed a table full of snacks and took two small packages of cookies. I set them next to my note book, sat down, sipped my water and continued listening to the speaker. I looked at the tiny packs of Oreos and smiled, delighting in how excited Deaglan and Naveen would be when I presented them.

And then it hit me.

I’d just pocketed free snacks in front of my professional counterparts. A room full of people I’d met only minutes before.

Does my burgeoning mother-ness know no bounds? I didn’t even have a purse with me for petes’ sake. I was openly stashing freebies for the kids. The realization flushed my face and suddenly the meeting room got much smaller. I felt my armpits moisten. It was like an out-of-body experience.

This was inevitable though.

I was never good at anything before. I once got an award for perfect attendance in grade four. Other than that I’ve been existing sort of C-plus. But this gig has me aiming high which doesn’t always look cool. I’m not going for yummy mummy or that mom who has it together. I'm after the meat. I want very few regrets when looking back. I need to know I pushed myself.

And so every day I pray for the grace to be at least good at some of it. I pray that I get even a tiny bit right.

And when that fails I steal them cookies.

P.S. A lot of you have been kind enough to comment on the photography lately. I have to give credit where it's due. Shaune takes a lot of the pictures I post - I try to label when that's the case. It should also be noted that on the last post, he not only took those beautiful pictures of the kids, he also took them out of the house so I could have a few hours to myself.

I'm joining my friends Rach and Sara for Life Lessons.

How to ease Christmas nausea

2011-10-16T22:28:00.000-04:00

At Costco last weekend there were two and a half aisles of Christmas stuff. I guess it’s just an unwritten rule that stores wait till Halloween is over before displaying it. And because it was a hot October day, not even Canadian Thanksgiving yet, I felt like I was in my still decorated living room on January first; nauseous at the sight of it.

The kids were with me and Deaglan asked for every single toy we passed. At first I tried silence but that didn’t fly. After saying no a few times, I finally told him he’d have to ask Santa for them.

Sheesh.

I’ve written before that this time of year always leaves me churning a little; I’m not sure how to embrace it because the commercial idea of Christmas makes me sick. With small kids though, it’s hard not to get sucked in.

But because I feel a responsibility to raise my kids’ awareness that we live a very cozy life, we don’t know the meaning of need, hunger or suffering, I’ve been chipping away at teaching Deaglan about the people who do. We bought a globe at the beginning of the summer at a garage sale. Many an afternoon we’ve laid together on his bed naming different countries.

I’ve told him about Bangladesh where I’m from, about the kids there, how they don’t have much to eat, that their parents can’t afford to buy toys. I’ve found myself breathing sighs of relief when his concerned little face came up with ways to help those kids.

Every so often I show him the picture of Sabina, our sponsored child, remind him that her life is very different from ours. I tell him that we are sharing some of our money so that we can help her and her family have a better life. And always during these brief talks, he thinks of ways we can share other things with her, mostly his toys.

And even though I know he doesn’t quite get it, I see that just bringing it up does us all good - gets us thinking about something outside of ourselves.

Last week I decided to accept the Visa my bank was offering and close my extra MasterCard. The exchange meant I’d have to contact World Vision to change my account information – put our monthly donation to Sabina’s family on the Visa now. It got me thinking about how we never ever notice that money being gone.

What’s $35 to us?

I called Shaune at work and asked him how he’d feel about adding another child to our account. I’m happy to say we are now helping three year old Keerthana and her family in Sri Lanka.

And just like that, I’m not dreading this Christmas season - as much.

Embracing my imperfections

2011-10-13T20:19:00.001-04:00

A few nights ago at dinner, Deaglan said, “Thanks for the delicious lunch Mommy (he refers to every meal as lunch), you are getting to be a good cook just like Daddy!”

I looked over at Shaune and winked.

I’d heated up some of Captain Highliner’s breaded cod fillets, frozen peas, corn and oven baked some French fries. Lately it’s what meals I’m responsible for look like. And today at the gym, I lasted 30 minutes on the treadmill when winded I gave up and hit the showers.

I’ve been thinking about the rhythm of my days, about how unless I’m performing at some unrealistically high echelon, I never quite feel good enough. But the reality is that those high performance days are very few and far between. Most of the time I’m moving along the best I can at a low to mediocre level, doing okay in some areas, coming close to failing in others.

I‘d never considered that I might have some perfectionist tendencies. That I could only pat myself on the back when I measured up to these imaginary benchmarks I’d set. No wonder I walk around all day feeling like I need something more, that happiness is just out of my reach.

I do understand that this is the human condition; I get that most of us operate from this model. Brené Brown in her book The Gifts of Imperfection talks about wholehearted living:

It means cultivating courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning and think, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough. It’s going to bed at night thinking, Yes, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes afraid, but that doesn’t change the truth that I am also brave and worthy of love and belonging.

I discovered her work several months ago through my beautiful bloggy friend Gerri who posted this Ted talk. And because the universe was trying to get my attention, a few months later when I asked another of my blog buddies who happens to be a psychologist for a book recommendation that addressed shame, she pointed me to the same Ted talk and Brown’s books.

When you need to learn some of LIFE's lessons, it's amazing the lengths to which IT will go to make sure you do.

The hard part of parenting

2011-10-09T22:29:00.001-04:00

Much earlier today, two in the morning-ish, I took stock of my life. I had Deaglan in the crook of one arm scrunched in close while Naveen snored softly on my other side. For an instant I felt sorry for myself wondering when I’d ever get a full night’s rest again.

My self-pity didn’t last long.

Truth is, from the moment I met them, the inevitability that they’d someday leave has never been far from my thoughts; a thrum and dull ache reminding me to drink this all in. Too easily I fast forward my life, the way old micro fiche machines flip through archived newspaper articles, stopping to read the headlines:

Age 15 Teenagers Hole up in Bedrooms to Escape Always-Wrong Irritating Parents!

Age 19 Big Move to University Town to Taste Sweet Freedom!

Age 25 Too Busy Career-Building to Come Home!

I’ve been gifted (cursed?) with the awareness of how fleeting all this is. I know that as full as my arms are today, they will ache with emptiness again. That even the hardest parts – lack of sleep, picky eating, the tantrums, even these will seem like nothing compared to the hardship of letting them fly.

Of letting them go.

Shaune and I are sometimes foolhardy enough to try and scheme ways to outsmart the system: Last night we were wondering how we’d take the news when someday one or both of our boys announced that they’d be spending Thanksgiving with the families of their wives.

“Hopefully, their wives are estranged from their parents.” Shaune offered.

“Yes!” I agreed. “Maybe Deaglan and Naveen will be married to orphans!”

Old Navy had their costumes half-off this week. Although Deaglan will actually be a ghost this Halloween, he's insisted on sleeping in this every night since we brought it home. And although this is the best shot we could get of Naveen, there are little dragon wings and a dragon tail on his back that make it hard for us to want to take this costume off of him. Even when he's made it clear he's had enough of being our entertainment.

Communication breakdowns

2011-10-05T19:53:00.004-04:00

I’m hardly ever about violence, but yesterday when Deaglan told me that one of his teachers said he was silly because he had a doll in his backpack I pictured one of those first scenes from Fight Club where Brad Pitt is beating the snot out of Edward Norton. Well I’m not implying I’d be pretty enough to be the female version of Brad Pitt in my scenario – not him in Legends of the Fall anyway. Possibly Kalifornia meets Burn after Reading.

Any-whoo, where was I?

“Mommy it hurt my heart that she said I was silly,” he cried in his froggy little voice.

We’d put Baby in his backpack on Sunday night for the letter B’s Show and Share. Last week we got a schedule of who would bring their toy on what day for the letter A. This week there was no note. Worried that he might not be prepared for his turn – that I’d somehow missed the note, I told him to take Baby out only when it was his turn.

I’ll be honest; I don’t know what went down between him and the teacher. He’s three and a half after all, and as proud as we are of how articulate he is, there are still times when we’re not sure if we understand each other.

It’s the third time though, in the three short weeks of Big Kid School that he’s mentioned something worrisome a teacher has said. In the first week a teacher allegedly told him he wasn’t allowed to eat his whole wheat fusili noodles – that he should eat his ham instead and in the second week he was told not to eat the nut-free chocolate cookie we sent, the reason being it was unhealthy and wouldn’t help him grow.

Each time, I waited for my murderous rage to subside before sending a lovely note, gently asking what the hell was up. The noodle thing is still a mystery but the teacher wrote back that she encouraged the kids to choose healthy snacks for the morning recess - save treats for the afternoon.

Okay fine, but ixnay on ootingshay the parents down-ay for their choice in snacks.

So I chose my words carefully this morning when I wrote an explanation of why my son had a doll in his backpack. I didn’t demand to know why someone had accused him of being silly, didn’t throw around terms like sexist discrimination and gender profiling.

The last thing I need is to inadvertently shine a spotlight on Deaglan or for anyone to think they are dealing with the Nut of all mothers. I fully expect he’ll come to that conclusion on his own right around the time he turns fourteen.

But I will say this: I never knew how deeply each assault to his feelings would wound mine.

I definitely don't do windows

2011-10-02T21:33:00.001-04:00

During maternity leave this last time, whenever I started cleaning the house, Deaglan would stop what he was doing and look up in surprise.

“Mommy, who’s coming over?” he’d ask as if that’s the only time I ever cleaned.

I always explained to him that I was tidying up so we could have a neat place to play in. And when I was done, I’d intentionally ask him to describe how he felt when he looked around, hoping he’d associate good feelings with a clean house. I haven’t seen any dividends from my Pavlov-ian efforts but I still hold hope that someday it will pay off.

It’s the one area in which I’ve wished for just a hint of mental illness in myself, a trace of OCD. Before Jon and Kate became known for their divorce and public theatrics, I watched in awe, Kate’s organizational skills. I sat mesmerized while she worked through her day keeping to a tight schedule of never-ending meals, laundry and hair-braiding.

I’m not neat by nature.

We had some family over for lunch today. I cleaned for several hours in preparation. Yesterday I worked on the main floor and this morning after an extra large coffee I did the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs. You’d have thought I hadn’t cleaned in weeks. It’s the thing about having two small kids, a spick and span house can be turned on its ears within about ten minutes.

I’m not just telling you this to convince you that Shaune doesn’t do everything around here. I was exhausted and starving by the time he had this pasta on the table in time for lunch.

There were four of us snapping our fingers, making stupid faces and clapping to get these knuckleheads to cooperate for a picture with Gramma and Grampa.

Shaune's Sausage and Pepper Fusili

Tomato ragu (yields 5.5 liters)
3 tablespoons of olive oil
2 small onions diced
8 cloves of garlic minced
Half cup of red wine vinegar
Half cup of sugar
1 bay leaf
2 cans of tomato paste
2 2.84 liter cans of plum tomatoes pureed
1 tablespoon of basil (optional)
Salt and pepper

Sweat onions and garlic in 2 tablespoons of olive oil on medium heat, gently until translucent. Add sugar and the redwine vinegar. Add tomato paste and cook for three minutes. Add the tomato puree (Shaune's note: do not over-puree the tomatoes; you want it chunky but with no large chunks. Use an immersion blender if you have it, or food processor or regular blender - immersion blenders are cheap and the best way). Turn to low heat until the desired consistency is met. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add basil (optional) or minced hot chili for spicy ragu. For pizza sauce reduce to thicker consistency and add one teaspoon of ground fennel seed!

