My spiritual guides

Last night when I told Deaglan it was time to turn his TV off, he lost his mind. He wasn’t tired, he insisted and besides his friends at school had been discussing this very thing earlier in the day and they all get to stay up later than him.

I asked for specific examples.

“Brandon gets to stay up like really, really late,” he said.

“How late?”

“12 hundred o’clock.”

He was completely serious. I bit my cheek and added telling time to my mental checklist of things I needed to teach this kid.

“I’m sorry buddy, but you have a hard time getting up in the morning and your body needs a good amount of sleep to be healthy.”

“I hate you!” he said, “I’m not going to fall asleep. I’ll stay awake all night in the dark.”

“Listen, I get it. I remember how much I used to hate having to go to bed when I was a kid. It did seem unfair. I especially hated it when I was in the middle of doing something. (I figured this was not the time to tell him I didn't have a TV in my room until third year university) But I’m the Mom and it’s my job to take care of you.”

“But I’m not tired!!!” he yelled.

“You will be once you lay your head on the pillow, I promise. It's time.”

I left the room then.

He was forlorn. He cried out of sheer frustration. He was a kid with very little control over this circumstance. I sat in my room and wondered if I’d done the right thing.

Five minutes later he was sound asleep, snoring softly, long limbs askew. Relieved, I patted myself on the back for handling it the way I did. I didn't raise my voice. I  didn’t react to his anger the way I typically might. I’d taken a deep breath and found a way to connect with him.

I’ve been practicing.

In the Conscious Parent  Shefali Tsabary says there is a way to be firm with our kids without getting caught up in the drama of the situation. “As much as conscious parenting is about listening to our children, honoring their essence, and being fully present with them, it’s also about boundaries and discipline.”

It’s a beautiful book.

There’s such goodness and wisdom on every page. I’ve underlined and asterisked something in just about every chapter. I’ve wanted to call each and every single one of you with kids in your lives to say OMG, you have to read this book.

It’s that good.

One of my favourite things she says is that although we believe as parents that we hold the power to raise our kids, the reality is that our kids hold the power to raise us into the parents they need us to become.

I find this profound.

For me, parenthood has been deeply satisfying. It’s been hard at times but so, so fulfilling. I do believe what she says in her book that our children are spiritual guides put into our lives to teach us to become our best selves.  

This morning my little guides were doing a lot of teaching but I was in no mood to learn a thing.

We all slept in. I made the lunches and fed the kids breakfast to help Shaune get out the door sooner. He was grateful and asked if there was something he could do to help before leaving. 

"Dress Naveen" I said without hesitation. 

It's the part I dread the most every morning. He's very particular about what he will wear. His most favourite outfit is a vivid green ninja hoodie paired with a pair of Disney-blue sweatpants, a hand-me-down we received for Deaglan several years ago from a co-worker of Shaune's a few jobs ago.

They have the word DINO written down one leg. 

I've let him wear this get-up at least three times each week since school began but have had to put my foot down the other days simply because it was filthy and I hadn't had a chance to do laundry. He refuses to wear most of the new clothes we bought him for school.

Shaune wasn't successful with the first or second outfit he suggested. I could tell he had to go so I offered to  take over. 

A lot of crying and angry words ensued. We finally settled on some old worn shorts (I thought I'd gotten rid of these ages ago!) and a hand-me-down red Lightening McQueen hoodie. He let me know a few times that he really dug this outfit. 

Great, I thought, your teachers can continue to think I found your clothes in a dumpster.

I know there is a spiritual lesson in these morning struggles somewhere but as a fashion-conscious soul, I am very resistant to learning it.

When I got home, he'd ditched the T shirt underneath and was just Marky Mark-ing it. I'm definitely getting him some white Calvins.

The move and all it entailed did Shaune and me in this spring and summer. I've taken no pictures to show you the new house. I wrote no posts to tell you how we're settling in. A sad state of affairs!

Here's a few pictures I found on our camera. The kids love the pool and despite the crummy weather we had all summer, they used it all the time.

 
By the end of the summer, Deaglan was swimming without the floatie. Swimming lessons courtesy of Dad.

