Wave the Stick

Things That Are True - We Went All the Way to Paris and All I Have Are These Awesome Memories

2012-01-24T16:59:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, everyone!

I'm choosing to ignore the fact that the new year arrived three weeks ago. I was out of town, I wasn't blogging, I missed all the resolutions stuff. I am, instead, basing my greetings on the Chinese New Year, which was yesterday. So I'm totally timely with my wishes, and may the Year of the Dragon bring you adventures and peace in whatever combination your heart desires.

Paris.

Where to start? We had the best trip ever. The Imp walked around the streets of Paris, sing-songing "Bonjour!" and "Bonne année" to random strangers and charming literally everyone who crossed his path. Old ladies rubbed his head, young men smiled at him carrying his "futbol" around, waiters brought us extra treats just for him. The Imp took it all in stride.

It's hard to condense a three week holiday into a single post, and I am not even going to try. I took 880 photos in Paris alone. Yes, eight hundred and eighty.

We had a great time, and The Imp wasn't the only one who cried when it was time to leave.

(Hey, what do you know? I just condensed three weeks into a single sentence.)

Happy New Year, everyone.

Things That Are Random - Over the Pole Edition

2011-12-25T22:10:00.000-08:00

The North Pole, y'all. The North Pole on Christmas Day - it's like I'm Reverse Santa, taking all the presents back! I'm in a plane! Going to Europe! And apparently I'm very excited about it!

I'm in a plane with wi-fi. The science-fiction loving thirteen year old me is a bit agog at the moment. (I highly recommend this living-in-the-future stuff.)

After what felt like six months but was really about three weeks of laying about on the couch helpless against the assault of viral bronchitis (thank you dude coughing in the seat behind me on the flight home from Honolulu) I am again on a long flight, this time Paris bound. We booked it ages ago, and managed to get business class seats...

INTERRUPTING TO SAY: where apparently flight attendants assume you're a doctor. Sit in the front row of the plane, and your odds of being mistaken for a person of class and education increase. Who knew?

The head steward just asked me quite seriously if I was a doctor. The look on his face indicated that he fully expected me to say yes. (I shouldn't make light, they've just announced that there's a medical situation with one of the passengers and have asked for any doctors or paramedics to help out. Oh no. Hope it's not too serious.)*

As I was saying, we're in business class seats. I am pleased to report that the first row on the plane is all kinds of excellent. And because it's always cute when you put a little kid in grown-up surroundings:

"Can I offer you a little pre-flight cocktail? Orange juice? Very good, sir, here you are. And what will the monkey be having?"

Then Curious George's antics almost got us kicked out of our fancy seats:

Bad little monkey!

I have to say, bedtime shenanigans on a plane are surely one of the nine circles of hell. As the parent, you are powerless. You're surrounded by people – people of class and education. There's no way to just close the door and let a tantrum take its course. What good is a time out when a kid is already stuck in a seat for nine hours? Children sense this, the little vultures. You are reduced to wheedling and vague and mostly empty threats. I am grateful for seat belts, and the "you must fasten your seat belt at all times" rule. (I may have a lap belt installed in his bed at home, now that I think about it.) It took an hour and a half to get The Imp settled down to sleep, during which I might be alleged to have had thoughts of minor violence.

As I got the stank-eye from the dude across the aisle from me (who, by the way, has been coughing non-stop for the last hour because I have the worst flight-seat-placement karma ever) I happened to glance across The Imp's seat (don't make eye contact, don't make eye contact) out to starboard, and there, perfectly framed in the oval window, was the heart-stopping beauty of Orion in an above-the-clouds perfect night sky.

Orion has always been something of a talisman for me.

I took a deep breath and fixed my gaze on that line of three bright stars until The Imp grew bored of being a hooligan and put himself to sleep.

Sometimes I really do thank my lucky stars.

*It occurred to me even as I wrote that sentence that "not too serious" is a crock of shit. What people mean when they say that is, "I hope I don't have to see a dead guy being wheeled off the plane." What does "not too serious" mean, anyway? If someone just had a minor stroke, it's not too serious to me, but it's serious as, well, as a heart attack to the poor bastard whose brain just clogged up.

Things That Are True - I am Unique. Also Awesome.

2011-11-30T18:25:00.001-08:00

"What makes you unique?" asks Nadine of todaysparent.com.

"I am AWESOME!" I want to roar back into the internet. "I am excellent; I know how to use a semi-colon! I know things. I have thoughts. I am articulate about them!"

Unfortunately, every time I sit down to write a post about my strong voice, my principles, and my dorky love of grammar, I come up empty. It's very much like a job interview I once had.

"What are your best qualities for this position?" asked the interviewer.

"I'm detail-oriented, deadline-driven, and have strong communication skills," I replied confidently. Then he asked me how my communication skills were strong, and I completely blew it. Couldn't think of a single example. I stammered, and blushed, and felt like I might wet my pants. It was awful.

I've always been great when I'm just thrown into a situation – figure it out on the fly and get it done. Ask me to trumpet my own qualifications? I turn into an idiot. Who almost wets her pants.

I don't know why this is. I'm not exactly modest:

My own business cards decry my awesomeness

I'm quick-witted, and funny, and well-read, and I've been all over the world. I can hold my own in any room. I can dance in heels until two in the morning. I speak English, French, and Spanish. Despite having grown up in a tiny town in the Yukon, I'm living in the heart of Vancouver, and I do okay. I know how to play guitar, and will play and sing badly but enthusiastically for anyone who will listen. I was once the chick singer in an R&B/Funk band, and I played the tambourine like nobody's business. I worked for twelve years in Vancouver's film and television industry, and was really good at it. I am an eighteen years sober recovering alcoholic. I've come out the happy side of an abusive relationship. Despite not really knowing how to use my camera, I take pretty good photographs. I am an expert in packing light.

I am a fiercely loyal friend. I eat my own body weight in chocolate on a daily basis, but if I had to choose between chocolate and cheese for the rest of my life, I would choose cheese. I'm not capable of not welling up if I see someone crying. I no longer own a car; I cycle everywhere. I'm a real brunette. I'm a damned fine cook. I turned forty without losing my mind. I hate it that I can always see the other guy's side of the argument. I own my own business designing little boys' clothes. I know all the words to the "Big Bang Theory" theme song. I have a crush on Peter Mansbridge. I will never tell you something looks good on you if it doesn't just because it's on sale. I live in a 900 square foot apartment in the heart of downtown Vancouver and never want to own a house or have a yard.

I suck at parenting sometimes, but I mostly get it right. I suck at being married sometimes, but mostly get that right, too. I write about the times that I get it wrong, and I write about the times that I get it right.

One of the times we all got it right

And here are three of the times I've written about things that matter to me:

My thoughts on Remembrance Day at Vancouver Mom

Stargazing

International Women's Day

This post was written as a job application, of sorts. I'm hoping to be considered for a blogging gig at todaysparent.com. I sure hope they don't ask me about my communication skills.

Things That Are True - 100 Things That I Am

2011-11-29T23:14:00.001-08:00

Earlier today, the lovely Schmutzie said on twitter:

I replied, "Challenge accepted!"

She posted her 100 adjectives here, and mine are below.

I am, among other things:

1) gregarious
2) intelligent
3) compassionate
4) distracted
5) funny
6) organized
7) fair
8) inconsistent
9) open-minded
10) talented
11) perceptive
12) truthful
13) lazy
14) determined
15) fierce
16) grateful
17) scarred
18) discerning
19) curious
20) profane
21) insecure
22) respectful
23) musical
24) imaginative
25) privileged
26) active
27) strong
28) messy
29) analytical
30) trustworthy
31) persuasive
32) demanding
33) supportive
34) idealistic
35) bilingual
36) judgmental
37) frugal
38) crafty
39) realistic
40) fearful
41) tearful
42) faithful
43) generous
44) critical
45) stylish
46) buxom
47) principled
48) dissatisfied
49) sober
50) tardy
51) thoughtful
52) envious
53) discreet
54) considerate
55) hopeful
56) impatient
57) uneducated
58) spontaneous
59) healthy
60) conformist
61) irritable
62) literate
63) earnest
64) nitpicky
65) interested
66) charming
67) cynical
68) mulish
69) well-traveled
70) facetious
71) anxious
72) gloomy
73) enthusiastic
74) empathetic
75) loving
76) contrary
77) engaging
78) hesitant
79) capable
80) restless
81) brainy
82) dismissive
83) accepting
84) aloof
85) feminist
86) fidgety
87) witty
88) creative
89) derivative
90) unapologetic
91) mindful
92) stinky
93) sensitive
94) graceful
95) polite
96) confused
97) contrived
98) loyal
99) energetic
100) complex

A few things came to mind as I quickly wrote out this list:

1) I found it really hard to stick with adjectives. I kept wanting to use [adjective noun] like "great cook" or "good singer".

2) I tried to stay away from physical descriptions, like brunette, short, tall, etc. I wanted to delve into who I am, not what I look like right now. That was more difficult than I expected. (I couldn't resist "buxom" because a) it's true, and b) it seems like such a friendly word. You never hear about buxom but cranky heroines or barmaids.)

3) It was easier to come up with negative words than positive ones, and some of the words I chose could be negative or positive, depending on the context and the reader's connotative associations. I leave it to you to figure out which 33 are the negative words.

4) The positive adjectives are how I believe or want other people see me, and how I see myself on my best days. The negative adjectives, I think, are how I see myself most of the time.

5) Many of these words are directly opposed to each other; that doesn't make any of them untrue. I am at times idealistic and at other times cynical. I am at times aloof, at other times sensitive. I am both lazy and enthusiastic, I am both literate and, formally speaking, uneducated. I believe this is true for every human being I've ever met - we are complex and often contradictory creatures.

So that's my list. Anything you think I left out? What's on your list?

Things That Are Random - Monday in Hawaii Edition

2011-11-28T22:45:00.001-08:00

So, one of the search terms that led someone to my blog today was "duvet toddler urine clean".*

Then, we came across this on a wander around the neighbourhood after dinner:

You guys, it's like they knew we were coming.

*For which I rank a surprising third when I do the search on google.

Things That Are True - Observations from a Small Island in the Pacific

2011-11-27T23:06:00.001-08:00

A few observations from my last 48 hours or so:

You wouldn't think a two hour time change could wreak so much havoc on a family routine - but does it ever. We were woken our first morning in Hawaii by The Imp actually running tight circles in our hotel room, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy." Over and over. It was 4:30.

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We immersed ourselves in Americana this morning and had a highly salted and oversweetened breakfast at Denny's. The thirteen year old girl at the table next to us was having a Red Bull and nothing else at 9:00. I hope that she had a healthier meal when she too woke at 4:30 am. I'm kind of surprised we didn't see her later, running in tight circles on the sidewalk, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy."

Aside: the Denny's on Kuhio is possibly the whitest place on Oahu - except, of course, for the staff. But you know you're about to get value for money when the majority of a business' customers are octogenarians with fanny packs. And I'm talking about the men.

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The Imp is much more opinionated about how he wants to spend his time this trip. The difference between not quite three and almost three and a half is remarkable. Not only does he remember every single thing that we saw and did six months ago, he has very distinct notions about how and when he wants to repeat them. It's been an interesting couple of days, managing his demanding behaviour and trying to discipline him in a way that doesn't involve me spending hours sitting with a sullen child in a hotel room. Follow-through sucks, y'all.

But when he is behaving, it's a joy to behold:

Unless you have a heart of stone.

The Imp spent a bunch of time running up and down the beach across the street from our hotel. It's possible he was chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy," under his breath. What stopped him in his tracks was a dude with a metal detector working his way along the unoccupied bits of sand. Metal Detector Man was, as if straight from central casting, an octogenarian man with a fanny pack. The Imp was riveted.

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It's been a long time since I wore, or even much cared, about what was trendy in the fashion world. But here's fair warning for you: mom jean cutoffs seem to be a thing. That's right, waistline-meets-armpit washed denim cut so short that pockets flap around underneath their ragged hems. Cut so short you get to see whatever the bum equivalent of side-boob is. (Side-bum?) Based on the alarming number of young Japanese women I saw today sporting this look (because really, any number higher than one is somewhat alarming, no?) I am officially old and not-stylish. And I'm totally okay with that.

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Vancouver and Honolulu are, except for the weather, remarkably similar: both adjacent to ocean and mountains, both ethnically diverse, both highly influenced by a variety of Asian cultures, and both magnets for global investors who drive the price of real estate higher than the jobs provided by the local economy can afford. Of all the American cities I've visited, Honolulu actually feels the most like Vancouver to me - with the glaring exception being, of course, Vancouver's lack of palm trees and trade winds. The Imp keeps asking if we're still in Hawaii.

The Imp: "It doesn't look like Hawaii, Mom. It looks like Vancouver."
Me: "What are you talking about? How can you say that - the weather's beautiful today!"
The Imp: "It looks like Vancouver with all the coffee places."

We were exiting Starbucks at the time, so yeah.

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There were a number of times today that I was struck by what a cliche I am. A slightly frumpy, fifteen pounds overweight, middle-aged woman wandering around Waikiki, stopping at beach-side tourist restaurants to sip slushy drinks with a tower of fruit and paper umbrellas poking out the top, going to the beach and training my camera on my much doted-upon child. At one point I even was given an orchid to weave into my hair.

I'll admit, I felt self-conscious for about five minutes. Then I decided it didn't matter. I'm here with my best friend and my child, and we are enjoying the sun, and the ocean, and the family time. I tucked my orchid behind my ear, island-style, looked out at my boy running through the waves, and embraced the cliche.

If this is cliche, I'll take it.

And now, the boys are both snoring, and I am sleepy, so until tomorrow, aloha.

Things That Are True - No Place Like Home

2011-11-26T22:58:00.001-08:00

Today we woke up in Hawaii. This is a good way to start the day.

Self portraits over morning coffee

The morning was cloudy on and off, but warm. Short sleeves and flip-flops warm. We sorted out some hotel stuff (our usual hotel was all booked up for our first night on Oahu so we stayed somewhere else last night) and walked around Waikiki. It was a little surreal - since we were here just six months ago, it kind of felt like we hadn't left; like maybe that time in the rain and cold of Vancouver was just a bad dream from which we'd finally woken.

Then we hopped on public transit, (called, appropriately enough, The Bus) and made our way to my aunt's house, where we wished her a happy birthday and bestowed upon her the ceremonial offering of Hawkins Cheezies, the one piece of home she can't get on this island paradise.

After a quick visit, we made our way back to The Bus stop under cloudy and ominous skies. On the ride from Kaneohe back to Waikiki, The Imp fell asleep in my lap. Also, it started to rain; big fat tropical raindrops coming down in sheets. By the time we reached our destination, it was really pouring down. As we exited the bus, The Imp woke and, confused, asked "Are we still at Hawaii?" as he rubbed his eyes.

"Yes honey, we're still at Hawaii," I laughed in response. It was a fair question. On the plane he'd fallen asleep somewhere over the Pacific and woken up in Honolulu. It made sense, then, that he would fall asleep on the bus and wake in a new place too.

"It's supposed to look like Hawaii, but it just looks like Vancouver!" he shouted in disgust.

Right you are, kiddo. Right you are.

Hoping for sunscreen weather tomorrow. I know. My life is really rough.

Things I'm Doing - In Transit

2011-11-25T17:17:00.001-08:00

In transit today, Vancouver to Honolulu via Bellingham. The Imp has made friends with some other kids who have an iPad and Angry Birds, so I am stealing two minutes to type out this quick update on my iPhone. The TSA agents at Bellingham Airport are some of the friendliest I've ever seen. I introduced HWSNBN to Trader Joe's this afternoon, he's already talking about stopping there to stock up on our way home. We start boarding shortly. I've never blogged from my phone before, so I'm going to hit publish while I still can here and hope for the best. Aloha!

Things That Are True - Less is More

2011-11-24T23:43:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, I was the girl who took two giant suitcases with me to spend a weekend with friends. Once upon a time, I was unable to decide which pair of shoes I might wear most, so I brought six. Six pairs, not six shoes. Once upon a time, I brought dresses just in case I might get the chance to wear them, and running shoes just in case I went to the gym, and every makeup item I owned because you just never know.

Enter HWSNBN.

HWSNBN doesn't like to carry things, so he packs light. Whatever he neglects to bring with him, he does without or purchases at the final destination.

At first I really didn't understand this concept of taking the bare minimum, but over time the idea grew on me. For our two weeks in Paris in 2004, we decided to travel with carry-on luggage only. The earth didn't stop spinning on its axis because I only had one pair of black boots to wear. After that it became an unspoken rule: no checked luggage. Hong Kong and New Zealand in 2006, Paris and London in 2007 - we just gathered up our stuff and stepped off the plane and into our adventure. No waiting at the baggage carousel, first to arrive at the customs counter. Excellent!

And here's a secret: no matter how lightly I packed, there was always one item of clothing that never got worn. I began to pride myself on my ability to pack light. My travel mantra became: "Passport and a credit card. The rest is details."

Then we had The Imp. The amount of clobber you haul around for a 30 minute trip to the playground with a baby wouldn't fit in just one carry-on. For a trip to Provence when The Imp was two months old, I took: two suitcases, a large carry-on for myself, a giant diaper bag for The Imp, a baby bjorn, a stroller, and a car seat. Not to mention breast pump and bottles. Yeah.

Now that The Imp is past the diaper years, minimal luggage is possible again. We went to Hawaii in April with two carry-ons, a laptop bag, and a camera bag. We'd planned to do the same again for this trip. Today, HWSNBN wondered aloud, "Do you think we could do it with just one carry-on bag?"

The gauntlet was thrown down. "Challenge accepted!" I shouted, and got to packing.

Laptop bag, camera bag, carry-on, and Curious George

Several hours later, I have unlocked the Less is More achievement.

Three people, nine days, one carry-on, a laptop bag, and a camera bag. Oh, and The Imp's "suitcase", which is actually his daycare lunch bag, with two small books, two small toys of his choosing, and George, his constant companion. (He carries his own bag.)

Granted, it's Hawaii, a casual kind of place, and warm, so heavy clothes are not required. That makes it easier to fit it all in less space.

What are we bringing, you ask?

Bloggable, indeed. Grin.

The carry-on, which is the max size allowed for carry-on, contains:
Imp's clothes:
4 pairs underwear
bathing suit (board shorts & rashie)
4 t-shirts
1 short-sleeved button up collared shirt
3 pairs shorts
2 sets pajamas (granted, they're short sleeves & shorts sets)

HWSNBN's clothes:
3 short sleeved button up collared shirts
2 pairs shorts
swim trunks
4 pairs underwear

My clothes:
1 casual cotton skirt
bathing suit (tankini)
sarong
2 lululemon tank tops (with built-in bra)
1 sleeveless shirt
1 t-shirt
2 dresses
4 pairs underwear, 1 bra
nightie
sandals

1 litre ziploc bag of toiletries:
1 eyeliner, 1 lip gloss, 1 mascara
sample size toothpaste
sample size contact lens solution
2 pairs contact lenses
allergy meds
dental floss
3 toothbrushes
1 comb
3 hair elastics
men's deodorant, women's deodorant
20 Breathe Right strips, lest our marriage end before we return
1 set of invisalign braces, since I need to put in a new appliance on Tuesday

Oh, and a roll up real small tote to take snacks/towels/etc to the beach while we're there

Laptop bag contains:
macbook pro/power cable
car lighter to USB adaptor, wall plug to USB adaptor
wallet, passports, flight/hotel printouts
Kobo, USB cable
iphone, USB cable
glasses case: 1 pair prescription sunglasses, 1 pair non-prescription sunglasses
old school paper notebook/pen
100 page sticker activity book, Brain Quest alphabet write and erase set, fingerpainting art set (must keep The Imp busy while trapped in his seat for six hours)

Camera bag contains:
SLR w/35-70mm lens, additional 70-300mm lens
battery charger/cable, USB cable
315g package of Bassetts licorice all sorts for my uncle
pkg of 14 28g Hawkins Cheezies for my aunt
HWSNBN's pathetic excuse for a pillow - I have known towels that offered more padding
HWSNBN's sandals, The Imp's sandals

Bags are packed. Booyah.

And that's it. We haven't exactly deprived ourselves; it's still a lot of stuff. But it's a lot less than I took to Hawaii, traveling alone, when I was eighteen.

