Published by HarperCollins, 2010

This is most likely going to be the hardest review I have ever written and may ever write. Usually when I review a book, I talk about believability of plot and writing style. For nonfiction, where plot has to be believed, I talk about engagement of characters to the reader and, again, writing style.

Notes Left Behind cannot be classified, nor do I have any right to critique it in any way.

Let me tell you a story. It’s about a girl named Elena Desserich. Shortly before her sixth birthday, she is diagnosed with a complex and (most often) incurable cancer. She begins a series of intensive radiation, chemotherapy, and drug treatments. Her physical appearance changes: she begins to lose control of various limbs and her beautiful face swells. Eventually, she has to use a wheelchair.

But she still insists on wearing a pink princess dress to a friend’s wedding, for which she is a flower girl, and in which the wedding party is wearing green.

She has one of her pieces of art hung in a local museum and she has her home town name a day after her.

She chooses a stuffed snake as a comfort toy.

She prefers vanilla ice cream over chocolate and her best friend is her little sister, Gracie.

She is six-years-old and forced into a world that is harsh on many more mature than her; yet, she embraces her life with grace and humility that made me weep.

Elena Desserich is not a fictional story. She is the daughter of Brooke and Keith Desserich (the authors) and she died nine months after first being diagnosed.

This is a story of love. Of hope. Of resilience. And, because the reader sadly knows how this story will end, of remembrance.

When the Desserich’s learn that Elena has cancer, her parents set out to chronicle the journey in a journal. What started out as a way to preserve memories for their youngest daughter, Gracie, so that she may learn more about the older sister that was taken away from her, resulted in an inspirational story for millions around the world. The Desserich’s bravely open their world up to us, letting the reader in on a world that many shy away from (That won’t happen to us!), and while stories like Elena’s are so hard to read (especially if you are a parent), they are so important.

When I told people I was reading this book, I heard over again, I couldn’t read that. Here’s the thing: I had to. My two-year-old beautiful baby girl is so far healthy, and that, my friends, is a gift. The Desserichs aren’t any different from any other family; their world turned upside down because of something out of their control. Elena deserves to be known, and I, for one, am glad I was allowed to partake in her world, if only briefly. Her life, while short, was a gift too, and she has a lot to teach others. Not reading her story means not knowing her, and I wanted to know her.

This is not an easy read; of course not. There were days when I only managed a few pages before I had to put it down. I couldn’t read it when my daughter was in the room. I didn’t want to read it if I was distracted by outside noise. I felt I owed it to Elena and to myself to give this little girl all of my attention. And of course, the nature of the book caused additional grief, since the reader knows the outcome ahead of time (before even the parents since they wrote in-the-moment). Expressions of hope pulled at my heart knowing what was to come, but really, what else could they do but hope?

And, of course, unlike most books, I dreaded the ending. The end wasn’t as finite as one might think though: Elena, being the wise and loving girl she was, hid notes of love addressed to her parents and sister throughout the house. The Desserich’s still aren’t sure if they’ve found them all.

A portion of the authors’ proceeds will go to The Cure Starts Now Foundation, a foundation started by the Desserich’s and dedicated to learning more and hopefully finding a cure for brainstem glioma, the specific form of cancer Elena had. I checked out their website and forced myself to look at each and every child’s face who is either currently battling this horrible disease or, like Elena, have died from it.

Life isn’t fair, and there is no explanation as to why at the moment I am blessed with a healthy child when so many are not. What I can do is acknowledge others’ pain and never take what I have for granted. Elena helped remind me of that. I thank her and I thank her parents for reminding me what is important.

I urge everyone to read Notes Left Behind and learn about one of the sweetest and bravest girls I have never met, but whom I was able to get to know . . . for a short while.

Browse inside Notes Left Behind.

Visit The Cure Starts Now Foundation.

I have so many fond memories of past Christmases.

• Time spent with my grandmother who would come to our house for an evening in December to make shortbread cookies with her cookie press. She let us make our initials in cookie form.
• My grandfather coming to our house on Christmas eve morning with a tree he had cut. After lunch on Christmas eve, we got to decorate the tree. My grandparents usually slept at our house that night.
• Spending time with my cousins.
• Being at my grandparents’ house, curled up in front of the woodstove watching the original Miracle on 34th Street.
• Munching on all the treats found in the flour bin at their house: chips, cheesies, pop, Purity syrup and nuts in the shell.
• Snowball fights, sledding and making snowmen.
• Presents from Aunt Claire were always wrapped in re-cycled paper. I don’t remember the gifts, but I remember the paper knowing that each year her gifts were unwrapped with love and care so the paper could be used again.

Then came New Year’s Eve. All of us grandkids were at Nan and Pop’s house for the night. We went to bed at our regular time and we woken up  around 11 PM. We were fed soup and bundled up. Within moments, we would be doing that special thing that we waited all year for: In outport Newfoundland, it is tradition to shoot off guns. My pop gave each of us kids a turn, standing behind us so we would not fall to the ground from the kickback.

I remember snowstorms.

I remember Nan pulling the table over to the stove so  we could put our feet in the oven to warm them up after hours of playing outside.
There was the Christmas in university that Blagdon (my “other” mother) had all her kids home and we opened all the presents at her house at midnight on Christmas eve and then went to our house and opened all of ours. I got my Mom the video Home Alone that year and at 3 in the morning we curled up to watch it with the room lit by the Christmas tree lights.