Sausage and pepper fusili
One package of mild or hot Italian sausage
Sliced green peppers and mushrooms (you can choose whatever vegetables your crew will eat)
Cooked fusili
Tomato ragu

Grill sausage and let cool, slice thinly on the bias.
Sautee peppers and mushrooms in one tablespoon of olive oil. Add grilled sausage and heat through. Add tomato ragu and toss with fusili.

Gramma brought a caesar salad and garlic bread, and Aunt Katie an apple crisp. Needless to say we didn't eat dinner tonight.

Mealtime madness

2011-09-28T20:20:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I think I’m not cut out for a life of responsibility and routine. I shouldn’t be in charge of sustaining people even if they are under three feet tall. Between five and seven most nights, I re-think this whole gig. I block out people with real problems and get a little pity party going for myself. I wonder why every little thing has to be so hard.

Mostly I resist the urge to think long on darker realms like vengeance and karma, but on occasion I do find myself fantasizing about a day when Deaglan will have a picky eater for a child. I try to visualize his face when after he toils over French toast or pancakes, lovingly adding cinnamon and strawberries; his little cherub screeches inconsolably that he hates French toast.

I smile with a little satisfaction knowing karma could kick in, gift him with a finicky little buzz-kill who only eats chicken nuggets and hot dogs. I imagine his sense of panic every night trying to come up with nutritious lunch box ideas because his kid gags at the thought of sandwiches, chicken, vegetables, egg salad. Hamburgers. Steak.

Conversely around six o clock those same nights, watching Naveen gobble down whatever I put in front of him, I have two thoughts: He’s officially my favourite again.

And how will we ever afford our mortgage and groceries when this kid comes of age?

Do you have a picky eater where you live?

The kind of day that only a pedicure could have topped

2011-09-25T22:00:00.003-04:00

There's been very little sleep going on around here.

Naveen is suffering from something called Hey listen, I'm entering toddlerhood, getting a mouthfull of teeth, and possibly having a growth spurt - so how fair would it be if you weren't miserable too? And Deaglan's been sleeping in our bed since he started school; let me tell you, he is not a cooperative bedfellow. All night long I'm fending off elbows and feet, not to mention scrounging for even a tiny scrap of sheet or blanket to cover myself with.

So it was with great mercy that my husband let me sleep in this morning. He tiptoed the kids downstairs, fed and dressed them and headed out to the apple orchard.

I hesitate to continue this little story, for fear you will shake your head with disgust. But I will go on because I feel it's my duty to illuminate how kind my husband has been today.

When they returned from the orchard, Shaune headed outside with Deaglan to cut the lawn, while I put the baby down for a nap and showered.

I quickly got dressed and drove to Winner's so I could find some fall clothes. And it just so happened to be one of those marvellous change rooms that didn't make me want to consider major reconstructive surgery so I bought a few things!

And then Shaune made a wonderful meal of grilled pork chops with fresh apple chutney, roasted potatoes and salad. Now friends, before you roll your eyes, and click on out of here, I must tell you, he baked tonight too and because I feel downright selfish for having had this kind of a day, I wanted to share his easy apple turnover recipe with you.

And just think, at least you can go away knowing that after I ate all of this, I likely don't fit into any of those tops I bought today anyway.

Shaune's easy apple turnovers
Ingredients

12 apples (cooking apples - he used Spartan)
Half teaspoon of cloves
Half teaspoon of nutmeg
2 teaspoons of cinnamon
Three quarters of cup brown sugar
One third cup of white sugar
1 tablespoon of butter
1 lemon juiced
1.5 tablespoons of flour
1 package of store bought puff pastry

Directions

-Mix together all ingredients and sprinkle ontop of apples after the next step
-Core, chop and simmer apples (with above mixture) for 35 minutes
-Cover apple mixture while simmering
-Let mixture cool completely before assembling turnovers
-Cut frozen puff pastry in half (from grocery store) and refrigerate until use
-Prepare an egg wash and small bowl of sugar
-Have pastry brush on hand for egg wash
-Spoon on a mound of apple filling onto puff pastry (see collage below) leaving an inch around edges for folding. Refrigerate again until ready for the oven.
-Once turnovers are sealed, brush with eggwash and sprinkle with sugar.
-Bake for 25 minutes on a baking sheet at 400 (but tell your three year olds, it will be at least an hour although they may still ask if it's done every five seconds)

If you're not watching your figure, which I'm clearly not, enjoy with some decent vanilla ice cream.

Meet the teacher

2011-09-21T21:26:00.002-04:00

Deaglan's teachers are like an old married couple.

You know how there's always the husband who doesn't say much, sort of nods, smiles, shifts uncomfortably? And the wife who apologetically makes up for the husband's one word answers by offering beautiful flowing sentences full of information, even if you didn't ask?

Or is that just me and Shaune?

At Meet the Teacher Night a few hours ago, the gushing lovely wife told me that our son was sweet, agreeable and the youngest one in their class. (He was born Christmas Eve) He gets tired in the afternoons she said, picks an activity that requires low energy. Today he built a birdhouse with blocks.

Then she explained with great detail how they'd constructed the reading cubby, how she had remnants leftover from when they got new carpet last year, but then a few months ago at Dollarama, the one on Wellington, she noticed that they had peel-and-stick carpet tiles, so she replaced them with those, but did I notice how the edges were coming undone?

And the reserved brief husband-ish one, well, she smiled and nodded, stood close to an exit.

Naveen plowed through the room tiny-tornado-like, stopping to throw down yogurt containers full of crayons,  empty out baskets of doo-dads, rip pictures the kids had drawn off the walls when he could reach them.

And I was overdressed and sweating, still in my work clothes, a scarf accessorizing my dress; carrying my oversized bag, Deaglan's backpack, the kid's jackets and a family pack of pre-ordered Swiss Chalet meals that none of us had had time to eat.

Shaune just walked in a minute ago and asked hopefully if it had gone okay even without him. He works late a few nights a week and had forgotten to book the night off for Meet the Teacher.

I'd get all chatty and wife-ish but I'm beat.

I'm not going to bother explaining to him that while we were in the lunch room with all the other families, me overdressed and melting, opening our dinners, Naveen was running around all wild, grabbing what he could from other families' dinner tables, dipping his grubby (yet adorable) little fingers into their Chalet sauces within his reach.

I don't have it in me to tell him how after we'd waited in line almost twenty minutes to get our pre-ordered Swiss Chalet, found a seat, and were just about ready to eat, Deaglan suddenly had to pee.  And then when we finally made our way back from the other end of the school, having left my purse, the food, and even my scarf with a room full of strangers, after I'd set out each kid's food, Deaglan announced quite proudly that now he had to poop!

I won't explain to him that I'd been operating all day from the strong belief  it was Thursday.

An apology to my body

2011-09-17T08:56:00.000-04:00

In grade 12 my friend Lesley and I tried to go without food for two weeks. We wanted to shed a few pounds. A few years later in first year university, I limited myself to two small bowls of clear broth a day and plenty of exercise. We were all trying to look like Kate Moss back then.

And I didn’t even have an eating disorder.

This was typical stuff most of us young women were doing. Waifishness, protruding hip bones and concave tummies were all the rage. We sighed enviously at anyone who could go long periods without nourishment. Most of us hated our bodies and were quick to point out our problem areas without provocation.

I’ve smartened up, made friends with myself. I’ve realized finally that I am not this body, cannot be defined by my soft convex stomach. My tired and disobedient breasts don’t have the power to change the world.

I am not this body but this body is all I have.

These days, I speak soothingly to my flabby arms; thank them for holding my babies even when they are exhausted. I send admiring thoughts to my uterus for the miracle work it performed. I am in awe of this imperfect, disproportionate frame that holds me, like a sweet loyal dog, never failing me even when I sullied it with my thoughts, relegated it to the back of the line, poked fun of it in public.

I am ashamed of how I’ve repaid it for its devotion; cringing every time I passed a mirror, heartsick if it gained even one pound, denying it when all it wanted was one measly hot fudge sundae.

I am not this body but I was put in charge of it. And I am on a mission to take that responsibility seriously.

I'm pictured here wearing the necklace Deaglan toiled over for several days at daycare. For a few days I wore it to and from the daycare and without fail every single time he asked me if I LOVED my new necklace.

Everything I don't know

2011-09-12T23:13:00.000-04:00

Deaglan likes to jump. And climb. And wrestle his brother to the ground.

All the time.

He’s crazy about trains and motor vehicles and he often builds odd contraptions. He somehow manages to find lengths of ribbon, yarn or string with which he ties things (our kitchen chairs for example) together. Sometimes these are elaborate “orange squeezers” or spaceships. I don’t often get it but I’m trying real hard.

On the weekend, he drew me a picture of two mustachioed skeletons on violet construction paper with his new washable Crayola markers. He told me that it was my reward for “being a good citizen.”

Finally, someone notices, I thought.

And today after his second day at Big School, when I asked him what his teacher was like, he told me quietly that he didn’t like her much because “Mommy she doesn’t talk like you.” I resisted the urge to ask “You mean she doesn’t scream like a banshee because you refuse to listen unless something’s been repeated 57 times?” I searched for a scrap of paper instead, to write it down, just the way he’d said it. Sometimes in my rare, better parenting moments, I let my instincts guide me. I do the thing that seems counterintuitive.

I listen.

When I asked him what he meant, he said that his teacher got mad (a lot) at the kids because they were being silly. I pictured this poor woman, frazzled, demanding some order; 25 four and five year olds in her charge, some who’d never before been in a structured setting, freshly released from their mothers’ arms.

“Were you being silly?” I asked.

“No Mommy, I was waiting in line to go outside. That’s what we were supposed to do!”

Geez, who is this magician of a teacher? I wanted to ask.

I don’t always know what's called for in a situation, how to handle each new thing that comes up. At those times, I mostly stay quiet till I figure it out.

Deaglan's first day of school

2011-09-09T11:10:00.000-04:00

I’m a mess.

I forgot to tell him that I slipped his (sun) hat into the bag with his extra clothes. And also? I’m sick inside that he might eat some of his lunch at recess, not think it through, get to lunch hour and only have grapes and a granola bar left. We should have practiced one more time.

That’s what we did last night. I drilled Deaglan - picture Lou Gossett Jr. In Private Benjamin (with less facial hair), whistle around my neck, stop watch in hand.

“Okay, let’s see you open your lunch box, Go!”

“But Mommy, I already showed you how I can do it.”

“Alright, alright. Tell me what you’re gonna eat when the teacher tells you it’s snack time.”

Rolling his eyes. “The grapes or the strawberries.”

“Good, good. What about if you have an accident? If you have a pee-pee in your pants, where are your extra clothes?”

“Mommy, I’m not going to have an accident though.”

“I know honey but if you did that would be okay, okay?”

At this point Shaune breezes through, cool as a cucumber. “They’re not just gonna throw them to the wolves on the first day you know. There will be people around to help him.”

Oh he’s such an expert on the first day of school? Unfazed?

Well it was a different story this morning. After we left Deaglan with his Before School Group, my husband anxiously asked a dozen questions.

“Don’t you think we should have stayed a little longer?”

And

“How could they think working them in throughout the week was a good idea? The kids who came earlier already have friends!”

And

“Do you think he’s okay?”

No I don’t think he’s okay. He's likely scared and lonely and missing his normal. But I know he will be. I read somewhere that we humans are born hardwired to suffer. That when we try to buffer our kids from going through the hard stuff, we’re not doing them any favours.

