Things I'm Learning - Hallowe'en Edition

I grew up in a family that didn't celebrate Hallowe'en. As kids we dressed in costume for school events, but we never went trick or treating or were given pillow cases full of candy. So like most of the other beloved traditions of mainstream childhood (we also didn't sit on Santa's lap or have Easter egg hunts) I edge up to these events in Margaret Meade mode: observe the actions of the tribe and try not to be too obtrusive or obviously out of place. HWSNBN has a very standard background, so there are expectations about holidays. Which is fine, it's just that every time is kind of the first time for me; I'm learning as I go. Add in all the first-time stuff you get up to as a parent, and well... I'm often a little bit at sea.

I was lucky enough to be invited, along with The Imp and his Grandpa, on a trip to the pumpkin patch in Richmond last weekend. I'd never been before and had no idea what to expect, but given that The Imp has talked about it non-stop since, am guessing that it will have to be an annual event from here on out.


Things I didn't know:

1) It's a big deal. Not just a stroll out into a muddy field full of pumpkins. No. Parking lot directions of military precision, farm animals on display, duck ponds and bridges, musicians, dancing pumpkins, hay rides complete with fiddles and banjos. All week The Imp's been excitedly telling me several times a day, "We say 'yeehaw!'" I think having experienced it once, he would very much like a hay ride from his bedroom to the breakfast table every morning, shouting "Yeehaw!" the whole way.

2) The price of admission includes a pumpkin to take home. Why I didn't know this, I don't know, maybe because I've never been a big celebrant of Hallowe'en. Or it could be that I'm just not very clever.

3) There's a corn maze. I've never been in a corn maze before. I knew I was capable of getting lost - as soon as I'm inside a shopping mall I get totally turned around in about 17 seconds. A corn maze is a lot like that, but with more mud. And decidedly less perfume-sample smell.

Child of the Corn

4) I don't actually know what to do with a pumpkin. And now I have an ample supply of them sitting on my kitchen counter, because there were three of us. Three pumpkins. Sitting on my counter. And I really, really don't like pumpkin pie. It would be no exaggeration to say that I despise pumpkin pie and everything about it. The texture, the flavour: bleck.

So on Monday when I went to get the Imp from daycare I took one of the pumpkins with the intention of leaving it there.

Much consternation on the part of The Imp. "MY pumpkin!" He shouted, and stomped his feet, and would not be consoled or convinced that leaving it at daycare to play with the next day was a good idea. He did not care that we still had two more at home. He was especially adamant that he WOULD NOT SHARE it with his friends. "MY pumpkin. It's MINES!" (Yes, he says "mines" instead of "mine". It's logical, if you think about it. Your becomes yours. Her becomes hers. Even his ends in an "s". Why shouldn't "my" become "mines"?)

I really hadn't anticipated this strong a reaction. The Imp's usually the first kid to share his toys, he readily gives up a spot on the playground swings if there's another kid waiting, and he's generally a pretty laid-back little dude. (Since we discovered his dairy allergy, anyway.) No amount of cajoling was effective. Back home and onto the kitchen counter went the pumpkin.

My pumpkin! MINES!

Now, understand, The Imp has no context for pumpkins. He doesn't know they're food, he's never seen a jack-o'-lantern. We've never had one in the house before. We've never really celebrated Hallowe'en with him, because for the first one he was only a few months old, and last year he was not even 18 months. And we live in a high rise apartment building, so we don't even get trick or treaters at the door. There didn't seem to be a lot of point.

So I asked him, as we were cleaning up after dinner that evening.

Me: What do you think pumpkins are for? What do you want to do with your pumpkins?
The Imp: Fling them around.

I was not expecting that.

Me: You want to fling them around?
The Imp: Yeah.

Oookaaay.

Me: Honey, we don't fling pumpkins around. (Fumbling) We... we carve them into jack-o'-lanterns. Yeah, jack-o'-lanterns! We make faces on the pumpkins. And we can make soup. Pumpkin soup. And seeds, we can do something with the seeds! We eat pumpkins. We do not fling them around.
The Imp: Soup! We eat soup! We eat soup now!

Me: Um, no. We have to make the soup first.
The Imp: Okay. (Pause, thinking.) We say "yeehaw?"