It digs beneath my surface

It must have been crippling for my mother when she had to leave my sister and me behind.

Now and then I think about how it was for her and I can’t escape this truth: Mutilation. That’s how it would surely feel if someone told me I could no longer see Deaglan and Naveen every day, no longer inhale the nape of their necks whenever I needed to.

Mutilation with no hope of medical treatment.

Last night I stayed up late reading this and by the middle of page 45 I had to put it down. I cried noiselessly into my hands trying not to wake my family. It’s not surprising that his writing has this effect. I wept deeply in places when I read this and this. Khaled Hosseini’s storytelling digs beneath my surface everytime. I believe his words to ring true because essentially he tells the stories of my history too.

He tells stories that push me to the brink of gratitude and guilt.

Last night I surveyed my life; my fortunate, easy life. I wondered for the thousandth time since coming to this country how much different it could have been if I was still in Bangladesh. I cried more. I saw no logic. I looked over at Naveen who was asleep beside me, his long dark lashes settled fanlike on his sun-kissed brown cheeks. Earlier in the day, at Costco, we’d indulged him and walked up and down the vacuum aisle three times so he could savor each model, each make, the different colors and sizes. I thought too of Deaglan, who stopped playing long enough that morning to lightly touch my big toe and tell me that he loved my toenail polish. His sometimes version of “I love you.”

Last night I had to put the book down.

Those kinds of stories, the ones about real suffering and real sorrow weigh on me heavily. I find myself unable to process them for long stretches. It’s a weakness. Just like the way I am acutely aware that I have not yet ever written a letter to either of the girls we sponsor. I’ve never sent them the small gifts they are allowed to receive. Never sent them pictures of my boys or our life.

I justify it.

I justify it by remembering how it felt for me in the orphanage when other children would receive photo albums from their new parents in Canada or America. Photos of large lavish homes. Cars. Televisions. I remember how it felt to suddenly want things you didn’t even know existed. Want things you didn’t even know you needed.

Last night. I read the book and thought of these things. I thought about how it must have been for my mother.

Especially on my lowest days

I go through Anne Lamott phases more than you might think.


She might just be my all time favourite writer. I've read most of her books a few times each and I can't say that I haven't loved every word she writes – she’s generous and the opposite of self-important, not smug, inclusive, human, relate-able, honest and incredibly funny – and she gets me.

Oh I know we've never met but I'm certain that we must be kindred spirits. 


I own Bird by Bird, her guide on writing. It’s easy and funny and so, so good - I've told you that before. I’ve read it at least half a dozen times and in the off time, when I need a little inspiration I open it to a random page and can always find something relevant. I’ve borrowed most of her other books from the library multiple times.  


She writes those kinds of books where only the paper copy will do. I'd like to own them all.

There are so many days each month where emotionally I feel like I’m barely surviving. The bickering between Shaune and me, the nagging feeling that I’m failing at something – work, parenting, marriage, friendships, my physical health.

Her words are a balm. Like I'm not the only one who has felt this way. 


Take last week when I fell off the wagon. I’d been eating really well for the past few months – eating “clean” as my friend Pam puts it. I’d cut out whole wheat and started eating sprouted grains and cereals without a trace of sugar. I tried only to eat lean cuts of meat, lots of green leafy vegetables and healthy nuts. I increased my water intake, started drinking almond milk, added green tea in the morning and cut out most sugar.

And you know what? I felt fantastic.

But then I came back from a week's vacation and well I was tired and sunburnt, overwhelmed at being behind. I didn’t exercise on my week off, ate steak and ribs and not enough salad, drank more wine than normal. It was the first week in over a year that I didn't didn't run or go to the gym. I felt like a failure. I felt afraid that I'd lost my momentum.  


She says of beauty: Sometimes in certain lights, I could see that I was beautiful, not in spite of but because of unusual features - funky teeth, wild hair, acne scars. My mother's nose, very English, with pinched indents at the tip and what she called horns - incredibly helpful to my self-esteem as a child...and my father's crooked teeth. Cellulite that would make Jesus weep...This culture's pursuit of beauty is a crazy, sick, losing game, for women, men teenagers, and with the need to increase advertising revenues, now for pre-adolescents, too. We're starting to see more and more anorexic eight  and nine-year olds. It's a game we cannot win. Every time we agree to play another round, and step out onto the court to try again, we've already lost...