Yep, I am a mess, disjointed, disconnected, like parts of me are scattered all over this city. Even now, I'm tempted to scurry the two blocks to the school, hide behind a shadowy maple, see that he's okay.

But I won't.

"It's good to do uncomfortable things. It's weight training for life." Anne Lamott

"I don't remember who said this, but there really are places in the heart you don't even know exist until you love a child." Anne Lamott

My friend Sue

2011-09-07T15:40:00.000-04:00

At Wal-Mart yesterday, Doris the associate checking me out, gave me some tips for hanging my slacks using children’s hangers. While she scanned the jeans I’d bought for Deaglan we had a fun little chat. Then at the Dollarama a few hours later, Iris who was ringing me through admired my choice in gift bags and together we marvelled over all the great stuff you could get for a buck these days.

It brought to mind Sue, my neighbour-friend down the street. She’s just itching to have grandbabies, I can tell. Last month when we gratefully accepted her invitation to come for a swim, she had all sorts of toys laid out for Deaglan and Naveen. Her twin girls, who she raised mostly on her own, are 21 and nowhere near having children.

She’s always walking her little white dogs, Becky and Chase, sometimes with 92 year old Dot and her little white dogs in tow. Dot recently moved in with her daughter because her vision had begun failing. Regularly Sue picks Dot up, brings her back to our neighbourhood where she’d lived for the last 20 years, and they have doggie spa days where the younger woman bathes and grooms the older woman’s dogs. They drink tea and have fresh baked cookies, catch up on each other, gossip about what’s been going on in the neighbourhood.

I can’t tell you how many times Sue offered to take Deaglan for a few hours here and there last year when I was bone tired and navigating the rough new waters of being mother of two.

She retired a year and a half ago, after pledging 32 years at a large communications firm. And although she earned a pension, a tight little income, she found a job as a cashier at a local grocery chain. She asked for only a few shifts a week so as not to cut into her retirement income.

I asked Sue a few times in passing how the new job was going. At first she bubbled with stories of darling old couples who routinely shopped on specific days, waited patiently in her line just so she could scan their groceries.

It didn’t surprise me. Sue has a way about her that makes you want to beg her to invite you for a sleepover.

But a few weeks ago Sue was fired. Well, she wasn’t fired – exactly, but the Big Boss told her that her IPM (items {scanned} per minute) was really low, lower than anybody else’s in the store. The acceptable number of items scanned per minute was 25 and Sue was lagging behind at just 18. He told her she was doing a great job in every other way. However, Sue's shifts got cut back. And she was given a “partner” during her busy times, a young student who could scan up to 30 items per minute.

Having this prodigy work beside her made my friend nervous. She couldn’t take the time to talk with her regulars, get to know the customers the way she usually did. And the IPM genius treated her as if she didn’t know anything about the job. Sue reminded the kid that she was a bit slow scanning, not stupid. But the kid reported back to the Big Boss that Sue was difficult to work with.

Tired and defeated, my friend gave her resignation. I choked back tears (and the burning desire to hunt the kid and Big Boss down) when she told me this. I thought about how wonderful it is to go into a store and get treated like an old friend. How something like that can pick up your mood and have you humming for the rest of the day.

Not in the mood-osophy

2011-09-05T15:00:00.000-04:00

I'm going through that thing. You know what I'm talking about if you've been blogging for any amount of time.

Stumped-edness.
Lack of ideas-ology.
Don't feel like it-itis.

If I could, I'd lay on the couch for four days and watch TV on my terms.
No Disney Junior.
No Die Hard 18 or Terminator 10.

Or prop myself up in bed with the airconditioner on and read without interruption. Indefinitely.

It would help if it was raining too. I don't need lovely weather reproaching me.

Thank the Lord it's Labour Day. Shaune took the kids to Fall Fest. It's almost three pm and I'm still in my pyjamas.

I ate a brownie for breakfast. I don't even have a snappy closing.

So

Here're some pictures from last weekend.

Remembering out loud

2011-08-29T07:00:00.002-04:00

Last week I was chatting with Deaglan’s friend’s Dad about what a great age our kids are at. His daughter Olivia and my son have been friends since they began daycare almost three years ago, and we were wistful in our hope that they might remain close throughout their lives.

Mid conversation I had an overwhelming need to incorporate Matthew. The feeling was not unlike the urge I had that last time I drank gin at the Keg Restaurant across from the Pen Centre in St. Catharines in 1992. After several gin and tonics, the push to vomit mid-sentence stood me up, forced me to zigzag to the lady’s room, tasting gin for the last time.

I say it was a similar sensation only because it came out of nowhere and I had no power to stop it. Suddenly the missing of Matthew was too much to bear alone. Reflecting on our preschoolers’ friendship reminded me of Matthew and Libby. They’d been friends since they were toddlers and were bonded in closeness throughout their lives. He stood up as groomsman in her wedding and later held her newborn baby only a week before he died. I’d been thinking about their relationship lately and wanted that for Deaglan and Olivia, reasoning that if I was closer to it this time around, it would reconcile the loss of my brother a little.

And I also wanted an excuse to remember him out loud. It’s the thing about losing someone I’ve noticed most. It’s tough to talk about and nobody ever brings it up. It’s like people think asking you – hey how are you doing with all of that? – will crumple you into a heap, spilling out all of your grief at their feet, leaving them speechless and at a loss.

Bereavement on this scale scares people silent.

These days when I think about him I remember some of the best stuff. Like how much fun we had laughing at nonsense. Machine-gun laughter, interjected by one of us upping the ante with something even more absurd, both of us throwing back our heads; bursting peals of giggles.

I think about how he enabled me to see with my soul, that even though I was the visible minority, it was from his life that I learned the most. He stretched my arms out to embrace the gay community, understand what a difficult time it could be to live your truth. His presence made certain the fact that God adores every single one of his children equally.

It broke my heart that Matthew often thought otherwise of himself.

And I am so grateful that still, every few nights, in my dreams, his little boy face is on my son’s body, so that I have the pleasure of seeing him again, in all of his childlike glory. How when I wake,I am bathed in the knowing that he is never far from my heart, watching over us from Heaven like the bright star he’d been to me in this life.

It made me want to list some of the other things I was grateful for:

11. the chill in the air
12. Watching little boys eat ice cream
13. Clearance rack deals
14. Talking to my Dad
15. Bloggy friends from all over this world
16. Deaglan's reasoning last night for wanting to sleep in our bed "my bed is old and boring Mommy!"
17. Coffee on Monday mornings
18. Shaune for making dinner ahead of time so that all I have to do is warm it up
19. That I swoon every time I look at Naveen with his new haircut
20. That even though Matthew didn't meet Naveen, he touched my belly when I was really, really pregnant
21. That when I pretend to be cross at Naveen, I get to call him by that sweet name he inherited Naveen Matthew

What we did today

2011-08-27T15:41:00.001-04:00

When I was a kid I wasn't adventurous. Or fearless. It always irritated me when an adult insisted I try something just because everybody else was doing it. I was bookish, quiet, and continually trying to perfect the art of blending into the background. And even in my pre-kid adult life, I found it maddening when anyone demand that I join in on something - waterskiing say - when it was the last thing I wanted to do.

And yet there I was today, bribing, cajoling and finally sweet-talking Deaglan into running through the water at the splashpad. Parenting comes with it the need to make sure your child is having fun at all costs. Even if they don't think it's fun.

We were at the park for an hour, climbing the jungle gym, swinging and spinning, all the while I was pointing to the splashpad side, directing Deaglan's attention to the fun, the wet-squealing kids were having.

"I don't want to get wet Mommy." he said bluntly.

"But it's so hot out here, c'mon, I'll even get wet."

"Nope. Can you push me on the swing now?"

"Okay, I guess Naveen and I will go over and have fun then."

It went like this for another forty minutes and finally he agreed to see what all the fuss was about.

See? I told him he'd have fun...maybe I need to make some phone calls to some of those adults who kept insisting I try stuff...

And this guy went for his first haircut today. For Deaglan's first few haircuts we took him to the fancy kid salon (read overpriced so the kid could sit in a helicopter and watch Dora while they snipped). I figured since soon enough they'll both join their Dad and the rest of the male population at First Choice, I might as well make the introductions now.

I forgot about those ears.

And could you not just nibble that neck right now?

I love Saturdays.

Parenting 101 - letting them go

2011-08-23T22:28:00.001-04:00

Naveen will be 14 months in less than two weeks. We still have our most special times when he’s nursing. Unlike with Deaglan who still clings to me every chance he gets, I sense this kid will tell me when it’s time to stop.

I have to be honest. I'm not ready.

He’s made tiny steps toward big-boyhood already. Last week two mornings in a row, when I set him down on the floor at the daycare, he looked up at Ms. Debbie, waddled over and grabbed her pant legs to let her know he was ready to be picked up.

Just like that. No thought to me, his own Mama, standing there, crumbling inside.

She peered at me apologetic while I staged bravado. I smiled through tears, and chirped about how grateful I was that he had somebody special he was connected to. The mother of two grown boys, a pioneer in letting go, she pushed him toward me, asked him to give me kisses.

And you know what he did?

He turned his little face away. As if my shift was over.
Punched out.
Not relevant.

I laughed it off, hugged Deaglan and marched out of there. In the van I slumped into the seat. Felt carved out. Emptier than I’d been in some time. I chatted myself out of sobbing, reasoning that this is what I wanted all along, for him to be okay at the daycare. Worry-free days at work.

But I knew better than to believe it. I quietly sat at my desk those mornings. I thought about the forever it seemed to take me to get my degree in university, find a decent job, build a life. The millennium each work week felt to reach the weekend.

And yet when it came to these boys, time was elusive and cunning, slipping through my fingers.

Shrewd. Merciless.

I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

How to turn a Monday around

2011-08-22T17:50:00.001-04:00

On our way to a doctor’s appointment today, I caught a pensive faraway look on Deaglan’s face in the rearview mirror.

“What are you thinking about honey?” I asked.

“I’m thinking about Olivia and Thomas, Mommy.”

“Oh yeah? What about them?”

“I was thinking about how much I love them.”

It quieted me; took my breath away, this simple answer.

For the hundredth time since Deaglan has been old enough to utter such magic, I am astounded that we could all be this dreamy, this awesome at the beginning. And wonder that we end up resentful, anxious, I'll be happy when x happens.

Olivia and Thomas are his friends from daycare. He will be leaving them to go to junior kindergarten in a few short weeks. On the way home every afternoon, after he’s told me about his day, what he had for lunch, who he played with out in the yard, I remind him that soon he will go to the Big School. Gently, I explain again that he will have to leave his friends from this “school” and meet new ones.

I remind him out of my fear that it will sneak up on him. I remind him because it hurts me to think about him missing his friends. I remind him to try and manage this big change coming.

It was Monday, not yet noon and I was already weary. Grudges replaying in my head, old resentments, too much to do, self-loathing for what I’d eaten on the weekend.

On and on.

His simple expression of love though, straightened my back at the wheel. I glanced admiringly at him, behind me, unfazed by my impromptu pick-up in the middle of his morning – my failure to note the appointment on our home calendar. Peace-filled and happy when only a week ago, I’d pulled another carpet out from under him – the ending of the soother.

I decided again, right there to try and live differently. So I’m joining Ann and listing my gifts:

1. Healthy children
2. Shaune's work ethic, his lightheartedness, his family
3. My work life
4. Easy-to-make dinners on a Monday
5. Naveen's squeals
6. Flat sandals after a day in heels
7. Three year old comedy...
8. Comfy pants and t-shirts
9. My willingness to change
10. My desire to write it all down

For Shaune

2011-08-17T00:00:00.013-04:00

I was thinking about how since the kids came along we’ve had about two hours alone. For one of those hours we took turns picking lice out of each other’s hair, remember?