Me: Yeehaw!*


By Tuesday morning, HWSNBN and I had managed to talk enough about how good it feels to get presents and how nice it would be to make his friends feel that way by giving the pumpkin to the daycare, that he consented to the transportation of his! pumpkin! to school with him. And he allowed that his friends could look at it, but they could not touch it. We placed it in plain view on a high counter so everyone could see it. He was skeptical, but let it sit there all day.

Wednesday, he allowed the teachers to touch it, but not all the teachers. There was a substitute, and she was not! allowed! Only the every day teachers could touch it. But he did relent enough to allow them to take if off the counter to show it to the kids at circle time. But he insisted that "friends not touch it!"

Thursday when I went to pick him up, he came running to me shouting "Jack-o'-lantern! Jack-o'-lantern!" at the top of his lungs, and grabbed my hand to drag me to his pumpkin, now sitting on a low table, and yes, carved into a jack-o'-lantern. The teacher told me that while he was still proprietary about it, he was happy to let other kids touch it, and help scoop out seeds and whatnot. Yay, progress! Clearly this was a big deal to him, as he woke me up at four this morning, by shouting "Jack-o'-lantern! My jack-o'-lantern!" at the top of his lungs in his sleep.

Hallowe'en's this weekend. And I have two not-small pumpkins on my kitchen counter. I'm sure I can manage to carve some triangular orifices and a gap-toothed grin into them with The Imp's help - after all he's more experienced at it than I am, having already done it once. But then what do I do with them?

For all my blustery bravado in front of The Imp, I really don't know what to do with a pumpkin. Anyone have a soup recipe they can recommend? How do I make the seeds edible?

I am wide open to suggestions, people. I'll make anything but pie.

Or I suppose I could just fling them around.


*This is the actual conversation we had. Verbatim, no embellishments. In a thousand years, even with a thousand monkeys pecking randomly at a thousand keyboards, I could never come up with "fling them around" as an answer to that question. 

Also: when did we stop spelling Hallowe'en with an apostrophe? I must have missed that memo.

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 - Across the Generations Edition

A busy restaurant, a Sunday brunch. A restless Imp makes his way around the table to sit on Grandpa's lap for a horsey ride.

My heart, it melts.

Things I've Learned - Fail Better

This morning I managed to stand up in the shower for ten whole minutes without needing to sit down. I've been so sick the last few days that everything but breathing has fallen by the wayside. There are any number of reasons I've been ill: The Imp's in daycare, a seething petri dish vector of disease if ever there was one; I've been taking on too much, running around trying to be all things to all people; but mostly I think I just had a little almost-breakdown in the last two weeks.

I've been thinking a lot of my past work in project management - there comes a time, on a troublesome project, when you just look at the patchwork that's been done to fix problems as they come up, and stop everything. Look at things from a new perspective, assess as objectively as you can, and then decide to tear the whole thing down and start over fresh. That's what the last two weeks have been like for me on an emotional level. And suffering through The Cold Virus of Doom That Will Not Die has slowed me down enough to really deal with some things for the first time.

A couple of weeks ago I connected some dots and gained some insights into the roots of problems I've struggled with all my life. Issues of fear, of giving up before I even try, of reacting with towering anger to minor setbacks. To an outside observer, what I'm going through doesn't look like much, but internally it has shaken me, rocked me to my core. I've had to rethink my approach to everything: relationships, business, and especially to parenting. Looking at patterns from my childhood and sifting out that which is good to pass on to The Imp, and finding a way to acknowledge and discard that which is not.

I don't have any pictures of me sick. So here's one of The Imp.

I think turning 40 has been a catalyst for much of this introspection. Realizing I don't care what people think anymore has opened the door, but it's events of the last couple of weeks that have really knocked me down and made me figure out how to pick myself up again. The revelation of the the source of so much of my anger has given me the freedom to consciously change the way I react when The Imp is acting up. A couple of mornings ago as we were cuddling before breakfast, I said to him, "Let's have a good day today. No hitting, no kicking, no scratching, no pinching. And no shouting. What do you think? Wouldn't that be great?" He looked at me and very seriously said, "And no naughty corner."

My heart: breaking.

"That's right. No naughty corner. Let's be gentle with each other today."