There was our first Christmas on PEI and Mom had left the Christmas pop in the car over night. The next day, driving through Charlottetown, the pop that was in glass bottles had frozen and exploded. It sounded like we were in a war zone. That was our first experience with the glass bottles.

Our first Christmas together in our own house the tree fell over on Christmas eve and landed on the dining room table.

Last Christmas, we were stuck home due to a freezing rain storm. It was just the two of us and we spent time in our jammies watching an entire season of True Blood while eating lots of cookies.

This year, the things that mean Christmas to me will be missing. We will have our presents and each other but none of the other things that make Christmas so special. My heart aches to decorate the house, bake cookies, decorate a tree, and spend time with family and friends. It will be a challenge to hold onto all of the wonderful traditions that mean so much to me and to come up with new ones while moving to a new country. I am planning for walks holding hands with my husband, seeing plays and learning about new traditions.

Our stress level builds as Christmas gets closer. Too much focus is placed on the money spent and the gifts bought. Think back to your childhood. Do you remember the gifts you received each year? Or do you remember the fun things? The Grinch had it right when he told us that Christmas could not be bought in a store; that maybe Christmas means a little bit more.

Think of your Christmases past and share them with your children. It will mean so much more than a Wii. This Christmas, give the gift of happy memories, love, and laughter and discover the true meaning of Christmas.

This Christmas give the gift of happy memories, love, and laughter and discover the true meaning of Christmas.

Jody Weymouth, a photographer (she took the second photo used in this article), will be chronicling her travels overseas in her blog Living England. She invites you to follow her adventures.

Part I: Pre-Delivery
April 2010

As I approach the birth of my second child, I realize I am more confused now than I was while planning the birth of my son 5 years ago. Labor and childbirth follow a fairly routine process that women have been going through since the beginning of time. However, a family seems to have as many choices and decisions to make regarding their birth experience as visiting a local Starbucks to order a coffee—it may sound simple, but the options are endless and often confusing.

When Jack was born in 2004, for some reason I didn’t do any reading other than the standard booklet that the Calgary Health Region passes out and What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I am due with my second child in July of 2010 and have really taken advantage of my local library and read several different books about childbirth. I thought this would make me more confident in what I wanted this time around. Instead, not only do I doubt what I want this time, but have concerns about what happened during Jack’s birth.

The first book that I spent time with was Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth. I was anxious to hear her opinions since she is considered one of the experts in natural childbirth. I found this book just okay. While I did enjoy many of the birth stories that women shared about their birth experience on Ina May’s farm, what I did not care for was the criticism of doctors in the rest of the book. I completely lost interest when I began reading the chapter on “Orgasmic Birth.” Apparently, some women have experienced this, and volunteered to have their pictures taken for the book in the mist of said orgasm. I followed this book with a handful of others and noticed a similar format—they all seemed to begin with something a doctor would do, then explain why they thought it was wrong, even in regards to certain aspects of pre-natal care such as ultrasounds and/or blood work.

I may not have agreed completely with what I was reading; however, it did give me doubts as to what actually happened when I gave birth in November of 2004 and a longing for the quiet and control that the mother-to-be seemed to have regarding her care in a home birth or birthing centre experience. Jack’s birth from start to finish was so fast that sometimes I still wonder what happened! My labor and birth took exactly 8 hours which is extremely short for a first birth, but it was quite traumatic and left a bad taste in my mouth even to this day. I was treated like livestock during my entire experience and felt no one listened to my concerns or had any regard for my feelings.

I was told that because Jack’s heart rate kept dropping, the cord must be around his neck which meant I had to get him out immediately. This required the assistance of a vacuum that was stuck to his head so the doctor could pull while I pushed—painful stuff since there was no time for medication. The post-partum unit treated me no better and I was up the entire night, crying periodically because this birth was nothing like I had hoped for, I was lonely, and I felt like my presence was a huge inconvenience for the nurses. Everything went wrong including my husband fainting as my son was born . . . we laugh now and know the goal was having a healthy child, but at the time it just added more drama to a already crazy situation.

I did have a birth plan when I had Jack, but I don’t think it actually made it out of my backpack that day. In fact, I don’t think my bag even got opened until after he was born. I am terrified that if I make one again, I will be getting myself ready for disappointment. After reading these birthing books, I am also confused as to whether all the hysteria in the delivery room that day was necessary.

I don’t think I want to go the home birth route because I do like the idea of lifesaving measures being close-by.  However, I really don’t know who or what I should believe anymore. I am 6 months along right now and have decided to put away all the pregnancy books for awhile because I really don’t need the stress. In the end I think I will make a list of some things I would like to happen this time around and just hope that I have the courage to stand up for what I want. Until the time comes when I want to look at this in more depth, I will go to my local Starbucks and order myself a drink that requires 4 different decisions that can’t be overturned by the barista.

Part II: Post-Delivery
December 2010

Wow…I read that now and feel so sorry for that woman who was so scared and confused.

Unfortunately, more was to go wrong before my due date came that really caused me to lose confidence in medical professionals and created much more stress. Now that my son is almost 5 months old I really don’t feel the need to re-visit the last trimester of my pregnancy. I will only say that every doctor appointment that I had during my last few months were full of needless drama. During each visit, I was threatened with a new possibility of something wrong with the pregnancy and “more tests” were always needed. Gestational diabetes, breech presentation, and low amniotic fluid to name a few were brought to my attention. Each one involved extra tests that I really believe were done for the sole purpose of covering the doctor’s butt, but I am not at all bitter . . . well, maybe I am a little.