I was thinking about how no matter what, the kids come first now. How before they took over, I used to iron your shirts for work every morning. Back then, we wouldn’t dream of sitting on separate couches to watch a show on TV.

I was thinking about all those apartments we shared; just me, you and the dog. How we used to sleep in on Sundays and always went out for breakfast. How you used to be the only person I worried about back then.

I was thinking about all those dinners in restaurants, some fancy, some not. How we ate slower, talked about stuff, drank wine. I was thinking about how we never discussed getting married all those years. That we sort of rolled along, best friends, partners with ups and downs.

And I was thinking about our no-frills backyard wedding. Wondering if I would do it differently if I had the chance. How nice it was that when it was over, it was over. No debt, no fuss. I was thinking about how we saw eye-to-eye on it. No squabbling. One of those important things we quietly agreed on.

I like that about us, you know.

We’re not the same as we used to be. In some ways we’re better. This family we’ve created is everything to me.

I was thinking about how odd it is to tell people we're celebrating our third wedding anniversary. When we’ve been working on this for 14 years.

I was thinking about us and all of this today.

And I wanted to say happy anniversary.

Parks, port-a-potties, non- pro photography and post-partum staging

2011-08-15T19:32:00.000-04:00

Last week a friend told me about a good park in her town. Her description of a new-fangled surface underneath the play equipment and a sandbox outfitted with manual-operating diggers sold me. That there was a little train you could ride, was the blue buttercream frosting on this cupcake.

We drove there yesterday after Plan A fell through. Overcast and soggy, the beach held little sparkle, so we loaded up some snacks and drove the half hour.

The train wasn't operating but our two park-enthusiasts didn't care. There was plenty of swinging, sliding, ramp-walking and digging.

We stayed long enough that Shaune even got to use a port-a-potty. See, that's one of the biggies we differ on. Me? I would hold my bladder if it meant crossing province lines to avoid using a port-a-potty. If you're easy going about things like that - like Shaune is, having a wife like me is deep-sigh -awww c'mon, you're kidding-type of frustration.

The drizzly sun-less day made it perfect picture-taking weather. Did I ever mention that because we have this nice camera -I'd have to ask Shaune what it's called but he's not here- that we've only been to a photo studio once? That was when Deaglan was six weeks old and he peed on the photographer's hand. Yup, that was the last time. We just take our chances with our own handi-work and sometimes come up with gems like these. Shaune even put on the auto-set thingy and got a few family shots.

And I know I go on and on about what my kids mean to me and how cuckoo I am for them. But have I told you how practical they are? Forget wearing baggy clothes to hide your post-partum body.

I just strategically place a kid in front of me.

Go ahead and look back. I know you want to. You'll see a a cute little boy hiding my problem spots in every post I'm pictured.

Context

2011-08-13T08:35:00.000-04:00

Deaglan and I had a lunch date yesterday. It was just like old times, before you-know-who showed up. We went to his fave joint, sat in the Playplace, side-by-side in a booth and dipped our fries into little buckets of ketchup. It wasn’t for nothing but it sure was fun.

He had his very first dentist appointment afterward.

I wondered if someday I’d tell him about the time my dentist slapped me when I was seven. It’s one of those stories I have in my bag; sort of fits into the “when I was your age I walked ten miles up hill in snow to get to school…”. You know? Eye-roll inducing, disbelief.

The thing is, before coming to Canada at age seven, I’d been treated only by third world medicine. My one time at a hospital, I was laid on a wood slab, held down by a couple of pokerfaced men, while a third equally vacant one, cut an infected growth off my arm. No freezing. No sedation. A small block of wood to bite down on and a stick of pink gum in foil wrapper when it was over. Even now, I finger the half-inch jagged scar on the inside crook of my right arm and smell urine and rubbing alcohol.

I was six that year.

The dentist who slapped me likely needed the hysterical crying and flailing to stop so he could do his work. He couldn’t have known that I’d spent four and five begging on the streets of my village with my older sister; that half of five and all of six were spent living in an orphanage far, far away from my mother. Probably no one explained to him that right after seven I moved to his side of the world, met a new family and culture, and had a new name .

Maybe if my file had included that, he would have resisted the itch to slap me across the face.

Or maybe he was just a shithead.

Yes, I chewed on this as I studied my biggest boy at his first visit. I watched him toggle between fear and fascination as the hygienist introduced each new tool. I watched hungrily, my cavernous need to celebrate every milestone, exalting that his life has been blessed with so much simple abundance. Seamless and smooth, blurring together.

And I took pictures.

In front of the daycare - I snatched him out of the line-up. The preschoolers were walking back from the library.

In the waiting room.

Loving the chair that moves up and down.

To my mild embarrassment, before the hygienist had even begun, Deaglan asked can I have a toy now?When he finally was presented with this treasure chest, the relief on his face said that this had all been worth it.

What would it take to reach us?

2011-08-10T21:22:00.000-04:00

When I was little I lived in a mud hut in a village in a very poor third world country. Eating was not a regular thing. Neither was indoor or outdoor plumbing. Or clothes. Now I live in a modest little three bedroom and drive a minivan. I have over twenty pairs of shoes. And I eat very well several times a day.

I struggle constantly to reconcile what my life was then and what it is now. Too often, too easily, I take the now for granted. But there is a voice, sometimes just a slip of a whisper, reminding me that I know better. Stop and acknowledge it murmurs.

I’ve been watching footage of the famine in Somalia with a mother’s heart. I’ve been watching it having once known the terror of hunger. I look at those children and see my boys in their faces. I wonder like so many, how this could be happening over there when my biggest problem is that Law & Order SVU is a rerun.

I wonder too if it’s true what Matthew Paul Turner writes in this post. Are we just over it?

Comments off.

Confessions of a breastfeeder over at Yummy Mummy

2011-08-07T21:36:00.000-04:00

In honour of World Breastfeeding Week I was delighted that Yummy Mummy published my post Confessions of a breastfeeder -the sequel on their site. If you get a chance, I'd love for you to say hi over there.

This is the last time I'll post twice in one day...I promise:)

Inspiration for a Sunday

2011-08-07T09:38:00.003-04:00

I heard about her a year ago. This woman of faith who was inspiring a lot of the Christian bloggers I liked to visit. I'd click the link to her site once in a while, look for the source of all the fuss. Sometimes I'd stay and read but other times I'd quickly get back to safer more familiar territory. It scared me, all this quoting of scripture, this intense commitment to God.

Probably from the deep south, I dismissed. I imagined her southern accent, living near the ocean, maybe South Carolina, far, far away from what I knew. It went like this for several months. Someone would refer to her, I'd follow the link for a brief visit.

A few weeks ago though, a favourite blogger mentioned that this woman, the one I'd dismissed as unlikely for me, was a keynote speaker at She Speaks and wrote a post about how this woman's words had undone her. Again I tapped the key to the link. This time I stayed awhile. I read post after post. She's been writing them for six years. An eternity in the blogosphere. Five and a half of those years? With comments turned off!

Her writing is exquisite.

I googled her and watched a few Youtube videos. She is beautiful, so, so warm. And I like her hair. She's definitely younger than me. Six kids. Farmwife. Homeschooler.

So I went back to her site and read some more. Canadian???

Probably from somewhere remote, I thought. I googled again. Ontario?? Near Listowell? That's like only 150 kilometres from here. She lives the Canadian winters of my life? Likely went to school in the system I know?

And her book. A New York Times Bestseller. I remembered seeing it at Costco. And Chapters. My heart began racing. I needed to get this book. It was on hold almost indefinitely at the library. I headed to Costco in a rare few minutes to myself. I'd buy the book and grab myself a hotdog, read while blissfully alone. Costco didn't have it. Shopper's Drug Mart? Nope.

Finally at Chapters the next day, the kids in tow. In line, the woman ahead turned to me.

"Would you like to go first? I'll bet those kids keep you busy." I thanked her for the kind offer and declined. Still lovely she asked,

"What book are you buying." I fought through my urge to be vague. I showed it to her, told her a little bit about the author. It was such an oddly rare encounter.

I knew I had to write about it here because her and her words are all I can think about. Feel free to let her inspire you.

Free gifts

2011-08-04T21:06:00.000-04:00

Naveen screeched, a long shrieking, at the sight of me when I picked him up from daycare today. The Educator holding him laughed.

"I've never heard that come out of him before."

It was a heady mix of yearning and impatience. Come closer, the scream demanded, solve everything for me. Right now. I buried my face into his chubby warm neck. Snuggled into it. Heavenly joy of baby.

Already there are hints of a burgeoning toddler. He howls differently if a toy is out of reach, slams his tiny fists when the phone is taken away. And the few times I've said a firm NO, his lip quivered, the prelude to a cry so endearing, so delightful, I'd chance saying it again.

Who will I be without a baby on my hip? How could these last four-ish years have the power to define me this succinctly, when I lived a lifetime of days before?

And yesterday I attended the final orientation for the upcoming schoolyear. I sat anxious, my stomach tight, diligently noting all that would need to be done.

Buy a proper lunchbox
Get a coat he can zip up himself
Stop allowing the soother!!
Teach him how to wipe himself on the toilet
And for God's sake teach him to write his name

I'm not the mother I thought I'd be. In some ways I've exceeded a few of my expectations. But I have had many failings. Everyday I remember to begin again. Because everyday is messy. I yell. I cut corners. I tune out. Remember that I can begin again.

Clean the kitchen again.
Re-wash.
Re-fold.

I listen to Deaglan's crackling-voiced lispy stories. Like when he told me last night that his head hurt.

"Mommy, I think there is pickle juice in there."

"Oh yeah? Is pickle juice good?"

"No Mommy, pickle juice goes through you and gives you a headache."

Huh. Similar to Shiraz?

And today, while he watched movies as I worked from home and kept the thermometer and Tylenol close by he gazed over at me and said,

"Mommy I sure do like your pretty shirt." And I looked down at my popsicle stained dingy oversized old tank top, smiled at this child, a gift I can't remember earning, and said,

"I love you too sweetheart."

Cousins

2011-08-03T15:17:00.000-04:00

Deaglan and Naveen had some one-on-one time with their cousins this past weekend. There were cupcakes and swimming, hotdogs and trampoline jumping. The older ones took turns holding Naveen. And even though he looks miserable here, he loved every minute of attention.

I love every one of these beautiful faces.

Professional snacker

2011-07-30T13:38:00.001-04:00

I took the camera to soccer this morning, to capture some shots of our little player, since next week is the last game. There will be a celebration with pizza after. For Deaglan this will be in keeping with the theme of his first year of organized sports.

Food.

Shaune works on Saturdays so it's just me lugging the kids out to the field. Which means I bring a ton of refreshments to occupy Naveen. There's very little shade. I bring water, milk, popsicles, strawberries, grapes, bananas, crackers, cheese, boiled eggs, and today, leftover hamburgers from last night's dinner.

I like to do my part.

Which was my theme today when I was giving Number 3 pep talks on the sidelines.

"Your team needs you, honey, why don't you get out there and help them?"

"Mommy, can I have some strawberries?"

"Yes, you can, right after you join Leah in goal. Look, she's all alone, she could use a team mate!"

"Mommy did you bring my Buzz Lightyear?"

Sigh.

