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!)


----------

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

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

UPI: Undisclosable Partner Injuries

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

A hand-shaped fall in the shower.

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

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

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

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

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

----------

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

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

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

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

UPI: Unavoidable Parenting Injuries

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

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

----------

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

What can I say? I bruise easy.

Wordless Wednesday - Coolness Quotient

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

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

Tuesday Confession: Daycare

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

Fact: Without daycare I would be a raving lunatic.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And clearly he's thriving.

*Second best thing: HWSNBN, of course.

Things That Are True - Overwhelm

I've been feeling a little like I'm barely holding together the various unraveling threads of my life lately. I've reached a constant state of overwhelm. Nothing particular, just everything all at once. You know how it is. (Please say you know how it is.)

It's been a day.

I forgot my wallet and phone at home this morning. Never a good idea.

The Imp and I walked out of his gymnastics class (or if you ask The Imp, "I do parkour!") just in time to see my car in the process of being towed away. (I am an unrepentant receiver of many parking tickets.)

The bad news: I got another parking ticket.

The good news? The tow truck driver took pity on my walletless state, backed the car back into its expired spot, and left without further incident.

There's a good chance that The Imp standing on the sidewalk crying, "Don't take the car away! It's not broken! Don't take the car away!" over and over may have been a factor in the driver's decision to just get the hell out of there.

You win some, you lose some.

Sigh.

But this? This is made of win.

Things I'm Learning - Assumptions

When I was eight, my family went on a grand adventure. We sold or packed up everything we owned, said goodbye to friends and family, traveled across most of Canada by train, then flew away. Stops in Frankfurt, a week and a half in Israel, an unexpected three days in Greece, then on to Nairobi where we almost missed our flight to Antananrivo. A few hours there in an airport under construction*, and then a quick Air France flight to our destination, the place that would be our home for the next two and a half years: Reunion.

Map scanged from www.mapsofworld.com

We went there because my parents felt it was their duty to be of service to their religion. I also think it was a balm for a marriage in trouble - they were always at their best when it was the two of them against the world. I suspect also that they just had itchy feet. It was not the first time they'd done that kind of thing - but it was the first time with children. And, I'm sad to say, the last.


Reunion was both literally and figuratively the polar opposite of my hometown: Watson Lake, Yukon. The two are exactly twelve time zones apart. Where Watson Lake was sparsely populated and surrounded by miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles in every direction, Reunion was a small space, crammed with crowds of people everywhere. Watson Lake was in Canada's cold north, Reunion was tropical. Spindly gray-green pine trees traded for lush vegetation and palm tree lined beaches. Where Watson Lake was culturally homogeneous (if you ignored the First Nations population, which, let's face it, was pretty common nation-wide in the 1970s), Reunion was a mix of African, Indian, Chinese, and French influences. Where English was the only language spoken in Watson Lake, Reunion was politically and linguistically French. In the entire time we were there, outside of my parents' religious community, I recall meeting one other person who spoke English - a tourist who approached us when he overheard us speaking.

Left: downtown (I'm not kidding) Watson Lake, 2004   Right: typical St Pierre street, Reunion, 1979

Being in such a foreign environment challenged everything we thought we knew. I was a kid, I rolled with it. I showed up my first day of school with my Sesame Street French and my trusty Larousse pocket English-French/French-English dictionary, and I figured it out, as kids do.

My sister (left) and I (right), dressed up for our first day of school, knowing nothing, 1979. This was the last time we would wear socks for 2 1/2 years.

 But I was always aware of how different we were, how much we stood out. How different every minute of our day had become. Reunion had no tv to speak of then: a three hour broadcast every evening, which only mattered if you had a tv, which we didn't. No one we knew had one. At a time when peers in Canada were getting telephones in their bedrooms, we knew one person in our whole village who had a phone - and it didn't always work. Coming from a place where we thought nothing of leaving the tap running while we brushed our teeth, in Reunion we had running water only three days a week, and woe to the family that forgot to fill their cistern for the days without. Compared to the neighbours up the hill from us who lived in a corrugated tin shack without electricity or running water of any kind, we were considered wealthy beyond imagining because we had a refrigerator.

