Questionable compliment of the day #4

Maya's daycare teacher, as we were leaving for the day: "Laura, you have such a good body for someone with two kids."

Me: "Thank you so much!!!" (followed upon arrival to my car by an icky question mark feeling in my brain, some mild  introspection and finally a deep confusion.)

Stuff my DAUGHTER says!

It's bananas, but Maya is only weeks away from turning 2! And the stuff that comes out of her mouth is priceless. I wish I could follow her around with a video camera. Logging some of these gems here will have to work as a close second.

Me: "Maya, would you like some honeydew?"

Maya: "No! Honeydon't."

Stuff my son says - Age 4 (minus 3 days)

This conversation took place in the middle of the night. I should add that his dad was out of town on a business trip:

Jacob: "Mom?" (shouting from his bedroom across the hall)
Me: "Yes? Is everything ok?" (responding from my bed)
Jacob: "We should floss my teeth tomorrow."
Me: "OK."
Jacob: "Mom?"
Me: "Uh-huh?"
Jacob: "We should also start mowing the lawn."

He is SO his dad's son.

PS: Should I be proud that his sense of responsibility is so strong that he wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about the things that need to be done, or should I be concerned that he seems to think I need to be told what to do??

Marie

Last night, I was working on my résumé. As I looked over my previous employers and my reference list, I realized that I had lost touch with a former colleague of mine from my days in the Deputy Prime Minister's Office. Marie Jubinville-Carrière worked at the desk across the room from mine. Between us was a comfortable distance and a wide stretch of carpet that carried the feet of countless political advisers, speech writers and Members of Parliament who clamoured for the DPM's ears. Sometimes, they would sweep through the space between us, stopping only fast enough to announce their arrival to Marie, whoosh through the DPM's double doors, and fly back out with the DPM between them. One would be holding her purse, the other her coat, which floated in the wake left behind them. Our large desks, mine piled high with constituent correspondence and hers strewn with schedules and sticky notes, were the only two being used in this government office. Besides, of course, the desk of the Deputy Prime Minister herself - the Honourable A. Anne McLellan - which sat stolidly behind heavy wooden doors more often closed than not.

Marie was usually smiling, even when I knew she couldn't possibly be feeling the smile inside her. Someone had clearly taught her that complaining about life never changed anything for the better. When something ticked her off, she would just look at me and say "bon", as if to invite me in the fun of ignoring what had just happened.

Through the window behind Marie's back, I could see the on-goings of busy parliamentarians below and a large Canadian flag fluttering in the wind. Unlike mine, her desk was flooded with light because of that enviable window. I often wished that we could trade desks, but I reasoned that she had earned that spot, having worked for the federal government for fifteen years.

When we weren't buried nose-deep in work with phones on both ears - when Parliament wasn't sitting, for example - we sometimes chatted. She told me all about her many siblings with their varied personalities, her endless battle with her weight (chips and dip were her go-to after-work snack), and the fact that she and her husband, Rick, slept in separate beds - not because they didn't love each other deeply but because of his intolerably loud snoring. She gushed to me about her cat, whom she loved like a child, having no children of her own. She counseled me through a wedding planning crisis (arranging my Toronto wedding from Ottawa was proving to be more stressful that I had imagined it would be) and she loved to give me morsels of marital advice, always straight from the heart. During my breaks, I would often bring back a green tea latté for myself and rave about how delicious it was. After finally tasting mine one day, Marie agreed and would always request that I bring one back for her too. I happily did, loving that I had introduced her to something we could both indulge in while we quietly worked.

When seven phone lines were engaged at once, Marie would sometimes swear in her native French Canadian way. I always giggled when that happened, being careful to do it quietly. Nobody likes to be giggled at when they're stressed out. Despite empathizing with her, I learned not to offer help in those moments - there was nothing I could do, she would tell me, exasperated but thankful that I had offered.

These are the moments that crackle in my head when I think back to my office companion in that corner of Parliament Hill. We weren't friends in the traditional sense of the word - she was almost twenty years my senior - but she did quickly become a mentor to me in a number of ways. I was particularly grateful to share such close working quarters with someone who always looked on the bright side of life. Later, through my various future work experiences, I would learn that colleagues like that are to be cherished. Many people choose to be unhappy and ignore the gifts available to them in their lives. Marie was the antidote to people like that.

