Things That Are True - Grace in Small Things

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 - This World Falls On Me

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 - A Debt of Gratitude

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 - Four Questions

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 - Thanksgiving

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 True - The Sunday Morning Shower

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

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 I'm Learning - In My Wake

I've had a pretty intense month or so (see yesterday's October Tried To Kill Me post). Had the Cold Virus of Doom That Would No Go Away Ever continued to affect me so strongly, I might've had to arrange to have this entry posthumously titled At My Wake, rather than In My Wake. But when you're feeling a little bruised and battered by the vagaries of life, a long-overdue conversation with a great friend can be such a tonic. I've been lucky enough to have two such conversations this morning, and am feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, and ready to tackle my endless list of things to do and knock a few items off it, as a result.

This morning's experience ties in to a post that's been nibbling at the edge of my writing brain for the last week or so, about what we as parents, as citizens, as humans do while we're here, and what we leave behind. And not the big question what-will-I-leave-behind-when-I-die (although certainly that too) but a more quotidian concern: what do we leave in our wake as we go about our daily lives? This busy-ness that fills our work, and our getting from here to there, and our parenting, and our innumerable chores, and trials, and joys. What impact do we have in our daily interactions with our surroundings and the people who populate our environments as we go about the business of living?

A shot of the wake of a BC Ferry that I took in September.

I've had reason to give it a lot of thought in the last month or so. The Imp's almost two and a half now, and very verbal, and incredibly social. He's reached the stage in his development where he interacts with other people on his own terms - he can make himself understood when he speaks, and he knows his own mind. He doesn't need me to guide or interpret anymore in his conversations with other people. I am mostly delighted by this - it's fascinating to watch him work out his own relationships with our family and friends, but like every parenting milestone, it's bittersweet. Letting him find his own way also makes it harder for me to protect him from people who, consciously or otherwise, may be teaching him things I don't agree with, or doing him harm, even if only slightly.

Parenting is one long process of letting go; I know this. But watching him interact with his grandparents, with long-standing friends of the family, with new arrivals in our social circle, I've been struck by what is left in the wake of these interactions. How even a short time with a negative person can have such a strong impact on The Imp's belief in his own abilities, and how happy and how much more extroverted, curious, and affectionate he is after just an evening with someone who approaches life in a generally positive way. I've seen it in my own communication with him - since I had that blinding insight about the anger I was experiencing and changed my parenting approach, we've had a much more peaceful and gentle relationship with each other; a lot more fun than Shouty Mommy and Naughty Corner Imp.

The Imp is a pretty happy, easygoing little dude most of the time. He's got a low threshold for joy, and a ready smile. As we go about our day, walking hand in hand along the sidewalk, popping into shops to pick up groceries, stopping in at the library, The Imp leaves a smattering of smiles in his wake. Even in a busy urban neighbourhood, people notice his grin and grin back. At the beach, total strangers join us as we kick the soccer ball around: the sixty year old Italian man, the eighteen year old Brazilian guy, me, and The Imp running around in the sand, putting on our own little neighbourhood version of the World Cup. It gives me great happiness to watch The Imp, just by being himself, adding a little joy to someone's busy day.

The Imp spreading smiles around the neighbourhood

Which makes me wonder: what do I leave behind me when I walk out of a room - any room? I've seen the impact a small change in my behaviour has had on The Imp. What ripples exist after my passing through the greater "out there"? Are people relieved to see me go? Do they feel invigorated? Called to action? Do they dread having to see me again? Do they wish they could see me more often?

I can't control what people think when I walk in or out of a room. And to think that they think anything at all is a special kind of arrogance, I suppose. Nor am I fishing for compliments, or looking for reassurance that I'm! awesome! I lead a pretty self-examined life - just look at how many of my posts are tagged with "navel gazing" - so I'm pretty confident I'm not a horrible person to be around. I wouldn't have such great luck in friends if I was. But we all have bad days, we all sometimes snap at people for no real reason; we're all guilty of being less-than-awesome-all-the-time.

I do know what I would like people to feel after spending time with me - I'd like them to feel good. I'd like shopkeepers to greet me with pleasure when I return to their store. I'd like friends to feel like we talked about things that mattered, we discovered new things about ourselves and each other, and we had a few laughs. Or tears, if that's what's appropriate. And I'd like them to look forward to doing it again.