Before kids, Shaune and I decided one thing about parenting that doesn't make me cringe and want to go back in time and slap myself. We pinky swore that we wouldn't hound our kids about what they wanted to be when they grew up. We wanted them to know that they were already somebody and that was enough. Instead we'd try our best to guide them toward careers and interests that would allow them to lead happy and productive lives.

No really.

I'm just as shocked as you are considering how long it took us to get our acts together and grow up. It must have been that one day we weren't hung over.

Anyway, I'm trying to keep that in mind on Saturdays at soccer. I'm doing my best to remember that Deaglan's three. It's his first year of sports. There's no danger of him letting us down; there are no professional athletes in our histories that we know of.

It's a good thing to remember when after snacktime your kid packs up and lets you know he's ready to go.

"But honey, we haven't played the game yet."

Hmmm, I wonder if David Beckham's mother ever faced these issues.

I think these pictures speak for themselves. I cropped alot of them because I didn't get permission from the other parents to include their little players. There's really nothing like watching three year olds on a soccer field.

Life lessons: mini vacation edition

2011-07-29T10:05:00.000-04:00

I have two new bloggy girlfriends. You might have noticed them on my sidebar. Sara and Rach started their own weekly meme called Life's lessons where each Friday they list what they learned that week. I'm joining them with my own list.

I'm off for a few days starting today. Wheeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!
I'm sitting in my pyjamas in the recliner with nothing pressing on my calendar. I may not get dressed till this afternoon.
Thank God it's raining because I don't need any pressure to go out and enjoy the sunshine.
Shaune just took Deaglan to the market and Naveen's napping! Do I need to go on or are you feeling me?
I want to eat ice cream. Guilt-free. I'm going to suggest it when everyone gets back.
I won't be answering the phone. Or emails.
I may lounge around like this and read my favourite blogs. Guilt-free. Wish we had some ice cream in the freezer.
Which reminds me, I might have to get up for groceries.
Or maybe we'll eat take-out all day.
I'm going to find out what's been happening in Genoa City.*

*I'm not ashamed to admit I got hooked on The Young and the Restless on my maternity leaves.

My post is featured at Blogher

2011-07-27T18:20:00.003-04:00

Someone insinuated recently that I wasn't being authentic here on my blog. She didn't come right out and say that, but I sensed it's what she meant. From the tone of her message, I gathered that authenticity to her meant full disclosure about every aspect of your life.

I wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity.

I think about the appropriateness of my content daily. For almost four years I've been blogging here. I've evolved over that time but have tried to stay true to my self and my vision for this space. My content rarely strays from stories of my everyday experiences of mothering. Sometimes I write about what it was like to be me as a kid. I've written plenty about the death of my sweet beautiful brother Matthew. And I throw in a post here and there about marriage.

And even though I get that some people might have a problem with my header for this month, Shaune and I discussed it and we're good. But this doesn't mean I don't draw the line somewhere. I never write about work, or specific people I dislike or have had conflict with. Vengeful writing is a big snooze-fest to me. I ask myself if I'm offering any goodness before I hit the publish button. I don't need to get anyone riled up unless it's for something worthwhile.

I think I'm rarely controversial.

Yesterday Blogher's Career section editor Paula Gregorowicz chose my post How to be a working parent as her Featured Blogher Network Post. She said:

Check out this working mother's take on balancing work and motherhood. While I'm not a mother, I can only sit in awe of you who seem to do it all. This blogger has a revolutionary realization that is guaranteed to strike a bell with many.

And there it was. Her comment was all the confirmation I needed. I was being authentic enough.

Thank you to all of you also, you who reaffirm this for me on every post with your heartfelt, genuine comments. Blogging has gifted me with dozens of friends.

If you feel like it, please leave me a comment over there. I've turned comments off here.

Our weekend in pictures

2011-07-24T18:24:00.001-04:00

Last night when the wretched heat had eased slightly we drove to the beach. We weren't the only one's to think of it. The sand was littered with families.

One mother didn't see the sign that read: Please don't feed the birds. Our blanket was about six feet away from this scene and once she and her boys had run out of bread, the seagulls swooped in and stole Naveen's bunch of grapes. Every single one.

See what I mean about my ponytail? Also, this is my post partum bathing suit. When I first showed it to Shaune (without trying it on) he asked me if it was a cocktail dress. I love it because it hides all the trials and tribulations of birthing babies. And I don't have to avoid swimming situations.

We haven't been to the beach all that often in his short life, but Deaglan knows exactly what to do when we get there. Including refusing to cooperate when it's time to go.

Babies plus beach always equals someone holding them. Either Naveen was crying because of the foreign substances touching his skin or I was crying because he was eating said foreign substances. Lordy.

Lice found it's way to the daycares here in our city. For a few weeks now I've been including "hair" in our morning routine where I apply hairspray and gel to both boys' heads. My efforts were not rewarded. Deaglan was sent home with a mild case. I shampooed and de-loused twice and still the critters refused to move camp. Today Shaune took him and came back with this kid.

Swoon. I can't stop drinking him in. How did he get this handsome?

There's something divine about both of us loving two somebodies this much.

I often say to Deaglan (and Naveen) How did I get so lucky to get two of the best boys in the whole wide world??

And Deaglan always says You sure are lucky Mommy!

My religion

2011-07-23T13:34:00.000-04:00

Can I get personal?

A few weeks ago I read something and it knocked my socks off. I've thought of little else since.

Well that's not true.

I've thought plenty about wanting to lose a few pounds. How nice it would be get all the laundry done. You know? Have a spotless laundry room even if it's for one single measly day. I've also spent a considerable amount of time contemplating chopping my hair off. The heat does me in every summer. Almost the whole time I was in university I had it short. I'm not sure, but I'll bet I've already broken some sort of Guiness record for wearing one hairstyle consecutively. Is a ponytail even considered a style the way I throw it up?

But this one line I read, in Anne Lamott's book has left me reeling. It's come at just the right time. My insides are lining up. Acceptance has seeped it's way across my landscape. Gratitude has been my daily hymn. I want to be more about love and less about ill-making. And just so we're on the same page, it's personal because I don't often want to burden you with my religiosity. It matters little to me what you believe. But I know what a thing it is for some people. Even some people very close to me.

So usually I just let it be all mine. My spiritual life keeps me going every day though. It's my engine. My fuel. The food I need. You get it, I'm sure. Without prayer I'd be a trainwreck. And it's not like I can quote scripture. It's not about that for me. Although I'm always in awe when people can. Knowledge of that sort always impresses me some. I don't go to church either. I've tried but it doesn't really fit me. Maybe I'll try again someday. Who knows?

No, this thing that has taken over me the last few years is nothing profound. It happens to most of us if we're lucky. We realize that life is short. We have a choice to live it happily or not. We can be attached to things and let them consume us. Or we can know this:

Only God is our home.

Take that with you. Don't let it scare you. Let it knock your socks off.

And speaking of holy, it doesn't get much more heavenly for me than watching this kid wobble around.

How to be a working parent

2011-07-20T06:11:00.003-04:00

It’s five in the morning.

After nursing the baby, I tip-toed him back to his crib, snuck downstairs, put on coffee and sat down to write this post. In an hour I’ll be scurrying around, washing jam off faces, finding socks that match, applying mascara and rushing out the door to the daycare and then to work.

It’s how I’ve had to find time to write lately. By stealing it. Sunday I totally lucked out when Shaune offered to take both kids to the car wash and Canadian Tire.

Being a parent who works is no easy thing.

And although I won’t Dooce myself – thanks Heather for learning that lesson and passing it on, I will say that while my work situation is pretty close to ideal, every day I still find myself scrounging for time, grappling with guilt, and grading myself a big fat C minus on the How I did today scale .

And I say working parent not mother, because I don’t see it being any easier for Shaune. Some nights his job keeps him late enough that he doesn’t even get to kiss the boys goodnight while they are awake.

So last night, while I was preparing dinner for the kids, feeling like an utter failure because I was exhausted and grouchy and in no mood to try and create some shiny moments with the boys, a thought came to me.

It was kind of revolutionary for me. Oh who am I kidding? It was downright insurgent!

What if this sense of inadequacy is normal? I wondered. What if I just accepted it and moved on? What if I gave myself a small break and instead of wallowing in this worry-hole that somehow I’d be caught red-handed for incompetence in every aspect of my life, I appreciated that I was doing the best that I could? That left-over spaghetti wouldn’t ruin Deaglan’s childhood and that it was okay to let them watch a little TV so I could have a few minutes to unwind from my day.

What if I removed the phrase work-home balance from my mental lexicon and pasted in new ones like good enough, and it is what it is?

I wondered. Could it be that easy?

Stream of consiousness Sunday: Saturday night

2011-07-17T09:06:00.000-04:00

Last night we temporarily lost our minds and went out for dinner. We got carried away with the excitement of a summertime Saturday night, remembered how before kids, Saturday nights meant doing something fun.

And then once we were sat and Naveen had cleared the table of all it's silverware and was well on his way to holding us hostage with restless boredom before a server could even offer us drinks, I found myself rifling through my purse for a granola bar, a half empty box of raisins or something to restrain him with, when we looked at each other and remembered why we don't go out unless it's a very kid-friendly place.

We gulped down our beers and asked the server to package up our food and headed to a nearby park where we could freely scold the kids to our hearts' content. It was a park with a splashpad, and playscape. There were ducks to feed and at least a dozen other families with small children. We laid out our picnic blanket and ate.

Sadly, it was our kind of place.

And then we came home and started the bedtime routine where Shaune concluded that we had a Rhodes Scholar on our hands because our three year old recited Dr. Seuss' What was I scared of? verbatim. We happily ignored what other kids his age might or might not be capable of, agreeing wholeheartedly that there was indeed something extraordinary about our child.

After discussing this at length, with the clear implication that our unique parenting techniques were likely the catalyst for such genius, we opened a bottle of Shiraz, and checked out what was on TV. Eventually I headed upstairs with my book and was out, in a dead sleep by 10.

I'm joining Stream of Consciousness Sunday at all.things.fadra.

Arrogance does not become me

2011-07-11T22:38:00.002-04:00

I was feeling a bit smug at Deaglan’s soccer game on Saturday.

The mother on the patch of grass next to me was close to her breaking point because her two Under Fivers* refused to play. It was quite possibly the hottest day we’ve had this year and her two rascals wanted nothing to do with running or kicking. In a low angry voice she threatened, one-by-one, to take away each of the day’s allotted treats.

“If you don’t get out there and play,” she hissed, taking a break from her Blackberry, “there will be no licorice.” The two didn’t budge.

“I’m not kidding, absolutely no cake today!”

The older one had the younger one in a head lock.

“I swear to God, if you don’t get out there for at least five minutes, I’m taking away the jube-jubes and you can forget about McDonald’s.” She glanced at me sheepishly.

Her boys were now taking turns of body slamming each other.

Oh I know what you’re thinking. I am so going to be there in a couple of years.

But Deaglan also refused to stay on the field. He told me early on, very matter-of-factly, “Mommy, it’s too hot for soccer.” Besides he was giddy with the thrill that we had brought the snack for everybody (it was our turn) and his sole focus was in letting the coaches and his teammates know that we had brought bananas, granola bars and cold water. He perched himself atop the cooler, consulting me every few minutes to determine how close to snack time we were getting.

I was feeling pretty self-congratulatory for relaxing, for not getting worked up that my kid wasn’t living up to my soccer-mom dreams.

The universe knocked me off of the high horse I was riding though.

