27 September 2010

Things That Are Dairy-Free: Chocolate Cake

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

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


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

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

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

Anyway, on to the ingredients:

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


Heat oven to 350 degrees F.

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

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

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

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

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

24 September 2010

Things That Are True - Ruminations Upon Turning Forty

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


My 40th birthday party - photo by HWSNBN


A month ago today, I turned 40.

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

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


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

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

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

No more.


An actual photo I took today just before the scribbling began

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Web cam photo taken right this minute


Hi. I'm Alexis.

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

Can I get a booyah?

26 August 2010

Things That Are True - The Unexpected Breaking of My Heart

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



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

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

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

Pause, as I gulp back sudden sobs.

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


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

20 August 2010

Things That Are Surprising - Friday Confession: Dishes

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

Confession?

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

Don't tell HWSNBN.

Wanna come for dinner?

17 August 2010

Things That Are True - Why I Write Here

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

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

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

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

Me, Grade 8. Also transitory: fashion.


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

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

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



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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so be it.

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

14 August 2010

Things That Are True - Camelot

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

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

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

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

In the meantime, look! Some cute!

Photo by Tracey at Bopomo Pictures

30 June 2010

Wordless Wednesday - Toddler Art Edition

We call it Etude de Débarbouillette (Avec Chaise).

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

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

11 June 2010

Things I'm Learning - Milk Allergies

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

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

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

Ahem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The clouds parted. The angels sang.

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

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

photo credit: luvi on flickr

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

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

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

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

Clear cause and effect.

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

The takeaway:

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

10 June 2010

Things That Are True - Toddlers and Chocolate Cake

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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


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

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

09 June 2010

Wordless Wednesday - Run For The Hills Edition

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

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

02 June 2010

Things That Are True - And Now We Are Two

Mere seconds after The Imp first graced us with his presence

The Imp turns one, and there is much rejoicing

Celebrating The Imp's second birthday

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

Oh, the milestones; they are so bittersweet.

01 June 2010

Things I'm Doing - Mischievous Moms at Sandbar

So, again with the nerves. I always volunteer or jump in at the merest mention of a fun opportunity. "That sounds great," I'll say. "How can I help?" And then as it approaches - currently I'm looking at T-minus 5 1/2 hours - I start to angst.

Yes, I did just use angst as a verb.

freedictionary.com defines the noun angst as:
angst [æŋst (German) aŋst]
n
1. an acute but nonspecific sense of anxiety or remorse
2. (Philosophy) (in Existentialist philosophy) the dread caused by man's awareness that his future is not determined but must be freely chosen
Collins English Dictionary – Complete and Unabridged © HarperCollins Publishers 1991, 1994, 1998, 2000, 2003


My personal definition:
to angst:
v
1. a desperate search through the closet for something to wear to the Impending Event, followed by a rejection of every item of clothing I've ever owned (Too trendy. Not trendy enough. Trying too hard. Too casual. Too dressy. Too "look at me". Too wallflower. Too [insert random adjective here])
2. consumption of several handfuls of chocolate chips
3. a bout self-loathing, for the consumption of chocolate (not Fit By Forty Compliant, that)
4. an extended bout of self-doubt, of the Who Do You Think You Are To Do/Be/Want X variety
5. a sudden need to alphabetize all my recipes/books/expense receipts/fabric samples/twitter friends

In this case, the Impending Event is a meetup of moms and twitter friends at Sandbar on Granville Island this evening. I've been broadcasting my attendance and involvement in this event far and wide for the last several days. I know that I'm a tremendously social person who loves nothing more than being in the thick of the fun. And yet... and yet. Here I sit. Angsting.

I'm looking forward to tonight. I'll get to see some old friends, meet some new ones, and meet Erica Ehm, a woman and mom that I feel like I already know through our interactions on twitter and through her website. Plus, she was in my living room daily when I was a teenager!



And Erica's looking forward to it too - she mentioned it in an interview on Breakfast Television this morning - sadly not an embeddable video, you'll have to click the link. (Ahem, the 4:25 mark gratifies my ego in a big way.) And Erica, if you read this, THANK YOU for pronouncing my last name Hinde rhymes with blind and not Hindie rhymes with indie. Thank you, thank you, thank you. That almost never happens.

Now, since I have this "awareness that [my] future is not determined but must be freely chosen",  I'm pretty sure I've got some stuff that needs alphabetizing. And an outfit decision to make.