In other words, I'd like them to feel the way I do right now.

Thank you Richard. Thank you Heather. Let's do it again soon.

Things I've Learned - October Review

So October kicked my ass. It knocked me down emotionally and physically. It was a hell of a thirty-one day stretch.

I spent more time than I would've liked doing the angry cry. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. And I crossed things out and scribbled out entire lines in my notebook. And I hit the delete button on this blog a lot. But what survived the edits is, while respectful of people who might not appreciate our interactions splashed all over my little corner of the internet here, a pretty good distillation of my insights and struggles this month.

So, October then:

I learned about the power of muscle memory. Sadly not in the service of improving my tennis backhand, but in finally recognizing the backhanded way the past can mess with the present. And I learned how the power of that insight has improved my parenting, my patience, and The Imp's reactions to my reactions immeasurably.

I had the plague aka The Cold Virus of Doom That Would Not Die Or Go Away Ever. Or maybe it was just my body's physical interpretation of what was happening emotionally. The fact that neither HWSNBN nor The Imp have gotten sick despite how ridiculously ill I've been for almost three weeks makes me lean toward the latter, frankly. But what I lost in productivity this month, I've gained in quiet introspection and a silent sense of reclaiming my confidence in my decisions.

Photo by Gwendolyn Floyd taken at this year's Northern Voice conference back in May. You know you're at the start of a great friendship when you can ask someone you've met like twice to take a picture of your breasts and it's not weird at all.

I took my forty year old boobs in for a screening mammogram. They may be saggy, shrinking, and occasionally leaky, but they are not harbouring anything that will try and kill me. So that's good.

I missed Blissdom Canada, but I got to host the cookie-bearing Karen Humphrey on her way through Vancouver as she headed to what, by all accounts, was seventeen kinds of awesome. So I ate cookies and watched the Blissdom stream on twitter and tried not to die of envy.

I'm marginally more aware of what to do with pumpkins. We carved jack-o'-lanterns. We roasted pumpkin seeds. We trick-or-treated in our neighbourhood's shops, and The Imp made me proud by saying thank you every time someone dropped something in his bucket. He didn't really get the whole "trick or treat" thing, but he knew all about "thank you." Heart: swell.

I was bowled over by the generosity of my peers. I put out the call for donation items for a BC Cancer Inspiration Gala silent auction, and the call was answered and then some. The Gala was very successful, raising a record $2.69 million for lymphoma research at the BC Cancer Agency. And I'm told by someone who was there that the basket we contributed to the silent auction was a hot item and went for well over its value. I am prouder than I can express to be a part of this amazing community.

And I learned that maybe, just maybe, it would be okay if every now and then I gave myself a little bit more credit. It wasn't until I saw the comments on my blog post about the silent auction basket that it even occurred to me that I had made a valuable contribution too, by pulling it all together. Which correlates with a tendency I have in general to discount my own abilities and achievements. While I don't want to get carried away with how awesome I am, it's probably okay if I stop and recognize my own efforts once in a while.

This post is part of Amber Strocel's monthly review linkup.

Things That Are True - Shout Outs Must Be Made

In the early days of my relationship with HWSNBN, we were sitting around my apartment one evening, and I was playing music for him, some on the stereo, some on my guitar. Songs I loved, lyrics that said something I believed in, music that was important to me. After half an hour or so of this, he looked at me and said, "Your music is really earnest."

Me, being earnest with my guitar this summer

I bristled a little. I suppose I'd never analyzed the music I loved, just well, loved it. To have him put a label on it made me a little cross, offended even.

That was almost ten years ago. In the time since, I have come to accept that my music is, in fact, earnest. That I am, in fact, earnest. And that I'm okay with all this earnestness. More than okay with it, I seek it out. It drives my relationships, my parenting, and the way I run my business*.

And it is because of this superfluity of earnestness in my life that I was close to tears numerous times today.

A few weeks ago, I was approached about making a donation for a silent auction from my company, Chill Monkeys, to the BC Cancer Foundation's Inspiration Gala. I immediately said yes, and then because I don't do anything halfway, suggested that I could not just donate one of my hats to their silent auction, but that I would put together a package of mom and child focused items from local mom-entrepreneurs for them. I made a couple of phone calls, had a few conversations; things were well on their way.