I wrote the original article about 6 months ago and remember how upset I was while I was writing. If only I could have seen into the future! I would have told myself that everything was going to be okay and that I was really going to have the positive birth experience this time that seemed to be only a pipe dream back then.

I won’t go into every detail of the birth, but I will share the highlights of the arrival of my second son. To start…it was amazing. It was almost everything I had dreamed regarding how a birth should go. Greg was a week late, so I was pretty cranky, but had decided to put all the bad experiences of my last birth (and of my last few doctor appointments) behind me and focus on the present. What a great decision this turned out to be!

I had a couple of false alarms before Greg made his late arrival, but when the morning came, I went to the hospital with a clean slate and  a happy mind, and just let things happen. I had the best nurse who listened to me and completely respected my wishes for a calm, quiet delivery room and minimal “assistance” during my labor. I believe there were 30-minute periods in which there was no talking. She just listened to my breathing and used a fetal heart monitor to check the baby’s heartbeat after every two or three contractions. I even remember smiling a few times at my husband because I didn’t feel like talking and I was so happy with how calm everyone was and how naturally everything was progressing. I hadn’t wanted an epidural, but decided to have a couple of “hits” of narcotics during the early parts of my labor. It didn’t take away the pain, but it did help me relax my body to make the contractions a bit less intense. When the time came to push, it was all natural and it hurt a lot, but the pain was only temporary. There was some crying (and yes, begging and screaming for it all to stop), but I believe that is normal when you have the sensation of a bowling ball traveling down your uterus.

I really couldn’t have asked for a better birth experience and 5 months later, it still brings tears of happiness to my eyes. My little Gregory arrived safe and sound, plus my husband didn’t faint—bonus! I remember thanking my nurse for her wonderful care and understanding of my birth plan which asked for things to be as natural as possible. She replied that she had really enjoyed it, too, and I that I made her job very easy that day. It’s funny, after the traumatic birth of my first son I never thought I would put myself in that situation again, but after the awesomeness that was Greg’s birth I couldn’t imagine not having a third child . . . perhaps some of those narcotics are still running through my system yet!

Amy Matthews is a stay-at-home mom to two boys, Jack (age 6) and Greg (4 months). She resides in Calgary, AB and when she is not busy with her kids she loves to read, fence, bike and run.

Five years ago I was 26 years old. I was newly married. I was excited to embark on a career path. I hadn’t yet had my daughter, but I did give birth to my other baby. Edwards Magazine was first published on December 6, 2005.  Five years ago . . .

As I sit here trying to reflect on the past five years, I can’t help but shake my head, bulge my eyes a little, and have what I’m sure will be a similar reaction when my daughter turns five: how did that happen? Where did the time go?

Five years ago I welcomed you all to the first issue of Edwards Magazine.

I actually want to take a moment and share with you the first letter I wrote as Editor of Edwards in December 2005:

Hello and welcome to Edwards Magazine!

One of the greatest benefits of an online publication is its ability to draw people together from across the country and around the world. We want to create a network of people willing to recognize and stand for change, a network of people who are making a difference, whether it be globally working in national and international organizations, or in the quiet of their own personal homes. Edwards exists to inspire, inform, and celebrate.

Recently I found myself standing in line for a washroom in a Toronto-based MacDonald’s restaurant. It was during the very popular downtown Santa Claus Parade, and there must have been at least 20 women standing in line. Noticeably, there was no line-up for the men’s washroom (why is that?). So we stood and shifted position and as the minutes passed, we began to laugh at our predicament, exclaiming frustration that our gender warranted such waiting times. We began to share our stories. I found myself telling the person in line behind me all about why I was visiting Toronto and the things I hoped to accomplish while there. She, in turn, began to tell me about herself.

Why were we doing this? Yes, sure, most of us were bored and needed to take our minds off of the fact that we had a long wait ahead of us before relief was to be found. But we all had a common goal, bonded by the need to pee. Quite frequently, women are accused of back-stabbing each other and not coming together. I couldn’t help but notice that our common goal united this particular group of women, and I couldn’t help but smile and hope that this connection was found more often.

Coming Together. Being United. The goal can be as simple as wanting to use the washroom, or as complicated as trying to reduce poverty. Regardless of the desired purpose, something magical happens when people come together, and that’s what I hope Edwards can achieve.

As we continue to form and grow, we will be expanding our selection of articles, offering regular columns on health, politics, society, and business. We hope you like Edwards and find something in it that speaks to you. We hope we can help people unite and reach a common goal of inspiration, information, and celebration.

I hope I have fulfilled all those promises.

We’ve done a lot at Edwards. We’ve had themed issues. We launched a Book Club. We added a huge environmental theme to our mandate, and we even started talking money issues. We tackled issues many shy away from and we also shared more than a laugh or two along the way. We changed from publishing issues with all new content, to publishing articles as soon as they were ready, reflecting the need of readers today to keep sites current and changing. We formed connections with local schools and national publishers to encourage reading in our school-age children, and we furthered this promotion of literacy by getting the kids themselves to write reviews and engage with other readers.

Over the years, our face has changed (literally: we went through a couple of makeovers). I have found myself stepping back, not having my voice as prominent as it once was, in order to highlight our talented writers. Our volunteers have changed over the years, but the one thing that has stayed the same is the loyalty to the magazine; the dedication of my volunteers; the kindness of our readers.

