Things That Are True - Enjoying the Quiet

It is Friday, and I am in New York.

The view from here

The bright lights of Times Square, a few blocks away through my window on the 43rd floor, wink in my peripheral vision, trying to lure me out of my self-made hotel room cocoon.

I'm tired. I'd be sleeping now but I'm zipped into a dress I can't get out of without help. The biggest party of the whole BlogHer conference is happening forty floors below me, and I am blissfully alone. The hum of the city, punctuated with an occasional and faraway burst of taxi horns and sirens, is familiar, comforting.

I'm finally learning to listen to my body, and tonight it said, "Stay in. Be alone. Enjoy the still. Revel in the quiet." It seems counter-intuitive to seek quiet in the city that never sleeps, but instead of forcing myself to be out, enjoying the bright lights big city, pushing through to the other side by sheer force of will, I'm heeding my body's message.

This conference is big, and joyful, and loud, and as Deb on the Rocks said at the Queerosphere party last night, "BlogHer's a marathon." That it is. An unapologetic, exuberant, boisterous gathering of the tribes. There are moments of true connection; interstitial moments, between sessions, in hallways, in the Serenity Suite, but it's also quick hugs, a smile and a wave in passing, and a whirlwind of learning and lineups and trying not to be left behind.

Tonight I am still, and I am content. For a person whose brain never stops whirring, who spends more nights sleepless than somnolent, who constantly has to clarify and classify all the things, to be still is a minor victory.

And tomorrow is another day.

Things That Are True - List the Fifth. And BlogHer.

I keep sending iphone photos like this via text message to HWSNBN (who is stuck at home, working) with witty captions like, "Hey, the Chrysler Building! No big deal."

Despite my assertions that I am really only here on his behalf to do some advance scouting for his two-years-away milestone birthday trip to New York, he remains unimpressed. He simply doesn't recognize what a giver I am, taking time out of my busy work and child-rearing schedule to research the best restaurants in New York. For him. It's all for him.

Oh, that little conference I'm going to? The one where I meet new friends and share long hugs and earnest conversations with some of the people I admire most in the world? Pure coincidence. Honest.*

In keeping with my rule of packing light, I brought only a carry-on bag and a laptop/large purse-ish bag, which left not a lot of room for excess stuff. There are a ton of posts out there about what to bring to BlogHer. Here's my list of things I didn't have room for:

1) Cynicism. Despite all my travels and city living, there is always hidden inside a young girl from Watson Lake, Yukon, pop. 1000 on a good day, who is startled and amazed at this incredible life I get to live. Jetting across the continent to spend time with all these gobsmackingly awesome people? And hearing Katie Couric, and Martha Stewart, and (for real, yes, not in person but by live video, uh, wow) Obama speak? Yeah. No room for cynicism in this suitcase.

2) Insecurity about how I measure up. This is a thing that has held me back my whole life. I refuse to carry it around with me anymore.

3) Worries about what to wear. I have clothes. They fit my body. Some of them are even cute. The end.

4) Guilt for leaving my husband and child for a week. There were brief moments of feeling bad, especially when The Imp had a total meltdown as I left, but remarkably it dissipated rather quickly as I enjoyed my surprise-free-upgrade-to-business-class pre-takeoff beverage. Funny how that is.

5) Obligations. So much of my day to day is filled with things I have to do. I have plans, and schedules, and lists, and all the necessities of parenting. This trip is entirely unencumbered. I've carefully not bought tickets to a Broadway show, not made dinner reservations every evening, not made plans at all. Spontaneity is a luxury I am going to enjoy.

6) A desire to shop. New York, I'm doing it wrong. Maybe. I just have a lot of stuff already, you know? Although stopping in at Strand today made me seriously consider just fedexing a box of things home.

7) Time for negativity. I try and make my way through my day inclined to be pleased with things, and I find that for the most part, things live up to my expectations. New York does not disappoint, which is hardly surprising.

Statue, Rockefeller Center

8) My DSLR. A radical act, for me, to travel without my big camera. Last year I brought it with me, lugged it everywhere, and barely used it. This year, I brought my iphone as my camera. So far so good.

9) Fear of not belonging. Of all the places I don't belong, I don't belong here the least.

10) My guitar, which makes me sad. But a week in New York can make up for a lot.



*Fingers crossed means it's ok to lie, right?

Things I'm Doing - BlogHer Food in Seattle

I got an email a couple of days ago from a concerned reader (okay, it was my aunt) about whether I might have fallen off the edge of the earth. No, not the edge of the earth.

I'm in Seattle!

Hey, no one's more surprised than me. It feels like it snuck up on me, even though this trip's been in the works for ages. My intrepid blogging pal, Karen, set us up to work with Chevrolet Canada again, and here we are, at BlogHer Food.

I talk more about food on twitter than I do here on my blog, although I've posted a few recipes now and then. I'm playing with the idea of creating a dairy-free recipe section here on Wave the Stick, or starting another blog just to keep track of all the non-dairy recipes I attempt, adapt, and concoct.

(Because I need another place to not post to regularly, clearly.)