We'll wear our heavy items on the plane: boots/shoes, sweaters, winter jackets. Airplanes are always freezing anyway.

What's missing?
Enough clothes - wash in the sink, hang in the bathtub, or find an actual laundromat
Shampoo/conditioner/soap - hotel provides, or buy on arrival
Towels - hotel provides, both for the pool and the beach
Sunscreen - buy on arrival
Razors - buy disposable ones on arrival
Nail clippers/tweezers - either do without or buy on arrival and leave behind - I have strewn nail clippers and tweezers in my wake everywhere I've travelled for the last several years

So what do you think? Anything we're not bringing that you simply couldn't live without? Could you pack for nine days in one carry-on, a laptop bag, and a camera bag?

Things That Are True - When Husbands Go Bad

2011-11-23T23:23:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago, HWSNBN, who works freelance, finished a string of projects and immediately got sick, which is what happens when you run around at mach three with your hair on fire for a few months in a row. After he recovered from his bout of the plague, it was well-deserved lie around and watch tv time.

Except we canceled our cable almost a year ago as a cost- and Imp commercial exposure-cutting measure.

Sometimes Netflix just doesn't cut it, so HWSNBN went out and bought himself some DVDs, most notably the first season of the reboot of Hawaii 5-0. This will be relevant in a minute.

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A few nights ago, I made malasadas. They're a doughnut type delicacy of Portuguese origin, but are hugely popular in Hawaii.

This too will be relevant in a minute.

-----

I'm not sure if it was the malasadas, or the repeated viewings of Hawaii 5-0 over the last few days, but HWSNBN started to talk about the merits of a trip to Hawaii as he gazed out the window at the angry wind and rain of a Vancouver November.

He even, as a joke, started looking at airfare.

This put me in the unfamiliar and disconcerting position of being the voice of reason in this house. It's not in my natural skill set; I am the one who buys absurdly priced boots when I'm left to my own devices. He's supposed to be the sane one. For me to argue fiscal responsibility is just... odd. And yet, there I was, making my best case that a trip to Hawaii when I'm not earning an income and he's between jobs is maybe not, well, prudent. Also, we were just there a few months ago.

And then HWSNBN done lost his mind.

I fear there may be a lot of photos of this type in the near future.

In the space of an hour, he'd booked flights and hotel.

So, we leave shortly for the balmy shores of Oahu, and I'll be finishing NaBloPoMo from a very different part of the Pacific Ocean than the one I can see from my apartment window here in Vancouver.

I'm not complaining, lest there be any confusion on that point. But wow, I have a metric heapton of stuff to get done in the next couple of days.

Things That Are True - Recipe for Peace

2011-11-22T21:54:00.000-08:00

Earlier this evening I tweeted the following:

In the interest of world peace, I suppose it behooves me to post my recipe for all to see. HWSNBN may have married me for my blueberry pie, but I think the meatloaf is a big part of why he's still here.

Mix all this stuff with a cup of milk - world peace in a stainless steel bowl

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix all of the following ingredients in a bowl:

1 1/2 lbs of lean ground beef
1 onion, chopped
1 egg
4 or 5 cloves of garlic, minced
(Your mileage may vary - whenever I see a recipe that's supposed to feed 6 people that calls for 1 clove of garlic, all I can think is, "You're adorable.")
About a tablespoon of dried mustard powder
About a tablespoon of herbes de provence
2 or 3 tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce (I just let it glug into the bowl until I think there's enough.)
Three slices of bread, chopped small (or about 1/2 cup of dried breadcrumbs)
1 cup milk - I use soymilk to keep it dairy-free

Mix well, transfer to ungreased loaf pan, and spread about 1/2 cup of ketchup (or bbq sauce, or if you're really fancy, sundried tomato puree) all over the top of it to cover. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour 15 minutes, or until meat thermometer inserted in the centre reads 160 degrees.

I don't have a photo of the finished product - it came out of the oven and more or less immediately into the gaping maws of HWSNBN and The Imp. I also ate rather a lot of it. But really, it should sit for five to ten minutes to make it easier to slice.

If there are any leftovers, sandwiches are definitely the way to go.

Do you have a recipe that could be responsible for world peace? Can you share the link in a comment? Please?

Things I'm Learning - The Whole Santa Deal

2011-11-21T22:06:00.000-08:00

Christmas always blindsides me.

Here's the thing: I grew up in a home that did not celebrate Christmas, ever. We weren't Christian, we didn't celebrate Christian holidays. So for us it was just another day. No decorating, no gift-giving, no giant meal with family, no nothing.

This is not a pity party. We never had it, so I didn't miss it.

The first time I celebrated Christmas was in my mid-twenties. I was in my first serious relationship, and his family did Christmas. I went into Margaret Meade mode, nodded and smiled, and surreptitiously took notes. Christmas Eve, okay, got it. Christmas morning, oh, okay, I did not know that. Christmas Dinner, what the hell are these cracker things? And done.

Okay, good. I had a Christmas under my belt, and now I had it all figured out. I knew how to "do" Christmas. Wahoo. Check that off on the life list, I've got this shit wired. High fives for all my friends!

Here's what nobody tells you when you're on the outside looking in: Christmas is different for every family. There is no one way to do Christmas, and the traditions can vary pretty widely. The next boyfriend's family did things totally differently. I didn't know what was going on at all!

When HWSNBN and I started dating, I was experienced enough to know that I didn't know anything, so for the first year I sat and watched from the side lines. It's more or less the same every year: Christmas Eve at this cousin's house, Christmas morning with immediate family who aren't out of town with in-laws, Christmas dinner with extended family and close friends. Some visiting of elders between Christmas and New Year's. Okay. Ten years later, I'm pretty dialed in to the whole thing.

HWSNBN and I have never gone crazy at Christmas. In ten years I think we've had two Christmas trees. On alternate Christmases (my Christmases, which my family doesn't celebrate) we go away, usually to Paris, because in my heart of hearts that's where I actually live. Every year we agree not to get anything for each other for Christmas, and every year HWSNBN breaks the deal and I can't quite get mad at him for it, so I bake him a blueberry pie as a gift. Easy, right?

But having a kid? Changes everything.

Suddenly there's letting people know what The Imp would like for Christmas, there are children's Christmas parties, there are events at daycare, and there is Santa. I don't know from Santa. I'm totally baffled by the whole notion of Santa, frankly, and wonder how any of you that grew up with this mythical, magical figure could ever trust your parents again once you found out it was all a big lie. So rather than get it wrong, I have deferred all Santa dealings to HWSNBN. He's had an easy time of it so far, since with the exception of five minutes on the guy's lap every year, The Imp's been blissfully unaware of this whole fat-guy-gives-you-presents deal. But this year he knows there's a Santa - he must've heard about it from the kids at daycare. I have to admit, this makes me a little uneasy.

The Imp's first Christmas. Life was easier before he could talk.

I'm still determined to let HWSNBN handle this, but I feel like I should maybe know some background on this shady character. So please help me? Tell me what you tell your kids about Santa? Because I was the five year old that made all the kindergarten kids cry when I went to school and told them, "My mom says there's no such thing as Santa!" I don't think that's going to be the best way to approach this, somehow.

Halp!

Things That Are True - Grace in Small Things

2011-11-20T22:18:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Schmutzie, who created Grace in Small Things to "wage a battle against embitterment", I thought I'd take a second to slow down today and think about some of the little things that bring me joy. In no particular order:

1) What started out as a horrible day turned into an inadvertent afternoon attendance at a Theatre Sports performance, which made me laugh my bad mood right out of existence. Also my headache.

2) Asking The Imp what he likes and having him happily reply, "I like EVERYTHING!" Way to be, kid.

3) No bedtime shenanigans today.

4) The Imp's fever is gone.

5) I finally got my little 4x6 photo printer working again. Hurray!

Things That Are True - Of Friends, and Fondue, and Elections, and Buffy

2011-11-19T23:30:00.000-08:00

I spent this evening with girlfriends, gathered around the flickering blue light of the tv screen and the slightly less flickering lights of smart phones as we watched favourite episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, checked twitter, gossiped, ate (a truly epic spread of food) and monitored election results.

We rocked the multitasking, yo.

Not pictured: chocolate fondue pot, cheese fondue pot, bread platter

Also, if anyone's at Mayor Gregor's victory party tonight and catering's running low, we have an impressive array of leftovers we could drop off.

Sometimes a quiet night in with good friends is exactly the right thing to do. Thank you Gwen, Tracey, and Sandi. Let's do it again soon.

Maybe with slightly less food. (Urp.)

Things I'm Learning - Let it Snow

2011-11-18T22:35:00.000-08:00

This morning, there was snow.

Allow me to give you some background: I was born and raised in the Yukon. I know all about snow. I have walked in it, I have waded through it when it was hip deep. I have shoveled it, I have skidooed through it, I have played vigorous games wherein one person "washes" another (unsuspecting) person's face with it. As a teenager, I ran with friends through foresty hometown shortcuts when it had been snowing long enough to accumulate on the trees, and used my fist and forearm to whack tree trunks as I ran by, leaving my friends to get caught in the mini-avalanches behind me as snow slid off heavily laden branches.

I know from snow, and I spent twenty years in the territory, enduring it more months of the year than not.

I do not like snow.

When we go to Whistler, I get a pedicure while HWSNBN hits the slopes. I have tried skiing, and I was so bad at it I got pity lessons from an instructor on his day off when I was sixteen. He was French, and even though skiing sounds more charming in French (chasse-neige!), I still can't do it without both physical and emotional scarring. I have tried snowboarding, but I was so bad at that, that by the end of the day I was manipulating my falling body to land on my chest on purpose because it was the only part of me not bruised into agonized submission. I have cross country skied (I was not good at that either), and I have snowshoed (none of your fancy city snowshoes, either, mine were bent wood and animal parts and moose-hide laces).

I especially don't like snow in Vancouver, because almost no one knows how to drive in it, and a few inches of the white stuff can lead to some pretty spectacular clusterfucks on my city's streets.

So when I looked out the window at 7:00 this morning to see snow falling past our 21st floor windows, I was decidedly not amused.

I woke HWSNBN to let him know that I was going to take the car to my early exercise class because it was snowing. At that exact moment, The Imp came blinking into the dim light of our room, and came fully awake justlikethat.

The Imp: "It's snowing?"
Me, disgusted: "Yes, it's snowing outside."
The Imp, excited: "It's snowing?! I want to see!!"
Me, still not impressed: "Well then, go look out a window."

The Imp ran to our dining room window and pressed his nose against the glass. Inches away, big puffy flakes drifted lazily past him. He actually clapped, and started jumping up and down.

The Imp, turning to look at me, beaming: "Yay! This means we can build a snowman! Yay!!"

That gave me pause. To The Imp, a Vancouver-born child of three, snow's not something to be endured; it's a thing of myth and legend. It happens rarely, and it's cause for celebration.

Me, putting on my game face: "Yes, honey. That means we can build a snowman."

I went off to my class, and the boys got up and had breakfast. By the time I returned an hour and a half later, the skies had cleared. And much to The Imp's chagrin, it had warmed up enough outside that any snow on the ground when I left had already melted away.

My snow-hating self was given a reprieve.

Two things:

1) It is way too easy to pass our biases on to our kids without even realizing it - with a smidgen less self-awareness, I would have obliviously squashed all The Imp's joy this morning. That's something to think about.

2) I need to buy The Imp some mittens. Next time it snows, I'm blowing off the exercise class.

The Imp in the snow, November 2010, almost exactly a year ago

Things That Are True - Plans? What Plans?

2011-11-17T23:14:00.000-08:00

What's the saying? "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." According to google, it was John Lennon who said that, although I doubt he said it first, it being one of those universal truthy things that bonks us all upside the head on a fairly regular basis.

Oh, the things I was going to get done today! I was going to be the very model of productivity! No task left undone!

But yeah. A feverish three year old will muck that up. Especially when a fever that seemed to be going away suddenly spiked to 39.4 C and said three year old has a history of febrile seizures.

So instead, this is what most of the day looked like:

A feverish little boy, couch bound, tv on, Curious George as pillow

This is the part where I'm grateful that I have the freedom to put work aside and spend time helping my boy feel better, right?

Things That Are True - When the Fever Breaks

2011-11-16T23:00:00.000-08:00

I am not freaking out.

This is a good thing.

When I picked up The Imp at daycare today, he looked tired, and a little wan. My mom-spider senses got a little twitchy. On the ride home (all four minutes of it) he fell asleep. Since I had just been describing to a friend how The Imp never. stops. moving, to have him fall asleep at 5:30 in the afternoon was a bit of a red flag. We got inside the apartment, and all he wanted to do was sit in my lap.

Me: "Okay, honey, come sit in my lap for one minute and then I'll start making dinner."
The Imp: "No. I want to have a long, long, long, long, very long hug."
Me: "Okay. Come sit with me and let's have a hug."

The Imp crawled into my lap, rested his head against my chest, and put his little arms around me.

Me: "What should we have for dinner tonight? Would you like to have French toast?"
The Imp, holding me tighter: "No. I just want to have a long, long hug."

It should be noted that French toast is one of The Imp's favourite meals of all time. He loves to help me make it, he loves that it can be eaten with syrup or jam and how cool is that? He loves French toast. It is second only to blueberry pancakes in The Imp's little foodie heart.

When he didn't even lift his head off my chest at the mention of French toast, I knew we had a problem.

Me: "Honey, would you like to cuddle with Mommy on the couch?"
The Imp: "Yes."

Three minutes later he was sound asleep. His cheeks were flushed, and a thermometer gently placed in his armpit revealed a slightly elevated temperature.

In months past, I would've gone into crisis management mode. I would've immediately put him to bed, dosed him with ibuprofen, taken his temperature every 15 minutes. I would've set up Seizure Watch HQ in his room (basically a pallet on the floor for me to ~~not~~ sleep on) and I would've stared at him without blinking for as many hours as it took for the sun to come up again.

In other words, I would've freaked out.

Not without cause; he's had a couple of febrile seizures in the past, and they are terrifying to behold. But this time I feel like I've got a handle on it. Don't get me wrong, I still won't sleep much, but at least I'll be not sleeping in my own bed. I'll check on him every few hours, and if he spikes a real fever, I'll administer ibuprofen as required. But I'm not panicking. I don't have knots in my stomach. I'm not picturing him turning blue with foam coming out of his mouth, which is what his first febrile seizure looked like. (Seriously, the most horrible experience of my entire life, thinking I was watching my 16 month old dying in my arms. I have no words.)

He's a sturdy little boy who's had a runny nose for a couple of days, and his body's fighting off whatever ~~seething petri dish vector of disease~~ daycare bug he's picked up this week.

And I am not freaking out. He's fine.

Right?

Things That Are Random - Mid-November Edition

2011-11-15T23:38:00.000-08:00

So, today - just now, in fact - I did something I've never done before. I wrote an article submission to a print magazine and pressed send.

Whether it gets read or not, whether it's liked or not, I don't care. I sent it. (Of course I care. I care desperately. Shhh. Don't tell anyone.)

Oh, look! Here's me in an evening gown!

And, uh, scrambling for something to distract myself...

Well, this just happened:

Turns out, ice cream is always the answer.

Things That Are True - This World Falls On Me

2011-11-14T21:51:00.000-08:00

Today was a very blustery day. What leaves remained on the trees after last Friday's windstorm were sent skittering across sidewalks all around us as The Imp and I walked to daycare this morning. Intent on getting where we had to go, I didn't really notice them. My thoughts were on all the things I needed to accomplish today, my neverending to do list scrolling through my mind's eye. Mid-block just a few streets over from our own, The Imp stopped and tugged on my arm.

The Imp: Mom, it's so beautiful.
Me: Huh? What's beautiful, honey?
The Imp, pointing: All the leaves. All the leaves everywhere.

And he was right.

Leaves wind dancing in the tops of hedges


Leaves vivid as flowers bridging hedge and sidewalk

And a scarlet carpet to rival the work of master craftsmen

There are times he seems so wise that I need to remind myself that The Imp is only three. And there are times that I am so grateful that his three year old eyes are not yet jaded enough to walk past this without actually seeing it, as I would have if he hadn't stopped me and made me look.

"This world falls on me, I've got dreams of immortality
Everywhere I turn, all the beauty just keeps shaking me."
-Indigo Girls, World Falls

I need to stop and look more often. Thanks for the reminder, kid.

Things That Are True - Endless Tiny Goodbyes

2011-11-13T22:53:00.000-08:00

Tonight just before bedtime, The Imp came to me and demanded my attention. He put a dimpled little hand on either side of my face and very seriously said, "Mommy, I want to cuddle with you."

Who can say no to that? For one thing, he called me "Mommy".

But I am not a fool. This is a classic Imp bedtime-aversion tactic. Cuddling with me would temporarily delay the need for Picking up of Toys, and forestall the dreaded Brushing of Teeth and Putting on of Jammies.

So we made a deal. After all the toys were put away, and after he brushed his teeth, and once he was in his pajamas, then I would absolutely cuddle with him as he went to sleep - and curl up in bed with him I did.

We sang the "Night Night Song" - a little tune I made up way back in the breastfeeding days and have sung to him nightly since, and his other bedtime favourite, "Bye Bye Blackbird." Trust me when I tell you that you have not really lived until you've heard The Imp sleepily but earnestly trill out "No one here can love or understand me, Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me."

Bedtime hugs and kisses taken care of, lights turned out, blankets pulled up to his chin, he settled himself into the curves of my body as I lay next to him. "Hold hands, Mommy," he said as he reached for my fingers.

As I lay there with him tonight, in the dark, I was reminded of those terrified-new-parent newborn days with him. As he'd fall asleep in my arms or beside me in his co-sleeper, I'd listen so carefully for every breath, and jerk awake at every change in tempo or tenor, as if I could will him to keep living if I just paid enough attention.* Three and a half years later, I know and am comforted by the changes in his breathing; the way each breath slows and grows shallower as he drifts off to sleep. Instead of being alarmed by sudden spasms of a baby's startles, I smile to myself as I feel my big boy's limbs twitch in the first moments of slumber, and know that I can leave him to his dreams as I feel his grip on my fingers loosen.

He's getting so big.

I know it happens. Of course it happens. The only alternative is tragedy. We all know, intellectually, that our job as parents is to prepare our children to leave us. It takes a long time, but that's the end goal. I just don't think I ever really got that the leaving doesn't happen all at once, when they become teenagers, or when they go to university, or when they get married. The leaving happens daily, every minute. As a little mouth is nourished with solid food instead of milk from my own body, as little hands pull away from my grip while we cross the street, and as little legs learn to pump higher and higher without me pushing the playground swing. I love it, I do. I'm thrilled every day with his growing independence, with his confidence in his own body, with his relentless curiosity and enthusiasm for trying new things. But in the midst of celebrating this amazing person my son is becoming, there is also an endless series of tiny goodbyes. I mourn the newborn, and the learning to walk, and the first words.

Nobody tells you that part.

So as much as I'm a stern bedtime taskmaster, make no mistake: there is nothing that will get in my way when my big boy says "Cuddle with me, Mommy." I'll be mourning that too, soon enough.

*For the record, he was always a sturdy little lad and there was never any danger that he would suddenly stop breathing. I was just, like every brand new mom, totally and irrationally paranoid.

Things That Are True - Ingredients

2011-11-12T22:55:00.000-08:00

I am so full.

In keeping with my belief about good food, good friends, and good stories, we had a friend over to share a meal with us tonight. There was roast beef, and yorkshire pudding, and glazed carrots, and mashed potatoes. And gravy. Mustn't forget the gravy, for it was made with roasted onions and bacon drippings and it was a glorious experience in and of itself.

Here's something you didn't know you needed to know: it is perfectly advisable to make yorkshire pudding with soy milk. This was the first time I tried it without regular milk, and it was delicious. If you didn't know, you wouldn't know.

For dessert we had warm chocolate chip cookies and home made ice cream. Well, sort of ice cream. I suppose legally I'd have to call it non-dairy frozen dessert.

But not the kind you can get in the grocery store. Have you seen what goes into that?

Click the photo to embiggen.

I've found frozen fruit purees that have no multisyllabic chemistry major words in the ingredient list, but nothing that actually approximates ice cream. No matter how "health food" the store or brand, I've never been able to find any non-dairy ice cream whose ingredient list didn't give me the heebie jeebies. So I thought, "How hard can it be to make soy ice cream at home?" Convincing HWSNBN that buying an ice cream maker was in his best interest wasn't too difficult.