While waiting to see the doctor this morning, Deaglan and I were perusing the kid’s books. The only other person waiting to see the doctor was a lone woman. Her cell phone vibrated and she decided to take the call outside. A few minutes later she came back into the waiting room.

Loudly and to my sickening horror, my three year old asked, “Mommy, why is that man coming back in here?”

See what I mean? I’m back to my humble self.

We went to the Detroit Zoo last weekend. It was brutally hot and we found ourselves enjoying the indoor attractions. While there were at least twenty real live snakes about four feet from where we sit, Deaglan couldn't get enough of this fake one.

*Deaglan plays in the U5 division - under five.

I'm joining Shell today and pouring my heart out.

A moment of grace

2011-07-08T08:50:00.000-04:00

We exited the restaurant slowly, our bellies full; asking ourselves why we did it. Why did we order dessert? I'd had more than my share of crab and oysters and those penko breaded shrimp dipped in sweet chili sauce.

And there he sat, on the grimy curb, his baby toe poking out of the hole in his left shoe.

"Can you spare some change Ma'am?"

I squeezed my three year old's hand praying he wouldn't go into the Why mode. The man looked to be in his late thirties. His face was leathered by the sun. A dirty beige baseball cap perched on top of his shaggy greasy hair. I could tell he was good looking even through his disheveled appearance. Anger didn't grip me like it sometimes did when I was solicited for a cigarette on my lunch break at work. I didn't size up the expensive tattoos on his arms and turn disgustedly away.

A softness came over me. A vision of where I'd been a few minutes ago flashed in my mind. Me with a plateful of expensive food at my fingertips. A glass of decent wine on my right. I looked to my husband who already had his wallet out. He grabbed the lone bill, a five, and handed it to the man.

"Bless you Sir, bless you." His deep blues eyes watered with gratitude.

We walked to the van in silence. The usual thoughts didn't make an appearance. I didn't care that he might be headed to the liquor store right that minute. It made little difference to me what he spent it on. And to my utter amazement, my inquisitive son did not ask one single question all the way home.

This week the ladies wanted us to push ourselves out of our comfort zone, try something new. I decided to go with a much shorter post than usual. It scared me a little not to over-do the scene, so you'd really get it. But then I remembered how smart and savvy you all are.

The freedom to write Bird by Bird

2011-07-04T22:51:00.000-04:00

Shaune tapped my book. “Are you giddy with excitement because The Smurfs are back?”

I lowered Bird by Bird a little, looked at the trailer for the new movie, rolled my eyes and picked up where I was reading again. It had been a mild source of amusement between us since Rosemary had burned me a copy of The Smurf’s Greatest Hits a few years ago. Although she was there, she seemed to have forgotten all the painful parts of my childhood. Her kid-like capacity to paint everything with pink frosting was infuriating.

“Yeah, I’m beside myself,” I replied.

“I can’t believe you guys were so into it.” He insisted.

“It was one of Matthew’s shows. We liked it because he liked it.” I knew this would stop his teasing. I didn’t want to have to whip out the Matthew card but it was the truth.

“Oh.” He left it alone after that. A quick pain stabbed through me to see that I’d turned a light moment so grave. A little over a year after his passing and I still was not able to discuss my brother with anything close to levity.

I looked back down at the book.

In this dark and wounded society, writing can give you the pleasures of the woodpecker, of hollowing out a hole in a tree where you can build your nest and say, “This is my niche, this is where I live now, this is where I belong.” And the niche may be small and dark, but at last you will finally know what you are doing. After thirty years or more of floundering around and screwing up, you will finally know, and when you get serious you will be dealing with the one thing you’ve been avoiding all along – your wounds. This is very painful. It stops a lot of people early on who didn’t get into this for the pain. They got into it for the money and the fame. So they either quit, or they resort to a type of writing that is sort of like candy making.

“It’s a good memory.” I offered. “Kinda like our reluctant affection for Dora because Deaglan loves her. You know?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

There.

Another Band-Aid to cover the ugliness. A moment-by-moment discipline: I practiced restraining my ego again, the part of me who would rather have ranted on and on about how unfair it was growing up in that house. I stopped myself from launching into a twenty minute word montage illustrating what childhood had been like for me.

Lamott’s words were now drowning out everything I’d trained myself to believe, everything I’d feared. All that had ever stopped me from writing.

Even if you never publish a word, you have something important to pour yourself into. Your parents and grandparents will be shouting, “Don’t do it, don’t sit down, don’t sit down!,” and you’ll have to do what you did as a kid – shut them out and get on with finding out about life.

This is what I came up with for the prompt: tv show from your past. Maybe you watched it, maybe you didn't and it was just something that everyone else talked about. What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?

Do you like how I snuck in a book review of Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird? I wish I could express how enchanting it was. How I wanted to sit down and write every single time I read even one paragraph. How I yearned to stalk her until I could pinpoint her whereabouts and then insist we discuss everything. I wanted to ask her how she could know me so well to be able to write a book so suited to me and my desires. I wanted to quote several pages at a time in my writing until it became quite apparent what I would be doing. Plagerizing.

If you don't believe me, please read it for yourself. Make sure you buy a copy because you'll find it impossible not to dog-ear and highlight it. And then after you've read it, and you find yourself at the library trying to get your hands on everything else she's written, don't be mad.

I've got all of her books on loan indefinitely.

The Walker

2011-07-01T07:07:00.002-04:00

I hope Naveen never finds out that we were actually expecting him to start walking at ten months. I will likely only tell him how thrilled we were when at 13 months he was FINALLY taking several steps. I mean it's not his fault he's the second child. He can't be blamed that someone else set the bar for his development.

Poor kid.

I definitely won't mention that on many occassions his parents looked at each other with raised eyebrows, worriedly wondering if there was a problem. Maybe by the time this gets out, he'll be a six foot two, ex-model, doctor, missionary, married with three children and a New York Times Bestseller. Maybe in his acceptance speech for the Pulitzer he'll forgive Shaune and me for becoming typical parents, who forgot for a moment that every kid is different and will reach milestones at his own pace. Maybe he'll see that we tried to overcompensate for this by telling him he was our favourite when his brother was busy throwing tantrums.

Naveen is finally walking. And we are over the moon. Sorry for the terrible camera-work. I had to be like a paparazzi, ready to film at any given moment. I took 12 videos of him taking one or two steps until finally he dazzled me with this.

My friend Frank and his son

2011-06-28T22:23:00.003-04:00

In middle school, Frank was my best friend. We were part of a larger gang, mostly boys - a few girls, who congregated at the end of Frank’s driveway on Bellevue Street after dinner every night when the heat of the Tucson days relented a little. There was never alcohol. No one in the group smoked. We were good kids. Mostly we stood around talking about movies we wanted to see, sports and our favourite albums. It was around the time Footloose came out, around the same time I fell madly in love with Kevin Bacon.

When my parents announced we were heading back to Canada, they might as well have informed me we were on our way to a remote camp on the planet Jupiter. I was inconsolable; a heartbroken mess of a girl who couldn’t imagine life without her friends.

I received regular letters from Frank for a few years but inevitably we stopped writing. I always wondered how his life had turned out. When the world wide web showed up, I Googled him but nothing came of my searches. And then last July, 25 years after I left Tucson, I received a comment from a Frank on one of my posts. When I logged onto Facebook, there was a message from him. He told me how sorry he was to hear about Matthew, and that sadly, after years of searching the internet, it was through my brother’s obituary that he was able to find me.

I saw that while Shaune and I were dilly dallying our way to a grown up life, breaking up, getting back together and then breaking up again, Frank was busy getting married, getting divorced and then getting married again.

On his info page Frank had written in all caps I LOVE MY KIDS AND WIFE. Everything seems to finally be falling into place. I knew in that instant some people never change. I felt vindicated in having always known what a true and pure person he was.

Through Facebook I fell in love with Jesse and Mikayla his kids; found myself wishing I was friends with April, his wife . I learned that Frank and April started to worry a little about Jesse their first child, right around the time he turned two. People looked sidelong at them on outings because they didn’t seem to know how to “control” the toddler who was throwing “tantrums”. Frank said they noticed that any words he’d learned up until that point, he started losing, so that instead of advancing in language skills, he seemed to be regressing. It took a few years to finally get a diagnosis.

Jesse, it turns out, has high functioning autism.

So began their wretched battle with the school system which set them firmly on a path of advocacy. First their sweet little boy was placed in a classroom with mentally disabled children even though Frank and April fervently protested. When they saw how this was hindering his progress, they decided to try and home-school Jesse. But realizing how unequipped they were, they took the advice of other parents in similar situations and tried to place Jesse into a regular classroom. They were denied. For two months they had to settle for their son, who required a stable environment in order to flourish, being shuttled between a room full of autistic children and short stints in a regular classroom. They withdrew him again when they saw that it was doing Jesse no good. Finally they were able to enrol him in a charter school where he will soon attend grade one.

Frank says that Jesse is really, really smart. He excels at math, spelling and reading but doesn’t do so well with speech and social skills. It’s been hard for all of them. Mikayla, at age four, understands that Jesse has specific needs but acts out sometimes when she notices that her parents’ attention necessarily goes to her brother.

I can’t imagine what it must be like. On my worst days, I am exhausted by the time the kids are in bed. And I didn’t have to do battle with the school system or worry about how the major surgeries to my son’s Achilles tendons went to prevent him from walking on his toes.

I can’t imagine.

I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

For a long time we were a family of eight

2011-06-23T21:54:00.002-04:00

I nibbled on the sandwich and tucked my seven fries neatly into the saran. We never got our own when we came here; forget even hoping for a hamburger or Happy Meal. My mother packed tuna or baloney in the big red cooler. By the time we got to them, the sandwiches were damp and flat. The loose ice cubes had begun melting and seeping through the plastic wrap.

Soggy tuna.

On rare occasions we were treated to a large coke to split between us all, but more often she asked for water in the plastic cups they served the pop in. Thankfully we ate outside on the picnic tables.

Only a stray family or two ever witnessed my humiliation.

Inside was packed with people who’d ordered full meals, munching on Big Macs and Quarter Pounders. I peeped through the window and spied a girl my age. I watched her laugh, a fry halfway to her mouth. Her wild copper hair was tamed neatly into two braids. I couldn't be a hundred per cent but I was willing to bet she was covered in freckles. And my toes curled inside my dirty old sneakers when I saw the gleaming white soles of her Tretorns peaking out from under the table as she stretched back into her chair.

Her lunch was spread out on the table, the yellow paper of her cheeseburger flattened to hold the burger and fries, a treat-of-the-week still in its wrapper. An older boy sat across from her, his mouth full of McChicken –I could tell because the meat between the buns was not dark like that of a hamburger. I assessed the little family; mother, father, brother, sister – perfect fit at the table for four. No need to add chairs, no reason to track down the manager for an extra table.

I looked around at all of us. My two sisters were quietly eating their sandwiches, the baby on my mother’s lap was grabbing at a straw. The other two boys were chasing each other around the small courtyard. The red cooler sitting in the middle of the table announced our deficiency like a beacon in a deserted night sky.

The prompt asked us to write a 300 word piece of flash fiction about Life. I would call mine creative non-fiction. I'm also joining Lisa at Two Bears Farm for Memory lane Friday.

Growing up, there were many aspects of large family life, that bothered me. Now that I'm a parent myself, I know those were the aspects that helped shape me into an appreciative, live-within-my-means, type of person. I realize that no matter how often I wish my kids would take better care of their toys, or really "get" how lucky they are, they will never ever grasp the abundance they are fortunate to be a part of.