"Okay, Mommy."

And not for nothing, the last two days he hasn't hit me once. We've had two whole days without a trip to the naughty corner.

Despite me being so physically ill I could barely manage to bundle The Imp off to daycare in the morning, things have been better than I have any right to expect.

I'm not saying everything's magically all better now. I will struggle, I will fall down, I will fail utterly. But right now I'm feeling like the falling down won't be the calamitous, paralyzing thing it's been in the past.

Sometimes you really do need to stop what you're doing and tear it down. Rebuild from a stronger foundation, fail better next time.

And be gentle with each other.

I just hope next time it won't take getting the plague to make me see that.

Things That Are True: Do It For The Boobies

This has been on my mind, as of late:

 

So even though I am dealing with The Cold That Will Not Die, there was a bright spot in my overall health picture revealed when I received this letter in the mail today. The mammogram I had two weeks ago came back normal. A bright spot, indeed: when I was 26, my doctor found two lumps in my right breast. The weeks between finding the lumps and getting the ultrasound/mammogram appointment were terrifying. I could think of nothing else; my hand would stray, unbidden, to my breast to try and feel if the lumps had somehow grown in the five minutes since I'd last checked. Ultrasound determined that they were nothing to worry about, and consistent monitoring has reassured me on a regular basis since.

Two of my aunts, one on either side of my family, have survived breast cancer. My cousin was recently diagnosed, has just had surgery, and now begins an exhausting course of chemo and radiation.

In BC, once you turn 40, you don't need to be referred for a screening mammogram. You can just call them up and make your own appointment.

Do it.

Things That Are True - And The Body Says No Thank You

I've been running on empty for a while. Not enough sleep, not enough time, not enough focus. Just not enough.

Well, today The Body has said, "Enough."

Went to bed feeling not-great, woke up feeling not-good-at-all. This used to happen when I worked in the film business. I, along with the rest of the crew, would push myself, working 16 hour (or more) days in nasty weather, starting work at 6am on a Monday and 5pm on a Friday, which meant driving home at 9 or 10 on Saturday morning, sleeping the day away, doing laundry on Sunday, and starting all over on Monday.

On set in 1999 - Aftershock, a mini-series about an earthquake in New York. Photo taken by John Mavrogeorge. I worked my longest day in film on that show: 28 hours straight. Madness.

But the thing about the film industry, as hard as we work when we're on a project, there's a hard out. A pre-defined end date. Sure, if things don't go well during the shoot the end date may be extended by a day or two, but it's freelance, project-based work. You know it will end, so you push and push yourself, looking forward to the time off between projects to rest, recuperate, learn the names of your friends' kids, and wear something other than gore-tex and comfortable shoes. I would always get really sick a day or two after the words "That's a show wrap" were uttered.

I worked in film for twelve years; that lifestyle is habit-forming. I don't know how to NOT do things at mach 3 with my hair on fire. And that's good, I think. That basic operating system has made me strive to achieve, to learn, to grow. With time to rest in between spurts of tremendous energy output.

But? Parenting and running your own business have no hard out. Well, they do; everybody dies some time.

And today The Body is telling me that if I don't stop for a minute, that some time will be sooner than later.

Okay, Body, I get it. I'm listening. I'll spend the day wrapped in blankets, eating chips and chocolate healthy food, and watching TV trying to sleep.

And just so you know, Body, you didn't have to get all huffy when I dropped off some stuff at the Post Office. It was on the way home from The Imp's daycare. It wasn't really necessary to throw menstrual cramps into the mix. That's just not playing nice.

Things That Are True: The Body Knows

There seems to be a theme to my October so far - it's like the gods I don't believe in* summoned up all the flotsam and jetsam of my past, washed it up on the beach of my consciousness and said, "Listen, sister. Deal."

Beach flotsam I just happened to catch on camera last weekend, English Bay

Yesterday, after three days of agonizing writing, reviewing, rewriting, and crying, I sent an email that almost killed me to write. I don't know how it will be received. I don't know how or if it will change some pretty important relationships in my life. But I'm just so done with some of the stuff the email's about, I had to send it. I had to reclaim my belief in myself. So now I sit, angst-ridden, simultaneously stalking and avoiding my inbox, wondering what the fallout will be; what kind of nuclear winter we'll have to suffer through before we can move on.