Here's what goes into our homemade soy ice cream:

Soy milk, vanilla extract, and sugar

The recipe, adapted from the instruction booklet that came with the ice cream maker:

4 1/2 cups of soymilk
1 cup of sugar
1 tablespoon of vanilla extract

Mix soymilk and sugar together in a bowl until the sugar dissolves. Stir in the vanilla extract. Pour the mixture into your ice cream maker, and turn it on. (Follow your ice cream maker's instructions.)

Then make some chocolate chip cookies while you wait for the ice cream to freeze.

Serve warm cookies with cold ice cream and receive the undying gratitude and admiration of your friends and family.

I really am absurdly full. Urp.

Things That Are True - Lest We Forget

2011-11-11T21:07:00.000-08:00

Today, as we do on every November 11th, we took The Imp to Victory Square for the Remembrance Day ceremony. He handled it well, singing O Canada with enthusiasm, being quiet when quiet was called for, listening to the amplified voices and trying to make sense of what he heard.

I don't know how much he understood. I don't think it matters, at this point. We haven't talked a lot about war with The Imp; he is, after all, only three. But he knows that his Granddad was in the air force during World War II, and he knows that a lot of people, including a lot of Granddad's friends, didn't ever come home.

Granddad - almost certainly the source of The Imp's good looks

The Imp did recognize that it was a solemn occasion. When the uniformed men in front of us saluted, The Imp raised his arm and brought his fingertips to his temple in imitation. When the children's choir sang, "In Flanders Fields" The Imp, in my arms, whispered, "They sound sad." And when the guns boomed out their twenty-one salutes from nearby Portside Park, The Imp looked at me with wide eyes and said, "That sounds like thunder."

Yes, yes it does sound like thunder.

May you never hear them in any other context, my beautiful boy.

Things That Are Random - Thursday in November Edition

2011-11-10T21:42:00.000-08:00

File under: Things I do when I am not here

I've been spending some time over at Vancouver Mom:

I hit the West End Farmers Market.
I rounded up Halloween stuff for downtown Vancouver kids.
I wrote about one of our favourite little restaurants on Robson St.
I wrote a couple of articles about basic cycling gear.
And I've been getting some exercise other than cycling.

File under: General update

I've been sending out resumes and looking for full- or part-time work. Going away for a three week chunk at the end of December is making that search a bit more difficult than I'd like, but at this point it would cost a lot of money to cancel. Plus, I really want to go to Paris, so.

I've been getting things organized over at Chill Monkeys.

The carpets stay. Everything else goes.

I've been purging like mad. Another six or seven bags of junk left the house yesterday.

I've been not sleeping much. I've been cooking a lot. I've been thinking about going back to school. Again.

And as soon as I hit "publish" I will have posted something here ten days in a row. I don't know if I've ever done that before.

G'night, all.

Things That Are True - Echoes

2011-11-09T23:13:00.000-08:00

The second he woke up this morning, The Imp came striding out into the living room where I was curled up with a book, looked at me very intensely, and made the following announcement:

The Imp: I am taking away all your treats.

(We use the phrase "take away your treats" to keep his behaviour in line.)

Me: Really. Why are you taking away all my treats?
The Imp: Because you said no tv. So I'm taking away your treats.
Me: Why do you think I said no tv?
The Imp: I don't know.
Me: Because you were shouting and hitting last night at bedtime. Am I shouting? Am I hitting?
The Imp, reluctantly: Noooo.

It's so interesting to hear my own words echoed back to me by my child. I'm fascinated, watching him figure out how much power he has, how much power his words have. He's figuring out his place. He's crafting his worldview. And when I hear my words come out of his mouth, I'm keenly aware of how much influence I have on that.

I was reminded of this again later this morning, after breakfast, as we were getting dressed for daycare. He wasn't cooperating, and I told him if he didn't get dressed rightnow there would be no treats after school. He looked at me, dejectedly looked at his feet, and quietly said, "Fuck."

(Well, yay for using it in the correct context, I guess?)

Me, quietly: What did you say?
The Imp: Fuck.
Me: Honey, we don't say that word.
The Imp: You say it all the time.

(Um, yeah. He had me there.)

Me: You're right, I do say it. But I shouldn't. It's not a nice word. How about if I don't say it anymore, and you don't say it anymore either?
The Imp: Okay.

So we finished getting him dressed and got him off to daycare. There were no horrified stories of dropped f-bombs on pickup this afternoon, so I'm hoping that's the end of it. For now, anyway.

And I really do need to get a handle on the things I say. There's an echo in here.

Things That Are True - My Kid's a Genius

2011-11-08T22:17:00.000-08:00

The other day The Imp was paging through a magazine that was sitting on our coffee table. He paused at a shampoo ad and looked up at HWSNBN.

The Imp: Is this a commercial?
HWSNBN, glancing up from his reading: Yes, it is. It's a commercial for shampoo.
The Imp: There's a girl in the commercial. Do only girls use this shampoo?
HWSNBN, taking more interest now: Well, I think that mostly women would use that shampoo, yes.
The Imp, not satisfied: But how many? How many girls use the shampoo?
HWSNBN: I don't know. I'd guess that this kind of shampoo would be used by women 95% of the time.
The Imp stops; thinks. Then: So only 5% of the time boys would use it?

HWSNBN and I gawk at each other across the room. Um, what?

The Imp is three years old. I fear he may be smarter than both of us.

(Help!)

But also: how awesome is it that my genius three year old can differentiate between editorial and advertising? Do we win at parenting or what?!

Things That Are True - A Debt of Gratitude

2011-11-07T23:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we had dinner with HWSNBN's mom, my brother- and sister-in-law and their three kids, The Imp's "big cousins" who he absolutely adores. Without fail, when we visit, he doesn't want to leave. Last night, way past his bedtime, he was chanting, "Never, ever, never go home again!" when it was time to head for the car.

There was no special occasion, just another family dinner. We bring wine and a home-made dessert; last night's blueberry tarts being a particular favourite. My brother-in-law is a brilliant cook, my mother-in-law always loves a family party, and that house with those people in it is The Imp's personal version of heaven on earth. The kids, ranging in age from 7 - 16, are fantastic with him. It's always a chaotic, kids running everywhere, ten conversations going on at once kind of event.

My contribution to last night's feast

Last night as I looked around the joyfully cacophonous dinner table, I was a little sad that The Imp is one of one. There will be no more kids for us; a decision we made consciously before he was born. We love our lives as parents, but another child, no matter how wanted and loved, would introduce a slew of complications. There'd be obvious financial concerns, we'd have to move, we'd have less freedom, we couldn't travel as much... Assuming we could even get pregnant again, I'm not exactly of prime child-bearing age anymore. Keeping up with one three year old stretches me to my snapping point; I'm not sure how well I'd handle a newborn too.

We've had people tell us that our attitude is selfish, that we're doing The Imp a disservice by not giving him a sibling. (They're usually people who don't know what a struggle it was to conceive at all.) We've also had people who grew up as only children tell us it was the best thing ever and that they were glad they never had a brother or sister. There's no one right way to be a family, and this works for us.

But seeing The Imp enjoy his cousins so much tugs at my heart.

Then again, watching him in conversation with his Uncle Ron, laughing at Auntie Jane's funny faces, and running wild in the back yard with the big kids fills me with gladness. They don't just tolerate him, they love him. It's plain to see. If anything were to happen to HWSNBN and I, The Imp would eventually be okay.

There's a safe haven outside our home where he is truly loved.

No amount of home-made blueberry tarts can ever equal that.

Things That Are True - Rules to Live By

2011-11-06T22:18:00.000-08:00

Rule to Live By #1:

When life gives you a beautiful fall day and time to spend with your favourite people, don't be a fool. Take it and run with it.

Rule to Live By #2:

Pastry dough is no trifling matter.

Rule to Live By #3:

Dance every chance you get.

Things That Are True - Evening Gloves

2011-11-05T23:58:00.000-07:00

A kajillion years ago, I bought black satin evening gloves at a second hand shop. I bought them to wear to the cast and crew Christmas party when I first worked on X-Files as a production assistant. After spending all my work days outside in the rain in polar fleece and gore tex and hiking boots, the opportunity to dress up like a girl and go to a party was not to be wasted; I went all out.

Then I tucked the black gloves into a drawer of my dresser, where they sat, basically untouched, for the next fifteen years. One year, back when I was single, I got all dressed up to watch the Oscars by myself in my apartment. Evening gown, hair, makeup: the works. Why not, right? Just because I was single and alone didn't mean I couldn't be eccentric, after all. I pulled out the gloves and put them on, just for fun. And then I took them off almost immediately because they were making it hard to eat potato chips.

In the years since, except for the occasional purge of my wardrobe, they've remained untouched at the back of my top dresser drawer. Every time I go through my clothes I think about getting rid of them. What use are evening gloves when I'm asleep by 9pm more often than not? Where does black satin formal wear fit in my life parenting a three year old? Why bother hanging on to them?

But I never got rid of them, I think because over time they came to represent a side of me I didn't get to play with very often; someone other than maker of lunches, kisser of owies, and reader of bedtime stories. It's so easy to get lost in the mundane and repetitive motions of the every day imperatives. This business of being a grown up is usually more serious than not. Having those gloves tucked away reminded me that I was capable of dress up, of sparkly - of whimsy, even.

Tonight I got all dressed up and went to a party. At the last minute I remembered the gloves, pulled them out, and put them on. And it felt good.

Now that I'm home, makeup removed, tortuous (but gorgeous) shoes put away, and party dress hung back in my closet, I'll tuck the gloves back in to their accustomed spot in the back of my top dresser drawer. It may be fifteen years before I wear them again. I hope not.

But next time? I'm busting out my tiara from the wedding box and putting it on too.

Things That Are True - Four Questions

2011-11-04T22:59:00.000-07:00

Apropos of nothing, the view from our dining room these days

The lovely and supremely talented Catherine Jackson wrote a recap post about Blissdom Canada '11, answering four questions that Catherine Connors asked at the beginning of her opening keynote. I've been meaning to do the same, and here's my stab at it:

What don't people know about you?

In the late nineties I was briefly the chick singer in a funk/r&b cover band made up of Vancouver film crew folk. We played a few industry parties, and fourteen year old me almost died of the squee once when Rob Lowe danced in the crowd as I sang "Chain of Fools".

What are some things about which you are knowledgeable?

Film/scripted television production
Baking pies, especially apple and lemon meringue, but I can't stand and won't make pumpkin.
Grammar
Formula One auto racing

What are some things about which you are not at all knowledgeable?

Coding/programming
Photography - although I take thousands of pictures, I still don't know how to work my very basic SLR
Modern art

What are some things that you believe?

I believe that friends are the family you choose for yourself. I believe that no one can silence me unless I let them. I believe that every person I meet has a story to tell, and experience I can learn from. I believe that it's important to engage with people with whom I don't agree and have my own assumptions challenged regularly. I believe that if you don't vote, you don't get to complain. I believe that dancing with a small child in my arms is the best possible use of five minutes in any given day. I believe that good food and good stories with good friends is the best kind of party. I believe that the act of making something, anything, connects me to basic truths about myself in a way that consumerism never will.

And I believe that connecting with others over shared experience - whether face to face or simply here in my little corner of the internet - keeps me more than five minutes away from being naked in a bell tower with a sniper rifle.

Thank you for being here.

(And it's possible one or two law enforcement agencies would thank you too, if they knew.)

Things That Are True - Smashing Pumpkins

2011-11-03T22:10:00.000-07:00

The Imp wanted an angry face. I did the best I could.

Today our lone remnant of Halloween, The Imp's jack-o'-lantern, sat on the kitchen table, its scorched insides starting to emit fruit fly-attracting odours.

HWSNBN: Maybe I should take this whole thing out into the hallway and just pitch it down the garbage chute.

Me, looking at our balcony: Dude, if we are going to throw a 14 inch pumpkin down 21 stories, I want to see it smash at the bottom.

HWSNBN, beaming: That, right there, is why I married you.

(I wish, oh how I wish, that I could report that we did, in fact, chuck old Jack over the balcony railing. Alas, death of an innocent by pumpkin from above is frowned upon and legal counsel advised against it.)

Things That Are True - Burning Down the House

2011-11-02T22:13:00.000-07:00

I am having that day; the day when I look around and feel like I'd be better off if I just burned it all down and started over. Picking through the embers and the ashes I'd find that which really matters to me, and just leave everything else behind.

Of course, the landlord might not be keen on me committing arson in or near his property.

It's a concrete building, but still.

A decade ago I was all about acquiring things. New furniture, designer clothes, a cool car; I was a good little consumer and diligently practiced acquisitiveness on a regular basis. Now, I would just as happily throw everything I own out the window (Except maybe my laptop. And one or two books. And the Armani suit I swear I'll fit back into some day.) as ever deal with any of it again. I feel like I'm constantly getting rid of things, and yet there's always too much stuff in my physical (and mental) space. It's like being at a rock concert that's just a little bit too loud (and that's how you know I'm getting old, as if a rock concert could be too loud, for the love of Mike) and not being able to leave.

It exhausts me, this stuff.

I am ever vigilant. The three of us live in 950 square feet. There is no room for excess, and yet it always feels like I'm not quite keeping up with the incoming tide. Toys are passed on the moment they're outgrown, books are read and given away, our clothes closets are purged regularly. I have foisted shoes on my friends, and traded a cast iron frying pan for waterproof cycling gloves. I have quietly divested myself of wedding gifts we don't use, appliances that take up more space than they're worth (how are you liking that juicer, Skot?) and been inching towards minimalism on several levels, but I still always feel like a wave of clutter is about to knock me on my ass.

So here's what I've been doing to strip away the things I don't want to deal with anymore:

I sold my car. I didn't use it often enough to justify the expense, and when HSWNBN bought a new-to-us car in June, we decided to take the plunge and become a one-car family. I now bicycle everywhere with The Imp towed in a trailer behind me.

I remove at least three items from my home daily that are never to return - even if it's just taking out the recycling, something leaves my house every day. I've put up photos on flickr and offered things free to the first taker on twitter. I've left stuff in the back alley behind our building - a guaranteed way to make it disappear in less than ten minutes. No way to change my mind and decide to keep things "just in case".

Anything new that comes in the house is balanced by something leaving the house. New toy in, old one goes out. New book, furniture, clothing, bedding, towels: same deal.

Digital clutter: look how tidy!

I'd been keeping old guitar, cooking, and crochet magazines because I might get to them someday. (Ah, the little lies we tell ourselves!) Instead of giving them valuable apartment real estate, I scanned the articles/projects I liked, and put the magazines down in my building's laundry room where they went on to find new homes. I now have digital clutter instead of physical clutter, but at least it's hidden away in a folder on a hard drive and not taking up space where I can actually see it.

Now I just need to figure out what to do with the detritus that somehow accumulates on flat surfaces. There is not a counter, table top, or cabinet that doesn't at some point fall prey to the migrating piles of paper that infest this house. It's like a plague or something. Or an STD. The piles just get passed from one flat surface to another and never really go away. How can I deal with this stuff? Someboday save me! I'm open to suggestion, people.

My goal, as I get older, is to have less and less physical stuff in my living space. I'd love to reduce what I own every year, so that by the time I die, my house is almost entirely empty except for the stacks of lush Persian carpets to gently break my final fall.

Sigh. A girl can dream.

Things That Are True - Blissdom Canada and Why I Blog

2011-11-01T23:52:00.000-07:00

I went to Blissdom Canada, and it was seventeen kinds of awesome. I sat at a table of people who called themselves writers, and no one told me I was in their seat, or sitting at the wrong table. I called myself a writer out loud in front of other people and no one laughed.

We discussed the narcissism inherent in publishing on a public platform. We asked what makes a person a "real" writer. We talked about audience, and voice, and where our own boundaries are about what we feel comfortable with putting out there.

The conference sessions I attended were fantastic. I drank it all in greedily; this knowledge and practical experience of (dare I say?) my peers, and it left me giddy.

The takeaway, for me:

Blogging, women's blogging in particular, seems to break down into two basic styles: review/product/brand ambassador blogging, where it's a job, or a gateway to a job or some kind of income; and more personal blogging which is less a means to an end and more a need to get things out. I'm not saying one style is better or more engaging than the other, and there are those who do both and those who do neither. Generalization's always a tricky thing, but I did notice the same faces over and over again at the art track sessions I attended.

-----

I just have to write. As Tanis Miller, Bonnie Stewart, and Elan Morgan said in their session on finding your muse: inspiration is bullshit. Over and over again, I heard people talk about the need to just write. To get over the being stuck, to get past the fear of writing badly, to take it seriously enough to do it even when (especially when) it's really difficult. I realized that I actually don't care if I'm not one of the cool kids because I'm still using Blogger. I don't give a damn about ranking on google, or writing posts that are the right length and have the right keywords. But I will admit that writing at all is often a struggle for me, despite the fact that I can't imagine not doing it. I left Blissdom feeling so connected, so ready to come home and blog fearlessly.

And then I didn't.

I think about writing all day, every waking minute. I'm constantly composing posts and articles in my head, knowing just how I'll word what I want to say, and then I sit at my keyboard and excuses start to flood my brain. I get caught up in my own head, I worry about who might be reading, and I get stuck on things I need to write about that aren't entirely my story to tell.

It was liberating to hear that other people - people whose writing leaves me gasping, grinning, and weeping - struggle too. I've been inclined to think of myself as a failure because I can't just sit down and have the words flow magically all the time, even though I know intellectually that no one can.

What I need to do is just write.

-----

Finding your tribe is a powerful, powerful thing.

Catherine Connors, in her opening keynote, talked about intellectual hubris, the echo-chamber of surrounding yourself with people who already agree with you, and the importance of seeking out the other in order to make meaning and build community. It was a tremendous speech, and I don't disagree, but there's also value in finding the people who do think the way you do - if only to reassure yourself that you're not entirely crazy.

Like BlogHer back in August, Blissdom Canada was an amazing experience. The sessions were informative, and hilarious, and inspiring. The parties were fun!

But like BlogHer, the real takeaway for me was in the smallest of moments: staying up all night like college girls talking to my most excellent roommate, Jeanette; sharing a tearful moment in a crowded room; grabbing lunch at a restaurant with real tablecloths just because we could; connecting about the experience of living up north, bonding over a shared crush on Peter Mansbridge. None life-changing in and of themselves, but in the aggregate, a powerful thing.

These moments, these interstitial moments - away from the busy-ness, and business, of the conference itself - these shiny bits of truth are what I take home with me and treasure.

-----

And now I will hit publish, because I finally sat down and just wrote something.

Things I'm Doing - Blissdom, Baby!

2011-10-12T16:37:00.000-07:00

On the plane.

---------------

This morning I woke The Imp at an ungodly hour because last night he told me he wanted to come to the airport to say goodbye to Mom.

He calls me "Mom" now. He's three, and he calls me "Mom". If "Mama" went by the wayside in exchange for "Mommy!" way too early, I'm really not ready to be just "Mom". I've got a lot of my own identity tied up in being "Mommy." "Mommy" is needed; the kisser of hurts, the smoother of a feverish brow, the watcher in the night, the knower of things. "Mommy" is the provider of cuddles for those blissful drifting off to sleep moments when the eyelids droop and the breathing slows. "Mommy" is still holding on when the startles of early slumber shake little boy limbs.

But "Mom" - "Mom" is letting go. "Mom" is watching big boy legs run away to play at daycare drop off. "Mom" is having to ask for a hug and a kiss while distracted eyes look past to playground friends. "Mom" is help with homework, source of money for video games, and maker of unjust rules.

"Mom" never lets me have any fun!

He's only three. I'm not ready to be "Mom" yet.

This is parenthood, isn't it? A long, aching, drawn out process of holding tight and letting go.

---------------

They are coming around with headphones now. (Damn, why do I never remember to bring my own? I have a growing pile of Air Canada be-logoed headphones at home.)

---------------

He wanted to come to the airport to say goodbye. Insisted he didn't want to sleep in with Dad.

(At least he's also dropped "Daddy" in favour of "Dad". That comforts me, like there's a fairness there. "It's not just me he's walking away from," my ego says. My ego doesn't give a damn about ending a sentence with a preposition, apparently.)

So I woke him up, and he was not happy.

"I don't want you to go to Toronto," he pouted. "I don't want you to go!" he shouted.