26 May 2010

Wordless Wednesday - FIFA Edition

A new obsession: The Beautiful Game

Since receiving this soccer ball as a gift at the CBC Soccer Nation event when we stopped by on Saturday, The Imp has been obsessed. First question every morning is, "Where's my soccer ball?" He would sleep with it if we let him. In between the picture above and the one below are about a dozen blurry shots of him running, kicking, and shrieking with laughter.


The Imp and his soccer ball - a pensive moment.


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

23 May 2010

Things I'm Doing - Fit By Forty: Week 5

Week 5 (March 29 - April 4):  A Noticeable Difference

Week 5 marked the milestone of a full month of my Fit by Forty efforts. After the stress of Week 4, this week was all about getting back on track; back to the good habits I'd been forming. My husband commented at breakfast one morning as I was standing at the counter in my baggy old underwear making his morning cappucino (because I'm classy like that) that I was getting my figure back; apparently this week my waist decided to make an appearance at last. While I'm doing this for no one but me (and indirectly The Imp, I suppose) I'm not going to pretend that it didn't feel good when my mother in law, who knew nothing of my Fit by Forty mission, asked, "Have you lost weight?" at a family dinner. "Yes! Yes!" I practically shouted. "Nine pounds!!!" My vanity felt intensely gratified, I must say.

My skinny jeans. I am neither long nor lean, but Gap knows good marketing when they see it.

This was also the week that I tried on my "skinny" jeans for the first time since I was newly delivered of child. (Don't do that, by the way. The crying jag that follows takes way too much out of you. New moms need their energy for other stuff, like, oh I don't know, breathing.) I didn't fit into the skinny jeans yet, but I was getting closer. However, the "fat" jeans (we all have skinny and fat jeans, right? Please tell me I'm not alone in this) that I wore well into my fourth month of pregnancy now slipped off my hips without needing to undo the button or fly, so. Picture my happy face and me high fiving myself in front of the bedroom mirror. Which, by the way? Not so graceful. Find someone else to high five you. Trust me. If you do it alone you just look like you can't figure out how to clap properly.

Eating

I managed to get through the Easter weekend without a single taste of chocolate. And it wasn't even that hard. Now, if I'm to venture outside the Fit By Forty-compliant zone, it has to really be worth it. If I want chocolate, I take the time to go to Mink Chocolate and get the best. As far as regular eating goes, I use every trick in the book. Nothing revolutionary here, but some of the healthier habits I've developed include:

  • eat vegetables first, then the rest of my meal
  • stop eating the second I realize I'm not feeling hungry
  • exercise when I'm bored instead of snacking
  • make food from scratch instead of convenience foods
  • drink water instead of juice or pop
  • use smaller plates
  • use a smaller pot when reheating leftovers for lunch (we don't have a microwave)
  • treats in moderation (can't live without dessert ALL the time!)

Takeway
This week I indulged in my favourite snack food of all time: a small bag of Cheezies. And they didn't even taste that good. I was so disappointed. I guess a month of fresh homemade no-additive food changed my system's definition of yum. Interestingly, after eating a small amount of junk food that I didn't even particularly enjoy, I wanted more. The cravings that set in were almost as strong as my first week of Fit by Forty. For me at least, eating The Bad Food only begets the desire for more; best to avoid it altogether.

Exercise
Week 5 was more of the same as far as exercise goes; second verse, same as the first - lots of bike riding. I added a rule that when I'm not dressed up, carrying stuff, or with The Imp, I must take the stairs instead of the elevator up the 21 floors to our apartment. I don't do it every time, but even once a day makes me feel a sense of accomplishment.

Takeaway
Sneaking in more cardio without thinking about it - the key, for me, to sticking with it. If it's just a part of my daily routine, and not something special that I have to go somewhere else to do, it's far more likely to happen.

And now, for the numbers:
Starting weight: 149 lbs
Week 1 weight loss: 3.5 lbs
Week 2 weight loss: 3 lbs
Week 3 weight loss: 2 lbs
Week 4 weight loss: .5 lbs
Week 5 weight loss: 2.5 lbs
New weight: 137.5 lbs


I'm always looking for ways to keep this process fresh and interesting, so I'm asking for your advice: what are your good eating and exercising habits? Please let me know in the comments what works for you!

19 May 2010

Wordless Wednesday - Happiness is...

Happiness is a lazy Sunday morning cuddle with my boys.