So that's fun.

Also yesterday, while sitting enjoying a perfectly lovely hot chocolate in one of my favourite haunts, I saw him. He was just walking by, he didn't see me, there were a few metres and half an inch of glass in between us, but still, my stomach instantly tied in knots, and I immediately felt like throwing up. After fourteen years, just seeing him at a distance can still make me physically ill. It affected me so much I had to interrupt my conversation with my coffee pal just to process it.

He was my first serious relationship, the first person I lived with, and the first (and only, I might add) person to hit me in the name of love.

It was textbook: he dazzled me, he made me feel like the best thing ever, and then he gradually, so gradually I didn't notice it was happening, undermined my confidence, estranged my friends, controlled everything I did, and hit me, telling me it was my fault. I think about it now, and can't believe it. How did I, the me that I am today, allow that to happen? (That's probably an entire post or five all on its own.)

Anyway, that relationship ended 14 years ago. I've seen almost nothing of him since, just chance encounters. Our social circles don't really intersect, our professional lives don't inhabit the same space. In the years since that horrible relationship I have very purposefully revisited spots we used to go to together, and replaced the bad memories with good ones. And I have never allowed myself to sink so far into a relationship again that physical abuse was somehow okay.

But it's the week for insights, and things I can't unknow, it seems. After I got home yesterday, one hit me so hard I had to stop moving, stop even breathing for a second.

The Imp is at a stage where he hits when he's frustrated. Since he's two, and testing every boundary, pushing every button, and still learning to communicate, he gets frustrated a lot. So he hits a lot. More precisely, he hits me a lot. He doesn't hit at daycare, he doesn't hit HWSNBN. He hits me. A lot.

The physical pain from these little two-year-old attacks of fists and feet is minimal, and transitory. I'm the grown-up, and I act accordingly. The Imp spends some time in the naughty corner, as he and I both get control, and as I tell him "calm down our bodies". There are times when it is really difficult for me to reign in my anger at being hit. There are times when my anger is all out of proportion to the assault. I've never lost control, the intellect has always prevailed in these situations. A couple of quiet minutes, a calm discussion of why we don't hit, a warm and loving hug, and on with our day.

But I realized yesterday, all in a heartbeat, that it's not the two-year-old hits I'm reacting to. It's the fourteen-year-old attacks that send me into a towering rage, that make me struggle to keep my voice calm, to explain why We. Don't. Hit. That make me need to take a quiet moment behind a closed door before I can give The Imp a hug and go back to reading stories, and playing games, and enjoying all the mind-numbingly beautiful moments of parenting, that happen all the time, every day, mostly when we're not looking.

The anger towards The Imp is an involuntary physical reaction, just like the stomach tightening and nausea yesterday when I saw my old flame. The body still reacts, even when the mind knows better.

I'm hoping that knowing this, processing it, figuring it out, will help me be a better parent. Will allow me to let go of this anger I didn't even realize I've been carrying around all this time, after all these years.

This morning, The Imp, as if looking straight into my brain at breakfast, said, "Hitting makes people sad." Yes, honey, hitting makes people sad. And not just the people being hit.

Then he wrapped his arms around himself, beamed at me, and said, "Hugging makes people happy!"

I must be doing something right.



*I don't believe in God. But if I did, it would have to be Loki. Because, well - just look at the world out there. It's the only explanation that fits. (With a hat tip to my Uncle David, who first mentioned that to me years ago, and it's stuck.) Either Loki, or some well-meaning but harried old chap in the sky. When I worked in the film and television industry, we used to joke: Good, Fast, or Cheap - pick any two. The God I most often hear described, despite his reputed omniscience, seems to be a variation of that: All-Loving, All-Knowing, All-Powerful - pick any two. That's my personal opinion, and I stand by it, but it doesn't prevent me from having, and more importantly, hugely respecting my friends and family who are devout in their faith.

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 - Pity Party Edition

It's been a rough week or two. Emotional fallout from events both recent and in the past have me bone tired. Although past blog posts have touched on some of it, if tangentially, I may talk about it in detail at some point, once I've had a chance to process it more. Or I may decide it's petty and unworthy of even this much attention. There's some turmoil here, and I need to sort it out for myself before I deconstruct it in public.