"I will fight you," he stated, matter of factly.

Is it bad that I was pleased he wanted me to stay? Is it awful that I still couldn't wait to go - to have an adventure for and by myself?

---------------

I just paid $10.08 for a chicken wrap and a can of Pringles. The freedom! The glamour of modern air travel!

---------------

It's been over three years since I've been on a flight alone. I bought a New Yorker at the airport magazine stand, just because I could. No interruptions, no questions, no reassurances, no thinking about anyone but me. No little grasping hands.

(I miss the little grasping hands.)

---------------

I'm going to Blissdom Canada today. Let the adventure begin.

Things That Are True - Thanksgiving

2011-10-10T14:19:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, I was sitting, surrounded by family and friends, at a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner, and it was everything I could do just to hold it together and not weep into my plate of turkey.

Nobody but HWSNBN and I knew I was six weeks pregnant. And no one but HWSNBN and I knew I was bleeding.

The doctor we'd seen two days before had told us it was almost certainly a miscarriage. We'd done blood tests to determine if the pregnancy was progressing or not, but that was on a Friday before the long weekend. The results weren't available yet.

After six years of trying, many many dollars spent on fertility tests and treatments, and seven cycles of IUI, I'd finally gotten the longed-for two pink lines on the pregnancy test. We'd been toying with the idea of telling our extended family at Thanksgiving dinner - what could make a room full of people we loved more thankful than news that the circle around that same table would be one larger the next year?

I looked normal on the outside, but I was falling apart. I alternated between being heartbroken, feeling numb, and wanting to scream. We said nothing.

We learned a few days later that what I was experiencing was a subchorionic bleed; first through blood tests, and then confirmed by ultrasound a week later when we heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time. The pregnancy went to term. And now, four years later, we have The Imp creating a noisy joyful whirlwind of confusion in our lives.

Every year as we sit around the family dinner table discussing the things that make us grateful I wonder, "What if...?"

And when people ask me, "What are you thankful for this day?" it's easy to answer.

This day and every day.

Things That Are Random - Tuesday in September Edition

2011-09-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

This morning, once through with my appointment at the dentist, I bent over to pick up my bag and my bicycle helmet, and as I stood up I banged my forehead straight into the hard metal elbow of the fancy articulated dentist shine-it-right-in-your-eyes-interrogation-style lamp above the chair. I am now sporting a purplish bump just right of centre ice.

My right, your left.

I will tell people who ask that it's from the unicorn horn extraction.

The lesson here, folks, is don't take off your bicycle helmet at the dentist's office. Safety first, always.

-----

I found a stolen moment this morning and used it to sit on a bench at English Bay, coffee in hand, sun on my face, and enjoy the world going by on a perfect fall day. It was bliss.

I found another moment this afternoon and tried to replicate the first one. Alas, it was ruined by Proselytizing Man, who was peddling the harshest and most judgmental Dude in the Sky version of Christianity to any solo female he could trap on a bench.

The fact that he wasn't trying to corner guys and force his religion on them says something, I'm sure, but I find it icky and don't want to examine it too closely at the moment.

My lack of personal belief in God is never going to be changed by a guy who looks like a pedophile preying on women sitting alone at the beach and telling them if they don't love God and believe in the bible that they must love wickedness and are surely going to hell.

I wanted to smite him.

If that's the kind of person He calls to spread His message, I have to call bullshit on the whole All-Knowing-All-Powerful schtick. Honestly, Big Guy, your judgment's a little questionable there.

The lesson here, folks, is don't try to recreate a perfect moment. Make a new one.

-----

In the last three days I have seen no fewer than four young hipster dudes carrying a reproduction retro CBC Radio shoulder bag. This one.

I carried that bag three years ago. As a diaper bag, no less. (Now I want this bag.)

(The Imp is fully potty trained. I just want the bag.)

There's no lesson here, folks. Except that maybe my kid's diapers/wet wipes/bum cream were hipster before hipster was cool.

-----

Tonight at bedtime, The Imp said, "I want fireworks."

"There are no fireworks tonight, honey. Fireworks only happen in the summer. It's not summer now, it's autumn. There won't be fireworks again until Canada Day. That's in July. That's after your next birthday, when you'll be four. There are no fireworks tonight. Now, get into your pyjamas, buddy."

And then, just as he was settling down to sleep, we heard what I thought was the nine o'clock gun. Except that it kept going off.

"Fireworks, Mom! Those are fireworks!"

I went to his window, pulled back the curtain, and yes. Fireworks by Canada Place, courtesy of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, who were marking the end of their convention here tonight. Thanks, guys. A heads up would have been nice.

Big fireworks, and they went on for a long time. Long enough for HWSNBN, my mother (in town visiting for the week), The Imp and I to gather in our bedroom and watch them out the window.

Long enough for us to grow weary of standing, and to sit on the bed.

Long enough for us to grow weary of sitting, and lie down on the bed.

Long enough for The Imp to turn to me several times and say smugly, "I told you there was fireworks, Mom."

And long enough for me to explain the definition of gloating, complete with etymology, in words a three year old could understand.

The lesson here, folks, is that the IBEW will make you look like a lying liar. Also, when life hands you fireworks, gather your family close and watch from a comfortable spot.

-----

I wrote this post as part of Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write project. Check it out here.

Things That Are True - Epic Cuteness

2011-09-09T22:31:00.000-07:00

In case you were in any doubt that I have somehow spawned one of the cutest boys that ever did live, I submit here for your viewing pleasure, the video we made tonight to send to HWSNBN to say goodnight:

And with that, I'm off to bed myself. Because hitting publish on a new post at 10:30pm on a Friday is an awesome way to build traffic to your blog, yo.

Things That Are Random - Thursday Night Edition

2011-09-01T22:34:00.000-07:00

While I have not been here, I have been doing other things:

I wrote about why cycling rocks.

I wrote about sandwiches to salivate over.

I wrote about my five favourite things on Denman St.

That's right, I'm the new downtown contributor for Vancouver Mom!

I also waged battle against another Cold of Doom. I used to get the sniffles, feel yucky for a couple of days, and get over it. Now a cold lasts weeks, I'm unable to function for many days, and traces of it linger on long after the worst has passed. What's up with that? (I am not getting older. I am not getting older.)

Oh yeah, and I turned 41. (I am not getting older.)

BlogHer '11 was seventeen kinds of awesome, and then some. Every time I sit down to do a recap post, my head explodes.

Traverse Trip was seventeen different kinds of awesome. I'll do a recap post of that, too, when my head's done exploding from the other one.

Honestly, there's so much awesome in my life at the moment that I need a thesaurus to describe it.

You know what else is awesome? Sidewalk chalk, and a boy who won't stop moving, that's what.

Things I Know Are True - 41st Birthday Edition

2011-08-24T16:54:00.000-07:00

Me, at an unapologetic 41 years of age.

On the occasion of my 41st birthday, I thought I'd sit down, take stock, and write a list of things I know are true.*

I don't need more storage space, I need less stuff. The battle against clutter must be vigilantly waged.
I don't understand boots with open toes, or sandals with ankle cuffs.
I'll never be one of the cool kids. Even the cool kids aren't the cool kids.
The best way to save money is to stop buying stuff. When you do need to buy stuff, never pay list. (That being said, I'll never buy cheap ice cream, makeup, or toilet paper.)
There are no flaws. (Thank you, Karen Walrond.) When I stop worrying about what other people think of me, I start to appreciate the beauty all around me. This song's been on constant repeat in my head the last few days.
As I get older, I care less about looking foolish and I make less apologies for who I am.
"Let's dance, Mommy!" is my cue to drop everything, pick up The Imp, and get my funk on. Best use of five minutes on any given day, and he'll be embarrassed by it soon enough.
Nothing gives me more satisfaction than seeing my friends and family enjoy a meal I've prepared.
Wheaton's Law always applies.
Leggings are not pants.

Let's see what's on this list a year from now, shall we? In the meantime, what's true for you?

*These are things that are true for me. Your mileage may vary.

Wordless Wednesday - Home

2011-08-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

It's good to be home.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 7

2011-08-09T00:03:00.000-07:00

In Portland. Karen is tidying up after our last in-room hotel picnic meal. Tomorrow we'll be home.

I did all the driving today: nine hundred and fifty eight kilometres. It's worked out that I've done most of the driving for the entire trip. There've been moments during the day while the others write, read, or nap, that I've looked out at the "...fine white lines, the white lines, on the free freeway" and let my thoughts wander.

I've noticed the long black scars of sudden braking on asphalt, and thought about the near misses they must represent. My eyes have followed the twin tracks of rubber that disappear off the edge of the road into grass, or gravel, or guardrails, and the tragedies they bear silent witness to as they flash by my hundred kilometre per hour windows.

In the quiet moments, with the radio off and the others occupied, I've thought about my own near misses.

Countless moments of stupidity.

Alcoholism.

Abuse at the hands of a man I thought loved me.

And yet, here I am.

Five hundred and four kilometres of scarred asphalt framed in the windshield remain between me and the end of this great adventure.

I miss my boys. I can't wait to be home.

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself. The navel gazing is free of charge, and entirely my own.

Also, I'm pretty sure Hejira is my favourite Joni Mitchell album.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 6

2011-08-07T23:23:00.000-07:00

Interesting what three days of driving plus three days of BlogHer plus one day of driving can do to a person. I just checked into a perfectly reputable hotel outside Sacramento, California, looking like this:

Make way for the crazy lady, y'all.

Also, yes my phone case is a monster face. Because I am twelve.

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself. And the crazy just comes for free.

Things I'm Proud Of - Eighteen Years

2011-08-06T23:34:00.000-07:00

Eighteen years, friends.

My sobriety is, as of today, old enough to vote. It's old enough to send to college, old enough to be legally married, old enough to serve in the armed forces. It's old enough, believe it or not, to drink in Alberta, Quebec, and Manitoba.

Exactly eighteen years ago today, I woke up, took a long look at a tumbler of scotch by my bedside, and decided not to drink it.

I don't know why I didn't; I don't think I knew in that moment that I never again would.

Eighteen years. Sobriety's been a part of my life for me so long that I struggle to remember what it was like without it.

I remember events, and anecdotes. Flashes of experience, like someone else's old home movie. But I don't really remember being that person who needed to drink to feel normal. I'm not her anymore.

But I was. And that's what makes me an alcoholic.

Quitting drinking was the hardest thing I've ever done. I forget that sometimes, because it was so long ago. The days when it was a conscious decision - sometimes on an hourly basis - to not drink are far behind me. Now it's just part of who I am, like my green eyes or my delight in the absurd.

I only know my own story, and I'll tell it to anyone who wants to listen. But for now, I'll just say this: getting sober's hard. But I promise you it gets easier. I promise you.

I promise you.

I'm Alexis, and I've been sober eighteen years.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 4

2011-08-05T16:43:00.000-07:00

It feels good to be not driving.

Not watching for road signs, not finding rest stops, not filling the gas tank.

Except I'm doing all of those things anyway, metaphorically at least.

The BlogHer experience is overwhelming. I knew this going in; I scheduled some quiet and alone time into the weekend. I didn't seek party invitations or product launches in the weeks leading up to this event. And today I am happy to just be.

I've sat in sessions today and been shown road signs: Why do you blog? What do you want to get out of blogging? What are your goals?

I blog because I can't not write. I want to tell my story, flawed as it may be. I want to know that there are others who have been there: alcoholism, triumph, identity crisis, motherhood. I want to leave a record for my son, so that he might know one day who I am, what I'm afraid of, what I love.

I've found some rest stops.

I hosted the Serenity Suite for an hour. I'll do it again tomorrow. I've had the opportunity to speak one on one, if ever so briefly, with some bloggers I admire greatly.

I've filled the gas tank.

I've sat in sessions and wept at the resonances. I've looked at these women, these smart, funny, accomplished women who accept me as one of their tribe. I've felt like I belonged.

And that is no small thing.

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 3

2011-08-05T00:15:00.000-07:00

Today there was shopping. Oh yes, my friends, there was shopping.

And I made the mistake of trying on a pair of boots before I actually looked at the price.

I saw them from across the store. It's possible that I actually said, "Helloooo, lover" as I reached to touch them for the first time.

"Doyouhavethisinaneight?" I asked, absentmindedly, as I stroked the soft brown leather.

Seth, the architect of my doom, was very helpful. He brought me the brown boots in a size seven and a size eight. He brought the same boots in black. In fact, he came out of the stock room with five or six pairs of the things, ready for me to try on.

So I did, and it was my undoing.

The boots of my dreams, they were. Soft, buttery leather. The exact right height, a perfect fit below my knees. A low heel, ideal for walking in.

I had to have them. Had to. I justified it in all kinds of ways. I've been looking for precisely these boots for five years. I've always wanted sort-of-riding-boots. They're such great quality I will wear them forever. The colour is exactly right. They fit perfectly - something that's been a challenge since my pregnancy when my feet changed shape.

And they were discounted; I would save four hundred dollars.

Yeah. I know. I have lost my ever-loving mind. Learn from my folly: do not walk into a Ferragamo store. Just don't. Trust me on this.

So I bought them, yes I did.

And then I stumbled out of the store as if out of a dream, and back, blinking, into reality. The conversation with HWSNBN a couple of hours later was interesting. As I explained why it made sense to spend more that I used to pay in rent on a pair of boots, he stopped me. "Lexi," he said, "you are the kind of person they keep in the basement of the White House to come up with reasons for completely horrendous government policy. You can justify anything."

He's not wrong. Still, they are fabulous.

Plus, they're a perfect match for my new cape.

Yes, I bought a cape. Because why not, right?

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself. And my own boots. I paid for those. Although it's possible I may have to wear them every minute until the day I die to amortize their cost over time.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 2

2011-08-04T00:02:00.000-07:00

I have a confession, friends.

As Curator of Musical Experience, I have totally skipped out on the job.

See, the Traverse that GM Canada has graciously allowed us to gallivant about in has satellite radio. My job: done. No need to play dj when you can tune into All Pearl Jam All The Time whenever you want. Plus, I've been doing a largish chunk of the driving, because the other women on the Traverse Trip team have deemed it prudent to allow me to drive rather than have to hold my hair back while I vomit on their shoes.

Motion sickness: it's a motivator.

(I am totally having greeting cards made with that on them.)

So today I turned on the Wayback Machine and we listened to 80s music all day. ALL DAY. For 1063 km. Which is 661 miles, for my imperially minded friends.

Tracey and I were pretty much on the same page, musically. At one point the seat dancing was so accidentally but perfectly coordinated that we felt the need to high five each other. This is what Madonna's Holiday will do to you, people. Consider yourselves warned.

So despite the fact that she does not share my love of Rick Springfield, and I don't understand her enthusiasm for Tears for Fears, there was much loud singing in the front seat. Nicole and Karen in the back looked up from their mifi-enabled tech addictions periodically to blink at us in puzzled wonder.

In addition to providing endless hours of amusement, the Wayback Machine also led to the inevitable "Who was your favourite member of Duran Duran?" question. Neither of us were Simon girls. (For the record, she: Nick, me: John.)

"What ever happened to Howard Jones, anyway?" we wondered as the miles rolled by. "What's Richard Marx doing now?" and "What ever became of Rick Astley?"

Because I have superspy access to secret information (read: google, I can haz) I will tell you what has become of them. I'm giving like that.

The good news: none of them has died.

The even better news (for them, anyway): all of them are still working and touring.

Howard Jones has a regularly updated website, a twitter account, and will be touring the US in October. He's also released a bunch of his music for the remixing pleasure of the general public.

Richard Marx is still writing songs, touring with a solo acoustic show in the US starting in a couple of weeks, and is tweeting and google +ing like a boss.

Rick Astley has committed the heinous crime of having music auto-play on his website (he's rick rolling us, how meta!) but is still touring. He'll be in Denmark in October, for my Danish readers.

(I'm pretty sure I have no Danish readers.)

(But now I want pastry.)

Tomorrow: the thrills of LA morning rush hour traffic, and on to San Diego and BlogHer '11.

w00t, etc.

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during conference myself. And no animals were harmed in the writing of this post, although Karen and Nicole's ears may be bleeding from all the bad singing.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 1

2011-08-02T22:58:00.000-07:00

Five o'clock came way too early this morning.

Four women have rather a lot of luggage, especially when you add in four laptops, four smart phones/ipods, a mifi unit (which I choose to call "mofo" since it's a bit unreliable, connection-wise), cameras, cables, and coolers, oh my. The car, fortunately, has adequate cargo space.

Barely.

After sufficient ingestion of caffeine, we got underway, crossed the border without causing an international incident, and have made our way to our first stopping point, a town with the most romantic and imaginative name of Central Point, Oregon. This is how I summed up our first day on twitter:

But since I have more than 140 characters to play with here on my blog, I'll fill you in on the Rules of the Road, arrived at by general consensus.

Requests for pee stops shall be promptly attended to.
Requests for Starbucks stops shall be promptly attended to.
Requests for chocolate shall be promptly attended to. Fortunately Karen brought home made chocolate chocolate chunk cookies and enough Purdy's to choke a horse, so this one can be accomplished while hurtling down the highway at a hundred kilometres an hour, no stops required.
No unflattering photos of Traverse Trip team members shall be posted on these here internets without consent. No bikini shots. (Or in my case, tankini shots - the bikini shots for the over 40 set.)
Cheese is to be consumed at every opportunity. As someone who sneaks cheese in the dead of night after The Imp's gone to sleep (he has a dairy allergy) I heartily approve.
Potty mouth actively encouraged - nay, expected. Three out of four of us are parents of small children - the freedom to speak like a trucker at will gives us all a heady sense of recklessness.
Innuendo: see #6 above.
Friends don't let friends tweet tipsy.
No Pink Floyd.
No, we are not there yet.

So far no one has had to threaten to stop the car. No one has lost any articles of clothing or other personal possessions.

And most importantly, not one chuck was given this day. (Meaning: my motion sickness did not make an appearance.)

If you'd like, you can follow our adventures on twitter, and read posts by my fabulous travelling companions.

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during conference myself. And I'm paying for my own cheese.

Things I'm Doing - Packing

2011-08-02T01:40:00.000-07:00

I'm packed. Karen is sleeping in the living room as I finish up last minute things before we leave for eight days on our big! adventure! road trip to BlogHer. In more than three years, I've never been away from The Imp for more than 48 hours, and he is not pleased that I am going.

I am very pleased that I am going, for what that's worth.

We have the car, and we have named it George.

We have discussed what to wear.

And we have unlocked the Sparkletoes Achievement.

I'm really not sure what to expect from BlogHer, but I tend to go about my day inclined to have a good time, so I have no doubt that fun will be had. There's no other agenda for me for this trip. If I can meet some like-minded people, learn a little, and hit a party or two, I'll consider it a roaring success.

One thing I am very much looking forward to is hosting the Serenity Suite for a couple of hours during the conference. I saw tweets about it last year, and thought then that if I ever made it to BlogHer myself, I'd volunteer as a host.

So here I am, going to BlogHer, and I'll be hosting at the Serenity Suite on Friday morning between 10:00 and 11:00 am, and Saturday afternoon from 1:00 to 2:00 pm.

Wanna know something cool? The Saturday shift marks, to the hour, the eighteenth anniversary of me waking up one day and deciding not to drink anymore. I can't imagine a place I'd rather spend it.

So if you're at the conference, and you need a quiet moment and a friendly face, please come by and say hello. I give good hugs!

Of course you don't have to hug me. I'm not creepy about it.

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during conference myself. And I paid for my own pedicure. Grin. (Just making sure you were still reading!)

Things That Are Awesome - I'm Going to BlogHer!

2011-07-26T16:45:00.000-07:00

Last January, in an impulsive fit of whimsy, I bought myself a ticket to BlogHer '11. I didn't actually think I'd be able to go, but better to have a ticket and have to sell it, I reasoned, than find a way to go, and not be able to lay hands on a pass.

I had no money, no way of getting to San Diego, nowhere to stay. No clue, really. I just bought a ticket. I don't think I actually believed I would be able to go.

For two years, I'd read blog posts about BlogHer, seen my friends attend, and been regaled with tales and photos of legendary parties. I followed the fun in my twitter stream: Chicago in 2009, New York last year. Seething with envy, I added it to the "maybe someday" list.

Three days after I bought the ticket I knew I wouldn't be able to use, my friend Karen asked me if I wanted to do a road trip with her to San Diego for BlogHer '11. Just like that.