The last time I had tried to get in touch with Marie was in 2008. I knew that she was likely no longer reachable at her old e-mail address (she had been seconded from her post at Health Canada when we worked together) but I tried anyway. Last night, I tried again. I figured that LinkedIn would be the perfect way to find her. I was surprised when a search for her name produced nothing. I decided that maybe a Google search would bring me more luck. Sadly, it did. The first search result to appear was a link to Marie's obituary in the Ottawa Citizen. She died "after a courageous battle with brain cancer on January 15th, 2011 at the age of 49 years."

Despite not having seen Marie for eight years, I am still having trouble processing the fact that she is no longer here. She was vibrant and happy and showed no sign of illness when I knew her. Especially not in her mind. Now I wonder if maybe she was struggling with a terrifying new diagnosis when my last e-mail landed in her inbox. Or perhaps she was too busy praying for a successful surgery to bother with her e-mails. Or maybe she was reeling from chemotherapy. Maybe she had given up on the conventions of communication by that June of 2008, too sick or too far gone to respond. Or maybe she was still perfectly healthy, back at her old Health Canada job, unaware that there was a tumour growing in her brain that would swiftly take her life two and a half years later.

In the few moments that I stared at Marie's obituary page, I was reminded of the time that I wished we could trade places so that I could also enjoy some of the sun that streamed through our office window. Now I'm obviously grateful that she was the one who was given that privilege. It also reminds me to appreciate the rays of light that I am given on a daily basis - my incredible kids, my exemplary husband, my 92 year-old grandmother, my own and my family's health. It can all be swept up from under my feet tomorrow, so best to appreciate every minute now while I can. And so, Marie continues to be a mentor to me, even in her death. Thank you for everything, Marie. You may be gone, but you are certainly not forgotten.

Stuff my son says

As we walk quietly down the street on a beautiful spring day, we passed by a nice woman walking her black and white shitzu.

Jacob (loudly): MOM, THAT DOG HAS POTATO EYES!

??

Stuff my son says

Jacob: Mom! Guess what! On Wednesday, I'm going to be the TEACHER'S HELPER!!!

Me: Wow, Jake! You sound really excited about that - I'm so happy you're so excited to help out!

Jacob: Ya! I think about it in my DREAMS!!

Stuff my son says

Over a container of strawberry yogurt:

Jacob: "What's in this, mama?"
Mom: "Strawberries and yogurt"
Jacob: "Is it for gentlemen?"

Stuff my son says

At the end of a 90-minute long daily bedtime ritual that includes stories, talking about the day, snacks, and cuddles, my mind often starts to wander by the cuddling part to the pile of dishes in the kitchen sink, the laundry in the basement and the next episode of Mad Men that's waiting for me in the living room.

"You have to slow down cuddling, Mom. You're going too fast."

And just like that, everything else can wait.

Hungry for Change

Yes, it's another food documentary... but do yourself and humanity a favour and WATCH IT NOW. I almost fell into the trap myself of opting out of another food-related preach-fest, but it turns out that this one is quality and needs to be seen by every human on the planet before it's too late. I always said that sugar and refined flour were just like crack, heroine, and all the other fluffy white chemicals that swallow your life if you let them. Finally, people might be starting to believe it. I hope.

Actually, what I'm feeling right now is rage and that's what inspired this post. I'm so angry at myself for caring so much what other people think. Why do I feel like I have to lie about the fact that I stay away from processed foods most days of the week? Why do I have to make up excuses at restaurants with friends and family when I don't touch the bread, don't order the pasta and ask for salad instead of potatoes? Why do I feel guilty for not letting my son have a juicebox at the birthday party, at the picnic, at the baseball game? I think I'm finally through with that. That will be such a massive weight off my shoulders.

The fact is, I'm the mom. I'm here to set an example and to protect my children from the things that might harm them in this world. I know how this is going to sound, but I'm going to say it anyway: it's become dead obvious to me that people are out to get my kids. I am not being an alarmist or a psychotic paranoid. It's simply the truth. Food companies don't want to die and they will do whatever is in their power to stay alive. They will hire marketers, and these marketers will make commercials designed to get my kids salivating over the chemical cocktails they are peddling as food. Then they will have the gall to somehow package it as a healthy snack. They will also take advantage of our antiquated food labeling laws and use only the 25-letter scientific name for each ingredient that my kids (and most adults) obviously don't understand. The grocery store will then stock the fake food at just the right height for them to see it, touch it, cry for it, and drool over it again. I won't buy it for them, but when they taste it at a birthday party, they will think it's one of the best things they've ever eaten - and they will think that I must not love them if I am depriving them of something so delicious that other kids are clearly allowed to eat on a regular basis.