I know Edwards isn’t like most magazines. It’s online, for one, and doesn’t quite fit into a neat little category. Is it a newspaper? Is it a blog? It doesn’t have a regular publication schedule—we used to, back before most of us had kids—, but I think it’s the irregularity of it that makes the publication that much more special. It shows that everyone involved cares; that, despite all the busyness of everyday life, we still want to connect.

And connected we are. I’m proud to say that five years later, we continue to have readers and writers from all over Canada. We’ve expanded our connections, too, through the power of social media. We can now be found on twitter (@edwardsmagazine) and Facebook (facebook.com/EdwardsMagazineandBookClub) and we enjoy the various conversations happening in each medium.

In recognition of our launch date (December 6) and our continued promotion of women’s rights, I would like to end this reflective piece, not with my words, but with our contributors’. Please find some links listed below to stories based around what December 6 means to young Canadian woman.

Thank you for your support of Edwards. Thank you for reading, for writing, for encouraging, and for passing the word along. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Let’s all go and eat some cake now.

http://edwardsmagazine.com/2005/12/15/we-are-not-feminists-the-legacy-of-the-montreal-massacre/

http://edwardsmagazine.com/2006/11/15/a-look-back-at-the-persons-case/

Christine Gordon Manley tries to update Edwards Magazine as often as she can, given her hectic employment schedule (managing editor of two academic journals, communications person for UPEI Faculty of Education, one half of the brain genius that is Manley Mann Media, and marker for a business communications course) and her other commitments including an energetic three-year-old and two less-than-energetic (but darn cuddly) dogs. She doesn’t wish to discuss the fish or the plants.

Crazy isn’t it? Good job Mr. Daddy, I respond and hold my hand out to him for a high-five.

I know what you’re thinking: High-five? Who does that anymore?  That went out when we were in grade school!  I agree, it did. But we’re just that kind of family. We do things in a big way around here. When we are upset, we’re mad. When we are happy, we’re ecstatic! And when we chose to start a family—we had twins!

When we went from being a family of 2 (husband and wife), to a family of 4 (Mommy, Daddy, and two babies), we quickly found ourselves needing to choose one extreme or the other. It’s either sink or swim when twins arrive, and we chose to swim.

Not to say that we haven’t had our crazy moments in which life felt as if it was falling apart—we’ve had plenty of those. But through the help of good friends, supportive family, and a tender faith we’ve been able to make it through our first year with twins, with only minor bumps and Jackson Pollock-esque spit-up stains along the way.

My Life as a Sleep-deprived Cow: Birth to 3 months.

The early arrival of our twin sons, Moses and Theo, meant countless hours of pumping, storing, and then freezing the pumped breast milk, plus trips to and from the hospital to attempt breast-feeding at all the scheduled feeding times. The hospital set a feeding schedule of every 3 hours for the boys and my job was to ensure that my body agreed with that schedule. I vaguely recall reading a suggested daily schedule for mommies of twins in a Baby Whisperer book that clearly laid out what a three-hour schedule of feeds would look like once the kids came home—the horror of reading that schedule, followed by a panicked call to my sister-in-law confirmed my worst fears: my fate was indeed to be employed as a full-time cow for the first 3 months of my children’s lives.

You’re going to have to think of breast feeding as a full-time job, were the words of wisdom spoken by my SIL. What everyone forgot to mention was that the job was not 9-5, but 24/7 . . . around the clock, with two babies! No sleep, plus two babies to feed . . .  I am sure that in those first three months, I flashed my much-in-demand breasts to every member of my family, countless friends, and possibly even several lucky repairmen who had the pleasure of frequenting our house during those first few months. Not a memory I cherish, and certainly not the way I had ever thought my breasts would make their big break.

A day in my life at the infancy stage had me feeding the kids for 1.5 hrs, followed by 30–40 minutes of holding the reflux-plagued babes upright which left about 30 minutes to an hour to do diaper changes, clothes changes, and for me to sleep or heaven forbid, get a pee break! And just when you thought you’d successfully gotten that elusive moment to yourself? At least one, if not two of the boys would awake hungry and ready to start the whole process all over again.

Enter Bob and the Throngs of Adoring Crowds: 4–6 Months

By the time we hit the four-month mark, I was ready for the feeding schedule to change. I had spent enough time in the cow-phase and was anxious to start feeling human again. Enter our Bob jogging stroller. We would prop our 2 little men up in their stroller and try to stretch out times between feeds by taking them on scenic walks that lasted hours on end. The awesome thing about attempting to stretch feedings out this way was that I began to find my human side again! I even found my belly button! Although we couldn’t yet run with the boys in the Bob, we did do lots of trails and cameos at the local grocery stores.

I always knew that babies were an attraction for a certain throng of women— in general, the teenaged girl and older grandmotherly types seem to be the major contenders of the populace of baby-lovers. However, I never truly knew how many people are astounded by the mere presence of adorable little babies until we became the neighbourhood equivalent to Brangelina. Every time I left the house, I prepared myself for the many stops we would have to make on our excursions. On average, I would be stopped by an adoring fan anywhere from 5 to 10 times during an hour and a half long walk. Try having to recite your babies’ age, names, eye colours (if they are sleeping), and say actually, they’re fraternal, with a genuine smile on your face 10 times in an hour to complete strangers—some who don’t even speak English but can somehow manage to get out “boy or girl?”  I kid you not—at times we even had paparazzi! People would ask to take pictures of our kids or to be in pictures with our kids. When expectant parents of twins ask me what one thing they should be prepared for, I always tell them to be prepared to let others share in their joy over their babies. If you aren’t prepared to let others be happy with you, well—you’re just not going to be happy, unless you’re okay with hiding yourselves away in your house.