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

12 May 2010

Wordless Wednesday - Of Skinned Knees and Sunny Skies

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

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


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

10 May 2010

Things That Are True - Seven Years

Seven years ago, I took a moment before the Getting Ready began.


Seven years ago, I actually shrieked in delight when I saw my fiance and his groomsmen running across the church lawn in their kilts - they were a little late, I was a little early, waiting in a vehicle at the curb. HWSNBN insisted that if he couldn't see my dress before the wedding, I couldn't see his either, so it was the first time I saw how great the boys looked.

 


Seven years ago, I walked down the aisle, arm in arm with both my parents.



And seven years ago, surrounded by family and friends, I married my best friend, my partner in crime, my reason for reason.


 And there was cake.


 It was a spectacular day in every way. 

Seven years later, there is still nowhere I'd rather be than by his side. Wherever he is, is home to me.



Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.*




*And thank you for giving me permission to post pictures of you today.

09 May 2010

Things That Are True - Mother's Day

My mom, my baby sister, and me almost exactly 36 years ago.

Becoming The Imp's mother has made me strive to be a better person. More patient, more principled, more open to the small joys in life. I'm far from achieving my goals; I fall down often. I think I'm down to about once a day where I think I'm the worst mom ever. But I keep getting back up, so that's something.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you. 

07 May 2010

Things That Scare Me - Northern Voice

Today and tomorrow I'm attending Northern Voice 2010, a blogging conference. There are a ton of great speakers. Bloggers I've met and a whole bunch of people I've conversed with on twitter are going to be there. People I admire, people who are actually doing the things I aspire to. It's going to be a very cool couple of days.

For reasons unknown, I am terrified. Well, actually, I know the reasons, I just don't know that they're rational.

First, the usual litany of insecurities that plague me:

Who am I to call myself a blogger and attend a conference? A conference for real bloggers?
What if it's all tech-speak geek coolness I don't understand and people find out I don't know what I'm doing? I don't know the first thing about coding.
What if people scorn me because I'm on Blogger and not a self-hosted Wordpress blog?

Then, the fear of the unknown:

What if  I can't find the venue?
What if everybody seems to know each other and I'm standing on the outside of the group looking in? (How delightfully high school of me!)

What if I don't see anyone I know? 
What if I do see people I know and they avoid me?
What if I manage to overcome all this and get there anyway, and then they don't have a record of me paying for tickets and I can't get in?

Then it devolves into the strictly ridiculous:

What if I can't manage the big hill up to UBC on my bike and I get there totally late?
What if I'm all gross and sweaty after bicycling there and no one will talk to me?

And the classic:

What if I look fat in these pants?


Understand, I'm normally an outgoing, welcoming, and wise-cracking people person. I worked and excelled in an extremely competitive industry, meeting new people (some of them famous, some of them undeserving of their giant egos) every day on a movie set. I look forward to new learning experiences every day. I enjoy and excel at connecting with people. So what's the deal with the mind-numbing fear? Why the paralysis ahead of the fact - and this happens every. single. time. Every networking event, every family gathering, every trip to the playground with The Imp. Why? Why, why, why? (stomps feet, shakes fist)

So this morning I'm trying to think less about my specific fears, and philosophize more about the nature of fear itself. How it's just the mind's way of warning you you're trying something new; how fear is healthy and necessary but should never be the sole factor in making a decision.

Fear is ever-present for me, and has played a significant role in my life so far. It's alternated between stopping me from really going for what I want, and galvanizing me into action to reach higher and strive harder. It's a tricky beast, and I've never quite got both reins in hand at the same time.

For the next three hours I'll focus on what I need to do to get past it:
1) acknowledge it - done here for all the world to see,
2) ignore it - trickier, but The Imp will wake soon and more pressing needs will take centre-stage,
3) eat breakfast and put on my game face,
and have the great time I know the next couple of days, (hell, the rest of my life!) are going to be.

What do you do to overcome the doubts that plague you? Or (gulps, looks around nervously) does this just happen to me?

04 May 2010

Things That Are True - You Know You're a Mom When...


You know you're a mom when you notice you've gotten into the habit of double knotting shoe laces without even realizing it. Your own shoelaces.

You know you're a mom when your initial delight in the game your toddler wants to play with your bare feet quickly turns to dismay that you may be unwittingly setting him up to be a foot fetishist.

You know you're a mom of a toddler when you are no longer capable of completing a full sentence without stopping to admonish your child's behaviour. Even when they're asleep.

Okay, your turn - have at it in the comments!