Uh, yeah. Yes. YES! Absolutely! Yes, please?

She'd been having conversations with GM Canada about getting a loaner car to do a blogger road trip, and they said, "Yeah, sure!"

Seventeen kinds of awesome right there.

So that made two of us.

Soon after, Nicole climbed aboard the fun machine. Itineraries were vaguely discussed, but it was still so many months away, I don't think I actually believed it was going to happen.

And then Tracey joined our band of merry pranksters, GM told us what kind of car we'd be driving, and Traverse Trip was born.

And now, it's a week away. A week from now we'll be on the road to San Diego. Hotels are booked, forms filled out, passports renewed. We leave next Tuesday!

Four bloggers, a car, a boatload of tech, and 2247 kilometres. Give or take.

To say that I am looking forward to this is to be very restrained in expressing my over the moon giddy happy-dancing excitement.

We checked out a Traverse one sunny day a couple of weeks ago. The verdict: cup holders, check. Power outlets: check. Good times? You know it!

And I could not ask for better traveling companions. In my head, it goes like this:

Karen at Chasing Tomatoes is our Director of Noms. She will save us from the indigestion and hardened arteries of freeway fast food, making delicious cooler-friendly meals to bring along, and she's already scoped out all the Starbucks and Trader Joe's locations between here and our final destination. Also, there are rumours she will be bringing cookies, and people, you have not lived until you've eaten her cookies. I even like the ones she makes with oatmeal, and I hate oatmeal.

Tracey from Fashion Forward 40 and TJR Ramblings is our Mistress of Fabulous Fashion Finds. She's plotted out our stops for outlet malls, vintage shops, and specialty boutiques along the way. I know I can trust her to tell me what looks good and what doesn't and to say, bluntly if necessary, "Honey, no. On you that is not a deal, even if it's discounted 90%." And although we're all working to live greener lives, Tracey's gone and done the math about driving vs flying emissions and how to minimize the garbage we create on our trip.

Nicole is our All Things Tech Goddess, bringing adapters and cables and external hard drives, oh my. Pretty sure if I locked her in a hotel room for a couple of hours, she could show me how to code my own website. And, she's giving away some very cool tech right now over at Resolving Timeline Issues. Go leave a comment by July 31st to enter to win.

And then there's me. I'm, um. I'm bringing the cooler. And, uh, an inflatable mattress. And the motion sickness. No trip is complete until someone's ready to hurl. I've also appointed myself Curator of Musical Experience. I'm putting together playlists and burning a couple of CDs (old school!) in case we're stuck somewhere without satellite access and we're sucked into a vortex of doom where all of our iPods stop working all at once.

There will, friends and neighbours, be seat-dancing. Eighties music for the win!

I also plan on doing a largish chunk of the driving. An old boyfriend of mine used to call me the Road Warrior based on how long I could drive without needing to stop. What he didn't know was that I insisted on keeping my hands on the wheel because ~~I'm a control freak~~ I get carsick as a passenger. So yeah. Road Warrior/Curator of Music. Either of those sound better than Princess Pukes-A-Lot.

I have so much to do before we leave.

Full disclosure: General Motors Canada is providing us with the use of a Chevrolet Traverse, gas, insurance and accommodations for our road trip to BlogHer and back. I've paid for my own ticket to the conference, and will be responsible for my own accommodations while in San Diego.

Wordless Wednesday - Grand Day Out

2011-07-06T12:15:00.000-07:00

The Imp: How do I get into that space ship, Mommy?

(Print on canvas from Cici Art Factory, who I adore. Full disclosure: paid for the print myself.)

Thursday Confession - Shampoo (Or Lack Thereof)

2011-06-30T16:03:00.000-07:00

I outed myself on twitter yesterday in front of the whole internet. I saw a conversation about haircare go by in my twitter stream, so I jumped in.

That's not strictly true. Every 6-8 weeks I visit my stylist for a cut and colour, and she uses shampoo. And last September I stayed in a hotel and used the posh shampoo in the room. But at home, none at all since late May of 2010.

And this from someone who used to spend about $200 on professional colouring, and $80 on fancy shampoo and conditioner, every month. I was drawn in by the promises of the latest botanical extracts and bought a lot of different products in search of perfect tv commercial hair.

And still, most of the time I looked like this:

Dark roots, frizzy, and unmanageable. That's about $3500/year. Not very good value for money.

A bunch of different factors led me to change my hair regimen.

When I was pregnant, my sense of smell, mostly absent or defective my entire life prior to that, went crazy. I became really sensitive to chemical smells - the scent of our regular bathroom cleaner sent me running, gagging, out of the apartment as I begged HWSNBN to stop using it. I figured my newfound sense of smell would fade away once the baby was born, but it didn't, so we switched to unscented products, and even they were too strong. Eventually we started using baking soda and vinegar to clean almost everything in the house.

Including my hair.

My new hair regimen: apple cider vinegar, $8. Baking soda $1.

Inspired by the likes of my friend Amber, I'd planned to go "no poo" for a while, but it was seeing my then almost-two-year-old manage to open a shampoo bottle and try to eat its toxic contents that really convinced me to give it a try. (Here's how.) And I haven't looked back.

It was weird, at first, to wash my hair with no suds. It felt like it couldn't possibly be getting clean, but it was - almost too clean. I used to wash my hair every day with shampoo, and adjusting to the baking soda/apple cider vinegar routine took a while to figure out. I fiddled with the amount of baking soda to find what worked for me. At first I was still washing my hair every day, then as my scalp adjusted, every couple of days. A year later, I wash it about once a week, more if I've been swimming in a chlorinated pool or had an evening out where I used lots of product.

I've been asked, "Doesn't it hurt to get it in your eyes?" I imagine it would sting, but after 30+ years of washing my hair with chemical-laden shampoos, I've managed to get pretty good at not getting stuff in my eyes. If I ever do get to experience baking soda in the peepers, I'll update this post. But I can't imagine that it would be any more uncomfortable that getting an eye-full of shampoo.

I've also been asked about odour. To be honest, I haven't noticed any. Neither has my husband, and he would tell me. He thought I was crazy when I started this, but he's begrudgingly come around. It's true, the apple cider vinegar rinse does leave me smelling vaguely like a salad until my hair dries, but after that, no scent to speak of, and certainly not the unpleasant "dirty scalp" smell that I feared would be the result. Just clean. What I do notice, though, is the overpowering smell of regular hair products. The time I used hotel shampoo, I didn't like how I could smell it for hours afterward - well into the next day.


About a week into the baking soda treatment - smelling good enough for Rachael to get close for a photo at a Vancouver Yummy Mummy Club tweetup. (photo credit tjrossignol on flickr)

Sue from Raspberry Kids, unfazed by my hair smell, at the Vancouver Mom Top 30 Mom Bloggers party in May (photo credit Elayne Wandler at Bopomo Pictures)

What does my hair look like now? Well, aside from the grey that insists on sprouting from my scalp despite my best attempts to hide it, I think it looks great.

Here it is a few moments ago, air dried out of the shower, no product, no styling. (I'd usually do something with it, but wanted to give you a "naked" look, direct from my webcam, at my hair as it is right now.)

Straight up

I have a lot of hair, thick and wavy.

My best "Cousin It"

The box of baking soda lasts about 3 months. The 1 litre size apple cider vinegar, about 8 months. Which means my new hair care regimen costs me a grand total of $25/year.*

So what do you think? Are you going to try and smell my hair the next time you see me? And would you give up shampoo?

*Not including professional colouring to hide the grey, which costs about $800/year.

Wordless Wednesday - Skinned Knees Edition

2011-06-22T12:37:00.001-07:00

skinned knees, a photo by alexishinde on Flickr.

Looks like we've officially entered the "bruises, abrasions, and skinned knees" years. Ah, childhood.

Things That Are True - Stargazing

2011-06-19T13:18:00.000-07:00

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

I cannot read this poem (and I read it often; I adore Whitman) without thinking of my dad.

My father is a gentle man. Thoughtful in his approach to everything, he lives his beliefs and treats everyone he meets, even when he disagrees with them, with respect and dignity. He has taught me much - even though when I was 18 I thought he was kind of an idiot. It's amazing how wise he has grown in the last twenty-odd years.

Grin.

My dad is both an auto-didact and a raconteur. With no formal education beyond high school, he was the source of all information as I was growing up. There was nothing he couldn't explain, and he treated all my questions - and there were a lot of them; I was the quintessential "but why, Daddy?" child - very seriously, and did his best to answer in a way I could understand. Now that The Imp has reached the "but why, Mommy?" stage, I'm learning first hand how hard this is to do consistently, and my admiration for my dad grows daily.

Dad loves astronomy. In the family library of my childhood, I remember a well-thumbed book of star maps. As a small-town prairie kid, the skies must have been vast indeed for him as he learned the names in the heavens. But for me, as a young child in the Yukon, when it was warm enough to stargaze, there was 24 hour daylight and the stars didn't come out to play. When it was dark enough to ponder the universe, it was mind-numbingly cold.

Me, my Dad, and my sister with the family car parked under the avocado tree, 1979

But then, when I was eight years old, we went on an epic family adventure, and were lucky enough to live on a tropical island for a few years. The switch from day to night at that latitude is instant, there's no twilight. We lived in a tiny village (link in French), so light pollution wasn't a huge concern. And it was warm, gloriously warm. Warm enough for my dad and I to head up the hill behind our house and out into the sugar cane field, and for him to teach me the names of the stars and constellations. It was the southern hemisphere, so everything was different from what he knew. In that pre-internet era, Dad must've had to buy a whole new star maps book for this unknown celestial territory.

We tracked the progress of the Southern Cross together, caught glimpses of Orion's belt (the only constellation in the southern hemisphere that followed us from the north) on the horizon, and learned the names of unfamiliar groupings of twinkling lights. And together we sat, in that "mystical moist night-air", and "look'd up in perfect silence at the stars."

Those evenings are my favourite childhood memories. I only hope I can give The Imp the same appreciation of vastness and wonder that my dad shared with me.

I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Things That Make Me Angry

2011-06-16T11:34:00.000-07:00

I live in downtown Vancouver. Every day, I cycle the bike paths, walk the streets, and shop in the stores that made headlines and breaking news all over the world last night, as hooligans destroyed my city.

They were mostly young. They were mostly male. They were mostly white.

I don't know what that means, but it means something.

I am devastated. I was in the CBC Fan Zone yesterday afternoon, with The Imp. We've been there for the beginning of every game since they started screening them for the public. "We go to the hockey party!" exclaimed The Imp, every time the Canucks played. Without fail, it was a great experience. Face painting, "Go Canucks Go" signs; fans gathered peacefully to cheer on their team, celebrate their victories, and commiserate when they lost. Beach balls were batted around by the crowds. One afternoon, three separate groups of people noticed that The Imp was desperate to have a turn with the ball, and in front of my eyes, they conspired to make it happen, getting the ball to him so he could bat it back into the crowd. There were countless families there. Canucks fandom seemed to know no age, race, or ethnicity. The enthusiastic singing of O Canada before every game was deafeningly awesome - my voice and The Imp's added lustily into the mix.

The CBC Fan Zone in happier times

We'd watch the opening face-off, the first few minutes of the game, and then make our way, through happy crowds, home for dinner.

Yesterday started out the same. I picked him up early at daycare, we made our way to the fan zone at Robson and Hamilton, and found a patch of pavement to call our own.

But the energy was different yesterday. The makeup of the crowd skewed to young, male, and drunk. I posted on twitter:

"In the #fanzone. Most packed I've ever seen it. The Imp insisted he wanted to be here; I'll be surprised if he makes it to game time. #loud"

I saw an almost-fistfight when a security guard made a simple request of fans to sit down before the game even started. People were on edge.

I wanted to leave right then and there. The Imp wanted to stay. I convinced myself it was a one-off, that people would settle in as the game began and there was a focus for all the pent-up nervous energy. After all, it had been fun every other time.

The anthems were sung. It was loud, but somehow it wasn't the same.

The puck dropped. The game began. The energy in the crowd was intense.

My gut told me it was time to leave. The Imp insisted he wanted to stay. I fought an internal battle. "This could be one of The Imp's earliest memories; watching his beloved Canucks win the Cup!" vs "This crowd makes me anxious. This could get ugly."

I followed my gut; we left halfway through the first period, after the Bruins had drawn first blood. Once home, I tweeted:

"Home. Fan zone vibe: sketchy. Everyone's wearing a jersey, but spider senses tell me the Ed Hardy factor approaches critical mass."

You know the rest. The Canucks lost. The city erupted in violence.

I am heartbroken. And I am angry.

I love living downtown. I've enjoyed the variety and diversity of urban life. I've loved raising The Imp so that he doesn't blink when he sees a same-sex couple, he's not thrown by different languages being spoken around him, and he's accustomed to lots of different skin colours in his world.

And I've felt safe here. The tremendous success and happy shiny feelings about the Olympics showed, I thought, that Vancouver had grown up. A cosmopolitan city, it could handle huge crowds and public celebrations.

Not so.

I'm absolutely heartsick at how wrong I was, how wrong everyone I know was, and how wrong, it seems, the authorities were about what would happen if and when the Canucks lost.

I hate the fear I feel now. I'm angry because I will now never quite feel safe in a Vancouver crowd again. The Celebration of Light takes place right on my doorstep every summer. A few hundred thousand people crowd into my neighbourhood to watch the fireworks, and I will never feel comfortable taking The Imp out into that crowd again. The veneer of civility is too thin. I'm angry that I can't unsee that now.

And I'm angry that I can't unsee the images of people wantonly destroying my neighbourhood. Setting cars on fire, breaking windows, and looting? Who does that?

I don't understand the people who do that. I just don't. And I don't believe it had anything to do with hockey. I saw footage of a person using a hammer to break the windows of a bank. Who brings a hammer to watch a hockey game? Who comes to a hockey party with gasoline to set things on fire? Who brings a baseball bat to a hockey game, just in case they feel like breaking the windows of an SUV parked blocks away from the arena? People were throwing bricks through store windows. Where are they getting bricks in a city built of concrete? Who brings bricks to a hockey game?

There was premeditation involved here. The loss of the game was just a pretext; the spark that lit a fire long set and stoked.

It's no secret that I am warm and fuzzy about social media. I blog, I'm on flickr, I'm on youtube, I'm on facebook, linkedin, listgeeks, pinterest, and twitter. I've met people I adore through social media. I've learned a tremendous amount, and I've benefited hugely, both personally and professionally, from the connections I've made online. I've been a huge cheerleader in my social circle for the benefits of social media. I love that everyone has a voice, everyone has the opportunity for community, and we become our own content generators and media channels.

Maybe I've been naive, but last night I saw a side of social media I hadn't even known existed.

The violence, the destruction, those were the acts of relatively few people. Out of 100,000, there were maybe a few hundred actively involved in creating the mayhem. But there were thousands of people standing by, watching. Taking pictures to post on facebook. Chanting, clapping, and posing in front of burning cars only feet away, high fiving each other. Jeering and leering gleefully at the damage being done, at the taunting of riot police. Thousands of people who chose not to go home, but to stand by and watch, and laugh at the spectacle. And tweet about it.

For these people, the (in this case mostly young, predominantly male) milling about observers and inciters, is nothing real until it's been on a screen? And being on a screen, is it then not real, but spectacle? Have they been so desensitized to violence that when they see it right in front of them, it's entertainment?

Over and over again, news cameras caught thousands of people taking pictures, getting in the way of emergency responders, making it harder to defuse the madness. There was a self-consciousness to it: I saw people running from looted stores, one hand full of stolen merchandise, the other with a camera phone on, recording the whole thing to relive later on youtube.

Is this online space, where I have found education, community, and solidarity, the same space inhabited by people who actually tag themselves on facebook committing criminal acts?

My son is a digital native, growing up in a post-facebook world. The mere act of me writing this blog is creating a digital footprint for him before he even has a say in what gets shared. His generation will never experience our antiquated concepts of privacy.

How do I raise him, in this oversharey, tweet-happy environment? How do I make sure this lovely little boy, who loves the Canucks as only a three year old can, doesn't become one of these young men, completely unconcerned, gleeful even, about being caught on camera in this appalling behaviour?

The Imp went to sleep last night as the madness was descending. He missed it all - saw no footage, no photos. I've kept it that way this morning. He's staying home from daycare today because I am not prepared to answer his questions. His daycare is in the immediate vicinity of where the violence started last night. The Imp's uncannily observant; he sees everything. He asks questions about everything. And I don't know what to tell a three year old about broken glass on the sidewalk, boarded up windows, and burn marks on the pavement. So I'm postponing the discussion; opting out for 24 hours to sort out my own conflicted feelings and to try and figure out what a three year old needs to know.

But I do know this: "We have met the enemy and he is us."

Friday Confession - Impostor

2011-06-03T16:33:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time avoiding doing the very thing that I love most.

I know. It makes no sense.

But it's true. I alphabetize things that don't need it, I cook, I clean, I sleep, I watch tv, I surf the web. I spend too much time on twitter. I do anything but write.

It's ridiculous. I've been writing in journals and notebooks, scribbling on the backs of envelopes and bar napkins, and composing letters in my head for as long as I can remember. (Okay, maybe not the bar napkins. That was a later development.) I started this blog as a place to organize my thoughts, share my ideas, and have a living record of my experiences as a parent. I love the sense of community it gives me, the power inherent in having a voice (whether anyone listens or not) and the thrill of learning from others who've trodden the path before me or are walking by my side.

And yet, I don't write. I avoid it like... I dunno. Laundry? I hate laundry. Avoiding that makes sense.

Fear, friends. Fear is the dream killer.

It's not interested in what makes sense. It doesn't care what's rational, or even what's true. Its only focus is to prevent risk. Any risk, real or perceived. And imaginary risk is its specialty.

Fact: All my life I have longed to be a real writer.

Jebus. Just typing that out loud has made my hands shake.

So yes, I've longed to be a real writer, whatever that is. (Is blogging writing?)

I even managed in second year university to enroll in Creative Writing 100, with the intention of majoring in that or journalism. I went to the first class; it was all about poetry. We were assigned to write an autobiographical poem. The night before the class, drunk in the student pub, I dashed off a few lines of suckage and handed it in at the second class.

The third class, the prof gave a prize (one of her own books of poetry, she probably had a basement full of them) for the best poem. To me. She thought my poem was the best of what had been handed in.

I knew it was a piece of crap.

I never went back to that class again.

I haven't really ever told that story.

----------

The tyranny of the blank page

People I respect and admire have told me they enjoy my blog. Out loud I thank them; inside my head I'm immediately discounting what they say. Based on my twitter stream, I've been told by someone who writes! professionally! that I should write a book. I joke that she's crazy. "From your mouth to a publisher's ear," I grin.

Recently at a party, I was introduced to someone as "Alexis, a very talented writer" and I almost fell out of my shoes. The Fear That Rules Me screamed, "No, no, no. Don't be ridiculous!" I managed to keep my game face on and shake hands like a normal person, but inside I was ramping up all the old arguments for why the person was so wrong.

But that moment made me pause. It's always interesting to catch a glimpse of yourself as others see you, like a reflection in a shop window as you hurry by. And in a heartbeat, I decided to stop discounting what I do and say in this space.

It's not easy.

I feel like a fool most of the time.

But the other day, as I met a friend, a writer friend, for coffee and encountered another friend, another writer friend at the same time, I introduced the two, saying "David, this is Heather. She's a writer too!"

And for a split second, I allowed the "too" to include me.

Then I did a crazy, crazy thing. A few days ago, I submitted one of my own posts for BlogHer's Voices of the Year. This one.

This is progress, yes?

Wordless Wednesday - Fortune Cookie

2011-05-25T19:40:00.000-07:00

Standing by to receive.

Wednesday of Few Words - Shoes

2011-05-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday HWSNBN and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary. (A year ago, I wrote this, and it's all still true. Just sub in eight for seven.)

It was a quiet, lazy evening at home - after my Spanish class, of course, and after The Imp was asleep. It's a rare thing, but occasionally HWSNBN and I actually get a chance to hang out together. To talk, grownup to grownup. For just a second last night, it almost felt like it did before we became parents.

Then, we walked around the corner and found this:

Yup. We're a family.