Okay. Now this is Fun! 6–12 Months

At 6 months, our boys took a definite liking to each other. The benefit of having two at once is that they become a source of entertainment for each other. Laughing at each other, taking toys from each other, discovering each other’s left-over meals sitting in the bottom of a highchair— endless hours of enjoyment! It was also at this point that our kids started training their throwing arms and I turned into the family dog. I couldn’t stand the site of leftover foods rocketing through the air and landing on various pieces of furniture, the floor, or, (if I was lucky) the countertops. And so, I would dutifully clean up our kids and then clean up the war zone that was our kitchen and put all the leftovers on a plate for myself. Things you thought you’d never do #278: Ever try eating pureed veggies and meat? Might not want to add that to your bucket list!

Add to that list of things you never thought you’d do: my first date with my husband post-babies! It took us 7 months to get to a place where we felt content with leaving our sleeping babies with their competent grandparents while we went out for a movie and a late-night dinner. Our lives were really just that intense that I didn’t want to risk any potential event that would cause detriment to our moving train of progress towards more sleep and a once-again predictable life.  A creature of habit, I must have spent hours planning that date and then another hour communicating (i.e., needlessly repeating myself) to my mother-in-law re: what to do for all the “what if’s” I could think might occur while we were out. I sat through the movie like a schizophrenic— my happy wife self holding hubby’s hand and laughing at the hilarity of the movie plot; my over-protective mommy self sweating out all the little voices in my head that were telling me that no date was worth having to spend the next three nights trying to convince my very cuddly eldest that sleeping in his crib and not being cuddled by one of his adoring fans was actually the best plan for all of us.

Is that poop on the floor? Signs and Symptoms of the 12 Month Mark.

At 12 months, I have been the lucky recipient of small treasures from my little men. I’ve received all their endearing embraces, the loving Mama!’s, and the many pieces of discovered carpet lint. This is just something that my kids do—whatever they find goes to Mama. The unfortunate side of that is that Mama also gets to be the one to be given mud, moss, bugs, and worse.

Let me set a scene for you: Little hands outstretched, inquisitive looks on their chubby faces, followed by exclamations of ooooooo . . . . unsuspecting Mama reaches down and pretends to be overly interested in what is in her child’s hand . . . Wait, what is that on this precious little finger… is that? No, it couldn’t be! But it is….. it’s poop. So into the tub goes boy #1, even though he has already had a bath. Little boy #2 stands at the edge of the tub whining to get back in with his brother. I refuse, thinking that Mama knows best, but then child #1 did not have poop anywhere else on their body other than that finger…. What is going on here? Why is there poop on the bathroom door when child #1, the suspected culprit is already in the tub? I check out child #2’s bum and chubby legs: Congratulations! You’ve found the remainder of the poop! Seems child #2 pooped on the floor, and child #1 decided to report this to Mama by sticking his fingers in the poop and sharing the poop with Mama . . . it just took Mama a little while to catch on. And so 2 boys in the tub, for the second time, poop cleaned up off the floor, poop cleaned up off of the bathroom door, and poop cleaned up off of the tent they were playing in at the time of great poop conspiracy.

Exhausting? Yes. The joy of putting one’s child to bed for the night has never been greater for me than at the 12-month mark.

More is less and Less is More?

It did not take me long to realize that with twins, more means less, and less means more. More babies means less time to pursue the things I previously held dear. Less sleep, less career time, less running time, less income—all balanced by mores. More baby time; more running around after said naked babies; more time cleaning up messes that are not mine; more money spent on strollers, cribs, car seats, diapers,  and food; more of myself extended to my new family.

Any given day I can look around my home and find more Cheerios and Gold Fish in the linen drawer, and less clean linens; more crumbs and mystery foods on my floors, and less time to sweep and mop the floor; more child-sized books and toys, less of my own neatly organized DVDs and treasured novels. But within all of the unexpected mores and lesses of life with twins, I know I will never find more love in my tiny home from two children who never notice all of our lesses.

Stephanie Price Evans is the proud Momma of Moses and Theo and, along with her husband Andrew, lives in Langley, B.C. She is a lover of all things that can be read, written, and learned, and is a Junior Behaviour Consultant,  working with children diagnosed with Autism and their families. She is also an enthusiastic runner and an excellent giver of the classic jump+high-five combo!

Oh. You didn’t know? Go ahead and Google. I’ll be here when you get back.

It would seem that there’s plenty we don’t know about the friendly retailers we patronise daily. The beaming smile of the employee greeting you at the door belies the complexity and motivation behind the behemoth. Don’t be fooled into thinking a corporation cares about you or your family—this is business, my friend.

Worse still, it’s all your fault. Yes, you. Every time you hand over a dollar to a corporation, you’re voting.  You’re saying, Yes, I completely approve of the way you do business.

Take Starbucks, for example, and their non-compostable cups. That’s why you’re hard-pressed to find a compost bin at your local Starbucks, because there’s precious little that can go in there. True, you can do your part by bringing your own cup, but you’re still voting with your money; you’re approving of a company that uses upwards of 2 billion non-compostable cups per year.

Thing is, it’s way too late—there’s no way we can possibly live our lives without corporations, is there?

Well actually, there is. In fact, after the credits rolled on Mr. Moore’s marvellous movie, I started to wonder if it was possible to live without corporations. I call it “unincorporated.” Ask yourself: why are we so obsessed with 100-mile diets, and yet happily spend dollars that fly away to faceless corporations thousands of miles away?