Karen and I left Vancouver this morning, crossed the border without incident, and made our way to Seattle. We checked into our hotel room at the Fairmont Pacific, where I approvingly noted the presence of fluffy robes, and less happily glanced at the slightly judgmental scale in the bathroom.

Fluffy robes = gooood.

Stop judging me, scale-that-I'm-attributing-human-qualities-to.

At a food blogging conference? That's just cruel.

We parked our stuff and headed out for a walk around the neighbourhood. (It's what we do, Karen and I, when we end up in strange cities together.) I used to come to Seattle frequently, back in my childless husbandless feckless youth. (That would be the 90s, for anyone who's counting on their fingers at home.)

Ah, the 90s. Memories, I have them. My tattered Doc Martens, not so much.

We made our way to Pike Place and the Market, because, duh. Wandered in to DeLaurenti for a sandwich, had a good look at all the things, and carried out a reconnaissance mission to Sur La Table. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped at the Chocolate Box, because, duh.

This seemed a little extreme. I settled for a non-violent salted almond in dark chocolate instead.

Then we wandered into Paper Hammer, where, by the power of Visa, I barely restrained myself from buying everything in the store all at once so lovely omg. I am a sucker for typography and am utterly powerless against the siren call of a blank hand-bound notebook with an exclamation mark on the cover.

Exclamation mark!

Next up: a late dinner at Matt's in the Market. Will report back. After not stepping on the scale.


For play by play commentary on our misadventures, follow #cruze2seattle on twitter.


Full disclosure:
Chevrolet Canada loaned us a Cruze to drive to Seattle, and is reimbursing us for our BlogHer Food tickets, hotel, and fuel expenses. In exchange we've agreed to put their logo on our blogs, write blog posts, and tweet about our trip. I take full responsibility for any inanity/insanity that results from being away from my family for THREE WHOLE DAYS.

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

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

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 - Less is More

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

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.

-----

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 I'm Doing - Blissdom, Baby!

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 I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 7

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 That Are True - Holiday Update

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

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

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!

Things I've Learned - Pacifiers

The British call them dummies.

And that is how I was inclined to think of them, back in my pre-parenting days. None of this new age North American re-branded touchy-feely “soother” or “pacifier”. Back then, I was inclined to be judgy and sanctimonious about all manner of things. This is easy when you are completely ignorant about that which you are judging.

All I knew was that I hated the look of a soother in a baby’s mouth, and I swore that I would never use one.

You know what's coming, right?

We had The Boy.

I steadfastly stuck to my anti-soother stance for two entire months. How? Simple: I became The Boy’s soother. He was on the boob a lot in those first weeks. And a pinky finger inserted in a screaming baby’s mouth works wonders…

You know, except that you can’t really do anything else. An alarming percentage of your finger disappears into that little mouth. One arm full of wriggly, fussy little person and the other hostage to his need to suck pretty much precludes anything more complicated than asking your partner to order take-out for dinner. And the suction power generated by a newborn is impressive. If you could harness and redirect that kind of energy, you could probably restore electricity to the people of Iraq in short order. Seriously, my fingers at times felt quite bruised.
And you can’t not soothe your child. Not only does the sound of his crying make you crazy, but as a new mom, you’re terrified of creating the slightest disturbance or inconvenience for anyone, anywhere, any time, for any reason. No one wants to be the mom that everyone’s looking daggers at.

Which is why I broke down a couple of days before The Boy and I went to Provence for a two week holiday. A ten hour flight across nine time zones with an infant put the fear in me. I was so worried about being the lady on the plane with the screaming baby that I caved and bought a couple of soothers. Not to actually use, you know. Just in case.

As it turned out, The Boy was a perfect angel on the plane. It was once we’d been in France for a couple of days that he lost his mind one morning and was inconsolable. Even the magic pinky wasn’t working, and he was making such a racket I feared my generous and easygoing hosts might ask us to leave. (That never would have happened, but new moms are not renowned for clear and logical thinking…) Out of desperation, I popped one of the soothers in his mouth.

The Boy at 3 months

Ah, the bliss of sweet silence. It was unbelievable, amazing. Just like that, he was happy, sucking away contentedly, and making me feel like a complete bonehead for having been so stubborn for so long. Sigh.

The Takeaway:

1. There are hills to die on. This is not one of them. It's simple: happy baby = less stressed you. Everybody wins.
   
2. Look for BPA-free soothers with silicone teats. Silicone's less likely to crack and crumble than rubber or plastic, and is odor/taste free. Plus it just looks cleaner somehow.
   
3. If baby prefers to suck their thumb, even better. Their thumb can’t get lost and is less likely to be dropped on the floor right when you need it most.
4. We used a soother for about six weeks. When The Boy was 3 1/2 months old, we started phasing it out, using it only at nap/bed time, and then eliminating it entirely. By that time he’d learned to self-soothe and didn’t need it anymore.
   
5. I’m still a judgy person, and I still hate the look of a soother in a baby’s mouth. In a toddler’s mouth bothers me even more. But if The Boy still wanted it, we'd still be using one.
   
6. As it turns out, even a dummy can teach you a few things.

Grin.