martinis for milk

To my Luiz morak, with love.

2014-04-28T20:40:00.001-05:00

My mother’s sister, Luiz morak (morak is Armenian slang for “mother’s sister”), was a fiercely proud woman. Once she made a choice about something, she stood by it. She would wait on you hand and foot out of pride for her home and her cooking, and so that no one could ever say she didn’t take care of her family. When we opted to stay in a hotel rather than in her apartment in 2011, so that we wouldn’t make more work for her while she recovered from her cancer treatments, she was pretty mad at us.

It soon became clear we had made the right decision. Even days after receiving chemotherapy, she laid out elaborate tables of food and tea for us at our visits. She would have bathed us all by hand if she’d had the strength, but we pretended it was because we didn’t want her too. (Well, it is kind of an odd custom.) She was frustrated that she couldn’t show us around the city, like she had in 1988 on our first visit. It was, to her, like admitting defeat to the disease that claimed her life this morning.

She wasn’t well enough to leave her apartment much, but thanks to the fantastic Turkish window basket system, her fresh bread and various sundries could be elevated to her flat. For Lucine’s sake, she lowered the basket so that Barbie could get that same VIP treatment and Lucine could have a memory of my aunt and Istanbul that went beyond post-cards and souvenirs.

As a young girl, she married the handsome Migirditch and moved in with his family in the Armenian neighbourhood of Samatya. My aunt Luiz never spoke much of that time to me, but my mother would tell stories of how far away it was from the other more central Armenian neighbourhoods of the old city—like Feriköy, Şişli and Beşiktaş—back in the day. Very young and with no great wealth for anything fancy, Luiz spent her wedding night in the same apartment as her mother-in-law. They had two sons, whom she was devoted to, while Migir worked at his shop in the Grand Bazaar. I remember passing Samatya on the train to Bakirköy ,where my paternal grandmother lived, and seeing flats with giant peppers drying on balconies in the sun. It seemed like another world (Armenians have lived there since the mid 1400s), but perhaps it was made so in my mind by my mother’s portrayal of it as a backwater district.

In August of 1988, she did actually give me a bath. It was awkward to say the least, because I was 14 and my small, pert breasts were the source of many giggles for my aunts. I recall that there were water shortages so everyone took conservation very seriously. You had to sit in the empty tub and have water poured over you with a bowl, but she insisted and so I sat while she cooed “Yavrum!”and washed my hair with joy.

On that same trip, we travelled to a small seaside resort in Turkey and my sister and I fought over who would share a room with Luiz morak. (I think we each got a night.) On my night with her, I remember laying awake in the dark, having a very grown-up heart-to-heart. To a 14-year-old it seemed that all the adults were talking in hushed tones about how her eldest son had just had a cute baby with a Turkish woman. Would the baby be baptized? Taught Armenian?

“I know what people are saying,” she said to me in the dark, “But sometimes it’s better to go through life playing dumb.” I have no idea how I replied. “He’s my son! What am I supposed to do?” she continued, “Stop loving him? So I just say nothing. Remember that, you can know better and keep it to yourself. Just smile and nod.” (I wish I took that lesson to heart a bit more.)

It’s funny, the things we remember, when we try to piece together a life, what someone meant to ours. What I remember vividly is that 1988 was the year I lost my innocence, and that in a time of great confusion in my personal life, my aunt was there for me with love in her heart and truth in her eyes. When I saw her on our last trip in 2011, she welcomed my daughter and I with warm arms and her incredible laugh. The world lost a great woman today. RIP Luiz morak. May you be reunited with your dear Migir in heaven and watch over us all.

On sweaters and distant uncles

2013-07-18T09:23:00.001-05:00

My uncle Arto loved sweaters. A tall, grey man, he hated being cold above all else -- a combination of a weak composition and an upbringing that valued staying warm. It’s the reason Armenians travel everywhere with slippers and keep spares for their guests. Cold could mean the death of you, and upon moving to Ajax, Ontario in the late 1980s, the frigid Canadian air became my uncle Arto’s arch-nemesis.

So he kept cosy with thick cardigans and tweed blazers, even in the steam bath that Ontarians call July. He wore his moustache thick and nuked his beer for 15 seconds in the microwave to take the chill off.

He did not like actual kisses, for fear of germs, and we made a game of our Armenian obligation to greet each other as such by making overly cartoonish air smooches instead. "Mwah, mwah," he'd say with an impish grin, with a grandiose head bob from side to side. But on a couple very special occasions, (my wedding day and when my children were born), he carefully grabbed my shoulders and planted one right on my cheek.