I decided to be gentler on myself and begin again. 

Every year during a certain month - I honestly can't recall which one it is - there are Pro-life picketers outside of the hospital on my way to work. A lot of older men with thinning hair and beer-bellies, little old ladies, presumably their wives, walking up and down the paths surrounding the hospital holding their anti-abortion signs. 


I find it an offensive time-waster to even read their messages. 


When my sister was pregnant at 15, a lot of people had strong opinions when she was given the option to abort the baby. She didn't go that route, her daughter is now close to 30, but those people, the ones who made it clear there was only one choice, life, well they never once came by her tiny apartment, with so much as a casserole, where she struggled as a single teenage mother day in and day out. 


Not once. 


When I read this a few years ago in Grace (Eventually) Thoughts on Faith, well I realized this was exactly what I'd always wanted to say to those people: 


I also wanted to wave a gun around, to show what a real murder looks like...I could not believe that [people] committed to equality and civil rights were still challenging the basic rights of women...Most women like me would much rather use our time and energy fighting to make the world safe and just and fair for the children we do have and do love not to mention the children of New Orleans and Darfur. I am tired and menopausal and would like to be left alone: I have had my abortions, and I have had a child. But as a Christian and a feminist, the most important message I can carry and fight for is the sacredness of each human life, and reproductive rights for all women are a crucial part of that. It is a moral necessity that we not be forced to bring children into the world for whom we cannot be responsible and adoring and present. We must not inflict life on children who will be resented; we must not inflict unwanted children on society.


I know this is a controversial topic for some of you who drop by here. If you have something to share please, please be respectful. 

On becoming an advocate

On the weekend during a visit with my in-laws, Justin, Shawn and Dave, Shaune’s sisters’ husbands and boyfriends had Deaglan in stitches. In fact he was laughing so hard I thought he might cry. The guys had triggered his four year-old funny bone with the age-old humour of all men.

Toilet talk.

There was nothing sophisticated about their jokes.

No lengthy lead up.

No clever punch lines.

In fact they simply took turns making up scenarios: Hey Deaglan, I ate a poop sandwich the other day. Or I saw a guy pee in a cup and drink it. And when I thought he might spew orange juice through his nose: My name is Sir-Farts-Alot, nice to meet you.

These "jokes' had my son doubled over, holding his stomach with both hands, machine-gun giggling, rendering him almost breathless. I shook my head and wondered not for the first time, at the mystery of the male species. 

Growing up, I had four brothers but our house was crowded with girls too. I was able to ignore my brothers’ antics, focus on the books I was reading, pursue feminine interests or simply escape to friends’ houses that had substantially lower people to living-space ratios.

In my dating years, I rarely sought to understand whoever I was with at the time. Mostly I wondered why they didn’t get me. And even after all these years next to Shaune, I’ve never really wanted to dig deep into the male psyche, figure out how it works. Mostly, I’ve wanted him to identify with me, sometimes even resenting him for not caring enough to get to the bottom of who I was.

These little boys of mine though – well they’ve changed all of that.

I find myself remembering to be brief when lecturing Deaglan, not getting annoyed that he suddenly needs to use the bathroom the instant he’s landed himself in a time-out, knowing it’s likely only occurred to him then.  I try to remember their need for constant movement even when I want to pull my hair out because they’ve made yet another couch-cushion trampoline.

I’ve read books. I’ve spoken with other mothers of boys. I’ve watched quietly the males in this household interact in my quest to learn more about them.

I’ve gotten downright sanctimonious, itchy even, when I’ve heard someone say a child was “good” because he or she was calm and cooperative. I knew without asking in most cases they were likely referring to a girl.

Oh don’t get me wrong, I struggle in small ways all the time; this journey to embrace my testosterone-soaked family is not as anecdotally-sweet as I’m making it out to be.  