Everything was different; everything. Yet old habits die hard. In Canada, official language laws decreed that labels on food packaging be in both English and French. In the store, if the French side was carelessly left facing out by the shopkeeper, all you had to do was flip it over to see the label in English. In Reunionese shops, time after time, upon seeing the French label, we would turn the can around, only to encounter more French on the other side. For months and months (years, maybe) we did this - my mom, my dad, and I. (My sister was four and not yet reading when we arrived there.) Despite knowing intellectually that the labels were only in French, still we did this, and were jolted every time there was no English on the other side.


There is a powerful life lesson there. At the age of eight, my behaviour was already that ingrained, despite overwhelming evidence that it made no sense. Can it be any different at forty?

Maybe that's why I find it so difficult to make changes in my life - even positive ones. Because there are decades of ingrained behaviour - subconscious assumptions that inform every choice I make, every action I take. (Every smile I fake, every cake I bake...) Things I'm not even aware of trip me up.

And I think that's what our inner you-can't-do-that-and-who-do-you-think-you-are-to-even-try voices are. (We all have those, right? I'm not alone there?) Unexamined assumptions that hold us back. We've been listening to those voices droning in our ears for years, and they're a lot louder than the realities we encounter. Like the habit of flipping the package to find the familiar - except without the jolt of finding the unexpected on the opposite side. Since we're rarely jolted that way, brought face-to-face with these assumptions, we don't see them. And how can you change what you don't see?

I learned from comments on my post over at strocel.com yesterday that I'm not the only one who struggles with judging myself too harshly. Why is it so easy to show compassion for friends and strangers, and so hard to be that kind to ourselves?

Because we don't have the same kinds of assumptions about other people, that's why. We take their words and their behaviours for what they are - not what they appear to be through that lens of judgment we turn on ourselves.

So my question is, how can we jolt ourselves out of our everyday way of thinking, to see the reality of who we are, and how we appear to others? How can we change the assumptions we have about ourselves - hell, even figure out what those assumptions are, so we can work at changing them? So we move forward? So that we can, as Thoreau said, go confidently in the direction of our dreams?



*Aren't all airports, everywhere, at all times, under construction, or only when I'm traveling through them?

Things I'm Learning - Crafting My Life

Even if I haven't been posting much here, I've been busy. I've managed to keep the resolution of posting daily at Vancouver Daily Photo. Yay for resolutions! (In fact, I've managed to keep all three of my resolutions so far - a first for me.)


And, drum roll please, today Amber Strocel (who I've mentioned before here) has been kind enough to let me guest-post for her fabulous "Crafting My Life" series on her blog at Strocel.com. If you like what you see there, she's also launching a Crafting My Life e-course about living with intention, which promises to be seventeen kinds of awesome.

Now, I'm off to find something to get rid of today. 

Things That Are True - Overthinking

Since one of our dearest friends had a baby six weeks ago, The Imp has been playing, and talking, a lot about babies in tummies, babies being born, and about being a mommy. He's insisted at different times that he's a baby, that he's a big boy, that he wants to be in my tummy, that he's not a baby because babies can't walk, or talk, or do much of anything. He also tells me daily that he's a mommy*. Specifically, George's mommy.

Should I tell him putting George in the fridge isn't going to win him any parenting awards?

He arranges all his stuffies in a row, and tells me he's their mommy and that he's reading them stories and putting them to bed. I hear him, playing in his room, threatening various toys with the dreaded Naughty Corner. (Oh dear.)

This past weekend, visiting with friends, The Imp was playing with a big kangaroo stuffie they had. I explained pouches and joeys and hopping and Australia, and didn't give it another thought. This morning before daycare, The Imp was quite adamant that he was a kangaroo mommy, and that George was a joey. Sure, why not?

But then he was using his kangaroo-mommyhood as an excuse to not get dressed and go to daycare. Time for a little chat, clearly.

Me: You're a kangaroo mommy?
The Imp: Yeah. George is a joey and I'm his mommy.
Me: Well, it's time to put on some pants, kangaroo mommy.
The Imp: (looking at me like I was an idiot) Kangaroo don't wear pants, Mommy.

Damn. He kind of had me there.

Me: (Trying a new tack) Are you a kangaroo at school?
The Imp: No. I'm a kangaroo mommy at home.
Me: You're just a mommy at home? Not at school?
The Imp: Just at home. Not at school.