Please, parents, stop the insanity. We are the bosses here, not the kids, not General Mills or Kraft or McCain. Dr. Oetker is not a real doctor. Aunt Jemima is not your aunt. Uncle Ben is not your uncle. They don't care about you or your children at all. Granola bars have the word "granola" in them and that may remind you of hippies who hike, but if you picked them up at Loblaws, they are NOT healthy and do not make a good after-daycare snack. Fruit juice - unless you have squeezed it yourself (and even then it's somewhat debatable) - is not a wholesome thing. The stuff in the tetrapacks sometimes can't legally even be called "juice". They have to write "drink" on it instead and in many cases, it's got as much sugar as Pepsi. Yes, it comes from fruit, but are we really still that naive? There is no shame in saying no to these things. It would be so much easier if we were all on board here.

I honestly can't believe that I am about to quote Che Guevara, but it just seems so apt: "The revolution is not an apple that falls when it's ripe - you have to make it fall." Let's grab those apples, people!!!

Stuff my son says

Jacob: "Mommy, where was I when you were 3 years old?"
Mommy: "You didn't exist yet!"
Jacob: "Was I in your tummy?"
Mommy: "No - you were nowhere...you weren't alive yet!"
Jacob: "But where was I??"
Mommy (at a loss): "Um, you were with God."
PAUSE
Jacob: "Is God a babysitter?"

Stuff my son says

Mommy: "But I thought you didn't like dinosaurs, Jacob"
Jacob: "I like them when they're happy."

Stuff my son says

When they got to chapter 3 in his bedtime book...

Jacob: "Daddy, where's my 3?"
Daddy: "What? Because you're 3 years old? That's just how old you are."
Jacob: "So is the 3 inside of my body?"

Fascinating.

Stuff my son says

Here's a peek into what my 3-year old believes only adults are allowed to do:
"When I get older like Daddy, I'm going to drive a boat and eat pickles."

Growing pains

I know I've made mistakes in the two years and eight months that I've been a mother, but I'm in a new zone now - a tricky time when it feels like the repercussions of my actions and decisions can have long-term consequences. Though he can't articulate his feelings, my Jacob is keenly aware that life is about to change for him in a major way. He's been acting up, working to rule, and crumbling into a mommy-stay-in-my-room-forever mess each night at bedtime. Making matters more difficult (there's always something, no?), I threw my lower back out a couple of days ago (perhaps early signs of labour?) and haven't been able to be myself with Jacob since then. Tonight, the pain was so bad that I couldn't handle the emotional outbursts and cuddle demands that have become the norm with my toddler as of late. I behaved badly and raised my voice at him out of desperation, believing that somehow he would mature 10 years in that instant to understand why mommy just needed to lie down right now. Of course, yelling at him only made the situation worse (obviously). For some reason, I think I decided at some point that it would be better to get him used to mommy being around less often in the few days before he becomes a big brother. It hit me all of a sudden though, that I couldn't have gotten it more wrong. When I'm recovering from major surgery with a newborn in my arms is when life will teach him the things it needs to teach him. What I need to be doing now is pushing through everything to give him as much of myself as I can. Pain or no pain, immobility or not, I'm his mommy and he needs me now more than ever. I got a grip, swallowed my pain and general inability to move as a massive pregnant woman about to burst, and knelt down at his bed to talk and hug and cuddle. That's all it took for him to become a little ball of sunshine, adorable enough to devour. He asked me to please not yell at him next time, at which point I swallowed back an ocean of tears, which erupted when I left his room and only recently subsided. Lesson learned: as a mom, always err on the side of giving too much of yourself rather than suffering the regret of not having given enough.

WAAAH.

HELLO BLOG!

It's been a while, I know.  I've been gestating a human for the past 32 weeks and also started working full time right around when said human was conceived... so I've been a much, much busier version of myself than usual.  Busier, in fact, than I've ever had the pleasure (if you can call it that) of being.

The first 28 weeks of this pregnancy went so well that the time just flew right by.  Without the strange aches, stretching, and tugging that I remember from being pregnant with Jacob (not to mention the insanely rare diagnosis of Pseudotumour Cerebri that left me wondering on a daily basis if today would be my last day living with the gift of sight), this pregnancy was a breeze.

Since then, though, things have steadily been getting tougher.  It all started with a cold.  We all get colds; they suck.  This cold, though, was ugly, and eerily tenacious.  After three weeks of continuous and unabating symptoms, it showed no signs of easing up.  My colleagues have taken to calling me "Patient X", blaming me for the gradual demise of everyone around the office over the month of February.  And they're probably right.  The virus has found a host that won't kill it (that would be me - thanks, pregnant immune system) and it's having a blast.  I'm now entering week 4 with this bug.  I'm starting to think I should give it a name.  And no, it's not an infection that can be treated with antibiotics - that much has been confirmed by several doctors.