Related to me by marriage, I got to know very little about him in the 25+ years of our acquaintance. He loved to travel and was a business man of some sort. He liked to be warm, and even though he may have seemed cold affectionately, he always had a big grin for you and an ear to listen to what was new in your life.

He passed away last Saturday on his 76^th birthday. I think there’s something poetic in that – leaving the earth on the same day you arrived. Life comes full circle.

Rest in peace Arto day-day. I hope heaven is warm and cosy, full of sweaters and lukewarm beer.

The Secret

2013-01-17T21:49:00.002-05:00

"Girls' night!" I squealed with enthusiasm as the boys left for drum practice. "Milk and cookies? Don't tell the boys, k?" She nodded her head as she swung an arm around me, batted her eyelashes to convey her "girl code," then stifled a giggle with her hand. "Seeeeecret!"

*************************

We've had a tough week. L has been crying every single day. All day. Before going school, at drop-off, during school, at dinner. She's complaining of stomach aches, but a quick inspection lets us know she's totally fine physically. Tired maybe, dark circles under her once-bright eyes, but nothing major. She can tell us that she's nervous or anxious but not why she's feeling so sad. And with a parenting editor for a mother, believe me, we've gone down every possible line of questioning. It's absolutely heart-breaking. It just popped up out of the blue and now I want to know when it will go away.

We read Virginia Wolf last night, one of my favourite Canadian kids' books from 2012. It's told from the perspective of a young girl, whose sister is suffering from depression (obvious to grown-up readers and blurred slightly for younger ones) and how her illness affects the whole house. "Mama, I'm feeling wolfish," L said quietly as we closed the book. "I know sweetheart," I accepted, "but we'll get through this together."

We had a Skype session with our homeopath/friend Dr. Zee this morning, but it seemed to yield little change in my formerly joyous and gregarious little girl. So, I thought, we'll just have to wait it out. I went on the school run and endured the tears and the begging for me to take her home. I cried as I walked to work. And then I did something I don't do very often: I listened to my mother.

In an email, she reminded me of how my younger sister always had phantom tummy aches growing up. Don't pay it too much attention, my wise mother said, grating on my every last nerve with her rightness. Because we do that, don't we? This generation with our books and our internet and our trying to be present every moment -- we take things too seriously sometimes. And the attention, especially in the age of busyness, well the attention would be addictive to even the strongest person, let alone a 5-year-old. If you had a captive audience that snuggled you and told you that you were loved every time you did SOMETHING, wouldn't YOU keep doing that thing?

I walked in tonight, holding my breath. "Mama, I cried today at school," came the familiar refrain. "Oh well, it happens," I shrugged it off. "Yeah..." she replied and then proceeded to hug me and kiss me and make me laugh. My sweetie, back, a bit.

*****************************

"They're gone! Quick!" I said, taking out several packages of strange Italian cookies that got passed to me via my mom via her Italian neighbour. "Warm milk? With cinnamon?"

"Yessss! And honey please."

I fixed her my famous "Warm Cinnamon Milk" and we dunked cookies and laugh. Then I noticed my herbs -- that I've so meticulously kept alive indoors -- out on the deck, frozen dead. I seethed at the fact that while I am married to someone who cleans the floors, he doesn't know that putting delicate herbs outside in -11C weather will kill them. It's petty, but I blamed their whole gender in that instant. (Which still probably doesn't excuse what I did next.)

We ran upstairs to get on our jammies and watch some Harold and the Purple Crayon, because that's kind of a sleepy bedtime show, with Sharon Stone's soothing, sultry voice, and then I don't have to think about what was just published about kids who watch TV before bed not getting enough sleep.

Still pissed about my herbs as we got dressed, I whispered, "I am going to tell you the biggest secret in the world." She gasped with anticipation. I made her promise she would never tell. Horrible things will happen if she tells. OK, she breathed, just tell me.

"Girls are smarter than boys," I said, kind of regretting it the moment it escaped my mouth, but then her reaction was so swift and perfect that I was secretly glad I was doing this slightly wrong thing.

"Yesssssss! I knew it!" Air fist.

"It's because they have penises. We think with our brains and our hearts. They think with their brains and their penises."

"Gross!"

"Yeah, I mean, big deal, you have a penis."

"We can't say that word at school anymore."