And then I got sick. Apocalyptic life-on-Earth-ending sick, with the nastiest, most persistent Virus of Doom I have ever had. I do not recall in my adult life ever feeling so sick and being so debilitated for so long. It's been two and a half weeks, and I'm not 100% yet. Gah.

In my fuzzy-head cold-meds just-get-through-the-day mindset, I thought that the big event was this weekend, giving me a couple more days to pull things together. For some reason I decided to check this morning what date the event was being held. Good thing I did. The gala is tonight.

Gulp. I had in my possession only three items for the basket. And no actual basket. Not good. Serious loss of face if I couldn't pull this off.

So I put out the call on twitter, and yea verily, twitter responded. I spent the day driving all over the place, picking up donations of really great stuff. Then I went and bought a basket and some tissue paper. I had hoped to collect items enough for a total package value of $100-$150.

I underestimated the generosity of my peers.

This is the part where shout outs (shouts out?) must be made. I am continuously humbled and inspired by the support of the Vancouver mom- and women-entrepreneur community, and the outstanding way that we are all able to connect on twitter.

Zoe, Anna, and Rachel from Playpants responded with a lovely package of three modern bloomers. So adorable I almost wish I had a girl. (In addition to The Imp, not instead of!)

Erica and Lorraine of The Survival Guide for Rookie Moms donated a copy of their great book.

Maria from Little Jots gave me one of her delightful books of notes for children.

Patty from Zoolu Organics sent me the softest, most covetable long sleeved lion graphic shirt. Had it not been sized 6-12 months, I might have been seriously tempted to keep it for The Imp.

Maureen from Emily Press labels didn't hesitate to give me a $25 gift certificate for use on her site.

And Sue from Raspberry Kids came through with Leah Douglas' Gourmet Pregnancy, (a fantastic cookbook that had me wanting to run home and cook directly from the Raspberry Kids warehouse), a Sprig Toys excavator, a Seedling kit (the Creature Creator Kit) and a sushi-themed bib from the awesome Mally Bibs.

And I, of course, added a Chill Monkeys cap to the mix.

I was fighting back tears with every item I picked up. Such response! And as I rushed home with all the goodies, and the basket I'd bought to put them in, I was very pleased at being able to promote these generous companies, and to contribute to fundraising for such a worthy cause.

But I was gobsmacked when I made the list of items for the event organizers and actually added it all up - doing math in my head has never been my strong point.

Total value: $265

Two hundred and sixty five dollars worth of local entrepreneur donations in a few short hours. Wow.

The photo above was hastily taken on my kitchen table as I prepared to zoom over to the event venue and drop it off. The basket will look even better in the elegant surroundings and soft lighting of the gala tonight.

Also: I should've bought a bigger basket. When I put everything together, there was not enough room for the toy excavator - so I placed it outside the basket as if it was digging through all the fantastic goodies inside!

I can not thank everyone enough. I am overwhelmed by your generosity, by your spirit of community, and by your instant response and support. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And when I dropped it off to the event organizers, they were very pleased. So they thank you too.


Earnest's not so bad.

Yay for people coming together, in earnestness, I say.




*I don't talk much about my business here. This is my personal blog, and I like to keep things separate. I don't hide the fact that I have a mom blog. I don't hide the fact that I have a business. But I don't link much from one to the other. For one thing, I've been known to swear in this space, which is maybe not the best thing coming from a designer and manufacturer of children's clothing.

Wordless Wednesday - Breakfast is Served Edition

On Sunday, as I was sitting at my desk sorting paperwork (my least favourite part of running my own business) The Imp brought me a lovely tray of some of my favourite foods. Before he handed it to me, he said "Be careful, Mommy, might be hot." Then he thoroughly blew on the food twice, smiled up at me and said, "It's all cool down now Mommy. You could eat it."

Funny when they start to echo back to you the exact words and behaviour you show them, isn't it?

I decided paperwork could wait, and had a delicious imaginary breakfast with my boy. Because that's what Sundays are for.