In the last week some dots have been connected for me, and I'm finding myself angry all the time. I'm not sleeping well. The Imp isn't sleeping well either. I'm not sure if it's The Imp waking repeatedly at night that's contributing to my tension and short fuse, or if it's the tension and short fuse that The Imp's picking up on that's making him wake repeatedly at night. It's a chicken/egg thing, and either way I'm feeling like my parenting is less than optimal.

I'm just so tired of being tired. Night after night I go to bed barely able to form a coherent sentence, morning after morning I wake exhausted. I'm trying to let go of some of this anger, but it's been kept down for a long time and it just keeps bubbling up out of me, like an internal hemorrhage.

I am weary in my soul.

I want to hide in my room, sleep for three days, forget these insights I can't unknow. But I'm working on getting on with it, standing strong, letting the fog bank move through and past me so I can stand blinking in the sunlight.

Because of this. Because everything, all the time, is about this:

There's no opting out of this. Which may be what saves me.

Wordless Wednesday - Family Resemblance Edition

Me, age 2

The Imp, age 2

 When he was born, The Imp was all HWSNBN. Their newborn photos were interchangeable. I think maybe The Imp's starting to look a little more like me. What do you think? Do you see any resemblance?

Things That Are Dairy-Free: Chocolate Cake

Over the last several months, since we discovered The Imp's allergy to all things milk, I've been looking for dairy-free substitutes for some of my old tried-and-true favourites. I refuse to accept that having an allergy means all the fun stuff is off-limits! For chocolate cake, fortunately, my old tried-and-true was already dairy-free, a fact I didn't even realize until I really started paying attention. The cake is actually vegan, although that's not its raison-d'être. It's not from a vegan or health-food cookbook, in fact it's adapted from the most basic of cookbooks: Betty Crocker's New Cookbook, which I've had forever. (I have the 8th edition.) It's deliciously moist and chocolatey, and dead simple to make. It's been my go-to cake recipe for years - long before The Imp's allergy made it a necessity.

Toddler approved! The Imp enjoys his 2nd birthday cake.

This post also features this cake (with photos), in our life pre-non-dairy. So easy a toddler can make it!

The recipe below makes one layer in a 8 inch square or round pan. For two layers, make the recipe twice. For three, make it three times, etc. For a larger cake like the one pictured in this post, double the recipe and bake each layer in a 13 x 9 inch pan.

I haven't tried it, but I'm sure you could make cupcakes with this recipe too - the cooking time would be much shorter.

Anyway, on to the ingredients:

1 2/3 cups flour
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup pure baking cocoa powder (I like
Fry's)
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup water
1/3 cup vegetable oil (I use canola)
1 teaspoon white vinegar
1 teaspoon vanilla


Heat oven to 350 degrees F.

And here's why it's so easy. Mix all the dry ingredients with a fork right in the cake pan - ungreased. Then stir in all the wet ingredients. When well mixed, stick it in the oven for about 30 - 40 minutes. Voilà.

That's the recipe more or less as it appears in the book. I often have a heavier hand with the cocoa powder, using 1/3 of a cup - how can cake be too chocolatey, I ask you? Also since I'm not a fan of super-sweet, I go a bit lighter on the sugar - a scant cup, unpacked.

My oven tends to run a bit hot, so I start checking it at the 25 minute mark. When a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean, it's done. Baking too long will result in a dry, crumbly cake. So don't do that!

I usually make 2 - 3 layers at once, then assemble them with jam and/or fresh fruit as a filling between the layers and pour melted chocolate chips (the Safeway Organic brand chocolate chips are a rare dairy-free option) thinned with soymilk over the top as a ganache-style frosting.

I am, however, looking for good dairy-free frosting recipes. Suggestions welcome!

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 - The Unexpected Breaking of My Heart

For every time The Imp makes me all look-up-at-the-sky-and-shake-my-fisty, there are several times he makes me all ok-now-you've-just-done/said-the-SWEETEST-thing.

This morning as we were driving to daycare, I reminded The Imp that we were going to give some of his baby stuff to friends who are expecting.