A few days ago, I entered the bathroom after Deaglan had used it. I asked him why there was pee on the wall and the floor. In a tone that suggested I’d asked him the colour of the sky, he answered simply this:

Mommy, I don’t have control over my penis, it controls me. (I swear to you that's an exact quote!)

Cold panic gripped me. I shook my head in an effort to dismiss the many disturbing images my mind conjured up of the future.  I wiped up the mess in the bathroom. And I took up, once again, the imaginary decorating of my future bathroom. The one for which only I held the key. 

It was Gramma's birthday.

Riding on Grampa's "tractor" is a highlight of summertime.

This year, Naveen got to drive too!

Joke telling Uncles. Shawn is missing.

Aunt Chrissy, Shaune's youngest sister.

I got a haircut and other fascinating tidbits

A few days ago when my friend popped by with her toddler, I was on the verge of apologizing for the disaster-state of my house when I realized I’d just finished cleaning it only an hour before. I let go of my need to make excuses, hoped she wasn’t taking silent inventory of the Cheerios I’d missed with the vacuum.

And I was going to give you some long-winded explanation about how I didn’t have time to style my hair before Shaune turned into a paparazzi snapping these terrible pictures of me without warning. But the truth is, I did style it and not only that, I asked him to take some photos of my new haircut for my blog. Sadly these are the best he could do with what I gave him. What can I say? This is how I usually look, with a few rare days of good hair in between.

There’s a feeling that washes over me every few weeks – a feeling which never fails to bring me down. It’s a wagging finger during my busiest times, when balance is elusive, the demands of work and family leaving me exhausted, too spent to indulge in my art. It convinces me that I will never amount to anything writerly, that inspiration when ignored too many times will stop showing up.

It’s the same feeling I get sometimes when I catch a glimpse of my aging 40 year old self - a mix of well it could be worse meets Really - this is what doing my best to eat right and exercise gets me now?

I had hopes of editing the two books I wrote last year on maternity leave, making this blog a regular place you stop by for sweet little stories, inspiration. Back then, I imagined myself this well-rested, working mom, writing on the side, running the odd half marathon.

I’ve been back to work ten months and I have to tell you: It’s hard. This living and working and raising a family - it is hard work. And none of it looks like the picture you had in your head. You know the picture I’m talking about? The GQ corporate life followed by the sweet obedient vegetable-eating children snug in their beds so you can have a few hours to pursue your other self.

But when I watched this old Ted talk a few days ago (I think it was right about the time Oprah demanded we all read Eat Pray Love) where Elizabeth Gilbert discusses the notion of nurturing your creativity, I realized that I could change my mind. Art doesn’t have an expiry date. I could focus guilt free on what’s right in front of me, write when I could. I loved the story she told about Tom Waits – looking up at the heavens after getting some of his best song inspirations while driving on the highway.

Really? When I’m driving and can’t stop to write this down – this is when you’re [inspiration] going to hit me?

The Rules of Inheritance - a review

I've never done this here, but I couldn't resist an opportunity to do two of my favourite things - read a book and write about it for you while getting compensated a little. This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.

I felt two things after reading Claire Bidwell Smith’s book The Rules of Inheritance: fear and envy.

Before I was a mother, I rarely thought long on my own mortality. I tried my best to stay in shape but also regularly sabotaged my life expectancy by smoking cigarettes, and drinking questionable quantities of red wine. When Deaglan was born, I realized for the first time that I cared about how long I lived. Because parenthood comes with it the fear of twin terrors - losing your children and having your children lose you.

After holding your baby for even that first second, it is unacceptable to imagine a life without each other.

In her memoir, Bidwell Smith recounts what it’s like to lose both of her parents by the age of 25, before even meeting and marrying her husband and long before giving birth to her daughter. I felt the sharp pain of her loss not only because I’d spent an entire lifetime losing people – my birth parents and sisters at age seven and then my brother at age 39 – but also because I read her story through Deaglan and Naveen’s eyes.

