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

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

Math is hard, yo.


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

Street hockey in the downtown core. I am Canadian.

Wednesday of Few Words - Home Again

We landed at YVR this morning at five.

AM.

In the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I've Learned - Joy Defined

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

We're going from this...

...to this.

Sigh. Big, heavy sigh.


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

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

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

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

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

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





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

Things I've Learned - Holiday Flotsam and Jetsam

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

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

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

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

The Imp getting his surf on at Waikiki beach

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


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


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

New sandals, in dire need of a pedicure

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

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

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

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

My boys, kickin' it poolside

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

And most importantly:

Robot voice: "It is a biohazard."

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

Things That Are Surprising - Biohazard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It went on like that for a while.

Biohazard? Who, me?

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Exactly.

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

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

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

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

Things That Are True - Best Husband Ever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was in his hand.

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

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






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

Things That Are True - Life Moments

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

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


But I've never visited with a child before.

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

Problematic, that.

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

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

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

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

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

The smile pretty much says everything you need to know.

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

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

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

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

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

Things That Are True - Holiday Update

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!

Wordless Wednesday - Bunnies

No more bunnies.

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

Anyone want some bunnykins dishes?

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

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

You might be a mom if...

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

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

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

...you have an opinion about the Backyardigans.

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

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

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

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

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


Anything I missed? Please share in the comments!

Things That Are Dairy-Free: Frosting

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

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

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

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

The Imp demonstrates his whisking prowess

So here's what we did:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I Believe - International Women's Day

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

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

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

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

In much of the world, that is not true.

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

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

This is crucial, I don't argue that.

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

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

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

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

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

Unreservedly, unabashedly, and unapologetically.

Wordless Wednesday - 980 Days

What a difference 980 days can make:

The Imp's first passport photo: two weeks old

The Imp's updated passport photo: two weeks ago

Things That Are True - Ten Truths for Living

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

So I did.

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

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

So here they are:

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

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

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

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

Wednesday of Few Words - Croup

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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


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

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

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


But that's not what this post is about!


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fancy.

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

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

Truth? Neither can I.

And now I have a mess to clean up.

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

Things That Are True - UPIs

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

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

UPI: Unidentifiable Party Injuries

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

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


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

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

UPI: Undisclosable Partner Injuries

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

A hand-shaped fall in the shower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

UPI: Unavoidable Parenting Injuries

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

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

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

What can I say? I bruise easy.

Wordless Wednesday - Coolness Quotient

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

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