The Imp: [names redacted] having a baby?
Me: Yes, they're having a baby girl, and we're going to give the baby some of your old things you don't use anymore.
The Imp: Booster seat and stroller?
Me (pleased that he remembered, and that he doesn't seem to mind giving his things away): That's right! We're going to give the baby girl your old booster seat and stroller.
The Imp: Wanna see the baby girl.
Me: We can't see the baby girl yet, she's still growing inside her mommy's tummy. We'll be able to see her soon. You can be like her big brother!

The Imp, thinking....
The Imp: Wanna read books to the baby.

Pause, as I gulp back sudden sobs.

Me: I'm sure the baby girl would love to have you read her books.


And just like that, my heart breaks wide open. The plan was always that The Imp is 1 of 1. He'll never have a sibling, and suddenly that's killing me.

Things That Are Surprising - Friday Confession: Dishes

A couple of days ago, The Imp was being most helpful in the kitchen when we got home, taking groceries one by one out of the bags and handing them to me to put away. When that was done, we moved on to other tasks. He was very excited to carefully take each dish out of the dishwasher and put it on the counter for Mommy to put away. I was in a blissful state, enjoying this quiet, cooperative time with my little boy, and feeling more than a little mama pride at how happy he was to be so helpful. It's possible I wasn't paying quite as much attention as I should have been to what was happening to each dish between dishwasher and countertop. With ninety percent of the dishes out of the dishwasher and the job almost complete, I noticed that The Imp was carefully, so carefully, licking each dish before he put it on the counter.

Confession?

I put them away anyway. I just couldn't face the job of remembering which dishes would need rewashing. And then rewashing them. And then rewashing everything else too because I wouldn't want to miss one. So I just sang "Lalalalalalalalala" to myself and firmly closed the cupboard doors, and went and read stories to The Imp before dinner.

Don't tell HWSNBN.

Wanna come for dinner?

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 - Camelot

For reasons I cannot explain, I have had the soundtrack of Camelot running through my brain for most of this day. I haven't heard the music or seen the play in over 25 years - I guess 12 year old me is still "wonder[ing] what the king is doing tonight".

If I were a friend of the king, my 39 year old self would probably be wondering what the hell he was doing tonight, too. If I were the king myself, I'd be wondering if anyone out there was still wondering what I've been doing tonight, since I haven't blogged in forever.

For the six or maybe seven of you who do think of me fondly (and with exasperation) from time to time, well, I've been busy. I've also been thinking about why I blog, how much I want to blog, who I'm blogging for, and whether blogging here is the best use of my time, given that I'm launching a new business and all.

Will continue to ponder and share some of my thoughts once they ripen nicely.

In the meantime, look! Some cute!

Photo by Tracey at Bopomo Pictures

Wordless Wednesday - Toddler Art Edition

We call it Etude de Débarbouillette (Avec Chaise).

For a look at some of my non-mom photography, check out my other blog, Vancouver Daily Photo. It's like Wordless Wednesday every day over there.

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

Things I'm Learning - Milk Allergies

The Imp was a pretty mellow baby. He cried when his diaper needed changing, when he was gassy, when he was overtired. But he was happy to be handed around to willing arms, grinned his toothless grin to any friendly face that came within range, and slept through the night at six months of age.

Then he became a toddler. From about 14 months on, there were temper tantrums. His willful independence started to assert itself. His stubborn temperament began to make itself known.

I can't imagine where he gets any of these traits.

Ahem.

A natural stage of childhood, I assumed. And it was. All part of the transition from dependent infant to independent little person, I thought. And it was. The lead up to the dreaded "Terrible Twos", I reassured myself. And it was. It was all those things - but turned up to eleven. Everyday simple things would cause extreme reactions. Aggression. Anger. Total lack of impulse control. My kid (that gentle, happy, cooing baby) had become that kid. The one that would. not. sleep. ever. The one that Did Not Play Well With Others. The one that bit other kids, that pushed the littler kids over at daycare. The brat that erupted into screaming, shrieking tantrums that would last an hour and a half, six or seven times a day, over nothing. The one that, when told not to do something, looked at us, oozing defiance, and did it anyway. And did it again and again, no matter what reasoning, cajoling, or expert-sanctioned behaviour modification strategies we threw in his direction. The child that bit, hit, kicked, head butted, and actually spit at us when we tried to change his diaper, or put his shoes on, or give him breakfast. We had THAT kid.