I find it remarkable that simple local living has become a novelty. After all, didn’t we all start off living simply? What destroyed our local businesses? Whether you’re buying an AC Unit or a loaf of bread, you’re forced into your car and toward a mall or shopping centre—it’s the same amount of effort no matter what the commodity, and it’s obscene.

Thing is, a million people changing their shopping preferences can and does have a direct impact on how companies and corporations run their businesses, especially if you write to them and let them know why you’re taking your business elsewhere. Being pro-active about the planet isn’t about dropping your bottle in the recycle bin—the bare minimum—;  it’s about actually being pro-active.

I haven’t set foot in a Wal-Mart for months, and I can’t even recall the last time I visited a McDonald’s or similar fast-food franchise. I no longer worry about their business practises because I don’t have blood on my hands.

What I do worry about are the billions of other people who do.

Right now, you’re probably wondering if you’re ready to make that change, or indeed, if such change is even possible given today’s hectic pace of life.

For example, where should one buy coffee? Despite being repatriated as a Canadian business, franchises such as Timmy’s are controlled by the Wendy’s corporation; a local, independent coffee shop that supports Fair Trade coffee is a much smarter investment (don’t forget to bring your own cup).

What about gas? Place your dollars in the hands of Irving Oil, one of the few Canadian-owned energy companies that supports the Kyoto Accord aimed at lowering greenhouse gas emissions.

Mortgages and banking? Trust me, the local Credit Union will welcome you with open arms.

Groceries and produce? Buying from a local supermarket doesn’t necessarily guarantee local produce; most major cities boast regular Farmer’s Markets, and you’ll be pleasantly surprised what you can find when you visit local farms and wharfs.

In fact, the deeper you dig, the more pro-active you are, the more you learn about where your dollars go and the effect those dollars have on the environment. You have the power to change things.

Just imagine being able to see the effect those dollars have on your local community.

Now, the hard part: stop imagining and do it.

Andy Roberts is a professional writer and videogame designer. Originally from the UK, he now lives in PEI with his partner, a cat, 2 dogs, 2 horses, and far too many books.

Recommended Reading

The Story of Stuff by Annie Leonard
The Hundred Year Lie by Randall Fitzgerald
Twinkie Deconstructed by Steve Ettlinger
The 100-Mile Diet by Alisa Smith and J. B. MacKinnon
The Corporation: The Pathological Pursuit of Profit and Power by Joel Bakan

Energy

Heating costs are rising every year forcing many families to choose between heat and food. There are some simple, affordable, and easy ways to reduce heating costs no matter where you live. Living in military housing has limited my ability to make major changes so I concentrate on the small things. My house is very drafty around the doors and windows, so I have had to come up with ways to keep my expensive heat in and the nasty cold out. I have insulating curtains on my windows, especially on the north side of the house. These curtains cost a little more than regular curtains but make a huge difference, if used effectively. Passive solar heat works hand-in hand-with your curtains. On warm sunny days, I open the curtains, especially on the south side, to let the heat in. This actually raises the temperature in the south side room by two to four degrees. This may not seem like a big deal but there is a noticeable difference between the south and north rooms in my house. As soon as the sun goes down, I close all of the curtains. On those particularly cold, cloudy days, I keep the curtains closed.

Closing of heating ducts in rooms that are not used allows you to use your heat much more effectively. Right next to our very drafty porch door is a heating vent. Call me crazy but, heat coming out of the vent and going right out the door just made no sense. The vent got taped over with duct tape (stuffing cloth in ducts to divert heat is a fire hazard) and the floor completely covered with a mat. Doors were given an extra coating of weather stripping. We do have the floor vents that can be closed, but ours do not work all that well. We wanted to stop all heat from coming through that porch vent and going out the door. Since I have drafty windows and no choice in getting them replaced, I cover them with plastic. There are expensive window covering kits available, or you can buy some clear plastic table clothes at the Dollar Store. Just tape the plastic to the edge of the window frame and you have insulated your windows. It may not look pretty, but your heating bill will thank you for it.

For every hour you are out of your home, you can turn your heat down by a degree. So, for those eight hours of the day when no one is home, turn down that thermostat. The same is true when everyone goes to bed.  If you own your own home, an ENERGY STAR programmable thermostat can save you a bundle. These thermostats allow you to customize the heat throughout the day. Set it up to kick in before you wake, turn down during the day while you are out, kick in again just before you come home and turn down again while you are in bed. This can save you hundreds of dollars a year in energy costs.

I keep my heat at around 17 degrees. A little cold, but I have allergies and can breathe better with the cooler air. I also enjoy curling up under a blanket on those cold winter nights, especially with my husband. We have often gone to bed early with treats between us and a good book each or a movie. Cuddling with a loved one is a fabulous bonus of turning down the heat. Each degree your heat is turned down equals that percentage of saving on your heating bill. If you keep your heat at 15 degrees at night, every night for a month from the usual 20 degrees, you will save approximately 5 percent on your heating costs.

Everyday, we have access to free heat that is just waiting to be used. A simple attachment to your dryer hose allows you to divert that warm, moist air into your home. Free heat and some much needed moisture to combat that dry winter air. The attachment, Heat Keeper, costs around twelve dollars. Free heat also comes from our ovens. After baking that turkey, open your oven door and use that heat.