I lamented the prospect of leaving them before I could share in their wedding days, hold their babies, or simply, give them the kind of mothering grown men need. I felt the loneliness that would envelope my boys should they have to continue their journeys without us, Shaune and me, who exalted their arrivals into this world, dedicated every second from then on to their health and happiness.

And I felt envy.

I yearned for that kind of closeness - the kind Claire and Sally shared. I’d always dreamt of it, open honest relating without fear, only acceptance and wisdom. Some of my favourite parts of the book were when the author relayed bits of her mother’s journal, letters she’d written in preparation of her impending death, advice to her daughter based on a lifetime of learning: 

Have a plan, Claire, have goals, and I don't just mean material but spiritual as well. Get to know yourself deep, deep down, where no one knows you. Listen to that well, because that's who you are...Listen to your real voice...

I finished the book last night and breathed deeply. I missed my family even though they were laying in bed beside me, the littlest in his bed down the hall. I let the past stay where it was but I got ideas for the future. And because it was late, I did the only thing I could think of.

I kissed each sweet face and turned in for the night.

Embracing my imperfections

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.

Not in the mood-osophy

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.

Inspiration for a Sunday

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.

My religion

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.

I think it's safe to talk about Baby sleep

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.

A book review and a giveaway

The Boston Globe said of Elizabeth Gilbert's (Eat Pray Love author) most recent book Committed that it's "smart but not intimidating, wise but not smarmy, kind but imperfect, funny in a way that makes us feel better about ourselves."

It occurred to me that here exactly was how I would like to be described - not even my writing - just me in general. Oh I know I have work to do.


But I would agree with that review. I was prepared not to like this latest work. I hesitated before buying it; I'd read Eat Pray Love on the eve of motherhood and though I found no parallel between our lives at the time compelling me to relate to the book, it spoke to me so clearly that I read it three times.

Marriage has thankfully changed my view of relationships between couples. In my twenties I bought with fervour the romantic notion of you complete me. I believed that if I could only find that perfect person, that veritable super-man, I would finally be happy. That this man would be the part of me which was missing; make me whole and ensure that I lived happily ever after. And he would certainly have me at hello and because he was the one, we would always have an easy go of it, riding on waves of passion forever.

In Committed, Gilbert addresses this ridiculousness. She spends a year studying the institution of marriage throughout the centuries, shares her findings using her own mistaken notions and mirth to enlighten the reader so that you feel as if you and she are learning at the same time.


I love that.


There were times I wanted to call someone just to read parts out loud. And I would have if my children didn't suddenly become possessed every time I picked up the phone. Believe me if I didn't know for certain that Shaune would rather have a root canal without pain meds than discuss Eat Pray Love author's new book about love and marriage, I would have held a bookclub meeting right there in our living room quoting highlighted passages while we took turns discussing how Gilbert's findings impacted us.


Nevermind that Gilbert is relatable for me because we're about the same age, grew up in a similar culture of thinking - especially about relationships and marriage but I was sure at times that she'd plucked trains of thought straight from my head. 


This book confirms that marriage the way I'm experiencing it, is right.
Is okay.
Is enough.
Is what it should be.


It talks honestly about the hard work that marriage is, the difference between infatuation and real love, how office relationships often initiated in the spirit of friendship can be insidious to your home life if you're not conscious of where it's going.

But there is no preaching. No judging and definitely no one-upping. She talks about this subject matter with boatloads of humility, beautiful language and a good dose of humour.


And because I think it's an important book to read, even though I'm not getting paid to promote it, I would like to offer someone my copy of the book. If you are interested, please leave a comment. I will use the random winner generator (I don't know if that's what it's called but there is such a thing) to pick a winner and send you the book. Be sure to leave me your first name and we can work out the details later.


I took pictures of our passport photos. We got them done this week. It was the first time the kids listened to what I've been saying. Deaglan kept smiling and saying cheese, finally. And it was the first time there was a good shot of Naveen's little teeth. Murphy's law at it's finest.

Red Writing Hood - Tradition

When I was younger - probably twenty years ago, my mother gave me a book which over the years I have replaced several times. I loved it so much that I would often gift it to a friend if I felt she too might love this book. Then I would buy myself another because I couldn't stand to be without a copy. 