In a split second, my mind was racing with fears that I'd somehow managed to give The Imp a skewed view of motherhood. "Oh no!" I thought. "I've somehow imparted to him that motherhood belongs at home. I've inadvertently taught him that femininity and masculinity belong in entirely separate spheres. I've indicated through my words and actions that women do not belong at school or work. Oh jebus,  have I messed up the gender roles already? Or is there pressure from the other kids at daycare to be more masculine there? I'm a horrible mother for putting him in daycare when I work from home. Oh fuck. What have I done?!?" As showers of mama-guilt rained down upon my head, I managed to keep my game face on and ask:

Me: If you're a mommy at home, what are you at school?
The Imp: (without missing a beat) A light bulb.


Yeah. Maybe I was overthinking the whole gender-roles thing a little, there.



*I'm not worried about the gender discussion around who's a mommy and who's a daddy at this point. If The Imp says he's a mommy, he's a mommy. He'll sort out the gender stuff in the fullness of time, and be whoever he is.

Things That I Want - Resolutions

Happy New Year!

Without preamble, here are things I want to do more, or less, of in 2011.

Item the first:

I've fought The Battle of Stuff my whole life. I've had a tendency to keep almost everything: old movie ticket stubs, receipts for everthing, boxes for appliances... The parts of our apartment that are on public view are uncluttered and tidy - but I have a guilty secret of boxes and bags of random items crammed into closets. Every year I've resolved to get organized, to find storage solutions; to get a handle on all my stuff.

This year, I have a different priority. It's been creeping up on me over the last couple of years, but the last couple of months, especially, have made one thing clear to me: I don't need more storage. I need less stuff.

Resolved: In 2011, at least one item a day will be removed from my home, never to return. I look forward to really evaluating the worth of these things I'm holding on to, to freeing up room in my physical world, and to similarly removing clutter from my mental and emotional space. I find just looking at extraneous stuff tiring - it's the visual equivalent of being at a party where the music is just a little bit too loud. Except I can't leave. So I'm moving the noise out instead.


Item the second:

I haven't posted anything to my photography blog in months. It just became yet one more thing I was struggling to keep up with, and I let it go. Except now I'm realizing how much it fed my soul, and I miss it. I miss the photo walks and bike rides, I miss looking at my surroundings with an eye for the interesting within the mundane, and I miss seeking and finding the factoids that gave the photos meaning when I posted them on my blog.

Resolved: In 2011, I will start posting again regularly to Vancouver Daily Photo.

Item the third:

A purely practical matter.

Resolved: I will hang my towel on the hook on the back of the bathroom door when I'm done with it after my shower so I don't have to run dripping through the apartment looking for it every. goddamn. morning.

And you, what are your resolutions?

Things That Are True - Technological Marvels

A couple of days ago, I tweeted:

And it's true. Witness the technological marvel that adorns my kitchen counter:



All this is my way of saying, "Hello, I'm still alive. I'll write more soon. Maybe."

Also, a sneaky way of figuring out how to set up a youtube account, upload a video, and embed it on the blog. If this all works properly, expect more oeuvres of this masterful quality soon.

Things That Are True - Friday Confession

The Imp has been sick since Monday. Sleepless nights with a croupy toddler make me so very cranky. Last night, The Imp was awake, coughing, at 1:48 am. He stayed awake, clinging to me, needing a drink of water, his favourite stuffed toy, to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed, to sleep in his own bed with Mommy, to sleep anywhere as long as it was on Mommy. I held him, and I rocked him, and I stroked his hair, his back, his tired, coughing, wheezing little body. Because as parents, that's what we do, right?

It's 8:30 pm, and I just put him to bed for the night. Except for the brief times he was strapped into his car seat today, he has been in my arms, on my lap, or clinging to one leg or the other, for eighteen solid hours. Even when HWSNBN came home just before bedtime, The Imp still clung to me, crying, "Mommy, Mommy!" when Daddy tried to read him a bedtime story.

The last time The Imp was feeling clingy, in a hotel room in Victoria

Don't get me wrong. I love The Imp more than anything. I want to be there for him when he's feeling sick, especially when he's feeling sick. I want him to feel safe, and loved, and to know that I'll do anything in my power to help him feel all better.

But a full day of the constant contact, after a full week of the clinging, sleepless nights, and I'm just done. It's too much of a muchness. I've experienced as much touching as I can handle; I've reached sensory overload. My flesh actually crawled when he wanted to cuddle with me at bedtime. I just needed to have my body belong to me for a little while. But I sucked it up, and held his hand, and sang him to sleep.

Because as parents, that's what we do, right?

Cue the Mommy guilt.

Have you ever just had enough with the touching, or am I the only person who's actually that awful?