This all would have been exhausting enough, except that my prolonged, violent coughing actually caused me to fracture a rib several days ago, launching me into a world of pain that I can only compare to what I imagine it might feel like to be impaled by the horn of an angry wild animal.  Normally, the highest caliber of pain killers and cough suppressants would take care of the situation, let me get some sleep, and gradually recover.  Of course, those are off limits to me while I'm pregnant.  Shifting in my sleep is excruciating, breathing deeply is out of the question... and I don't think I need to explain the desperate agony of coughing.  It's been character building.

Here's to hoping these issues resolve themselves over the 8 weeks I have left to go before baby is born.  It would be nice to enjoy some restful nights before what I already know is going to be an exhausting (but wonderful) year ahead.

You forgot a step, mommy.

I knew that going away to work all day would cause Jacob to grow up faster than necessary.  He's now apparently taken the disciplining duties upon himself, even when he's the one being disciplined.

He was having a before-bed tantrum tonight, so I asked him if he needed a time out.  All signs pointed to yes, so I put him in his time-out spot (a corner in his bedroom), and left the room.  I failed, however, to fully close the door behind me - which is something that's always part of the time-out drill.  Rather than pop out from behind the door after 5 seconds as he usually does, he pushed his door closed gently, from inside his room.  When I peeked in, I saw that he had gone back to his time-out spot to mull everything over (which is the whole point!).  He stood there for as much time as he needed to think, and then his little hands appeared on the side of the door to pull it back open.  He gave me a hug and a kiss and announced, "sleep!"

Don't bother calling.

This is really interesting to me.  Nearly two years ago, I went out and bought a portable phone base and three handsets for our home.

One day last year, out of the blue, we noticed that one of our handsets was missing.  After weeks of searching and countless fruitless "paging" efforts (the phone eventually died in the crevasse that it fell into, I guess, rendering the page function useless), we gave up on it.  We were down to two handsets.  It was a bit of an adjustment for a while, but we got used to the idea of it and made do.  Frustrating, but not the biggest deal.  Our house isn't that big.

About 6 months ago, I noticed that finding one of the two phones when they were ringing was mysteriously more challenging. Somehow, they were "both" always upstairs when I was in the kitchen, or they were "both" in the bedroom when I was doing the dishes.  Eventually, I put two and two together (or not, as this case implies), and discovered that the reason it was so hard to find a ringing phone in the house was because there were no longer two handsets to choose from.  We were somehow down to one.  Again, paging was of no use this time, because evidently the phone was already dead when it disappeared.  All signs point to phone suicide.  Very strange.

 Living with one phone in the house was an adjustment to say the least.  So much so that Dave brought home a phone with a cord that would sit in the kitchen until our lost phones decided to come home.  This worked reasonably well for us for a while.

Yesterday evening the phone rang.  For once, Dave and I were sitting down together, taking it easy.  Would've been nice to be able to chat with whoever was calling on one of our portable phones.  We scoured the environs to no avail.  We both quietly realized that the phone-with-the-cord was the only ringing phone we could hear.  We looked at each other and knew.  They were all gone.

Now we are getting used to the realities of single phone-with-a-cord living.  I can't say that it's easy, but it puts things in perspective.  I can see what's important now and what isn't.  I do want you to know, though, that all those times that you call and it rings 5 times only to be followed by our voicemail, I'm actually home, running frantically to reach the one phone left in my house.

Chocolate Hazelnut Memories

I was looking through pictures just now, and came across my chocolate hazelnut torte (from Wanda's Pie in the Sky cookbook) that I totally forgot to blog about back when I made it a couple of months ago.  Take a look:

Chocolate Hazelnut Torte

If I could offer you a slice, I really would, if only to watch your reaction when tasting it.  It was truly over-the-top decadent.  See all those nuts clinging to the icing on the side (and perched on top)? Those aren't regular old hazelnuts, they are chunks of praline, which I baked the day before making the cake.

Hazelnut Praline

Making this dessert was not the easiest task I've taken on.  It was the product of an entire evening's work that made use of almost every single kitchen device and baking sheet that I own.  There might have also been a desperate trip to a bar at 11:30 p.m. upon discovering that I didn't actually have any Frangelico (a hazelnut liqueur) that was called for in the recipe.  The bartender looked at me like I was entirely out of my mind, and reminded me that it was illegal to leave a bar with alcohol.  I pulled out a tiny tupperware and whispered that nobody would ever know.  Shortly thereafter, I skulked out empty-handed, ashamed at the new low to which I descended in the name of baking.  In the end, I used Kahlua instead and it was delicious.