I am the mom of boys

2011-06-20T22:41:00.000-04:00

The first time I realized that I was the mother of boys was after our fishing trip a few weeks ago. Growing up I was never one of the guys. No one accused me of being a tom boy. I liked dolls. And sewing. I wasn't sporty. I read a lot- mostly Anne of Green Gables and Little House on the Prairie until I discovered Judy Blume and Danielle Steele. And if I could get my hands on a pretty dress, I wore it with exultation.

When boys did come into my horizon, I was just like all the other girls - passing notes, yearning for acknowledgement, and completely mystified.

I was never one of the guys.

And yet here I am, surrounded by them. I still like pretty dresses and writing notes. But find myself yearning more than ever for their acknowledgement.I want to fit in. I want them to like me, really like me. I studiously learn the difference between an excavator and a backhoe. I pride myself on knowing all of Thomas and his friends. And because I refuse to be mystified anymore, I devour books on the best ways to raise them and get downright adversarial when people misunderstand a boy’s nature.

I wonder sometimes how I’ll survive a lifetime of fart jokes and bathroom humour. I’m certain I will never enjoy touching the damned toilet seat and even though my mouth will be shut, I’ll likely roll my eyes every time they insist on wrestling it out.

I think it’s okay that I wore my pink frilly blouse to go fishing. I don’t want my boys to believe girls need to change who they are to be around them. I may not be willing to worm a hook but I brought the Doritoes and the sunscreen.

And I made sure all their outfits matched!

The ladies at the Red Dress Club wanted us to use the prompt The first time I _____ed, after I _______ed.

I'm a walking cliche

2011-06-16T22:33:00.002-04:00

I have to tell you a story that has left me struggling in shame. I’ve tried to force it down into that space where such stories can often live for years, sometimes forever, without another person ever hearing them. But this story refuses to hide in the darkness of my heart. It’s been on the tip of my tongue in every conversation. It threatens to jump out of my mouth without my consent.

I see no alternative to writing it down. I see no other way it will set me free.

It began a few weeks ago on Naveen’s first “visit” to the infant room at the daycare which was intended to ease his transition into our upcoming change in routine.

That’s when I met her.

I was hoping she was the mom of one of the babies. She easily could have been one of those moms of an indecipherable age. Maybe a really busy single mom, I thought. With a gaggle of unruly kids demanding every ounce of her exuberance, leaving her lethargic and haggard.

The poor woman. No wonder she scowled when I smiled nervously at her. I knew how much yelling was involved trying to keep one naughty preschooler in line; I could just imagine the shrieking required to bring this mythic tribe of hooligans in her charge to order.

And she was obviously sleep-deprived. The dark under-eye circles were a dead giveaway. I of all people could spot a weary mother. And how selfless of her to bestow such little thought to what she was wearing. A pair of men’s grey jogging pants, dirty scuffed white tennis shoes and a sweatshirt festooned with a kitten and the phrase It’s hard being purr-fect.

I wouldn’t blame her for having a few extra glasses of wine once her wild brood were finally in bed. And our eyes met long enough for me to see that hers were bloodshot, possibly the result of putting her feet up with a few too many cold ones.

“Hey, I’m Gene,” she pushed an un-manicured hand my way. Large man hands. “I’m here on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

“Oh good!” I croaked, “I’m Kim.”

And as I walked out of the building leaving my baby in her care for a full hour, I prayed to God that Naveen not give this woman any reason to unleash the fury she looked to be capable of.

This past Monday, after I dropped the kids off for the second week, I made a shaky promise to myself to not call the Daycare. I knew that if anything was really wrong, they would call me and it had only served to make me feel even more torn and helpless the previous week when I could hear Naveen crying in the background during each of my phone calls.

So at the end of the day, when I rushed in to fetch my baby, you can imagine how stunned I was to see him nuzzling Gene’s neck, smiling peacefully, while she stroked his back. And before she noticed me, she grabbed him by the middle, held him up above her face and the two of them giggled like old friends, like mother and child. I watched her face contort this way and that, making him laugh madly.

I knew in that moment I had a lot more work to do on myself.

I'm joining those ladies at the Red Dress Club in their prompt physical beauty. I took my own approach to it.

I think it's safe to talk about Baby sleep

2011-06-12T21:47:00.002-04:00

A friend who has twins a week older than Naveen asked me how many teeth he had.

“Eight,” I told her, “but he’s working on four more as we speak.”

“Wow, I can’t believe that! The twins only have a few each. But then Kiana had twelve teeth by the time she was a year old.”

Excited that her preschooler experienced a similar first year to Naveen, I continued, “Yeah, I think that’s why he hasn’t slept through the night until now, he’s been teething his whole life.”

“Hmmm, well Kiana slept. Through the night that is.”

Her last statement was like a punch in the arm. Because as parents we are constantly looking for answers, reasons why our child might be different from another. Why he isn’t reaching a milestone when every other kid around is. Sleep has been such an issue in our household.

As if I had to tell you again.

But I think it’s safe to remove that lucky rabbit’s foot I engineered above Naveen’s crib in lieu of a mobile. I can probably eliminate the complicated Swahili sleep jig I’ve been performing from his bedtime routine. I feel certain my combing search of our backyard for four leaf clovers prior to bedtime is no longer necessary.

Because finally the kid is sleeping.

And just like with Deaglan, no amount of reading helped along the way. It wasn’t E.A.S.Y., there was no crying it out, he would not be Ferberized and co-sleeping left me wide awake and co-onscious because he slept for forty minute stretches for the entire first six months.

And it was to my detriment that I demanded every parent of a newborn within a fifty mile radius detail their bedtime routine so I could mimic it step-by-step. It was a dangerous practice because when my baby still didn’t sleep, I began finding reason upon reason to get these people out of my life for good. We obviously had nothing left in common since they’d given birth to seemingly magical sleeping children.

I officially don’t hate you anymore.

Because just as mysteriously as he’d stayed awake for all those months, making me question his sanity and mine, he began sleeping. All night. And sadly, now that I am on this side of it, I have no advice for those parents currently suffering from sleepless baby syndrome. I have not one concrete recommendation. My experience has taught me nothing.

Well that’s not true, I learned that I could have saved a lot of money by using the library and that the Baby Whisperer has been dead since 2004.

But I digress.

And also?

It’s one more thing Shaune and I can stop blaming each other for. If he came home and mentioned one more colleague’s baby who slept for twelve hours straight, I may have needed a padded cell to contain my crazy self in. I am not easily prone to jealousy but knowing our friends and neighbours were luxuriating in lengthy periods of nocturnal bliss had me twisting with resentment.

Now that Naveen is sleeping, I can free up my resentment for other things.

I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

Back to work reality

2011-06-09T21:55:00.000-04:00

This is my non-fiction post for the prompt we'd like you to write a scene that includes a happy ending. So far being back to work has been exhausting and emotional. I know that once we all adjust, we'll likely experience more happy times. I didn't include a happy ending because, well, so far it's been exhausting and emotional...

“How’s he been?” I whispered to Miss Kylie.

“You know what? For his first day, he did great. Like we told you on the phone, when you called again this afternoon, he had lots of moments of realization of where he was, then started crying. But that’s to be expected.”

“Mmhmm. What about food? Did he eat?”

I fired off one question after another, wanting to hear that something went right. It was Wednesday, the third day in my first week of being back to work. Nothing was going as I’d hoped.

“He ate some bread, a little yogurt, a few grapes. But you probably went through this when you went back after Deaglan right? It’ll just take a few days for him to adjust. And, for you to adjust.” She tilted her head, looking at me with sympathy. I blinked back my tears. I walked out to the deck where Miss Sandy and Miss Debbie were watching three of the babies play in the sun on the enclosed space.

“Naveen, look who it is! Is that Mummy?” Miss Sandy chirped. She was Deaglan’s favourite when he was in the Baby Room two and a half years ago. I picked up my tiny boy, who collapsed into my arms, crying and grabbing my face. Where have you been? he demanded with his miniature fists.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my sweetheart,” I whispered into the warmth of his sweet soft neck.

On Monday morning he woke up with a fever, watery eyes and clogged sinuses. Shaune took a sick day from work so I wouldn’t have to miss my first day back. On Tuesday, Gramma and Grampa drove the hour to London to watch him so I wouldn’t have to miss my second day. Wednesday was his first full day at Daycare.

And each morning, Deaglan had to be peeled off of me, wailing, “Mama, don’t go, mama don’t go.” I pressed my palm against his cheek, reminding him of the Kissing Hand, the story about Chester Raccoon who didn’t want to go to school either. Chester’s mother tells him about the kissing hand, a kiss on his palm from his mother he could access anytime he felt lonely. I promised that I would come back at the end of the day, pick him up and we’d sit on the front step at home and eat fudgesicles.

This morning I got into the van after dropping the boys off and drove the three minutes to my parking space, wondering how I would ever get used to being away from them for eight hours each day. I thought long and hard about those mothers in primitive cultures who kept their babies on their bodies in packs for the first year, nursed them right into and through toddlerhood. A pain shot through me, remembering Naveen’s incredulous crying when he realized that I was leaving him there that first morning.

And as I stepped out of the van into the small puddle I’d parked beside, the buckle on my black sandal broke off and fell into the muddy water. I fished around, found it and climbed back into the vehicle to slip into the heels I was saving for the soft carpet of my workspace. When I stepped back outside, I lost my balance for a second and dropped my envelope full of snapshots of the kids into the same puddle.

I don’t know what I was expecting this first week back to work.

It's not easy being three

2011-06-05T21:02:00.003-04:00

Sometimes in the midst of a tantrum, or when I’m doing the equivalent of mouth-to-mouth on our goldfish because Deaglan climbed into the top drawer of his dresser and dumped a full container of fish food into the tank, it’s hard for me to empathize with him. Yet normally, I’m a deeply compassionate person. Lately there have been a few times though, when my heart has ached for my preschooler. Coincidentally, Naveen’s been sleeping through the night for going on two weeks now.

On Thursday when I put in The Land Before Time II because I needed the break I was so desperately attached to from when he was still napping (he stopped just about the same time Naveen started sleeping through the night – you draw your own conclusions about the cruel tricks the universe plays). I was going to roll up my sleeves and really get some writing done while he watched this sequel which according to reviews was written specifically for a younger audience.

About an hour into the movie, my boy was crying. Not whining, or tantrum-type screeching, but profound, distressed sobbing with long slopey tears. I asked him what was happening, because I hadn’t really been paying attention to the movie. He told me he was sad because Chomper was gone. I held him on my lap and hugged him. I asked him if I should turn it off but he was torn. So he snuggled in the reassurance of my arms and we watched the last bit together. After it was over, he cried some more. We discussed the movie and I was truly moved by the depth of emotions it had stirred in his three year old self.

Then yesterday on our way to the park when we saw our neighbour, Deaglan cheered out gleefully, “Hi Doug, we have ants all over our house!” Anything else you want to tell him honey, I wanted to ask sourly. Maybe you could tell him about the state of our laundry room or how long it’s been since Mommy washed the kitchen floor.

I thought about this age he was. How hard it must be for him. His world is getting larger, no longer just our family circle; a life he knows how to navigate. This week he’s back to daycare five days a week, away from all that is familiar. In three months he is going to junior kindergarten, where he’ll have to eat lunch from a lunch box, be a part of a class of 24, and even wipe his own bum on the toilet.