Things That Are True - Ruminations Upon Turning Forty

Warning: cringe-inducing earnestness ahead. If you're looking for cynicism, click away. You'll not find it here.

My 40th birthday party - photo by HWSNBN

A month ago today, I turned 40.

I had a half a dozen half-written posts in my head at the time, which have grown to a dozen since. Things I've wanted to say: an update on my Fit by Forty mission, discussions of celebrations, birthday cake for the non-dairy set, clever quips about passing life's milestones, and some Significant Ponderings Upon Reaching Adulthood. It's taken a month for all of that to simmer on the back burner of my mental landscape and bubble over into this:

I'm 40. And I don't care anymore.


Let me clarify: this is not "I don't care anymore, nothing matters and what if it did." I have not been tsunami'd by a rogue wave of apathy. The exact opposite, in fact. I am as passionate, as engaged, and possibly more driven than I've ever been. This is "I know what I know, I love what I love, and I no longer give a damn what other people think."

This, friends and relations, is what freedom feels like.

This is a huge deal for someone like me. I have expended a lot of energy - enough kW hours to make a serious dent in the global energy crisis - being consumed with anxiety about not fitting in, worrying about what to wear, what to say, how to act. I have, more than once, allowed my fear to sink me into utter paralysis. I've not done things I desperately, achingly wanted to do - talk to that guy, write that song, go to that event, try that new scary thing - because of my fear of Getting It Wrong. Sheer will pushed me forward on occasion, but more often than not, I feigned aloofness and pretended what I really wanted didn't matter. I opted out.

No more.

An actual photo I took today just before the scribbling began

As I write this, I'm sitting in a cafe that is much cooler than I am. I put my pen down periodically (yes, I still write with pen and paper occasionally - I like the tactile nature of it) and dip in and out of the stream of conversation around me, capturing vignettes of people's public and private lives. I'm surrounded by 20-something hipsters. I admire their easy confidence, their languid coolness, their uninhibited friendships. And I wonder what I looked like at their age to a 40 year old woman sitting scribbling in a notebook nearby. Did I seem so easy and comfortable in my own skin? Or could she tell I was afraid of looking foolish every waking moment of every day? And are these beautiful younger-than-me men and women plagued by the angst (existential and otherwise) that plagued me at their age?

It feels sudden, this I-don't-give-a-damn liberation, but I'm sure, like everything else, that it's not that simple, that it's been creeping up on me far longer than I've been aware. It's just the introspection of watching a major milestone approach and go past that's made it front-and-centre.

I spent my twenties figuring out who I was in the wake of a disastrous and abusive relationship. What other people thought of me was always top of mind. In my thirties, I had a better poker face, but I was still consumed with how I appeared to others. The things that made me happy - designer clothes, extravagant vacations, expensive restaurants - were still tied up in how other people saw me. If I deconstructed every choice I made in the ten years between 27 and 37, what other people thought was the single most important factor every time.

Motherhood - ah motherhood: paradoxically crisis-of-confidence inducing and magnificently empowering all at once. While the mere act of living my life, examining my mistakes, and choosing better the next time has contributed to this new, giddy sense of freedom, it's motherhood that has triggered a quiet revolution in the way I look at the world. I've always been someone who had to know how to do something perfectly before I would even try it - as a result I didn't try a lot of new things. But becoming a parent isn't something I could know how to do before I actually did it. No matter how many books I read or friends I talk to, every person's experience of parenthood is different, and I can't do anything but figure it out as I go.

And Get It Wrong. Boy, do I get it wrong. I angst. I worry. I fret. It's a struggle, and a challenge, and a different game every day - which would have stopped me in my tracks ten years ago. Even five years ago.

But I keep doing it anyway. Aloofness isn't possible. Opting out simply isn't an option.

The getting it wrong and doing it anyway is a monumental change for me. Learning to be a parent has given me the permission to fail, and the courage to try to fail better next time. To just get over myself, to challenge my own assumptions, to reach out, to share my hopes and dreams in this space, and most importantly to believe that my hopes and dreams do matter. Pretty heady stuff.

Web cam photo taken right this minute

Hi. I'm Alexis.

My hair gets frizzy. My teeth are crooked. I make mistakes. I know what I know, I love what I love, and I stand up for what I believe in. I'm 40. And I don't give a damn.