So as frost covers the ground, I do not cringe, not much any way, to turn on that furnace. The wind can howl outside because my windows are covered in plastic and the door frames are weather stripped. I have the blankets out and look forward to curling up with a book and my husband. And I am over the moon for our early night dates in bed. The weather may be terrible but our lives can still be warm and toasty. Living a warm life does not have to break the bank.

Hannah was one of the first people I met on the island. It took us a little while to get to know each other (I was still feeling pretty hermit-ey when we first met) but within a couple of months we’d bonded over a shared love of dance and lolcats, and the fact that she is the sweetest, kindest, goofiest, loveliest person ever. (Can you tell I’m a fan?)

When one of my favourite ballet companies came to PEI, she was the first person I thought of to come with me. While sitting in the audience waiting for the show to start, I asked her why she’d stopped dancing. She was so passionate about it, and so excited to see the ballet, I just couldn’t understand why she would have ever stopped. I knew she’d moved here from Arizona, so I wondered if it was the move that had caused it.

What she told me, as tears streamed down her face, shocked me and very nearly broke my heart. (More on that in a bit. Keep reading.) Then she explained that even though she wanted to dance again now, she was a student and definitely didn’t have the extra money for expensive things like ballet classes.

I knew I had to do something to help. Dancing was her dream. I couldn’t just stand there and let it drift away from her, knowing I could do something about it.

So I promised her that if she found dance classes for September, I would raise the money to pay for them.

And that’s what we’re doing here today.

First though, I want to share her story.

Hannah has very courageously written about her story in the hopes that by sharing what happened, she might be able to help someone else. (Didn’t I tell you she was wonderful?):

I started dancing when I was five years old. At first it was something that I shared with my mom. We danced at the same studio and did the Nutcracker together every single year. She did my hair and my stage makeup and reminded me that I was beautiful every chance she got. Even if I fell or forgot my placing, she told me that I danced marvellously.

She stopped dancing when she got sick again. I say “again” because she’s been an on and off drug addict for the majority of her adult life. So then I stopped, too.

When I was ten, I joined a competitive dance team. I asked my parents to sign me up for as many classes as possible – and they did. My skills quickly progressed and I made so many friends with the same passion as mine. I danced all year round and performed in countless recitals.

When I was almost fourteen, my mom accompanied me to a dance tournament/workshop in Las Vegas. On the one hand, I was so excited for my mother to be there with me – to cheer me on and maybe even do my stage makeup like old times – but on the other hand, I was scared and embarrassed of her. She was using again and the whole team knew it.

The first sign of trouble was when my teammates and I were getting ready. They all had their moms with them, crimping their hair and fixing the holes in their tights. But I couldn’t find my mom. I was about to go on stage to perform dances that had been rehearsed meticulously for months – in front of some pretty tough judges – and I couldn’t find my mom.

I don’t really remember what I thought at the time. Maybe I thought that she was just passed out in the hotel room which, in retrospect, would have been worlds better. Regardless of the situation, I danced my heart out and the judges must have noticed. One of our dances got second place and beat out some of the most prestigious schools in the country. I was so happy that I was brought to tears. I couldn’t wait to show my mom my medal. Until I saw her.

After the award ceremony was over, my mom was waiting for me offstage. She grabbed my arm and angrily said, “We’re not doing THIS again. YOU’RE never DANCING again. You’re DONE.”

I tried to hold it together in front of my teammates. “Mom, didn’t you see? We won! We placed second!”

“No you didn’t,” she growled, “Don’t lie to me. You’re finished.”

As she stormed off, a friend of mine grabbed my arm and walked around with me to try and calm me down. She assured me that there was no way my mom was going to make me stop dancing. She’s just tired, she said. But she wasn’t tired. She was drunk and angry as hell. At me. Through my tears, I caught my mom glaring at me from the other side of the room, shaking her head. I could tell she was only getting angrier for the things she must have imagined I was telling my teammates. Soon we were driven home by a teammate and her mother.

At this point, all I can remember is my mother screaming at me and smacking me in front of my friend and her mom. When we were dropped off at our hotel, my friend’s mom hugged my mom and said, “Go easy on her, okay?” That’s it? I thought. Go easy on her? You’re not going to help me? I knew that, that night, I was going to be in a lot of trouble.

When we got back to the hotel room, my mom through me on the bed and started beating me. She screamed that she hated me and how badly she wished she had never come here. When she was finished, she fell asleep for a long time. I don’t remember sleeping. All I remember is wishing someone, anyone, would call the police. My entire dance team knew about the state my mother was in and no one helped me. Nobody saved me from my mom.

I can barely even read that last sentence. It kills me. Nobody saved me from my mom. I wish I could turn back time and change everything for her.

But I can make a difference now. She deserves to start dancing again, and I will raise the money for her to do it—even if I have to hold a bake sale on my front lawn.

All of us have those secret (or not-so-secret) dreams. Some of us act on them, some of us don’t. Some people look back and wish they had. I really believe that all of us have the right to follow our dreams and our passions, but it can be hard, especially when no one believes in us.

I want to show Hannah that someone believes in her, and that someone supports her. I want to show her that life doesn’t have to be this thing where you work at a job you hate, and then you die.

I want to show her that there’s more, and I would really love it if you could help me do that.

Here’s how you can help

Option #1:

Some of you may remember my painting, “Ballet Shoes.” It’s been sold for years, and is no longer on the site, but I can make prints of it. (I know some of you have been wanting that!)

The print will be a signed 11”x14” (with border, size is 13”x16”) archival giclee print on Hahnemeule William Turner watercolor paper (trust me when I say, it’s delicious). It is archival, it is top quality, and if well taken care of, will last up t0 100 years. Yes, it costs more than a poster but that’s because it is so much more than a poster.