Oh I know it’s a part of life. We all lived through it. But still, my throat aches for him, for all the changes he will have to endure in the next while.

I heard it over and over when Deaglan was entering preschooler-hood. Three is the new two. As in they should call it the terrible three’s instead of the terrible two’s. They were right. However I think three needs a catchy name all its own. And if we are going to dub it appropriately, we need to ensure that it captures all of the passion, the energy and the heart-rending pureness.

Because the the three year-old of my heart, embodies all of this.

And much more.

I'm joining Shell and pouring my heart out.

The cake eater

2011-06-02T09:55:00.000-04:00

We made sure Naveen understood completely what happens on his birthday. This is the third time he's had chocolate cake in two weeks. I'm on the phone with the dentist now.

On needing a bullet proof vest or better communication skills

2011-05-30T16:28:00.003-04:00

I was bashed pretty good by a few commenters on Yummy Mummy for my post I wouldn’t be a good stay at home mom. I wrote it in hopes of being published specifically on this site for May’s topic – write about being a “bad” mommy. And since I’d been thinking non-stop about going back to work in the next few weeks, I realized that I wasn’t always a hundred per cent proud of my performance as a mother every day. I wrote it in an effort to convince myself that going back to work (which is not an option but a must for me) was for the best especially since I’d been lucky enough to have a year-long maternity leave with each of my sons.

Deaglan driving Grampa's "tractor" (riding lawn mower)

I entered motherhood thinking that I should strive to be a “supermom” but the experience of the last three and a half years woke me up to the truth that it’s more important to be a good mom. I wanted to be honest about how challenging being a stay-at-home mom was for me. That despite my best intentions, there were many times I didn’t get them outside on a snowy day, I fed them food out of a box, and let them watch more TV than I was comfortable with. In response to my post one reader wrote:

I'm all for women staying in the workforce for a myriad of reasons, but this article is sad. It's not that hard to make sure your kids get to play outside 90 minutes a day or to feed them a healthy meal. Sad that she would rather outsource spending time with her kids because she's too lazy to cut up some veggies and put some outdoor clothing on.

Sheesh!

I re-read my post to determine what I’d written to warrant such a conclusion. My limited experience in motherhood has taught me one thing that I carry with me every single day. That I have no idea what anyone else is going through and it’s not my place to judge. Before I was a parent I used to let slip (what I’m sure was beyond irritating to whoever was unfortunate enough to be listening, especially if they had small children themselves) gems like:

My children will be vegetable eaters because I will introduce them to veggies right from the beginning. If they don’t know about sugar and fat, how will they know to like it?

and

My kids will NEVER watch TV period.

I hereby give whoever had to listen to me back then permission to slap me.

Because obviously I'd not yet met my match – namely Deaglan W. McNamara, the KING of refusing to eat it unless it was sweet, salty or fried. I hadn’t thought that TV statement through especially since later I’d have a baby who slept for measly forty minute stretches throughout the livelong day and night which meant that for six months, the only sleep I would be getting would be an hour or two when my husband could relieve me.

Had I known that, I would have reconsidered saying something so slap-worthy.

But now that I am a little more well versed in the joys and demands of parenting, I try to keep my big mouth shut. I am certain that I know nothing about parenting the “right” way. I try only to speak about my experience.

This little heartbreaker turns one tomorrow!

And I listen to the advice my Dad tried (but couldn’t) to post on my Yummy Mummy article: Staying at home may not make you a better mom and going to work may not make you a worse mom. Loving your kids will make you a great mom. Love dad

Thanks Dad. I know you’ve never heard me utter these words to you. But I think you may be right.

Naveen with Aunt Laura (my youngest sister)

This is me pouring my heart out with Shell early. I will be posting twice a week from now on. I hope you will keep coming back! Please, if you have any suggestions (posts too long, too short, too many pictures, not gossipy enough) let me know.

Recent photos

2011-05-29T22:12:00.000-04:00

Many of these photos are from our long weekend (May 20-23). We spent time with both sides of our families. This is Deaglan at the beach in Camlachie just down from Shaune's parents.

Naveen and me in Shaune's parents' backyard. I rarely wear jewelry around this tiny grabby-handed monkey. My husband bought me this necklace and pendant with the kids names engraved on it for Christmas. Naveen sees nothing else when it's around my neck.

Naveen enjoying the Thomas the train cake Mimi and Papa (my folks) brought for his birthday celebration. It's clear he detests chocolate.

Shaune and Naveen in our backyard. Naveen's shirt says: I look just like Daddy. I got it a few years ago for Deaglan at H & M. They have the cutest kids clothes. These days you can have just as much fun dressing up boys as girls.

This was taken today. Shaune cooked up a fish his Dad caught a few weeks ago on his annual fishing trip up north. He baked it over an open fire on a charcoal grill. It was delightful with a side of sauteed green beans. Deaglan helped with the entire cooking process and was downright proprietary all throughout the meal asking me if I liked the fish he made.

We ducked into the hair salon in Walmart a few days ago. I can't stop drinking in his handsome little face.

The four of us right before Naveen got ready to open an enormous pile of gifts for the second time that weekend. Actually, he was only really interested in the bits of wrapping paper he could get his hands on. Deaglan did all the opening. And then all the playing with. We finally just gave up explaining that the new toys were for Naveen.

Sidewalk chalking. These days I'm taking every opportunity to write out Deaglan's name, hoping he'll start recognizing some of the letters. He's constantly pointing out D's on street signs and billboards.

This time Naveen didn't even wait to be served a slice of cake. Before anyone knew it was happening, he leaned down and took a bite of the cake while Gramma was holding it. Uhh, could I have a piece from the other side please?

Naveen and I have so much in common, a chip off the old block!

Happy Sunday!

Comments off.

Oprah guilt

2011-05-27T07:15:00.002-04:00

This was absolutely the last time I’d shift uncomfortably when Shaune walked in on me watching Oprah. It was her last episode. I don’t know why I always felt a tinge of shame like he’d caught me red-handed in a nefarious act. Well, I think I know why but the real mystery was why I could never shake that feeling despite my true opinion of the show: wholesome and educational, researched and compelling. And even though I’d been known (in our house) for my over-compensatory lectures of the benefits of Oprah on our culture, I still felt a tiny bit queasy every time my husband asked what I was watching.

Yesterday I caught some news coverage about her last show where a Canadian anchor man when asked if he was a fan of Oprah’s, responded diplomatically with well, I don’t think I was a part of her demographic. Fair enough, I thought.

But something about this talk show host, philanthropist billionaire elicits bad attitudes in a lot of men I know and even some women. One girlfriend acts as if she happened to be home when Oprah was on and the only reason she watched was that there was absolutely nothing else on. Every time we discuss an interesting aspect of a particular episode, she participates using this contingency. As if to admit that had she willingly taken part in the viewing, she would have been lowering herself to a domain she would rather not be associated with.

My husband who is a modern-day Dad, an evolved spouse, and even a pioneer of the accurate division of labour in a marriage slumped his shoulders every single time I answered that I was watching Oprah. Yet on more than one occassion he watched episodes in rapt enthralment.

Honey, you know it’s true.

It’s not my intention to ask the cosmic why and shake my fists at the universe for creating men and women so different. I’m not even interested in changing my husband anymore. I gave that up some time ago – mostly. It’s this notion that I felt guilty about watching Oprah even though I loved the show. I won’t go so far as to say it was like Stockholm syndrome where the kidnapped person starts identifying with her captor. It’s something more elusive.

All I know is that for some reason the mere mention of Oprah serves to send some people straight back to the dark ages. It made my well intentioned, evolved, pioneer husband ask me Wednesday: Are you gonna have a girl party because it’s the last Oprah?

Really? Girl party?*

Oprah once said in regards to the relationship between men and women:
A man will only treat you the way you allow him to treat you.

I can’t think of one good reason my husband would suddenly talk to me like I was fourteen, giggling over Justin Bieber. In this one instance, she was wrong.

*It's a rare occassion when my husband is anything but respectful and supportive toward women.

I'm joining the ladies at the Red Dress Club in their prompt that asked we begin with the phrase this was absolutely the last time and end with she was wrong.

My article was published at Yummy Mummy

2011-05-26T14:51:00.003-04:00

I've been submitting some articles to online and traditional magazines. I'm thrilled to tell you that the Canadian site Yummy Mummy - founded by Erica Ehm (remember her from Much Music in the eighties and nineties?) has published my recent post I wouldn't be a good stay at home mom.

Here's a bit about Yummy Mummy:

A superwoman who fits into her size 6 jeans three weeks after giving birth (by scheduled C-section of course)? A sexy mama who shops for groceries in heels, closing deals on her cell phone while waggling finger puppets to stimulate her baby's growing cerebellum? Give me a break!

Yummy is a state of mind.

A true Yummy Mummy struggles to find the impossible balance between the single sexpot she used to be, the woman she's become, the professional she works hard to be, the wife she aspires to be and the mother she has to be. Basically, she's confused and exhausted.

Forget CEO. THIS is the toughest job in the world. Why didn't anyone warn us? Can you relate?

Then Welcome to the Yummy Mummy Club....So, what's this club thing all about? It's a place where you can celebrate and commiserate the rollercoaster ride of modern mummydom, win great prizes, find books to stimulate your brain and read eclectic and cheeky articles written for and by other yummy mummies...because mummy needs to play too. We're unabashedly un-exclusive.

If you have...
a) kids
b) guilt
c) no time for yourself
d) all of the above
... then, you're in!I didn't realize it would be such a controversial topic - okay maybe I did a little. If you have time to head over there, make sure you read the comments. You'll notice that I've rubbed a few people the wrong way. I would love for you to leave a comment if you can.

Thank you, as always for taking the time to read my blabbering. You have no idea how much it means to me!

Comments off.

I can only be self-less for so long

2011-05-23T21:01:00.001-04:00

We had our neighbours and their grandkids over for a play date this week. And when Jennifer (the grandma) thanked Deaglan for letting them play on “his” swing set he responded with “My Daddy built my swing set for me.”

Now, I am nothing if not magnanimous, but I prickled at my son’s comment. Because while I’m the first to generously acknowledge all that my husband gives to our family, I had a good mind to set the child straight.

Yes, Daddy did “build” the swing set. But it was only after Mommy searched and searched kijiji ads for weeks, investigating at least 15 used play-scapes until she found just the right one. Then after a gruelling day at work, she drove her eight month pregnant self out to the country with a cranky, hungry toddler fresh from daycare to inspect it. Once she confirmed that it was in good shape, she tucked her shame into her back pocket and haggled the owners down one hundred dollars from the asking price. Knowing her work had only begun, she next created what can only be considered a small business case to present to your swing-set building hero, whose immediate reaction was to find twenty seven reasons we didn’t need it. But your mother pointed out just as many reasons (and all of them had to do with you) we did.
Then your good-for-nothing mother who, by the way, was busy building you a brother, a life-time friend, someone you will be able to rely on to always gang up on your father and me; well she worked at organizing the use of a truck big enough to carry the swing set home in pieces. And still, once the truck was borrowed, she had to gently coax your father through the entire process because it was rainy and windy which worked to further resist his efforts to have yet another child’s toy crowding his backyard.

Not that I’m bitter.

It’s bad enough that Santa takes all the credit at Christmas.

We took 244 pictures this past long weekend. It was a gloriously sunny fun-filled few days.

Although Naveen won't be one for a week still, we celebrated his big day twice.

I’m pouring my heart out with Shell.