Can I get a booyah?

Things That Are True - Why I Write Here

As I mentioned in my last post, I've been thinking a fair amount about why I blog. I've attended blogging events, learned a lot about what blogging means to other people, and wrestled with what blogging means to me. I've considered going the route of seeking PR pitches, doing giveaways and reviewing products in this space. Who doesn't want free goodies? I've read with some envy about blogger-freebie events that others have been invited to. Who doesn't want a free trip or spa day? I've thought about what it would take to really promote my blog as a brand, and I've struggled with posting regularly enough to build traffic and be considered for that kind of attention.

But here's the thing - it's just not me.

I write because I can't not write. I don't write often, and often I don't write well, but I can't not write.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a letter writer and a journal keeper, with the same sort of sporadic output as I've had here on my blog so far. I have boxes of old notebooks filled with no doubt mortifying-to-almost-40-year-old-me rants, raves, and anguish filled entries about boys (later men), school (later work), goals, to-do-lists, and passions, however transitory.

Me, Grade 8. Also transitory: fashion.

Those notebooks are the repository of my dreams, however ridiculous, unrealistic, or embarrassing they might be. In rereading some of them, I'm shocked at what 17 year old me had to say about homosexuality, amused by what 22 year old me thought was important in a guy, and embarrassed at the depths of wisdom I spouted about turning a whole quarter of a century old. (Depths so shallow you'd crack your skull open if you tried to dive in.)

But I meant those words at the time. Meant them fervently.

As fervently as I now wish I'd never owned that shirt. Me at 17.

As I get older I tend to forget that I haven't always looked at the world the way I do now. I forget how desperately in love I was with that guy in highschool, the one who didn't know I existed. (And who now, frankly, I'd be embarrassed to be seen with. Facebook can be very good for affirming your life's choices. Yikes.) And it's easy to forget how extraordinarily important little moments can be, both good and bad. Things I don't even remember now that rocked me to my knees as they were happening.

Me at 24. It seems I never did quite get the hang of a hairdo. Also: really? Tie-dye?

Now, as a parent, I'm glad I still have this written record of the passions, angst, and injustices of my childhood, teen, and early adult years. I hope it will remind me, as The Imp grows in and out of the various stages of life, that perception is fluid, that perspectives change, and that yes, he does truly, achingly feel like missing that party will literally end any chance at happiness for the rest of his life. I hope I can look at those snapshots of my younger-self feelings and, after chuckling to myself, still be respectful of his. He's a lot like me; I'm sure his passions will be just as fiery as mine were - and still are. No matter how embarrassing they might be.

But here's another thing: not all of them are embarrassing. I can remember writing several times from the age of about 15 until as recently as my early thirties about how I wanted to get a good camera and learn to take proper pictures instead of unsatisfactory snapshots. It's a recurring theme in my notes to myself. And while I certainly wouldn't call myself a photographer, this space, this very public yet somehow very intimate space, has allowed me to start another blog, filled with photographs I have taken myself.

I also wrote repeatedly and with great longing about wanting to sing, and to learn to play guitar, and to write songs. All of which I've done. Maybe not well, maybe not often, but I've done them. Every night at bedtime, The Imp and I sing our goodnight song, a little tune that came to me in the hazy hours of mid-night breastfeeding. I wrote that, and The Imp asks for it every night.

And the photography and the music, and the writing, oh the writing, have been my solace.

The sleepless night of a highschool broken heart has been replaced by the sleepless night of a feverish toddler. The teenage angst about a boy has been replaced by the complicated business of being married to a man. The goals (go to Paris, buy a guitar, get a job) have been replaced by different goals (go to Paris again, buy another guitar, start my own business). But the writing remains.

And when I can put aside the business of life to post here, I will. And I hope you'll come back to read once in a while.

The schedule: sporadic.
The posts: honest, as real as my limited skill can make them, and probably embarrassing to my 60-year-old self.
Also: there will be swearing.

And so be it.

Me at almost 40, and finally comfortable with who I am.

Things That Are True - And Now We Are Two

Mere seconds after The Imp first graced us with his presence

The Imp turns one, and there is much rejoicing

Celebrating The Imp's second birthday

How did that little tiny boy who taught me how to be a mom become this big boisterous two year old? 