Things That Are True - Kid + Grownup Clothes = Cute

2011-05-05T21:17:00.000-07:00

We have a very happy little Canucks fan, here wearing HWSNBN's retro hockey sweater.

The only time I ever think twice about living downtown is during the NHL playoffs when the Canucks are having a successful run.

Longer spring days mean The Imp insists, "It's morning time!" as the prolonged sunset creeps in past his dark curtains at bedtime.

And loud cheers from balconies and open apartment windows all around us put the lie to my, "Okay buddy, the game's over, time for bed!" when it's really only the end of the second period.

I can usually explain the "they just scored" cheers away just by saying that people are happy the Canucks won the game. He accepts that. "I'm happy too!" he says. "Go, Canucks, go!" he shouts before I get him calmed down enough to drift off.

The day The Imp figures out there are three periods in a hockey game? I'm hooped.

Things I've Learned - When in Doubt, Post the Cute

2011-04-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

Three day headache + HWSNBN is away + super clingy Imp = not as much fun as you'd think.

Math is hard, yo.

But hey, look! In-happier-times random photo fun! Action shot, even!

Street hockey in the downtown core. I am Canadian.

Wednesday of Few Words - Home Again

2011-04-27T16:17:00.000-07:00

We landed at YVR this morning at five.

AM.

In the morning.

So this is about all I can manage today, through the fog of flying all night and entertaining a routine-disrupted Imp all day.

I just spent five minutes looking through all my vacation photos - only five minutes because there are hardly any photos to look at.

That is seriously unlike me - I'm the person who takes 17 million photos on a walk through my own neighbourhood. I took my camera with me on holiday. I even took more than one lens. Normally I love to take pictures of every significant moment. I love seeing things through the filter of what gets caught through my viewfinder, but somehow this trip wasn't about observing and documenting. It was about doing and being.

So for the most part, I put the camera down.

But one of my favourite moments of our doing and being was a stop at Matsumoto's Store in Hale'iwa for shave ice.

The last full day of our holiday. We look so relaxed and happy!

Things I've Learned - Joy Defined

2011-04-26T00:45:00.000-07:00

It's our last evening in Hawaii. Oahu's skies are raining down on us right now, as if to ease our transition back to Vancouver's April weather.


We're going from this...

...to this.

Sigh. Big, heavy sigh.

I don't want to go home. This has been one of the best holidays of my life; joy defined. The Imp, a pretty happy little chap under normal conditions, has handled all the changes we've thrown at him with his customary good nature and curiosity. We've been able to spend a huge amount of time together as a family, and it's been good for all of us.

The Imp has proven, on this trip, that he can live on prawns, pineapple, and sunshine. HWSNBN and I have learned that we can slow down, stop scheduling, stop fretting, and just enjoy ourselves - and enjoy The Imp enjoying himself.

I've learned that when everyone on the beach is wearing a bikini, how I look in one ceases to matter.

I've learned that toddler + rashie + board shorts = minimum sunburn exposure + the cute, I die. I've learned that before I go on my next warm weather holiday, I should tell my friends to buy stock in Coppertone. We went through a lot of it. A lot. But hey, no sunburns!

And I've learned that I cannot wait until we can come back. My favourite words have become, "We go to the beach today! Hurray!" and "We go in the ocean now, Mommy?"

All the fretting I did about how we were going to keep The Imp busy and happy was totally unnecessary. This fifteen second clip is a pretty good summation of our entire 12 days here:

May he (and we) always be so easy to please.

Things I've Learned - Holiday Flotsam and Jetsam

2011-04-21T18:24:00.000-07:00

Bits and pieces I've picked up along the way:

1) All that fretting about what to do with an almost three year old in Hawaii? For naught.

Our day goes something like this:
7am: wake up. Imp starts demanding we go to the beach.
8am: breakfast
9-10:30am: into the pool, out of the pool, back into the pool, out of the pool
10:30am: snack
10:45-noon: into the ocean, out of the ocean, back into the ocean
12pm: lunch
12:30-3:30pm: into the ocean, out of the ocean, back into the ocean, out of the ocean
3:30pm: ice cream for us/sorbet for The Imp
3:45-5pm: into the pool, out of the pool, back into the pool, out of the pool
5pm: clean up for 5:30pm: dinner
6:30pm: into the ocean, out of the ocean
7:30pm: bath, story
8pm: bed

Weather permitting, all other variables indicate that today, and every day that follows, will be a case of lather, rinse, repeat.

The Imp getting his surf on at Waikiki beach

2) When I was first in Oahu without my parents, over twenty years ago, I had the carefully crafted attitude only a 19 year old can carry off. I didn't want to go to any of the "touristy" spots, like Waikiki Beach. My aunt, who's now lived here over 40 years, told me, "Don't be an idiot. The reason the tourists all go to Waikiki Beach is because it's one of the best beaches on the island." She's totally right. We've had perfect weather every single day. The waves are gentle enough for The Imp to run through, high enough for it to be exciting when they wash over him. There are other spots on Oahu I love too, but we could do a lot worse than to spend every day here.

3) Before we booked our trip, we debated getting a condo vs a hotel room. In the end, we opted for the hotel - and I'm glad we did. The reasons for getting a condo made sense: with The Imp's dairy allergy we could be sure of what he was eating, we'd save some money compared to restaurant meals, we'd have laundry facilities handy. But when I think about all the pros, the big con is this: shopping for groceries, cooking, and doing laundry don't sound much like a holiday. It sounds like being home, but with palm trees and air conditioning. Staying in a hotel makes it a true vacation. Plus they bring you slushy drinks as you lay around the pool. How awesome is that?

4) The problem with shopping after you've been here a few days is that big bold floral prints start to seem like a good idea. See also: ukuleles, surfboards, and Wyland. (Except I'm just kidding about the Wyland thing. That never seems like a good idea.)

New sandals, in dire need of a pedicure

5) Being a non-drinker, I feel totally justified in spending money on shoes. What I've spent on our holiday to date is only about half of what HWSNBN has consumed in mai tais at $11 a pop.

6) If you bring more than one bathing suit, one top, one skirt, and one pair of flip-flops, you've totally overpacked.

7) My favourite lip gloss is $5 cheaper at Macy's in Waikiki than it is at home.

8) Despite the proliferation of Australian, Canadian, and various European accents I hear around me every day on the beach, Hawaiian tourism seems to still have a lot of eggs in the Japanese basket. I wonder what effect the whole radiation/earthquake/tsunami hit to the Japanese economy will have on that.

My boys, kickin' it poolside

9) Seeing The Imp and HWSNBN play together in the pool and on the beach makes my heart sing out loud.

And most importantly:

Robot voice: "It is a biohazard."

10) The cost of a slightly used, slightly peed upon king size hotel duvet is $127 and change.

Things That Are Surprising - Biohazard

2011-04-19T18:42:00.000-07:00

Alternate Title: My Parents Went All the Way to Hawaii and All I Got Was This Lousy Duvet

Yesterday late afternoon, The Imp was so busy playing in the adjoining room that he neglected to go to the bathroom before he, uh, went to the bathroom. "I pee! I pee!" he shouted in consternation, from the newly wet spot atop the giant king sized bed he'd been sleeping on, without incident, the previous two nights.

"Oh no!" We ran into his room, yanked him off the bed and ran to the toilet. Alas, we were too late.

We immediately stripped the duvet cover off, and yes, he'd wet the corner of the duvet. Damn.

Knowing that the duvets aren't usually laundered between guests, we called housekeeping right away. We wanted to let them know the duvet needed to be cleaned, and we were hoping to get a clean replacement before The Imp's bedtime.

Housekeeping came promptly to address the situation. It should be noted that they were at all times calm, polite, professional, and as accommodating as they could be. What we didn't realize was that our simple attempt to do the right thing had unleashed a no-doubt OSHA mandated triumph of policy over common sense.

HWSNBN: Will we have to pay to have the duvet cleaned?
Housekeeping: We cannot clean the duvet.
HWSNBN: What? Why not? It says on the tag, "Dryclean Only."
Housekeeping: It is a biohazard. It cannot be cleaned.
HWSNBN: Biohazard? A quarter-cup of toddler pee is a biohazard?
Housekeeping: Yes. The duvet must be thrown away.
HWSNBN: You're telling me that this perfectly good duvet has to be thrown away because The Imp peed on the corner of it?
Housekeeping: Yes. It is a biohazard.
HWSNBN: So people can have sex on the duvet, and have AIDS or hepatitis, and the duvet can still be used, but a little bit of little boy pee, and it has to be thrown in an incinerator?
Housekeeping: Yes.
HWSNBN: Are you kidding me?
Housekeeping: No, sir. It is a biohazard.
HWSNBN: But urine's sterile!
Housekeeping: It is a biohazard.

It went on like that for a while.

Biohazard? Who, me?

Housekeeping asked us why The Imp wasn't in a crib. Um, because he's almost three? Because he hasn't slept in a crib in a year and a half? They asked us why he wasn't in diapers. Because he hasn't had an accident in six weeks!

Eventually, housekeeping agreed that they did not have to dispose of the duvet right that minute. They would leave the duvet with us. They would cover the mattress in plastic to prevent any issues in the five remaining days of our stay.

And we would have to pay for the duvet. Had he managed to pee on the mattress itself, we would have had to pay for an entire new bed. (!!!)

Listen, I'm not the mom that thinks her little darling can do no wrong. I don't think it's cute that he peed on someone else's property. Nor do I think that it's funny, or even appropriate, that someone else should have to deal with the results of his potty-training misadventures. I take full responsibility for my child's behaviour wherever we go.

And obviously, we were concerned that he'd peed on the duvet. We didn't want the next guest to unwittingly be sleeping under a blanket with little boy pee on it. That's why we called housekeeping in the first place - because honestly, an hour later, the duvet was totally dry and even knowing he'd peed on it, we couldn't find the spot. Had we not told them, they would never have known.

And I'm not writing here to try and unleash the collective rage of twitter parents. I'm not looking to get anything for free - I don't even need or want an apology. I'm not interested in a backlash against the hotel or its employees. They are merely following the procedures and policies set in place by a corporate entity, in an environment so litigious that common sense simply isn't a factor.

But... but... The robotic "It is a biohazard" response seemed a little ridiculous to me. When I tweeted about it, other parents overwhelmingly agreed. We are, admittedly, a subset of humanity enured to the bodily fluids of small children. But as Alexandria at Clippo pointed out in response to my incredulous tweets:

Exactly.

Little boy pee isn't cool, but I'm pretty sure it's not the most biohazardy thing ever to be found in one of their hotel rooms.

We don't know yet what the duvet is going to cost us. Or how we're going to get it home. But I am not throwing away a perfectly good duvet just because The Imp peed on it. If that was a thing, we'd have to get rid of almost everything we own.

What do you think? Is the hotel's reaction appropriate? Should we have just rinsed out the pee spot in the sink and kept our mouths shut?

And does anyone need a king sized duvet, recently peed upon just a little bit?

Things That Are True - Best Husband Ever

2011-04-18T11:34:00.000-07:00

One of the many reasons I married HWSNBN is because of his friendly, outgoing, and curious personality. He can, and will, have a conversation with anybody. And this is a friendly place; HWSNBN and Hawaii are ideally suited to each other. It sometimes takes us a little longer to get things done (as we learn that the guard at the exit to the rental car place lived in Kelowna for six months working as a roofer), but we're on holiday. Time is merely a construct.

Last night we ate at the beachside Mai Tai Bar at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. It was surprisingly child-friendly - they instantly provided crayons and a colouring page/keiki menu for The Imp. The kids' menu was, like most, full of stuff I'd not likely feed him even if he wasn't allergic to dairy (hot dogs and the like), but the crayons kept him happily busy until our poke, prawns, and chicken skewers arrived.*

Aside: restaurant portions are huge here. Ordering a couple of starters to split between the three of us is all we need to feel full. Having said that, the more posh the hotel/restaurant, the smaller the portions. Implying that rich people care about the quality of their food and that middle class people care about the quantity of their food, I guess.

Back to last night: we'd finished our meal and HWSNBN had to visit the men's room. The Imp was happily sitting on my lap, totally engrossed in the Hawaiian musicians playing on stage, so I sat back to enjoy the music and the warm breeze, belly comfortably full of yummy food, happy that my child was happy. As relaxed as I could get with a squirmy two year old in my lap. Bliss.

The musicians played one song after another. It was lovely. A hula dancer joined them for a couple of songs, and The Imp was enchanted. So was I - she was grace personified.

Then it occurred to me that HWSNBN was taking quite a long time in the bathroom. "Oh well," I thought. "We have been eating a lot of fruit."

I sat back in my chair, looked out over the ocean at the setting sun. Ten more minutes went by. "Who did he get to talking to in the hotel lobby?" I wondered.

The Imp was getting restless. I checked my watch. A full half an hour had elapsed. Where on earth was HWSNBN? And how much longer was he going to be?

Just as I was starting to be more irritated than charmed by the situation, there was HWSNBN, striding across the hotel grounds to our table, one hand hidden behind his back.

This was in his hand.

He'd been plotting basically since we landed to find a way to sneak off and buy me a present. "I've had a good year, work-wise," he said. "And there are a lot of things you've been doing without."

As if this trip wasn't enough. Seriously, y'all. Best Husband Ever.

*Full disclosure: these opinions are entirely my own. We are paying for everything ourselves, selecting our own restaurants, hotel, car rental, and activities. I am in no way compensated by anyone for anything I may or may not write. This trip is entirely on our own dime. Just in case you were wondering.

Things That Are True - Life Moments

2011-04-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

I am so very lucky - I've had the opportunity to visit Oahu many times. Having family who live here has made it a default warm weather destination all my life. So I have my favourite burger place in Hale'iwa, my favourite hole in the wall noodle joint in Chinatown, the best places to pick up a bathing suit and flip flops without paying Waikiki tourist prices. I know that if you want to snorkel Hanauma Bay you're better to get there early and leave by lunch. I know that it's a good idea to have a small flashlight with you to hike Diamond Head. I know Long's has the best prices for macadamia nuts to bring home, and that one of the best places to get leis is actually Safeway.

And I know about chocolate haupia pie from Ted's Bakery. Mmmm. Chocolate haupia pie.

But I've never visited with a child before.

Our first day here we hit the beach at Waikiki. The Imp was running all over the place, taking it all in. He was desperate to go surfing, trying to convince us that he needed a surfboard. He spent most of his time running from one surf rental spot to another, sure that we'd give in. And we might've except for one small thing: he refused to go into the water.

Problematic, that.

As he put it himself, "The waves freak me out, Mommy."

And fair enough. Waves - even the small ones at Waikiki - are surprisingly loud when they crash onshore. And when you're only three feet tall, they must look pretty big. I can see how that could be intimidating. After the first time the water washed over his toes, he wouldn't go anywhere near it. So I held him in my arms, and I went and stood at the high water mark, and let him watch as the waves washed over my feet. We got to the point where he could stand it if the waves occasionally came up to my thighs and nipped at his toes, but that was it. He so desperately wanted to be surfing, yet wouldn't go near the one thing you need to surf.

HWSNBN and I decided that if we could get him to go into the water by the end of our holiday, we'd call it a win.

Yesterday we went to one of my favourite spots on Oahu: Kailua Beach Park. It's small, less crowded, not really on the way to anywhere else so not as high on tourist lists of Things To See. The park has lots of old ironwood trees, plenty of grassy areas to play and picnic, and it's a lovely little sheltered bay. The water is that mythical colour of blue you only ever see in vacation brochures. And on a calm day, the waves are very gentle.

We dropped our stuff, spread out our towels, and HWSNBN took The Imp down to the water's edge while I slathered sunscreen all over myself. By the time I looked up, they were waist deep in the water. By the time I joined them, I had to run and get the camera because they were in all the way.

The smile pretty much says everything you need to know.

And then, and then... We were playing in the water, splashing and jumping and doing all the silly things parents do to make their children laugh, and The Imp spotted a local man with a surfboard, floating lazily nearby. The man noticed The Imp's interest, and was kind enough to offer, "You wanna try it?"

The Imp couldn't get there fast enough. He clambered onto the board as if he'd been doing it all his life, got up on his knees, and sprang to his feet. The look of triumph and unbridled joy on his face as he stood on the board, wind in his hair - it brings tears to my eyes just to write here about it.

I haven't thought too much about a Top Ten Moments of My Life list. Off the top of my head, I can think of a few: seeing the ballet in Paris, the sun rise from the top of Haleakala, the look on HWSNBN's face as I walked down the aisle on our wedding day.

The Imp on a surfboard in Kailua Bay has easily muscled its way into my top three.

On day one we couldn't get The Imp into the water. On day two, we couldn't get him out of it. Today's day three - I suspect at least part of it will involve shopping for The Imp's new boogie board.

Things That Are True - Holiday Update

2011-04-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering what puakenikeni look like - a tree in my aunt's garden

Yesterday we hit the beach. It was rainy on the Windward side of Oahu - where we've been staying with my aunt and uncle, so we hopped in the car and drove thirty minutes into Waikiki.

Some things I've learned in the last 24 hours.

1) Drop any hint of the word (or even the concept) "relaxing" in connection with "holiday" when said holiday involves a two year old who will. not. stop. moving. Ever. Relaxation, like sleep and reading the Sunday Times, is for the childless.

2) Decide in the first ten minutes that you are okay with the fact that every part of your body, everything you own, and everything you touch for the next two weeks will be sticky with sunscreen and gritty with sand. It is what it is, and fighting it will only make you crazy.

3) Related to (2) above: I bet if the rental car companies could somehow save all the sand they vacuum out of rental returns daily, Hawaii could have one hell of a land reclamation project going on.

4) The fruit smoothies they sell at Starbucks here are bigger than the ones in Vancouver. Same brand, same ingredients, but about 1/3 larger. Also, the soymilk they use is way, way sweeter than the stuff we're used to.

5) I needn't have brought any clothes for The Imp. He has, and will, wear nothing but his bathing suit 95% of the time.

6) I managed to avoid the whole, "Do these shorts make my ass look fat?" thing by not bringing any. Skirts. Skirts are the answer. They're more flattering, they allow me to change into my bathing suit bottom right there on the beach with no one noticing, and they're cooler. It's good to let the breezes at your nethers, my friends.

Remember that time I was so worried about what I'd look like on the beach? Yeah - didn't happen. Got there, dropped towels, dropped trou, and had fun chasing The Imp around. Didn't give my jiggly-saggy concerns a single thought. Liberating! Because you know what? When I stopped giving a damn, stopped mentally comparing myself to every thinner/tanner/younger body on the beach? I started to see the beauty in everything around me instead. The joy in people's faces, the shrieks of laughter of boogie-boarding kids, the cliche of the sun sparkling on the waves. And the breezes, of course.

So there it is, folks. I'm Alexis, and I'm a sap. And I don't care!

We're trying to show The Imp some Hawaiian culture while we're here - we believe it's important to learn about the people who live in a place when you're visiting. So yesterday we taught The Imp, when he sees a Honolulu Police Department car, to point and shout, "Five-oh! Five-oh!"

Today's lesson: "Book'em Danno."

Things That Are True - Travel

2011-04-15T09:59:00.000-07:00

Quick update from the middle of the Pacific:

The Imp could not contain his curiosity through the process of checking our bags, getting our boarding passes, going through security, and customs at YVR. It was great - his constant questions kept him busy and distracted enough that he wasn't too worried about all the strangers and officials in uniform. I'd carefully prepared him in the days leading up to our flight, explaining what was going to happen as best I could. I think that really helped; The Imp can handle almost anything as long as he knows what to expect. (In other words, he is exactly like me.)

He insisted on carrying his own "suitcase"

The flight went really, really well. Better than I could have reasonably hoped, actually. I brought stickers, flash cards, writing/drawing stuff, and my iphone. He was so entranced with the whole being-in-a-plane thing that he didn't even start to get antsy for the first hour. During the six hours we were captive in our seats, The Imp enjoyed dry-erase pen/letter writing activity cards, I Spy puzzle cards, and five episodes of the Backyardigans on my phone. And a teaspoon of Gravol - I was the motion-sick kid that puked everywhere we went; I figured preventative measures were entirely appropriate.

He listened really well. He charmed the flight attendants and the other passengers. He flirted with the pretty French-Canadian girls across the aisle from us. The couple of times he got a bit squirmy and wanted to get out of his seat, we reminded him that The Pilot (figure of myth and legend in The Imp's mind) wanted him to keep his seat belt on, which was amazingly effective.