One of the really little guys at daycare actually cringed whenever The Imp went near him.

I was horrified. And mortified. And pretty sure that I must be the worst parent who ever lived to have spawned this awful, impossible to control child. I was pretty near the hairy edge of what I could deal with, so stressed that my stomach was literally tied in knots, causing me such pain that I spent big chunks of entire days curled into a ball on the floor. I was so frustrated, I wept daily.

It was awful. But it was our normal, and I didn't know what we were doing wrong.

Then my dad came to stay with us for a few days.

And he gently pointed out that the behaviour we were dealing with was very reminiscent of what he had experienced with my sister when she was about the same age. She'd also had uncontrollable anger and behaviour issues, which through trial and error (and terror that she would have to be medicated or institutionalized) they learned was caused by an allergy to milk. Dad said that within six hours of eliminating milk from her diet, she was an entirely different child.

The clouds parted. The angels sang.

Even though I was aware of my sister's milk allergy, even though HWSNBN and I had discussed, way back when I was pregnant, the possibility of different things being handed down from either of our families, it never occurred to me to associate The Imp's behaviour with his food. And I never wanted to be that mom. You know the one - the one who makes excuses for her "perfect" child's gawdawful behaviour.

Hearing my dad describe the uncanny similarities between The Imp's rage and my sister's childhood, it was like getting permission to explore whether his terrifying behaviour maybe, just maybe, wasn't our fault.

photo credit: luvi on flickr

The next morning, The Imp was a very different little boy. It literally was like day and night. Diaper change? No problem. Getting dressed in the morning? Easy peasy. Drop off time at daycare, which had become a half hour ordeal of screaming every day? "Bye bye Mummy. See you later!" as he ran off to play with the other kids.

And he stayed that way for the several days we managed to keep milk out of his diet. He slept better. The aggression towards the other kids at daycare melted away overnight. Small upsets could be addressed with words, and hugs, and kisses. The difference was gobsmacking.

Then he had some cheese at lunch one day through an oversight on my part.

The onslaught of his towering rage that evening was mind. numbing. Right back to hitting, spitting, biting, head butting fury.

Clear cause and effect.

It's been about a month now. There's been accidental ingestion of milk products a handful of times. Every single time has resulted in the same off the charts uncontrollable behaviour.

The takeaway:

1) Lactose intolerance and milk allergies are not the same thing. Lactose is the sugar in milk, and intolerance usually leads to gastro-intestinal distress of varying degrees. Milk products can often still be used, as long as something like Lactaid is taken with, or lactose is removed from the finished product. A milk allergy, on the other hand, is usually a reaction to proteins in milk, like casein or whey. Reactions run the gamut from skin rash and hives to anaphylactic shock. Behaviour issues are less common, but do exist, at least anecdotally.

2) Milk ingredients are in everyfuckingthing. Read labels some time; look for whey or casein. Almost all processed food, even that labeled "lactose-free" has some kind of milk ingredient in it. Hot dogs. Hot dog buns. Most margarines contain milk ingredients. Crackers, bread & other baked goods: the ones that don't say "milk ingredients" outright on the label usually contain whey powder, and if the label says "enriched flour", it's likely milk ingredients that do the "enriching" even if no milk ingredients are listed on the label. Caramel colour, found in many processed foods, including Coca-Cola, (incidentally, do you know how hard it is to find ingredient lists or nutrition information on Coca Cola's own website?) is often derived from casein. If you don't make it from scratch, odds are good it's got some kind of milk in it.

3) Can't substitute goat's milk, or sheep milk, or any other mammal's milk. (Except human, apparently, as The Imp seemed to have no problem with my own supply.)

4) You don't "grow out" of a milk allergy. Symptoms may change over time, but the immune system's response does not magically disappear. My sister, now in her 30's, still struggles with it.