Oh, the milestones; they are so bittersweet.

Wordless Wednesday - Of Skinned Knees and Sunny Skies

Yesterday was a spectacular day - sunny and warm, and we spent a chunk of it at the playground, where The Imp learned that running headlong and falling down in the dirt while wearing shorts is very different than in long pants. There were tears.

He also learned that nothing beats hanging out with Grandpa and Daddy on a park bench on a sunny evening. There was great joy.


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

Things I've Learned - Helping Mummy!

My sister-in-law is celebrating her 50th birthday today. I'm the designated birthday-cake-maker in the family, so this morning I was up early looking through recipes for something worthy of the occasion. Cake, filling & frosting chosen, I got out ingredients and got ready to bake. The Imp picked that very moment to become desperately in need of my attention, clinging to my leg and insisting "Up, Mummy!" repeatedly. He WOULD NOT like to go read books with Daddy, thank you very much.

He was, however, delighted to help me stir flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt together.

And the problem with child labour would be...?

Well, I guess the problem with child workers is their tendency to eat the product.

Given that The Imp a) never stops moving, and b) has the attention span of a... well, an almost 2 year old, I was surprised at how diligent he was about stirring things together. He stuck with it until it was all mixed together, and then worked at it again once we added the wet ingredients. I can't even begin to describe how much fun he had - and how much I loved it. It's not often I recognize those perfect moments for what they are as they're happening. This morning I knew. As I stood there next to him, The Imp dressed in his too-big hand-me-down jammies on the chair pulled up to the kitchen counter, fork in hand, enthusiastically stirring cake batter, I knew.

This was one of those moments. I was so overcome with happiness that I had to struggle not to cry. I will remember the look on his face until the day I die. He was perfectly happy, stirring with purpose, saying proudly as he smiled up at me, "Helping Mummy!"

Happy sigh.


Daddy held him at a safe distance while the cakes went in to the oven.

Cake layers cooling on racks prior to filling/frosting
Far left is the layer The Imp made

Right then, dabbing a wee speck of sentiment from my eyes, on to frosting.

The genesis of cream cheese frosting


Add pure cocoa powder & icing sugar

Like most things in life, it needed more chocolate...

...and Kahlua.

And strawberries & whipped cream, of course.

Now for the assembly:

At this point in the process, I had to stop taking photos as things were getting a little messy. The four layers stacked were somewhat lacking in structural integrity. (Let's just say it's not an earthquake-proof cake.) And then the cream cheese frosting wasn't sticking to the whipped cream and the whole thing threatened to devolve into not so much cake as birthday pudding. I live in fear of the car journey to my sister-in-law's house.

I did manage to use ALL the frosting and filling, so.

The finished product:




The takeaway:

My husband and I were talking this afternoon about the things we remember from our childhood; the things that made us really happy. For him it was going skating with his whole family every weekend in the winter. For me it was sitting under a tropical night sky with my dad and having him teach me the constellations of the southern hemisphere.

We realized one of those Important Truths. It's not the fancy birthday party, the cool new bike, the "event" moments in our childhood that stick with us. It's the simple time spent standing on a kitchen chair with your mom stirring together your first cake.

Wordless Wednesday

We really are all about the hats in this family

Things That Are True - Breastfeeding

“Your rack is shrinking.”

Said my husband, the poet, the other night as I was undressing for bed.

And it’s true.

The Boobs of Doom, we named them early in my pregnancy, when they swelled from a B to a D cup seemingly overnight, when my aureolae grew to the size of demitasse saucers and my nipples became rather aggressively brown and determined to have a look around for themselves. Post partum, as the milk came in, they ballooned to a DD/E. Yes, from a B to an E. That’s 4 cup sizes for those of you playing along at home… We began to affectionately call them The Boobs That Ate New York.

My husband, delighted, felt like he was married to a 1950’s pin up.

I found my new mammarian bounty cumbersome. Although I appreciated that the giant boobs balanced out what had become a seriously generous ass, I couldn’t get used to them. They were in the way. Running to catch the elevator left me gasping in pain. No bra could adequately contain them, and they were inconvenient, leaking milk at inopportune moments. And the nursing pads, and their failures. Classy, that breast pad peeking up out of the top of your shirt, milk leaking out of your no longer protected nipple below. Especially in the grocery store when you’ve finally carved out 15 minutes for yourself away from your adored but exhausting little one, and someone else’s baby starts to cry and oh dear here come the pins and needles and… Gush. Awesome.