"Really, why?"

"Because when you say it to them, sometimes they just pull down their pants and just show you! Can you believe that?"

"Yeah, that's sort of what grown up boys do to grown up girls, too."

"They think saying it means you want to see it!"

"Yup. Yup." I sighed snuggling in, realizing the miles we have to go and that, based on this interaction, I am not equipped to handle any of it without acting like a teenager. I felt guilty for a moment, but then I'm pretty sure my husband has had a similar interaction with our son. Not the penis for brains part, obviously, because he's far more mature than I am, but the part where the opposite gender doesn't understand the opposite one and somehow feels smarter. And then shares that theory with his impressionable offspring.

"I think I'm going to cry at school tomorrow," came the quiet voice when the fun had passed. "That's OK, we'll deal," I said casually, hoping the morning will have more laughs and less heartache. Then Daddy walked in and L gave me a look that said, "Seeeeecret." I hope it empowers her tomorrow. And I hope she forgives me when she finds out I'm wrong 50% of the time (on a good day). Just like I'm going to forgive her dad for killing my plants - tomorrow.

To my muse on his eighth birthday

2013-01-03T22:08:00.003-05:00

When I first discovered a life growing in my belly, I was filled with a fire, a compelling desire to do something big, to change the world! As my belly grew (and as the pages of the this blog describe), I didn't really have a clue. Not how to begin, nor that the biggest battle I would fight would be with myself.

Boy child, you started me on a path to where I am today. I am forever your ally, your student, your biggest fan. The journey we've been on over the past eight years has taught me more about life than any book ever could. You taught me to live, to accept, to appreciate, to truly love.

It's funny to say, but I owe my career to you. Your conception gave me a regular writing practice, something I was sorely lacking. That writing practice lead to job opportunities I would not have had were I not your mom. That writing practice gave me numerous friends I would not have met had it not been for the bond that your birth created. By my mere sharing stories of my experiences as your mother, I opened a door to a world I didn't know existed. Well, the truth is that this online world didn't exist before -- we kind of came of age together.

You. When you're older you won't care so much about how you changed my life, but you'll likely want to read about who you were, what you were like as a child. Let me tell you, I know a lot of people, and I have yet to meet anyone as spectacular as you.

You are good, intrinsically good . You share, you give without a thought, because it makes you feel good to do so. You believe that making the right choices and staying true to yourself will lead you on the right path and rarely do you sway as a result. If the kids in the schoolyard are playing in a way that you don't like, you tell them so and then walk away. Because you won't bend on your morals, this makes it tough for you to truly connect with the other kids. You no longer have a best friend, but that's OK. When the right person comes along, that person who REALLY gets you, you'll be glad you didn't settle for someone who wasn't a true friend to you.

Everyone is your friend. All the kids at school like you. What strikes me as interesting is that I could have typed the last two paragraphs about your father! He's the same way. A lone wolf whom everyone loves. Try not to be elusive or an enigma. Open your heart to new experiences and new people. You don't have to alter your morals to be their friend, but you can still learn things from people who may not completely understand you. In fact, you'll learn more from people who aren't quite the right fit than from people who think and act just like you.

You are brave. When faced with bullies, you channel your inner strength to defend yourself. I am so impressed by how well you know yourself, how little fear you feel. You weren't always so courageous, so this is an area that I've really seen you grow and it makes me so proud. I wish I could be more like you. I'm glad I'm not raising children who are afraid of stuff. See! If I'd chosen to spend my life with someone exactly like myself, we would have perpetuated my fear and anxiety together and you might have grown up just as nervous as me! Seek out those who are different. Try to have compassion for them and put yourself in their shoes. You will find endless gifts in their differences.

You and I have been talking about Wayne Gretzky's quote, "You miss 100% of the shots you don't take." I know that will be a guiding principle for you. Know that when I do crazy things like get up on stage to sing with a band, it's so you can see that anything is possible, that we can do anything we put our minds to.

You are a fighter. I knew that from when you were still in my womb! But I see you now, refusing to give up. You're teaching yourself to skate and you fall and fall and get up again and persevere. "I'm not going to give up Mom," you tell me. You've been studying the drums for a year and through what skating has taught you about yourself (that you improve the more you try), you've decided you're going to practice harder than ever to make sure you finish Book 1. It's taken me my whole life and I still don't think I've mastered that lesson. If you end up with a disciplined approach to tasks, I will shoot confetti off the house. I hope that I will learn by watching you. (As you might be able to tell, breaking the cycle of things I dislike about myself and my own childhood is something I'm rather obsessed with.)