I think the best compliment I got was that it tasted "European".  For some reason, if I've made a dessert taste European, I feel like I've struck gold.  I also learned that shortly after my grandmother and uncle Peter arrived in Canada from the Soviet Union 30 years ago, they almost started a business of their own together whipping up tortes just like this.  Apparently, their version of the torte was so good, friends and neighbors were accosting them to make more for every possible occasion.  Soon, they were receiving orders from strangers, and making a nice buck in the process.  They even went so far as to negotiate a deal with a grocery store chain, which was more than happy to bring them on as clients... but they didn't have the means to invest in a large-scale bakery that would make the project worth their time.  Sad story.  I would have loved to have cake makers in the family.  That's one family business I would gladly take over in a second.

Sitswap

Since becoming a one-income family, certain things have changed around our house.  Going out for dinner, for example, has become a lot more of a luxury (especially sushi… mmm sushi).  Clipping coupons is not unheard of, and I’ve memorized the schedule of low, medium, and peak hydro usage times for each season so as not to throw away dollars unnecessarily by doing laundry in the morning, for example, when I could just as easily do it at night.  There are other things, too, whose value I’ve been surprised to find myself questioning.  While nothing is too good for my baby, I can’t help but wonder if that “Twisting Tots” class at the local parenting centre is worth the steep price tag that comes with it.  Yes, Jacob would get to twist in the company of his little buddies, but can’t I just as easily set something like that up in my living room for free? All I would have to do is invite some of his friends over, turn on some kid-friendly tunes, and lead by example.  I’m learning the hard way that being lazy is not an option for the penny-pincher.

Something else that’s become a luxury is free time.  Yes, Jacob naps for a couple of hours during the day, but that leaves me just enough time to clean up the disaster of all disasters on the main floor of the house, which was created approximately three minutes after Jacob woke up and which had to be stepped over while it grew cancerously in every room, threatening to either trip me or get stuck to me if I wasn’t careful.  My son has a sixth sense for being able to avoid the mess he creates while simultaneously adding to it.  I suppose I could leave the mess and play scrabble online until he wakes up (and I sometimes do), but those aren’t good days.  For so many reasons.

All of this then gets me thinking about the moms out there whose one income is a lot less ample than ours is.  And about those moms out there who are going at it alone, making free time a pipe dream about as likely as a winning lottery ticket.  I have the option of asking Dave to babysit if I want a night out with the girls.  I have the option of hiring a babysitter if there is something that urgently requires my attention outside of the house.  There are others who really aren’t so lucky.  When I wasn’t a parent, I had no idea how insanely expensive childcare is.  Now I get it.

Tracey Cairns (founder of WomenAide – a charity for women who have suffered spousal abuse) has thought about those moms too, and has created a website called www.sitswap.ca, designed to ease the stress associated with finding and paying for childcare.  Essentially, it’s a site that brings together like-minded moms from the neighbourhood so that they can become friends and ultimately swap childcare favours at no cost to each other whenever the need might arise.  It’s one of those ideas that I wish I thought of myself.  More than once, I’ve caught myself sitting on my couch wishing that there was someone out of my mom acquaintances that I wouldn’t feel awkward asking to watch Jacob for a couple of hours while I ….. (fill in the blank) this afternoon.  I know I would be happy to return the favour.   I, for one, am rooting for Tracey and sitswap.ca.  It’s about time there was a childcare option out there that was dependable and that didn’t cost a small fortune.  Sitswap.ca seems primed to change the landscape of childcare in our province.  I’m sure the rest of the provinces are next in line.  Kudos, Tracey! 

Sadly,

all of my plants died, except for one. They were all thriving, growing, looking relatively happy - and then I decided it was time to transplant them outdoors to do their thing on their own. You know, set down some roots, flower, all that good stuff. My green peas are looking pretty good. I'm holding out hope for them. Everything else curled up and died. Clearly I did something terribly wrong. Maybe I spread out my love too thinly. It probably would have been a good idea to maybe focus on one plant or two. It's like a first-time mom having octuplets without help of any kind and expecting everyone to be happy. It was too ambitious. It's ok. I went out and bought some more mature plants and planted those instead. Things are looking a lot better now. I'm already snacking on chives and arugula on a regular basis, which is all I really need to be happy.