I may be the only woman in the history of breasts to rejoice that mine are slowly disappearing. I am so happy, now that The Boy is getting most of his nourishment from solid food, that these unruly milk factories are now tucking themselves sensibly into D cups again. (D cups! What I once would have considered “stripper boobs” are now something I find sensible…)

But here’s the thing:

I have loved breastfeeding. LOVED IT. Far more than I ever could have guessed, back in the unknowing days of my pregnancy, reading all the reasons that breastfeeding is a Good Thing, approaching it as an intellectual concept, wanting to do what was best for my child.

I have loved it so much more than I would have imagined in those early difficult days. (And they are difficult. Don’t let anyone fool you on that count. It is hard, and it does hurt, and you will torture yourself with guilt for wanting to give up, even if you keep going. Gawd, the senseless guilt we new mothers heap on our own heads…)

And here’s why I have loved it so:

I’m an admitted control freak. I like to know what’s coming. I have to have a plan. I have to know how it’s all going to happen, fit together, and turn out in the end. And I've always been this way. My parents tell stories of having to prepare small-child-me for outings by describing, in detail, what was going to happen. Once they didn’t know there would be a dog at a friend’s home we were visiting, and apparently I freaked out to an embarrassing degree.

Being a control freak and a brand new mom simultaneously is… Well, it’s imfuckingpossible, frankly. I felt so out of control. I felt so lost in not-knowing. Things were happening to me and around me without me having any clue what was coming next. For someone like me, this was at times sheer torture.

But I could feed my child.

Even when I was so tired I couldn’t remember my own name, I could feed my child. I held on to that, like an anchor keeping me still in the maelstrom that my life had become.

Yes, there are a million reasons to breastfeed. You can read about them somewhere else. Here’s the one that made the difference for me, and that I don’t see discussed much: breastfeeding gave me a tremendous sense of power.

And not the wrong kind of power – not power over something or someone. Not a power born of ego. At a time when I was plagued with insecurities, buried in guilt, and terrified of Doing It Wrong, watching my baby grow and thrive, knowing that my body was his sole source of nourishment gave me a real sense of quiet competence. I have, my entire life, always defined myself intellectually. As I watched him grow out of the tiny onesies I’d so lovingly bought before he was born, and saw his skinny little newborn legs fill out and develop pudgy rolls, I gradually grew into a sort of awe for my physical self.

Look! Look what my body can do.

The Boy at 3 months


His body takes breast milk I've made and turns it into eyelashes. And fingernails. And teeth! As an atheist, this is the closest to a sense of reverence I have ever been.

The Boy sleeps - 10 months old

Even today, as The Boy reaches 11 months on The Outside, I look at him and rejoice in how healthy and happy a little guy he is.

The Boy at almost 11 months

And I forgive my still alarmingly generous ass, and the way I look in a bathing suit at 11 months post partum, and all the physical imperfections my control freak self used to pick apart in the mirror.

Because look what my body can do.

The Boy at the playground a couple of weeks ago

Now that The Boy has started self-weaning (we're down to 3 or 4 feeds a day), I won’t miss The Boobs That Ate New York.

But I’ll miss what they’ve represented.

Things That Break Your Heart

I have started and deleted this post a half-dozen times. I lack the skill to convey what I want to say.

Tuesday, via Twitter, I learned for the first time about a woman I'll never meet, and the daughter she lost. I have been on the verge of tears for two days, every time I look at my son, and have been holding him tight far more than a crawling 10 month old is interested in being held.

Sweetney said it better than I can.
So did Her Bad Mother.

For anyone who thinks the internet is an isolating medium, the outpouring of love and heartbreak from strangers for Heather and Mike Spohr, and little Maddie, proves differently. The donations to March of Dimes' March for Babies in her name, which were less than $3000 on Monday, are now in excess of $20,000.

Sigh. Time to wipe my eyes and go gaze at my sleeping son, and feel lucky.