You're a fighter, but the biggest part of being a fighter is knowing when not to fight. You must remember that war and battles rarely result in any good. Channel your rage and frustration into something good. Turn it into passion. Or muscles. And know when to give up. Sometimes you have to let the current carry you out rather than struggle against it.

I've just peeked in my archives. It looks as though I didn't write you a letter when you turned 6 or 7. Sorry about that. In the past two years you've become obsessed with science. You fell in love with sharks last year when we went to Atlantis resort in the Bahamas. So 2012 was definitely the year of the shark. You like to read non-fiction. You're like me in your appetite for random facts and your incredible retention of them. You got your yellow belt in karate and your pleasure at building Legos has yet to subside. You love the outdoors and camping, you love eating healthy and living right. You're a bit of an insomniac, but hey, so am I! Like your mom, you can read late into the night.

You read at a Grade 7 level (I can hear you turning the pages of The Hobbit right now) and you love math. You've had your share of challenges at school over the past two years, but I know if we work together you'll get through them. You've got Dad and I at your side, willing to do whatever it takes to help you succeed.

You love your sister. You are best friends, even if you fight sometimes. I hope you always have each others' backs the way you do now. She's finally stopped trying to get you to marry her, but I always loved how you were quick to remind her that it would be against the law anyway.

You're funny and thoughtful. The other day, we passed some elderly folk eating brunch in their nursing home. I asked you and your sister to wave and as we walked away you remarked, "I just had a vision. That some day you will be sitting there like those ladies and waving at little kids."

And I thought to myself, "Dude! Don't you dare put me in a nursing home!"

Tonight at dinner you said, "Having kids is nice because I think it must be so great to tell your kids stories about when you grew up." Kiddo, it's far more fun to tell you stories about what it was like when YOU were growing up.

Eight years ago I had no clue how to change the world. Today I know that just by having you and raising you right, I have. Happy birthday my sweet son. I love you more than sunshine.

Five going on fifteen

2012-08-25T22:43:00.001-05:00

Lucine, Loogoo, Lucy-loo, Lucy, Sousy, Luce, Souce, Luce-Pouce, Muffin, Muffy-muff, Muffy-head, Peanut, Lucy-bean, Lucia...

You turned five today. On a Saturday like today, you arrived at 6:33 am and changed my life forever.

It's been a while since I wrote you one of these. Your last two birthdays were spectacular celebrations of who you were at the time. When you turned three, we let you have a ridiculous Little Mermaid fest, completely with Daddy dressing like King Triton for you -- because you're just the kind of kid that people want to light up. Also, maybe, because you don't take no for an answer ever.

Last year we went with Pirate Princess (Daddy dressed up for that too) and that reflected who the four year old Lucy had grown to be: tough, fearless, adventure-seeking, but still cute and girly enough to want a flouncy skirt involved. Also you have this random obsession with money and treasure and although your parents are socialists, like Elyse and Steven we're fascinated to think that we may have an Alex P. Keaton on our hands.

I love that about you. That you can be the mermaid or the pirate, the romantic and the hero, the girl who is obsessed with kitties but also with climbing mountains. One second you are screaming at me that you are a big girl and can do things yourself, the next you are crying because you want desperately to be a baby again -- though my spidey senses tell me that what you want most is to get any sort of reaction out of me that you can.

This year, while at a family dinner party, Nate was reading dinner party questions out of a box. When it got to "If you could have any superhero power what would it be?" the rest of the table shouted cliches like, "The power to fly!" "The power to heal" "Invisibility!" Your brother answered first. He chose "The power to create a force-field around myself." You chose "The power to choke someone with a rope." On further interrogation you added, "But only to bad guys." Your Auntie Lise quipped that Nate was wise to choose that force-field.

We went to Lago Silencio, like we've been doing every summer since before you could walk. And, as always, you woke me at the crack of dawn, except now you know to keep your voice down (ish). Our morning hikes used to be a way to keep you from waking up the whole campsite. Now they are something I look forward to, a way for us to connect with nature and one another. Sitting with you and watching the lake wake up is one of my favourite rituals.