The print retails for $120 USD + $20 shipping anywhere in the world.

Buy from Sarah’s art site.

Option #2:

If you want to help, but can’t afford (or for you men out there, don’t want) a print, donations are super welcome. Seriously, even $5 will make a difference.

And if you did want the print, just let me know in the “Special Message to Seller” section of Paypal, and I’ll email you a high resolution PDF so you can print it out at home.

Donate.

Option #3:

Dying to help, but your pockets are lined with love and not money? We will so take your love!

Tweet it up, share it on Facebook, tell your friends, tell your family, whatever you can do, we will love you for it.

Did you really want the print too? Email me telling me how you shared the love, and I’ll email you a high resolution PDF of the print as well, for your viewing pleasure at home.

Thank you.

Thank you even just for giving me your attention this long. I really appreciate it.

Every single cent raised over the cost of print production will go to Hannah to pay for the dance classes, dance clothes & shoes and costumes for the recital.

If you want to get in touch with Hannah, you can email her at klein_hannah [at] hotmail [dot] com.

Thank you so much, everyone. It’s amazing knowing that I have this awesome community of people to turn to when I really want to help out a friend.

You are too awesome for words.

Update: I probably should have posted this before, but completely blanked in my enthusiasm – we need to raise $1000 for Hannah to dance again. Might be a bit less, but I figure if we go over, she can just get super nice pointe shoes, yes?

June 28

In keeping with my hope to spread this giving with strangers, my gift today was to a person who just appeared to need a little gift.  The Starbucks that I stop at in the morning is in a fairly suburban neighbourhood where the customers all seem like locals.  This might be why the person asking the patio patrons for change to buy a coffee seemed so out of place.  He looked more than a little wayward in his attempt to get these suburbanites to contribute to his cause.  As I was leaving with my coffee, I noticed his unsuccessful attempts and offered him my coffee.  He seemed shocked that I would just hand him my coffee.  I’m not sure if he even liked my hazelnut, low-fat, concoction but he seemed grateful to be able to stop trying to get the locals to contribute to his cause.  I went back in to buy myself a new coffee and added a pastry for him, which I passed on as I returned to my car.

The really shocking part of this gift was that as I was headed to my car, one of the local patrons stopped me to tell me that I should not have given this man my coffee.  He explained that I was only encouraging him to hang around the coffee shop which the locals did not want.  It was my turn to be shocked.  This is the very first time that any of this giving has ended in any negative attention.  Luckily, I have the ability to walk away from such cautions still feeling like I made the right decision for me, and a little sad for this cautionary soul—he clearly has no idea how good this giving made me feel.

June 29

My very last day of the challenge and this gift is the only one that came wrapped in the traditional sense.  I chose to make my giving year-end gifts to colleagues who served as mentors throughout the school year.  I bought books for these gifts because I believe that there is almost no better gift than that of indulgent escape in a good book!

I am sort of proud that this is the first “traditional” gift of the challenge and that it came on the last day.  I think this helped to show me that giving does not have to look like a wrapped gift presented on a special day; it can just be the gift of talent or time.

Read about Rachel’s previous challenge days:

• Days 26 & 27
• Days 20–25
• Days 15–19
• Days 13–14
• Days 10, 11, & 12
• Days 8 & 9
• Day 7
• Days 5 & 6
• Day 4
• Days 2 & 3
• Day 1

Read about why Rachel started the 29 Day Challenge.

June 26

As the school year comes to a close, and I rejoin mainstream society, I feel the need to give in new, more creative, ways.  When I woke up today I wanted to make sure that I aimed my gift at a stranger.  I have yet to intentionally set out to give to a perfect stranger without expectation.  In reading other people’s reflections on giving, there seems to be a lot of this kind of gifting going on.  I see the benefit in giving to a stranger, but for some reason this type of giving has eluded me to this point.  I suppose that makes today’s gift slightly more intentional than it has been—I was curious to experience this side of the giving.

I needed to go to the mall this afternoon, well needed might be a strong word, but I felt it necessary that I make some purchases for my upcoming stint as a full-time grad student.  I landed at the mall during peak parking hours and happened across a spot that was mere steps from the doors.  It may seem superficial to view a parking space as a bit of a holy grail but it was SO close to the doors.  I saw the person behind me eying that perfect spot and my gift was to drive past it and park on the other side of the lot so that he could have that much coveted parking location.  The surprise on his face could be seen through the two panes of glass and the vehicles we were encased in.  It felt good to give him this gift of parking.

June 27

Now that I am nearly done school and in-between grad school classes, I have a sense of freedom that feels incredibly rare.  The benefactor of today’s gift was, again, Andrew.  We indulged in a morning of watching FIFA World Cup coverage—no pressure to organize our week, no expectations to get up and get moving; just a morning on the couch cheering for our favourite teams.  It felt so indulgent to just ignore the world outside and take in the game in our pajamas.  It might not seem like a gift to many, but might I remind you that being in a relationship with a full-time teacher, part-time graduate student, fully engaged perfectionist is likely to be a fairly unenjoyable way to live within a relationship!

Read about Rachel’s previous challenge days:

• Days 20–25
• Days 15–19
• Days 13–14
• Days 10, 11, & 12
• Days 8 & 9
• Day 7
• Days 5 & 6
• Day 4
• Days 2 & 3
• Day 1

Read about why Rachel started the 29 Day Challenge.