Despite having traveled a lot and knowing the uncomfortable, irritating reality, I still have a slightly romantic notion of the whole process of flying. I can't help but remember how exciting it was when I was a kid: my mom would dress us up in our best clothes, we'd get special treats (like chewing gum), and the flight attendants would give us colouring books and crayons. My first trip to Hawaii, I was about a year older than The Imp is now. It was a Big Deal.

I hope we made it a Big Deal for The Imp, I hope as an adult memories of his childhood travels with us come to him through the same rosy filter I use for mine. But the reality? Ugh.

Air Canada, even on a six hour international flight, doesn't give you a meal unless you pay for it. The options? From Tim Horton's, Quiznos, and the like. Ugh.

The dairy-free options? Exactly two.

Wait for it.

Cup-a-soup style noodles and Pringles.

Sodium and unpronounceables. Awesome. And no ingredient lists for the wraps and sandwiches, so even if I pulled the cheese out of them, there was no telling what was in the bread or spreads used. Gah.

Good thing I'm paranoid. Before the flight, I insisted we buy some kappa sushi, inari, and a package of chopped fresh veggies I spotted at a vendor once we got past security, as a "just in case." The Imp devoured the sushi. I shudder to think what his behaviour might have been like had we filled him full of the chemical stuff.

And, tip for travelers here: carrot, celery, and cucumber sticks are excellent for take off and landing. The Imp's doesn't really get the whole "chew but don't swallow" concept of gum, but chewing on crispy vegetables cleared his ears perfectly - without the adds-to-antsy-behaviour sugar and food dyes in candy. Win!

We got off the plane and were greeted by my aunt and uncle at the airport, with the most fragrant and beautiful puakenikeni leis, including one they'd had especially made Imp-sized. The Imp, whose body clock was telling him it was 11pm, was subdued but polite and happy. I desperately wanted to get a picture of him with his great-aunt and great-uncle and the lei they gave him, but when we put him down in a seat in the airport while we waited for our luggage, he fell into a deep, deep, fire-alarm-has-no-power-against-this sleep almost immediately.

This was the best I could do as he slept in my arms at the car rental counter:

Aloha!

Welcome to Hawaii, Imp. I hope you love it as much as I do.

If you're interested in following our travel adventures on twitter, I've invented the hashtag #SNBNHI (Shall Not Be Named Hawaii) for our travel tweets.

Things That Are True - Body Issues

2011-04-11T20:32:00.000-07:00

HWSNBN, The Imp and I are, for the first time, taking a warm weather holiday together. Well, technically the second time, but the first time The Imp was merely a five-months bump.

When he looked like this...

...and I looked like that.

We're going to Hawaii.

Soon.*

The trip is far enough away that I still entertain fantasies of dropping a couple of pounds before I have to debut my fish-white winter flesh in public, but soon enough that there's no chance that's actually going to happen. I'd pretty much have to go all starlet during Oscar week and stop eating entirely from now until the moment of departure.

So that's a no then.

I'm mostly confident about my body. It's pretty healthy; it works well most of the time. But it looks its age - it looks like it's grown and nourished a child. I usually manage to avoid the trap of comparing my appearance to photoshopped magazines and too-perfect actresses. And then...

Then I had to go bathing suit shopping. I haven't bought a bathing suit since shortly after The Imp was born and I felt like Audrey Hepburn just because I could see my ankles. I had a low threshold for thinness then; now my ego demands more.

That was two days ago. I'm still feeling fat and frumpy. Nothing like the horrible lighting of those places (seriously, why?) to highlight every lunar-crater bump of cellulite on parts of my body I don't usually look at. Today I look in the mirror and see all the jiggly bits and none of the strength and ability. I'm suddenly looking at fake tans as if they're Something I Should Do, which: WTF? I'll likely be making serious investments in a sarong or five before I hit the beach.

Yes, because an ambulatory tent and awning is so slimming.

Gah.

Enough. Enough of this. Enough hating the body I live in. HWSNBN doesn't hate it, why should I?

Dammit, I hereby declare that I will walk the beaches of Oahu with pride in the body that's gotten me this far. I will run through the waves with The Imp ignoring the bits that jiggle in favour of celebrating my boy's joy in the sand squishing under his toes. I will stand next to my prettier, thinner (and, it should be said, 12 years younger) cousin for photos and give a real smile to the camera.

But is it okay if I suck in my stomach a little bit at the same time?

I happened upon this on the beach at English Bay a few weeks ago. Making it the motto of my trip.

*And no, I'm not posting dates here on the interweb. And yes, I have people staying in my home while we're away. Burly, strong people. People with a big, surly dog. And mixed martial arts training. And x-ray vision, and connections at the Pentagon. And they will water my plants while I'm gone. Win!

Wordless Wednesday - Bunnies

2011-04-06T08:01:00.000-07:00

No more bunnies.

"No more bunnies," announced The Imp yesterday. "I want a big plate like you because I am a big boy."

Anyone want some bunnykins dishes?

Things That Are True - You Might be a Mom if...

2011-04-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

There are moments in my life that exist only because I'm a mom. I say and do things I would never have done without The Imp around.

You might be a mom if...

...you've ever found yourself discussing labour and delivery with a woman you just met and it doesn't feel at all TMI or over-sharey.

...a quick swipe at your naughty/stinky bits with a baby wipe is considered an adequate substitute for a proper shower, more often than you'd like to admit.

...you find yourself doling out stickers every time someone poops on the toilet.

...you have an opinion about the Backyardigans.

...you hate Caillou with the heat of a thousand suns.

...the temptation to cut your dinner companion's food into tiny bite-sized pieces is nearly impossible to resist, even when you're out for a child-free evening.

...you've ever referred in the plural possessive to body parts you have never personally had. "We don't touch our penis in front of other people, honey."

...you linger a little longer than is strictly necessary in your child's bedroom at night just to watch them sleep. Just because.

...you want to stop every pregnant woman you see and say, "You can do this. You can. And you'll be great. And it's okay if you're not great every minute."

Anything I missed? Please share in the comments!

Things That Are Dairy-Free: Frosting

2011-03-27T17:05:00.000-07:00

I have a dairy-free chocolate cake recipe that I've used for years, but had begun to despair of ever finding a dairy-free frosting recipe that didn't suck. While I've never been a buttercream fan - too much sweet and not enough substance for my taste, I could eat cream cheese frosting or and ganache every day of my life and never tire of either. (Except for the whole giant ass thing that would happen. I wouldn't enjoy that much.)

I like healthy food, but I'm not especially keen on health food, if you know what I mean. I don't want carob anything. Dessert is a treat, it should be decadent. I like an unapologetic frosting: thick, gooey, not too sweet. A frosting of substance. And my temporary solution of melted chocolate thinned with soy milk drizzled over cake and cupcakes just wasn't meeting my cake filling needs.

And then I found a Fudge Frosting recipe in the tired old Betty Crocker cookbook in the back of my cupboard, which I adapted to make Imp-friendly by substituting dairy-free margarine for butter, and soymilk for regular milk. I slightly decreased the sugar, and of course I increased the chocolate, because adding more chocolate to everything is pretty much my entire reason for living.

The Imp helped with the measuring and the stirring - and the spoon licking, which is pretty much his entire reason for living. It was a big hit at a family birthday party - no one even noticed its lack of milk ingredients. Win!

The Imp demonstrates his whisking prowess

So here's what we did:

3/4 cup granulated sugar
2/3 cup baking cocoa
1/2 cup soymilk
4 Tbsp dairy-free margarine (I use Fleischmann's)
2 Tbsp light corn syrup
Dash of salt
1 to 1 1/2 cups icing sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract

Mix granulated sugar and cocoa in a saucepan. Stir in remaining ingredients except icing sugar and vanilla, and heat over medium/medium-high heat until it boils, stirring often. Boil for 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and leave it to cool for a half hour or so.

Whisk in icing sugar and vanilla until smooth. For a smooth frosting use less icing sugar, for a stiffer frosting, use more.

This makes enough to fill and frost an 8-inch two-layer cake. I like to make a three layer cake, myself, and fill it with sliced strawberries or raspberry jam, then frost the cake with yummy chocolatey goodness. Because adding fresh fruit to cake makes it health food, you know.

I'd love to hear about any other dairy-free frosting recipes if you've got 'em!

But no carob, please. It's an abomination.

Things I Believe - International Women's Day

2011-03-08T12:45:00.000-08:00

Today marks the 100th celebration of International Women's Day. Twitter this morning has been a source of inspiration, as I watch the people I'm following recognize, congratulate and celebrate the women they admire: women who've left their mark in history, women who've achieved success by their own definition and on their own terms, and also women in their personal lives - their moms, sisters, aunts and friends. Just thinking about how far we've come makes me stand straighter and feel taller. But it is devastating to think about how far we've yet to go.

I'm lucky; I'm geographically blessed. I was born in Canada - the personhood and equality of women is enshrined in our constitution and laws.

I'm also temporally fortunate. My mother in law, a doctor - one of only three women in her med school graduating class - was occasionally accosted in mid-1960's Vancouver and asked - by other women, mind you - how she could leave her children in the care of another and take work away from a man. I was born in 1970. I was raised by parents who both worked, and whose religion has, as one of its major tenets, the equality of men and women.

I have a tremendous amount of freedom. I've never known anything else. Sexism exists in my culture and in the media I consume, but I have a voice. And no one can silence me unless I let them.

In much of the world, that is not true.

And so, I celebrate the women I know, and the women I don't know. The fearless, the resolute, the everyday. Unreservedly, unabashedly, and unapologetically.

I've seen more than one mention in my twitter stream today exhorting the importance of discussing International Women's Day with our daughters, and I don't disagree. It is essential to teach our girls where we've come from, how strong we are both individually and as a group, and how much we've accomplished, sometimes against staggering odds. We need to teach them to think critically about princess culture, about how women are portrayed in media, about the war against women's rights that seems to be happening, not just "over there" in developing nations and the Middle East, but just south of our own border.

This is crucial, I don't argue that.

But as a mother of a son, I say that's not enough.

We have to include our sons in these conversations. They are exposed to the same cultural biases, the same images of perfect airbrushed bodies, the same hypersexualized pictures of younger and younger girls, the same portrayal of women in the media, the same news stories. And I would argue that this popular portrayal of women does just as much harm to a boy as it does to a girl.

Simply put: we cannot expect women to succeed unless we educate our boys about women's issues too. We cannot expect degradation of women to end unless we point out the discrepancy between the "ideal" image of the woman on the bus stop ad, and the real person standing waiting for the bus. We must empower boys to celebrate real women, not caricatures of femininity. We must teach boys to question what they're being told to want.

(And don't get me started on the way men, especially fathers, are portrayed in popular culture. That's a rant for another day.)

Strong female role models are important to boys too. As a feminist, and a mother, it is one of my primary goals to teach my boy to respect all women.

Unreservedly, unabashedly, and unapologetically.

Wordless Wednesday - 980 Days

2011-03-02T12:24:00.000-08:00

What a difference 980 days can make:

The Imp's first passport photo: two weeks old


The Imp's updated passport photo: two weeks ago

Things That Are True - Ten Truths for Living

2011-02-28T11:05:00.000-08:00

When an idea hits, it's better to act immediately than overthink. I have an unfortunate habit of questioning and analyzing and talking myself out of actually accomplishing much. Today as I was looking around trying to sort out what to tackle first on the Neverending Do List of Doom, it occurred to me that the first thing, the very first thing I should do, is write down ten truths for living.

So I did.

I didn't overthink, I just wrote. And I tried hard not to pass judgment; a particular struggle for me. To compile, in ten minutes or less, a list of Things That Are True. Not Things That Should Be, not Things I Need To Do, not Things I'm Doing Wrong. Just Things That Are True For Me.

A bit of the actual page I scribbled them out on. And look: I thought "truths" and wrote "rules" before I changed it back. Gah.

So here they are:

My physical environment affects my mental and emotional state and vice versa.
Procrastination is the dream killer.
Creating, making, doing are as crucial as breathing.
Physical well being - adequate sleep, good food, and challenging activity are essential.
The company of others inspires me and keeps me striving to do better.
Letting go of attitudes, patterns, and physical things that don't serve me is necessary to moving forward.
Being kind to others allows me to be kinder to myself.
Learning daily motivates me.
To learn, risk is necessary. Do the scary thing!
There is profound joy in being present during the smallest of moments.

The demons I fight daily tell me that the list is trite, that there's nothing particularly interesting there. That no one will care, or relate. I'm going to hit publish anyway, because I think that's how I'll be able to shout down the you-can't and the you-shouldn't and the why-bother.

Prove my demons wrong. Tell me: what are your Ten Truths?

If you'd rather write a blog post than reply in the comments, let me know - I'd love to link to it!

Wednesday of Few Words - Croup

2011-02-16T13:59:00.000-08:00

A visit from the Croup Monster is never fun. It's descended on our house again, bringing with it pals like Barking Cough, Snot Face, and my personal favourite, Febrile Seizure. Good times.

And a febrile seizure, even when you've seen them before, is a terrifying thing. Fortunately it was all over in about a minute, and The Imp (picture above taken about half an hour later, after my hands stopped shaking) went back to sleep almost immediately and remembers nothing today. I can't wait until he outgrows them. He's had three of them, and they freak me the fuck out every. single. time.

Things I'm Learning - Toddler Crafts Sneak Up on You

2011-02-14T10:46:00.000-08:00

I wasn't going to do a Valentine's Day type post - I'm not an especially Valentinesy type girl.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not anti-Valentine's Day; I don't hate it. Nor am I against other people celebrating it. I'm not the cynic in the corner muttering into my glass of wine that it's a trumped up holiday, a Hallmark invention, an excuse to boost sales in February after the retail doldrums of post Christmas consumer burnout.*

No.

People want to celebrate love, I say have at it! An excuse to eat chocolate? Um, okay!

Since I eat chocolate every single day anyway, I don't need February 14th to tell me it's okay. And since I live in the modern world in a country that allows me a great deal of personal freedom, I don't need February 14th to tell me to celebrate the love in my life. Every day, I get up and choose to spend my day married to HWSNBN. There are no constraints - moral, cultural, or financial - on my decision to stay with him. I want to be with him. Every day. Some days more than others; he does, after all, snore on occasion. But living in a world where I don't have to stay married to someone means that I choose, over and over again, to be with him. And he with me. If that's not a daily affirmation and celebration of our love, I don't know what is. So we don't do anything special for each other on Valentine's Day. And since we don't do anything special for each other, it never occurred to us to do anything special for The Imp.

(I will take this moment to apologize to his future spouse now: sorry for not teaching him to buy flowers and stuff on this most auspicious day. Hopefully our example will have taught him, however, to buy flowers and stuff for no reason at all, and that will make up for it. Still friends?)

That being said, we do have one small, goofy Valentine's tradition. Six years ago this month, we moved into our apartment. We were both working absurd hours at the time, and couldn't manage to schedule the move in of All Our Stuff until the weekend after Valentine's Day. For a couple of weeks we had our bed, our clothes, and not much else. No dishes, no books, no furniture... That Valentine's Day, we both arrived home late, and famished. Our romantic 9pm Valentine's dinner was a couple of slices of pizza HWSNBN picked up on his way home. Having no cutlery, plates, or napkins - not even a tea towel - we stood together over the kitchen sink hoovering back our lukewarm meal. As a joke, the next year I arranged to have pizza handy, and we leaned over the sink to eat it, giggling like fools. We've done it every year since.

But that's not what this post is about!

This is a post about Crafty Stuff. Although I'm not a crafty gal, despite my love of cooking, sewing and crochet projects that I never finish. I recoil from glitter and glue sticks with something akin to horror, and am mightily grateful that The Imp can get his craft on at daycare, and I don't have to a) come up with fun stuff for him to do or b) clean up the mess after. Score one for outside the home childcare!

And then daycare provided a class list for Valentine's Day.

They were careful to explain that cards were optional and not expected, but that if we were going to bring something, we had to bring something for everyone. Fair enough. I tucked the list into my bag and promptly forgot about it, until the evening of the 13th, when I suddenly remembered. We've never had to do anything for the big day before - at his last daycare all the kids were so little they wouldn't have known what was going on. But now he's hanging with the big kids, the 3-5 year olds, and they most definitely do know what's going on.

It was dark and raining. I did not feel like venturing out to buy cards that would almost certainly end up in the garbage within 48 hours.

So I dug through the "craft supplies" (a plastic bag jammed in the back of a closet) and found: construction paper (someone had given us a pad) and markers. And we have tape and scissors.

The Imp: What we doing, Mommy?
Me: (faking enthusiasm) We're going to make cards for all your friends at school!
The Imp: Happy Birthday cards? (he's made a few of those, mostly scribbles, for family)
Me: Not birthday cards, Valentine's cards!
The Imp: Okay!

I handed him a piece of pink construction paper and a red marker to distract him while I tried to figure out what the hell we were going to do. He promptly and happily began to scribble.

Inspiration! I swapped The Imp's well scribbled-upon paper for a clean sheet, drew heart shapes onto it, and cut them out. Great, now we have hearts. Um...

Green, blue, yellow, and orange construction paper became simple one fold cards. I stuck tape on the back of the heart shapes, The Imp stuck them on the front of the cards. Perfect. I wrote "Happy Valentine's Day!" and "From [The Imp]" on the inside and presto voila alakazam, we can haz Valentine's Day cards for 25 kids in twenty minutes or less for zero dollars.

Fancy.

We wrote his classmates' names on the front of the cards, and delivered them to everyone's decorated paper bag card receptacle this morning. Win!

One of the other parents at daycare this morning looked at our efforts and said, "I can't believe you made all those cards."

Truth? Neither can I.

And now I have a mess to clean up.

*Although in writing that, it occurs to me that it all may be true whether I'm a cynic or not.

Things That Are True - UPIs

2011-02-10T15:06:00.000-08:00

UPIs, I called them, with a shrug and a laugh.

Back in my early twenties, when I could drink and dance until the early hours with no consequences. A blur of friends, fun, and fluids of various varieties, made right in the morning by a twenty minute nap, a shower, and a fresh coat of lip gloss.

UPI: Unidentifiable Party Injuries

You know the ones I mean: "Whoa, how'd I get this giant bruise on my thigh? It just mysteriously appeared! How funny is it that I have no idea where it came from? Man, you'd think a bruise like that, I'd remember something!" I wore them like a badge of honour. The "I was so drunk!" rite of passage.

"UPI!" I'd giggle over drinks the day after. (Not to be confused with UPOs - Unidentified Party Objects - the debris left at your house after an especially raucous and well attended party. Mostly unwanted junk, but hey! that's a nice sweater. I'll keep that!)

----------

UPIs, I called them, ashamed and not meeting your eye.

I didn't name them until well after that awful relationship, the bruises long gone.

UPI: Undisclosable Partner Injuries

The ones I kept hidden under long skirts and long sleeves. He was smart; he hit me in the face only once. My split lip, I passed off as a cold sore. That bruise on my upper arm was a fall in the shower.

A hand-shaped fall in the shower.

Maybe that's why as summer approached and clothing might betray him, the abuse grew less physical and more emotional. Emotional hurt doesn't give anything away.

He was smart; he knew I wouldn't tell anyone. He was the only one who ever saw me like that; covered in bruises. After a while, even I didn't see them. I got really good at not seeing them. I was so used to wearing clothes that made them invisible, that they became invisible to me. I became invisible to me.

Me in 1996. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

A month after I finally stopped going back for more, I tried on my bathing suit in my new by-the-kindness-of-friends home. A summer day, the sunlight was streaming in through the open window onto my too pale, too long hidden legs. I was startled by the sight of smooth, unbruised skin from head to toe. I couldn't recognize that body as my own.

"No more UPIs," I quietly said to myself. "Ever again."

----------

UPIs, I call them now. Enough time has passed, the context has changed again. I'm back to the shrug and the laugh.

The bruise on my shin from lunging past the coffee table and not quite missing it in my haste to stop The Imp from leaping head first off the back of the couch. "I do parkour, Mommy!"

The sore ankle from the time I, sleep deprived and not paying attention, closed the car door on my own foot.

The bursitis in my left shoulder from carrying thirty pounds of squirm the times he refused to sit in the stroller and he refused to walk.