This year you discovered that you could do more with your body, that you could challenge yourself in new ways. I, of course, wasn't ready for this, but you told me to get used to it, in your own way. When I pointed to a safer path on the trail, you huffed and said, "Mom, I am going the other way. I want you to close your eyes and look away until I get to the bottom!" I had no choice but to comply. I briefly exchanged glances with another female adult, who had her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles at your brazen way. Soon you were next to me, beckoning me to charge up another rock and then scale a straight 15 foot drop.

You took my "no" as a sign I was merely afraid. I threw your sweater down the side of the rock to show you how dangerous it actually was. You grew impatient, and for a moment I thought that your hand might be hovering around my back, tempted to push me forward.

"Fine Mom. We'll go your way." I saw your dad in the clearing, waiting on the beach with Nate. I rolled my eyes and flapped my arms in frustration at your mouthiness. You retaliated with, "You don't even know how to climb!"

"Oh, great. Now you're taunting me," I replied, making eyes with another adult female within earshot. "And she's FOUR! I thought I had another decade before I had to deal with the sass." This meant war.

"You're not even funny mom."
"Yeah, well I know lots of people who would disagree with you. Loads of people think quite the opposite."
"Yeah? Well they're wrong. Just wrong."

I will give you this: You are certainly funnier than Dad and I combined. We are doomed. We gave birth to the lovechild of Sarah Silverman and Amy Sedaris.

So today you turned five. FIVE! And you wanted an Olympics party, having just watched some of the London2012 games and falling in love with women's gymnastics (thank gord it wasn't synchronized swimming!). Your dad was a gymnast as a kid, and so it seems you're finally exhibiting signs that you might have some of our DNA. Anyway, it was that or princesses, so we encouraged the Olympics theme with its active/fitness message and the co-ed guest list.

You've inherited the drive of your two aunts. That desire to succeed, excel and challenge yourself is something you should be proud of. It means you will fall on your face a lot. But Dad and I are here to give hugs, wipe tears, kiss booboos and laugh at your jokes (and your road rash). And on the days you decide you don't need us, that you're a big girl and I should look away while you flirt with danger? Remember that when you get to the bottom (or rather, the top) Mom's the one who's going to need hugs and kisses and tears wiped.

I love you Tanko.

Why I should, or shouldn't, write an e-book

2012-07-18T22:38:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, a very dear friend emailed me with a simple sentence. Something along the lines of, "When are you going to pitch me an e-book?"

My lovely, talented friend caught me off guard. I mean, she works in publishing, so I should not have been surprised that she was looking for content. But frankly, when I imagine my future book (and I do more imagining of it than writing of it), I picture something with pages that flip. Something that would be soaked through should it fall in the bathtub. (I think I can say this without offending aforementioned friend, because we've always been on the same wave when it comes to writing and authorly things.)

But then I started thinking. "This is a great opportunity!" I told myself. Because it is. Every step I've taken in my life has gotten me to this point. It's a fantastic feeling.

Penelope Trunk has a long missive about why she chose to self-publish and the pitfalls of the publishing industry. I think there are some valid points there. I worked in book publishing just long enough to know, well, they don't know what's coming next. They're all waiting for the next 50 Shades of Crap to carry them through financially until the next mainstream hit.

(And as someone who worked in books, I should tell you that this method isn't the worst thing ever. The Dan Browns and Charlane Harrises of the world, well, they actually fund the losses the publisher usually takes on that first-time author. So don't be so quick to tsk tsk when your friend reads Twilight.)

Why do we devalue the digital? Why is an e-book not as meaningful as a printed book? Why do bloggers obsess about getting their writing in print? (I'm speaking from experience here, as both a blogger who wanted to get published, and as an editor who fields daily requests from other bloggers).

I am a digital content strategist who manages an award-winning web team. I know first-hand that the most beautiful thing about the web is not the speed (though that's a bonus), it's the data. In digital, we know who likes us (and even who pretends to like us). In digital, I am like Jonah Hill in Moneyball: I'm using the numbers to tell me what to do next and where to put my dollars.

I'm also using a fair bit of gut instinct. In digital nothing is permanent. There's a lot of throwing spaghetti at the wall to see if it sticks, without major financial repercussion if it doesn't. I like that, because it allows me to own up to my mistakes without shame. (The digital sphere also allows me to quietly fix a typo without flogging myself over the error.)

Anyway, I'm all over the place with this post. (I should be asleep). I guess what I'm getting at is that as a digital person, I should be embracing new media, including the e-book.