5) I cannot possibly express the depth of my gratitude for my father's perceptive observations and his gentle approach in sharing them with us. Had he not come to visit at that moment, noticed the similarities 30-odd years apart, and spoken up about them, it's difficult to imagine what our life would be like now. It really was becoming more than I could bear. I didn't realize how much it was affecting me until it went away. Don't get me wrong, The Imp is still a two year old. There are still tantrums of the stomping feet and being obstinate when thwarted variety, but words can be used to address them, they're over quickly, and they happen a few times a week instead of all day long every day.

6) I'm no doctor. I don't even play one on TV. I am far from qualified to offer any kind of medical, psychological, or psychiatric advice. Even my parenting advice, well, take it with a grain of salt, I'm figuring it out on the fly, just like everyone else. But for the love of all things holy, and possibly your own sanity, if you have a child with behaviour issues, at least be open to the idea of exploring food allergies as a contributing factor. I'm not saying every child on Ritalin just needs to stop consuming milk. But if there's a chance that behaviour issues are exacerbated by food allergies, isn't that worth at least investigating? We didn't do our homework a few evenings ago and accidentally gave The Imp milk - his behaviour until we finally managed to get him to sleep? A couple hundred years ago would've merited an exorcism. It was agony watching him go through that - he was literally howling and writhing in his fury - and knowing we had unwittingly caused it by giving him a chock full o'milk ingredients hot dog for dinner at the beach really made me feel like the worst mom ever. Perhaps with some justification this time.


So in answer to the question "Got Milk?" in our house the answer is now a resounding "Hell, no!" and I'm on the hunt for truly dairy free products. I've had some luck with kosher and vegan stuff, and I've been adapting recipes I know and love by substituting rice- or soymilk for regular milk, and vegetable or olive oil for butter, but I'm wondering if anyone can steer me in the direction of some great, absolutely 100% dairy free resources. Websites (preferably not of the hysterical-omg-you-guys-milk-causes-autism variety), books, organizations... Help?

Things That Are True - Toddlers and Chocolate Cake

It's possible that we are bad parents; we did not go all out and have a big theme party for The Imp's second birthday. I thought about inviting friends to join us for an afternoon of kids running around shrieking in the park close to our apartment, but the Vancouver weather's been dreadful and 900 square feet of living space does not make the "If it rains we'll just go inside" concept exactly workable. So we had a simple but fun family dinner with his adored older cousins the Sunday before, complete with off key but enthusiastic singing, lots of presents, and birthday cake.

The morning The Imp actually turned two, we sang him "Happy Birthday" again first thing in the morning. To him, this meant birthday! cake! should follow almost immediately. Not having any on hand at 8am (clearly bad planning on our part), we promised him there would be some birthday! cake! after dinner that evening. Off he went to daycare, I got to work, picked him up early, and we headed to an afternoon meetup with other moms, kids, and Erica from yummymummyclub.ca. None of which involved cake, and all of which prompted The Imp to remind me of the promise made to him at breakfast.

When we got home, The Imp helped me mix up a quick one layer cake and I threw it into the oven. It was done and out on a cooling rack awaiting frosting on the kitchen counter. HWSNBN and I were sitting in the living room puzzling over what to throw together for the evening meal. The Imp was in the kitchen playing with his fridge magnets. We weren't paying as much attention to him as maybe we should have been.

The Imp has developed the charming habit, as he learns new words and expressions daily, of narrating things as he does them. Like, "I hugging Daddy," and "I climbing the chair."

You can see where this is going, can't you?



The Imp's little sing-song voice gradually entered our conscious hearing: "I eating the cake! I eating the cake!" he chanted gleefully.

HWSNBN and I ran into the kitchen to find The Imp sitting on the floor, chocolate crumbs all around him, chocolate cake crammed into his mouth, chocolate morsels smushed into his little hands, his t-shirt, his hair. He was, indeed, eating the cake.

 The Imp's handiwork, of which he was most proud

Us: (exasperated) Imp! What did you do?
Imp: Grin.
Us: (ask a stupid question...) Did you eat the cake?
Imp: (looking at us very seriously, then suddenly beaming) Happy Birthday!

So we all ate chocolate cake for dinner. Maybe we're awesome parents after all.

Wordless Wednesday - Run For The Hills Edition

I haven't blogged much lately. Sometimes it's more important to be present in the moments than to document them. There are lots of posts half-written in my head - I'll be back at it soon.

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