UPI: Unavoidable Parenting Injuries

The many and omnipresent small bruises from little knees, and elbows, and heels as I cradle a restive feverish toddler in my arms. The bumps and bonks as little hands fling toys across a room, or shove a book too close to my face. "Read me a story, Mommy!"

And this week, the large and unlovely bruise on my chest from a too-vigourous game of Tickle Me Mommy, toddler heel connecting with adult sternum as The Imp shrieked with laughter and kicked his little legs trying to squirm away from The Claw.

----------

I stood in front of the mirror yesterday to take this picture, and the memories started to sneak out of the box where I'd hidden them. Friends came over and I quickly threw on a sweater over my v-neck top so I wouldn't have to answer questions, and it all came tumbling back. And this post, originally meant to be a lighthearted look at the way my life has changed since I became a parent, oozed darkly out of me, beyond my control.

What can I say? I bruise easy.

Wordless Wednesday - Coolness Quotient

2011-02-09T11:13:00.000-08:00

There is no doubt in my mind: The Imp is cooler than I ever was. Even back when I thought I was cool.

This post is part of A Lot of Loves' Wednesday of Few Words linkup.

Tuesday Confession: Daycare

2011-02-08T16:38:00.000-08:00

Fact: The Imp is the best thing that ever happened to me. Ever.*

Fact: Without daycare I would be a raving lunatic.

I'm just not that mom. Sometimes I wish I was; the mom that can come up with fun things to do, crafts that entertain and educate, classes that propel development, playdates with age-appropriate activities. I watch other moms, people in my family and circle of friends who excel at that. The moms that can spend every waking minute with their children, and revel in every second of it. But I just can't. I have tremendous admiration and respect for the moms that are, but I've come to accept that I'm not that person.

So, The Imp is in full time daycare. Monday - Friday, 9am - 5pm.

I used to have a lot of guilt about it. I would berate myself daily, asking what kind of mother sends her kid to spend most of his waking hours with other people. (Other people who are vastly more qualified to spend time with him than I am - I don't have a degree in early childhood education, and they do, after all.) I worried about the cost, especially when launching a new business takes some time to show any income. The reason I started my own business was so that he wouldn't have to be in care, so that I could spend more time with him. So I could be that mom.

But the truth of it? It's not in me. I desperately need the me part of my day. I need that time to do grown up things, to have grown up conversations. And when I don't get that time, it is Not Good Indeed. I become impatient, frustrated, and highly irritable. I become Shouty Mom, and Shouty Wife, and I don't like myself very much.

So The Imp goes off to "school" every morning, and I run my business from home. Best of both worlds; The Imp loves daycare, adores his friends, and gets all the social stimulation, developmentally-appropriate play, crafts, and activities he craves. He's an only child - daycare has taught him him how to share, take his turn, and find his place in the world, independent of me. I'm lucky to have the freedom and flexibility in my work schedule to take him to swimming and gymnastics and pick him up early just for fun whenever I want.

So I'm not that mom. I no longer apologize for it - it's okay. Good even. Because I'm not impatient, frustrated, and irritable. Or shouty. And I'm not resenting the time I spend with him. I'm delighting in it.

And he's curious, and social, and a really, really fun kid to hang around.

And clearly he's thriving.

*Second best thing: HWSNBN, of course.

Things That Are True - Overwhelm

2011-01-26T13:44:00.000-08:00

I've been feeling a little like I'm barely holding together the various unraveling threads of my life lately. I've reached a constant state of overwhelm. Nothing particular, just everything all at once. You know how it is. (Please say you know how it is.)

It's been a day.

I forgot my wallet and phone at home this morning. Never a good idea.

The Imp and I walked out of his gymnastics class (or if you ask The Imp, "I do parkour!") just in time to see my car in the process of being towed away. (I am an unrepentant receiver of many parking tickets.)

The bad news: I got another parking ticket.

The good news? The tow truck driver took pity on my walletless state, backed the car back into its expired spot, and left without further incident.

There's a good chance that The Imp standing on the sidewalk crying, "Don't take the car away! It's not broken! Don't take the car away!" over and over may have been a factor in the driver's decision to just get the hell out of there.

You win some, you lose some.

Sigh.

But this? This is made of win.

Things I'm Learning - Assumptions

2011-01-14T14:32:00.000-08:00

When I was eight, my family went on a grand adventure. We sold or packed up everything we owned, said goodbye to friends and family, traveled across most of Canada by train, then flew away. Stops in Frankfurt, a week and a half in Israel, an unexpected three days in Greece, then on to Nairobi where we almost missed our flight to Antananrivo. A few hours there in an airport under construction*, and then a quick Air France flight to our destination, the place that would be our home for the next two and a half years: Reunion.

Map scanged from www.mapsofworld.com

We went there because my parents felt it was their duty to be of service to their religion. I also think it was a balm for a marriage in trouble - they were always at their best when it was the two of them against the world. I suspect also that they just had itchy feet. It was not the first time they'd done that kind of thing - but it was the first time with children. And, I'm sad to say, the last.

Reunion was both literally and figuratively the polar opposite of my hometown: Watson Lake, Yukon. The two are exactly twelve time zones apart. Where Watson Lake was sparsely populated and surrounded by miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles in every direction, Reunion was a small space, crammed with crowds of people everywhere. Watson Lake was in Canada's cold north, Reunion was tropical. Spindly gray-green pine trees traded for lush vegetation and palm tree lined beaches. Where Watson Lake was culturally homogeneous (if you ignored the First Nations population, which, let's face it, was pretty common nation-wide in the 1970s), Reunion was a mix of African, Indian, Chinese, and French influences. Where English was the only language spoken in Watson Lake, Reunion was politically and linguistically French. In the entire time we were there, outside of my parents' religious community, I recall meeting one other person who spoke English - a tourist who approached us when he overheard us speaking.


Left: downtown (I'm not kidding) Watson Lake, 2004 Right: typical St Pierre street, Reunion, 1979

Being in such a foreign environment challenged everything we thought we knew. I was a kid, I rolled with it. I showed up my first day of school with my Sesame Street French and my trusty Larousse pocket English-French/French-English dictionary, and I figured it out, as kids do.

My sister (left) and I (right), dressed up for our first day of school, knowing nothing, 1979. This was the last time we would wear socks for 2 1/2 years.

But I was always aware of how different we were, how much we stood out. How different every minute of our day had become. Reunion had no tv to speak of then: a three hour broadcast every evening, which only mattered if you had a tv, which we didn't. No one we knew had one. At a time when peers in Canada were getting telephones in their bedrooms, we knew one person in our whole village who had a phone - and it didn't always work. Coming from a place where we thought nothing of leaving the tap running while we brushed our teeth, in Reunion we had running water only three days a week, and woe to the family that forgot to fill their cistern for the days without. Compared to the neighbours up the hill from us who lived in a corrugated tin shack without electricity or running water of any kind, we were considered wealthy beyond imagining because we had a refrigerator.

Everything was different; everything. Yet old habits die hard. In Canada, official language laws decreed that labels on food packaging be in both English and French. In the store, if the French side was carelessly left facing out by the shopkeeper, all you had to do was flip it over to see the label in English. In Reunionese shops, time after time, upon seeing the French label, we would turn the can around, only to encounter more French on the other side. For months and months (years, maybe) we did this - my mom, my dad, and I. (My sister was four and not yet reading when we arrived there.) Despite knowing intellectually that the labels were only in French, still we did this, and were jolted every time there was no English on the other side.

There is a powerful life lesson there. At the age of eight, my behaviour was already that ingrained, despite overwhelming evidence that it made no sense. Can it be any different at forty?

Maybe that's why I find it so difficult to make changes in my life - even positive ones. Because there are decades of ingrained behaviour - subconscious assumptions that inform every choice I make, every action I take. (Every smile I fake, every cake I bake...) Things I'm not even aware of trip me up.

And I think that's what our inner you-can't-do-that-and-who-do-you-think-you-are-to-even-try voices are. (We all have those, right? I'm not alone there?) Unexamined assumptions that hold us back. We've been listening to those voices droning in our ears for years, and they're a lot louder than the realities we encounter. Like the habit of flipping the package to find the familiar - except without the jolt of finding the unexpected on the opposite side. Since we're rarely jolted that way, brought face-to-face with these assumptions, we don't see them. And how can you change what you don't see?

I learned from comments on my post over at strocel.com yesterday that I'm not the only one who struggles with judging myself too harshly. Why is it so easy to show compassion for friends and strangers, and so hard to be that kind to ourselves?

Because we don't have the same kinds of assumptions about other people, that's why. We take their words and their behaviours for what they are - not what they appear to be through that lens of judgment we turn on ourselves.

So my question is, how can we jolt ourselves out of our everyday way of thinking, to see the reality of who we are, and how we appear to others? How can we change the assumptions we have about ourselves - hell, even figure out what those assumptions are, so we can work at changing them? So we move forward? So that we can, as Thoreau said, go confidently in the direction of our dreams?

*Aren't all airports, everywhere, at all times, under construction, or only when I'm traveling through them?

Things I'm Learning - Crafting My Life

2011-01-13T09:41:00.000-08:00

Even if I haven't been posting much here, I've been busy. I've managed to keep the resolution of posting daily at Vancouver Daily Photo. Yay for resolutions! (In fact, I've managed to keep all three of my resolutions so far - a first for me.)

And, drum roll please, today Amber Strocel (who I've mentioned before here) has been kind enough to let me guest-post for her fabulous "Crafting My Life" series on her blog at Strocel.com. If you like what you see there, she's also launching a Crafting My Life e-course about living with intention, which promises to be seventeen kinds of awesome.

Now, I'm off to find something to get rid of today.

Things That Are True - Overthinking

2011-01-04T10:38:00.000-08:00

Since one of our dearest friends had a baby six weeks ago, The Imp has been playing, and talking, a lot about babies in tummies, babies being born, and about being a mommy. He's insisted at different times that he's a baby, that he's a big boy, that he wants to be in my tummy, that he's not a baby because babies can't walk, or talk, or do much of anything. He also tells me daily that he's a mommy*. Specifically, George's mommy.


Should I tell him putting George in the fridge isn't going to win him any parenting awards?

He arranges all his stuffies in a row, and tells me he's their mommy and that he's reading them stories and putting them to bed. I hear him, playing in his room, threatening various toys with the dreaded Naughty Corner. (Oh dear.)

This past weekend, visiting with friends, The Imp was playing with a big kangaroo stuffie they had. I explained pouches and joeys and hopping and Australia, and didn't give it another thought. This morning before daycare, The Imp was quite adamant that he was a kangaroo mommy, and that George was a joey. Sure, why not?

But then he was using his kangaroo-mommyhood as an excuse to not get dressed and go to daycare. Time for a little chat, clearly.

Me: You're a kangaroo mommy?
The Imp: Yeah. George is a joey and I'm his mommy.
Me: Well, it's time to put on some pants, kangaroo mommy.
The Imp: (looking at me like I was an idiot) Kangaroo don't wear pants, Mommy.

Damn. He kind of had me there.

Me: (Trying a new tack) Are you a kangaroo at school?
The Imp: No. I'm a kangaroo mommy at home.
Me: You're just a mommy at home? Not at school?
The Imp: Just at home. Not at school.

In a split second, my mind was racing with fears that I'd somehow managed to give The Imp a skewed view of motherhood. "Oh no!" I thought. "I've somehow imparted to him that motherhood belongs at home. I've inadvertently taught him that femininity and masculinity belong in entirely separate spheres. I've indicated through my words and actions that women do not belong at school or work. Oh jebus, have I messed up the gender roles already? Or is there pressure from the other kids at daycare to be more masculine there? I'm a horrible mother for putting him in daycare when I work from home. Oh fuck. What have I done?!?" As showers of mama-guilt rained down upon my head, I managed to keep my game face on and ask:

Me: If you're a mommy at home, what are you at school?
The Imp: (without missing a beat) A light bulb.

Yeah. Maybe I was overthinking the whole gender-roles thing a little, there.

*I'm not worried about the gender discussion around who's a mommy and who's a daddy at this point. If The Imp says he's a mommy, he's a mommy. He'll sort out the gender stuff in the fullness of time, and be whoever he is.

Things That I Want - Resolutions

2011-01-01T11:00:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

Without preamble, here are things I want to do more, or less, of in 2011.

Item the first:

I've fought The Battle of Stuff my whole life. I've had a tendency to keep almost everything: old movie ticket stubs, receipts for everthing, boxes for appliances... The parts of our apartment that are on public view are uncluttered and tidy - but I have a guilty secret of boxes and bags of random items crammed into closets. Every year I've resolved to get organized, to find storage solutions; to get a handle on all my stuff.

This year, I have a different priority. It's been creeping up on me over the last couple of years, but the last couple of months, especially, have made one thing clear to me: I don't need more storage. I need less stuff.

Resolved: In 2011, at least one item a day will be removed from my home, never to return. I look forward to really evaluating the worth of these things I'm holding on to, to freeing up room in my physical world, and to similarly removing clutter from my mental and emotional space. I find just looking at extraneous stuff tiring - it's the visual equivalent of being at a party where the music is just a little bit too loud. Except I can't leave. So I'm moving the noise out instead.

Item the second:

I haven't posted anything to my photography blog in months. It just became yet one more thing I was struggling to keep up with, and I let it go. Except now I'm realizing how much it fed my soul, and I miss it. I miss the photo walks and bike rides, I miss looking at my surroundings with an eye for the interesting within the mundane, and I miss seeking and finding the factoids that gave the photos meaning when I posted them on my blog.

Resolved: In 2011, I will start posting again regularly to Vancouver Daily Photo.

Item the third:

A purely practical matter.

Resolved: I will hang my towel on the hook on the back of the bathroom door when I'm done with it after my shower so I don't have to run dripping through the apartment looking for it every. goddamn. morning.

And you, what are your resolutions?

Things That Are True - Technological Marvels

2010-12-29T10:20:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago, I tweeted:

And it's true. Witness the technological marvel that adorns my kitchen counter:

All this is my way of saying, "Hello, I'm still alive. I'll write more soon. Maybe."

Also, a sneaky way of figuring out how to set up a youtube account, upload a video, and embed it on the blog. If this all works properly, expect more oeuvres of this masterful quality soon.

Things That Are True - Friday Confession

2010-12-10T21:05:00.000-08:00

The Imp has been sick since Monday. Sleepless nights with a croupy toddler make me so very cranky. Last night, The Imp was awake, coughing, at 1:48 am. He stayed awake, clinging to me, needing a drink of water, his favourite stuffed toy, to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed, to sleep in his own bed with Mommy, to sleep anywhere as long as it was on Mommy. I held him, and I rocked him, and I stroked his hair, his back, his tired, coughing, wheezing little body. Because as parents, that's what we do, right?

It's 8:30 pm, and I just put him to bed for the night. Except for the brief times he was strapped into his car seat today, he has been in my arms, on my lap, or clinging to one leg or the other, for eighteen solid hours. Even when HWSNBN came home just before bedtime, The Imp still clung to me, crying, "Mommy, Mommy!" when Daddy tried to read him a bedtime story.

The last time The Imp was feeling clingy, in a hotel room in Victoria

Don't get me wrong. I love The Imp more than anything. I want to be there for him when he's feeling sick, especially when he's feeling sick. I want him to feel safe, and loved, and to know that I'll do anything in my power to help him feel all better.

But a full day of the constant contact, after a full week of the clinging, sleepless nights, and I'm just done. It's too much of a muchness. I've experienced as much touching as I can handle; I've reached sensory overload. My flesh actually crawled when he wanted to cuddle with me at bedtime. I just needed to have my body belong to me for a little while. But I sucked it up, and held his hand, and sang him to sleep.

Because as parents, that's what we do, right?

Cue the Mommy guilt.

Have you ever just had enough with the touching, or am I the only person who's actually that awful?

Things That Are True - The Sunday Morning Shower

2010-11-14T09:45:00.000-08:00

It's possible that no 15 minute increment of time all week is as jealously protected and keenly anticipated as the Sunday morning shower.

Our morning rituals are pretty much the same every week. Monday to Friday is a free for all, just trying to get everyone ready and out the door is some sort of cohesive fashion. Saturday morning, HWSNBN gets to relax while I'm on point. But Sundays, ah Sundays. Sundays are mine.

Shower, Oswego Hotel, Victoria, a few minutes ago

It's the one morning a week that I get time to myself, time to be something other than a producer of food, perpetrator of discipline, seeker of teachable moments, reader of stories, and personal jungle gym to The Imp. The one morning that HWSNBN is around, awake, and on Imp Patrol so I can have as long a shower as I want, uninterrupted.

Of such small gifts to each other are great marriages made.

Things That Matter - Lest We Forget

2010-11-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

Cenotaph, Victory Square, Vancouver

This is where I'll be this morning, to watch Vancouver's Remembrance Day ceremony. I go every year. I'm descended, on my father's side, from a long line of pacifists. Some of them, while objecting to the motivations and machinations of war, still served as stretcher bearers, contributing what they felt, morally, that they could. Men on my mother's side of the family served their country in World War II. One of my cousins served as a peacekeeper in some really hellish places. HWSNBN's father and grandfather both answered the call.

Victory Square, Vancouver

I go to honour them. To honour their commitment to duty, to what they thought was right. I go to remember those who didn't come back. I go to honour those who serve in war-torn places all over the world today.

Statue honouring the war dead of Canadian Pacific Railways, Waterfront Station, Vancouver

And I go in gratitude that because of them, my son is growing up in a peaceful nation, with the freedom to be who he is. May he never need to know anything different.

But I'll teach him to honour, and to be grateful.

Things That Are Almost True - Girls Have...

2010-11-08T20:25:00.000-08:00


LEGO Minifig Anatomy, from the flickr stream of Tim Norris, who credits Jason Freeny

There has been much discussion of body parts lately in the SNBN household.

Specifically, penises. There has been little else that has captivated The Imp's imagination quite as much as the Ineffable Mystery of the Penis.

A frequent topic of conversation over our breakfast toast and smoothie, it goes something like this:

The Imp: Mommy, where's your penis?
Me: I don't have a penis. I'm a woman, and women and girls don't have penises. Girls have vaginas.

I believe in using real words for real things. There are no wee-wees or pee-pees in our house.

The Imp: Mommy don't have a penis?
Me: That's right. Mommies don't have penises. Boys have penises.
The Imp: I have a penis.
Me: Yes, you do.
The Imp: Daddy has a penis?
Me: Yes, Daddy has a penis.
The Imp: Uncle David has a penis?
Me: (cringing, a bit) Yes, Uncle David has a penis.
The Imp: Grandpa has a penis?
Me: (cringing, a lot) Yes honey, Grandpa has a penis.

As we nibble on our toast and peanut butter, The Imp lists every member of our circle of friends and extended family - basically everyone he's ever met - clarifying just who does, and who does not, in fact have a penis.

Once we've discussed the landlord, the letter carrier, the teachers at daycare, the man in the elevator yesterday, and the cashier at the grocery store, The Imp thinks about things. Ponders. Mulls.

And then says:

The Imp: But Mommy, where's your penis?

Second verse; same as the first! Everybody now!!

Sigh.

These conversations have been going on for some time, but have ramped up in frequency and intensity recently as we've introduced concepts of potty training and big boy underwear. Now, in addition to penises, we have to discuss who does and does not have underwear. This is a little easier, since everyone who's not in diapers wears underwear. (Or so I would have The Imp believe. There are things he can find out on his own, in the fullness of time, while I plug my ears and cover my eyes and sing la-la-la-la-la at the top of my lungs.)

Last Saturday after my morning shower, The Imp walked into the bathroom as I was toweling off.* The first question he asked, of course, was:

The Imp: Where's your penis, Mommy?
Me: (for the one millionth time) I don't have a penis, honey, I'm a girl.

The Imp: (thinking) Boys have penises.
Me: That's right, honey, boys have penises. And I'm not a boy.

The Imp: (beaming, because he's finally got it figured out) Boys have penises! (shouting) Boys have penises, and girls have... PYJAMAS!!

Me: (trying to keep a straight face and failing utterly) That's right, honey. Girls have pyjamas.

(Or so I would have The Imp believe. Again, there are things he can find out on his own, in the fullness of time, while I plug my ears and cover my eyes and sing la-la-la-la-la at the top of my lungs.)

*We have no locks on the bathroom doors; The Imp locked himself into, and us out of, the bathroom one too many times, so we had the landlord remove the locks. The Imp's not slowed down much by a closed door.