Penelope Trunk says, "if you want to have a good life, you shouldn’t focus on happiness, but rather, on making your life interesting." I've definitely had a crazy "interesting" year of pursuing things that scare me (more on this to come), so I'm on the right track. And in that vein, I'm going to embrace this opportunity and spend the summer writing my outline and reshaping some MFM essays. Let's see if that spaghetti sticks.

Because the night belongs to lovers

2012-06-18T20:44:00.003-05:00

You have been in and out of bed about 13 times since I tucked you in. You ask for water, say you have "the snuffies," you need me and only I will do. I know this is all a ploy, dear Girl Who Cried Wolf, but I give in, time and again. I will take this nightly dance with you, because it's all I've got after the long work day. I don't want to need you needing me, but you needing me is so fleeting that I cling to it like a raft.

I lay next to you while your brother tosses and turns in the bunk above, noisily slurping that thumb that he won't give up in the night. I close my eyes, thinking it will speed up the process. It's 9:05 and your father's voice inside my head reminds me that it's my job to make sure you get enough sleep, not to steal selfish glances of your pretend-sleeping face.

Your eyes are forced closed, but you wrap your hand around my finger tightly, to secure me in my spot. Ray Lamontagne plays on the iPod and I wonder what it says about me and your dad that all my favourite love songs now belong to you.

I wedge an eye open, surreptitiously watching the crests of your face give hints to the beauty of your adult face. Your perfect bow mouth, your sweet non-Armenian nose, your eyelashes that end in tips of gold. I want to save it. Every mom wants to save it. So I save it the only way I know how... by being present for it.

Bedtime for Bozos

2012-01-18T21:47:00.000-05:00

"COME ON GUYS! Get. Dressed!" I'm increasingly agitated. I can feel the clock heading past 8pm and they are fucking around. I know what J would think if he could see this nonsense. You're riling them up Nad, calm it down. They need to get to bed.

But Loogoo is in only a pull-up and shaking her booty and saying Gord-knows-what over and over. She recently cut her own hair into a mullet, which I've slowly cropped into a po-mo Dorothy Hamill in an attempt to even it out. N-dog is rolling on the floor in his holiday pajamas that should have been packed away after Armenian Christmas. He's holding his sides, missing teeth making him look older, but still quintessentially a kid. Peels of laughter reverberating from both of them, shaking the ground I stand on. And I give in to the moment. I laugh, because, heck, this isn't forever.

Guest editor at Dealuxe.ca

2012-01-16T21:09:00.004-05:00

I miss my old job at the sweet place. I miss what it was like when we were new and full of ideas and possibility. Not that I don't love my new job. Not at all. I'm over the moon at the experience I'm gaining, where my career is heading, how much I get along with my boss and my editorial team. Love doesn't even cut it. Most days the new job doesn't even feel like work. It's certainly different, less writing and editing at the moment, but I'm growing and it feels grand.

But I miss the sweets. I miss the giggles we had which only people who bathe in pop culture and fashion and the humour in things vapid might understand. I am fully immersed in the mom right now, at work and home, and while it's lovely in its own way, I do miss having that daily dose of pink.

So when my friend Sari asked me to be guest editor at Dealuxe.ca, the fabulous new shopping site of one of my mentors, Joanna Track, I obliged. Because of all the things I thought I'd miss, who woulda thunk it would be fantasy shopping and sourcing? I got to pick out 12 items that I love on their site and write about six of them. To say I had a lot of fun with it would be like saying I only like the chef salad at Lola's a little bit. I think the end result really reflects my personal style, something I've cultivated and honed for years. That's the great thing about being 37 -- you don't have to guess about what might look good on you, you just know.

Anyway, if you feel like a bit of fantasy and frivolity, go peruse my picks. I chose mostly what I could afford and what I might splurge on should my tax return be generous. But I also chose items that I genuinely wear and use daily. I promise you'll have at least one giggle. http://www.dealuxe.ca/en/magazine/2012-01-w3/guest-editor-nadine-silverthorne

Daddy Dearest

2012-01-12T23:53:00.004-05:00

So many times I've started to write about him. I can never bring myself to do it. There must be 14 drafts on here started and never realized. Because I'm scared. Because I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

If you've grown up in a house with someone who's not "normal," you've probably longed for just that. For just a bit of boring. For just a bit of a 1980s TV sitcom life. For just something constant that isn't pain or abuse or loathing.

He made me mad today. Actually he made me sad. He hurt my baby sister like when we were little, but this time with words not kicks. I had to step in, be the shoulder, be the clown. I felt 14 again. I hated 14.