This book changed my inner life. I began thinking in terms of writing. Back then I wrote in journals. It was memoir-type writing but there was something so private and serene about it that really hooked me. Like the author, I often found myself in coffee shops and diners, writing in my notebooks.

I wrote about nothing. Just whatever came out. It was therapeutic, documentative, self-preserving and especially to that young me, very romantic. I haven't picked up the book in a few years but I know exactly where it is downstairs. I love the simplicity of the exercises and the way the author weaves in her personal story of writing.

I've treasured this gift my mother gave me. I've never told her how much. I hope to pass it onto one or both of my kids. Maybe it will give them permission to sit in a cafe and write one day.

I saw this interview with the author of that book, Writing Down the Bones, and wanted to post it for my entry in the Red Writing Hood promt Tradition.

What they said

I love reading novels especially when it's clear that the author has been profoundly affected by parenthood. Skilled writers just know how to say things we all feel in a way that when we read something their characters say or feel, we are left with that feeling of ahhhh, I'm not the only one or yeah, I've been there. Jodi Picoult and Thrity Umrigar have touched me in this way.

Without sounding like a broken record again, I think I've said a few times that Naveen is not a talented sleeper yet. I'm exhausted most days. I thought that I could stomach trying the crying-it-out method but I was wrong. So we're back to co-sleeping which really isn't working. He can never sleep for longer than a forty minute stretch. Yada, yada, yada.

Despite this I'm constantly amazed at how motherhood gifts us with this special perspective. Even without a full hour of sleep most nights, I fall deeper and deeper in love with Naveen every day. With almost no effort I can elicit the most wonderful toothless grins. Grins that leave me smiling to myself like a fool, grins that warm me from my toes all the way up. And I'm not sure who I will ever convince to watch the reels of video I've taken this past week of him almost rolling over but to this mother, these small feats are glorious accomplishments.

Umrigar said through one of her characters about feeding her hungry child, it was as if you were being filled up yourself. I've felt this. On days when I can get a well balanced nutritious meal into Deaglan, it's as if I've been nourished myself. Those days are few with my picky eater.

And Picoult in one of her novels said that we spend much of our lives looking for our true loves in a partner only to realize that our real true loves are our children.

It's hard not to feel like I'm truly home when I look at my two boys.

Will work for sleep

Let me ask you this. How does one, so small, so cuddly, so smoochable, so scrumptious looking, wreak such havoc on a household?

I am desperately tired. I am taking advice from anyone dispensing it. If you know of a way that I can even get a quick cat nap please call or email or text or facebook - whatever!

I bought the Baby Whisperer's second book. I don't know how I ever got Deaglan to sleep, maybe I didn't, I can't remember a thing about that time. All I know is that this kid only wants to sleep during the day when Deaglan is full of energy and raring to go.

At first I was 'co-sleeping' but that stopped working. Naveen started wriggling and squirming and crying all night long so I tried the next thing.

Crying it out.

But he just cried and cried and cried. We didn't like letting him cry especially since he never actually 'cried it out' so I took some friends' advice and bought Tracy Hogg's book. For a few days it looked promising. I put him on her three hour 'E.A.S.Y.' routine but in the last two days all bets seem to be off. Somehow his nights and days are even more confused. So the two or three hours of sleep I was getting at night no longer exist.

Here are a few thoughts that have been rattling around in my overtired mind.

How am I functioning on such little sleep?

Why hasn't someone claimed to be the Marriage Whisperer and made millions focusing saving the marriages of parents of infants?

Wasn't the second kid supposed to be a good sleeper if the first wasn't?

Why didn't I sleep more before I had kids????

and also - Couldn't you just eat him up?

Somewhere over the rainbow

I was laying in Deaglan's race car bed reading him his stories before tucking him in tonight and I realized that this was one of my favourite places. One of my most happy places. A place where I find consistent good moments.

And it's not that his bed is really all that cozy for the two of us - it's a toddler bed after all and I have grown into quite a large pregnant woman with very few reliably comfortable positions at my disposal.