I am working through lots of gunky stuff. 2011 was a nutty, life and death in your face kind of year and it's brought up a lot of shit. I want to blog, want to spill, but I'm guarded, protective. I don't know how to blog like this. I want to tear open the scabs and spill, raw, festering, oozing...

So I put it in a journal, the old kind, with lines and ink. There's no audience, it's not as satisfying, but in the end there will be The Work. The Work is all I dream about, all I long for. Yet I am afraid that The Work will not change anything, will not provide the fulfillment I seek.

And as I type this I know that I must provide that satisfaction for myself -- right now. That I can't put so much expectation on the future, which doesn't exist. So I write, in the now.

What do you do with the baby clothes?

2011-06-27T21:08:00.000-05:00

Like many of you, I had a bin or two of baby clothes in the basement, waiting for a decision on the Maybe Baby. Now that it's decided (we're stopping at two, thank you very much), I've given away plenty of baby items between my friends and colleagues, and felt good about it. I've kept a select few adorable items in an airtight bag, but what good is that doing them?

I know that organization gurus like Peter Walsh often recommend giving your treasured items a "place of honour" (or else get rid of them). So when I heard about local mom Amanda Shapiro's beautiful ReFormed ArtCubes, I headed down to see what I might encase in plexiglass to hang on our walls.

Of course, being me, I couldn't decide. So I took her everything. She has such a great eye for determining which pieces would work well as a display piece. (And don't worry if you're not in Toronto — she helps many clients across Canada via email andSkype.) In the end we settled on the onesie that I bought for Nate to come home from the hospital in, as well as a pair of fancy shoes that my sister had bought for Lucy, that are just too precious.

Check out the end result: two gorgeous, archival quality pieces, inscribed with their names and birth dates. One for each kid to have when the time comes. But for now, they have a place of honour on my mantle (I can't decide where to hang them yet... notice a theme?).

Other ideas for giving cherished baby items new life:

Turn those onesies, sleepers and blankies into a comforting keepsake. Canada's Mummi Quilts takes your used items and transforms them into quilts and bears to cuddle with.

Give them to a friend or relative with a baby younger than yours. If you want certain items back, set up a return system for when they are outgrown.

Donate gently used goods to Goodwill, Salvation Army or other local charity that accepts clothes. But don't use charities like your trash bin. Donate items that are in good enough condition to be used by someone else with joy. Overly-stained, torn or broken items should go straight to the trash.

Give them away via Freecycle. This Yahoo Group has various local chapters across Canada and the U.S. The idea is that you post your unwanted items and someone in need comes and takes them off your hands. The best part? It works both ways. I got a very handy filing cabinet for free and my husband even got a guitar! In return (it's not a barter, but a pay-it-forward type system) we helped many young families and smaller charities with their baby gear needs.

Take them to a consignment shop. Many now offer cash on the spot (no waiting around for what sells and what doesn't) and with great collections, you can reinvest right into Baby's new wardrobe. (We've listed some kid-consignments spots inMontreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Calgary and Vancouver.)

What do you do with your baby clothes? Have you found any creative solutions for displaying them?

Would you leave your kids for your career?

2011-06-01T21:11:00.000-05:00

I recently finished Hiroshima in the Morning, a tremendous memoir by Rahna Reiko Rizzuto. In 2001, this American of Japanese descent (and mother of two) was awarded a grant to interview survivors of the atom bomb in Japan for six months.

So after struggling with whether she should pursue this opportunity, the author left her two young sons and husband in New York to follow her passion.

The resulting memoir is a gripping read: part interviews depicting life after the a-bomb (and the quest to extract those interviews from a culture set on forgetting the horrific events of 1945), and part the story of a woman's acceptance that she is not the kind of wife and mother society thinks she should be.

As I read the book, I managed to reserve judgment of this woman who so beautifully expressed her journey from sleepwalking through life to her awakening. It's not easy subject matter and many have already disagreed with her (some even sending death threats), because as the story unravels so does her marriage and her family unit. No longer seeing herself as part of the picture, Rahna Reiko Rizzuto ultimately chose to have her children move in with their father, whom she later divorced, so that she could pursue her writing and — in her own words — save herself.

I know that to most of you, this sounds insane. You might be thinking, how could she leave her children? But I have to say that for many of us women who are paving a new path, right through traditional mothering and labour division, there are parts that are highly relatable. There are days when being a mother (working out of the home or in the home) is ~~really effing hard~~ challenging and the thought of escaping to a foreign land is a fantasy we might spend a few moments contemplating.