But when we spend this time together, reading to each other, being silly and sleepy, it's one of those rare times during the day where I wish time would stop. Tonight he picked a lullaby book and instead of reading, we took turns of singing the songs to each other.

Here Deaglan is caught coming down the slide. He was attending his first real birthday party for his friend Marha. I didn't post any of the pictures of the other kids because I wasn't sure if I should get the kids' parents' permission before doing so.

Someone call Mensa!

Winter has sent its messenger to let us know it will be along shortly. My morning routine has become slightly more taxing. When I returned to work in January, Deaglan was still more baby than toddler and quite cooperative. Getting his footgear, coat and accessories on weren’t challenging. However this has not been the case of late.

These days by the time I’ve finished tackling and pinning him down long enough to get him dressed and out the door, I am out of breath. He’s everywhere.

If he’s not running away from me, he’s running to the TV or stereo to bust out some moves. He can’t stop dancing. The other morning I asked Shaune to check the weather channel for that day’s forecast and walked in on Deaglan cutting a rug to the local forecast guitar solo.

He’s changed so much in the last few months. And like I said to my brother and his wife the other night – I know that it’s probably normal but it’s hard not to think that your child is a genius when he starts doing all of these neat new things. He breaks into songs like Bah, Bah Black Sheep out of the blue and he’s talking all the time in clear and distinct phrases. He is able to tell us when he wants to eat or drink or watch one of his Thomas the train videos.

At night when we have our reading time, he is able to differentiate each book either by reciting a key phrase or telling me its name. His attention span for sitting and listening to me read has increased tenfold. I can read all of Green Eggs and Ham without him losing interest for a second. Last night when I finished reading the longer version of The Tale of Peter Rabbit he took the book from me, opened to the pages where I had earlier asked for his participation (when Mr. MacGregor says kertschoo – I always ask Deaglan to sneeze and when Mr. MacGregor’s hoeing is described, I ask Deaglan to scritch and scratch) and again repeated the actions. Genius I tell you!

What an exciting time in a human’s life and I feel so privileged to witness it. It takes my breath away and reminds me how good, how really really good this parenting gig is.

Deaglan is pictured here with his Papa - my dad.

The spiritual realm

Once in a while I like to catch a news/talk show that airs on CBC called The Hour. It’s hosted by an ex-Much Music (Canada’s equivalent to MTV) VJ who is probably older than he appears. It’s hard to tell though, he looks like he should be fronting Green Day or attempting a kickflip with his skateboard. You know?

When I first started watching the show, Shaune would politely sit through it, but after a few episodes he would either insist we find something we could both watch or he would simply do something else. I’m not sure why he found it so irritating but I suspect it might have had something to do with the host. I like it however, because the guests are unexpected and sought out for unique reasons. The topics covered are wide and varied from human rights to celebrity updates. You might tune in one day to find former Mexican President Vincente Fox discussing the FIFA cup and then the next episode might feature Kenneth Cole and his efforts to find a cure for AIDS.

Anyway, I caught it a few times this past week when Shaune was working late and Eckhart Tolle was the guest on one episode. I forgot how much I loved reading his last book A New Earth. I read it three times! I really connected with it and I remember talking about it to anyone who would listen. I tend to get a bit excited about a good book and sometimes my audience isn’t quite as engaged as I am convinced they are at the time. It takes me a few days to realize that their silence might not have been rapt attention but probably a preoccupation with creating a mental to-do list or planning their dinner for that evening.

Regardless, I still think about some of the ideals of the book every day. Like this one: Most people treat the present moment as if it were an obstacle that they need to overcome. Since the present moment is Life itself, it is an insane way to live. Or this one which I find so powerful: Those who have not found their true wealth, which is the radiant joy of Being and the deep, unshakable peace that comes with it, are beggars, even if they have great material wealth. They are looking outside for scraps of pleasure or fulfillment, for validation, security, or love, while they have a treasure within that not only includes all those things but is infinitely greater than anything the world can offer.

I'm not saying I live by these ideals all the time. I'm stuck in the ways of this world just as much as the next guy. But there's something freeing about knowing life could be different. You know?