There are days when, as I discussed on Monday, my husband is a better mom than me, and I don't quite see where I fit in. I am driven in my career and also my personal life; I want to be great at my job and pursue certain aspirations, but I also want to be an excellent mother. And there are many days when those two desires are at odds with one another. Life might be easier if I could just dedicate myself completely to one, but that's just not who I am. What happens when the scales tip one way or the other is a post for another day my friends.

In subsequent articles, Rizzuto raises the question: But wouldn't this be OK if a man had done it? It's tough to answer and, I think, leans towards "yes." Like every great debate, any time someone questions the status quo (particularly around gender), well I applaud those who are brave enough to go first.

Rizzuto's story has a happy ending. She shares custody with her ex-husband and has a good relationship with her sons, who come over after school and on weekends. She finds she's a better mother to them now, because when they're with her she has the energy to give them her full attention. And anyone who has spent a day turning on the TV to Dora so she can check her emails can surely appreciate what that means.

But what do you think? Could you walk away from your family to pursue your heart's dream?

Is your partner a better mom than you?

2011-05-30T21:13:00.000-05:00

I came across an article in the June issue of Today's Parent magazine in which the writer, Stephanie Rebot Tarling, thinks that her husband may just be a better mom.

I have to admit, I also have these feelings at times. I have written before about my husband's ability to immerse himself in imaginative play, a skill I lack. But as economies shift and roles reverse, are we moving towards a society where men are better at mothering than mothers?

Or are we moms, like the author of the original article, just feeling a bit insecure about our own skills as a parent?

For me, one weekend at home quickly levels the playing field. He's home often during the week, which gives him the flexibility to do pick-up and drop-off, as well as prep dinner. But, without maligning him too much, he lacks the ability to look down the calendar and have a little foresight about the week ahead (or maybe that's just avoidance). The birthday party gift is always purchased the day of. The swimming gear's never packed until 10 minutes before we leave for class. He tends to leave these jobs for me.

While these tasks aren't inherent to good parenting, keeping the household ship running smoothly makes life easier for the family as a whole. I know I'm generalizing, but you would never hear a mom say, "I've been wearing these briefs for four days!" No! We'd have done laundry the day we took our last pair out of the drawer, or gone out and bought some new pairs.

So while he may be the king of distracting children during tantrums and coming up with the best show and tell ideas (the morning of), I think we need to give ourselves a pat on the back for the unsung jobs of motherhood (which get no love in any parenting book or wedding speech). Though our kids won't remember that we made sure they ate their veggies or got the bills paid on time, we just have to be OK with that. Because in the big picture of this family at least, this is the way it works best.

What do you think? Are today's dad better moms than moms? Are their things your partner is better at when it comes to traditional mothering tasks?

Do you listen to kid music?

2011-05-23T21:22:00.000-05:00

Originally published on Sweetspot.ca

I don't remember a time in my life without music. My mother constantly sang to us and it made an impression. I remember a time when my favourite records (yes young whippersnappers, I said records) were Raffi'sRise and Shine and The Greatest Hits of Walt Disney. I recall enjoying it when my parents played their Grease Soundtrack or Diana Ross's Greatest Hits, but I don't remember actively putting on those albums until I was older.

I became more passionate about music as I grew older, and eventually married someone who was born with an ear for music. But there's one thing we disagree on: whether or not our kids should listen to kids' music. I am of the mind that a mix of what we listen to and some kids' music is OK. But my husband cannot stand kids' music. He finds it patronizing. (So does my friend Rebecca Eckler, incidentally.)

I've tried to find middle ground with albums like The Johnny Cash Children's Album, They Might Be Giants' Here Come the ABCs and Barenaked Ladies' Snacktime. These he can actually enjoy as their musical merit is superior to your average rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" (incidentally, my kids' favourite bedtime song).

But still, J prefers to play them whatever music he likes best at the moment. And he must be doing something right. My kids walk up to our vinyl collection and choose The Beatles' Yellow Submarine. "It's my song!" squeals Lucy whenever "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" comes on. A few days later, they ask for Neil Young's "Beautiful Bluebird" at bedtime (a favourite of their dad's) and correct me when I get the words wrong.

Then came a contest asking for families to submit music videos for the Bunch Family/Luminato Fam Jam. My kids were out of their minds with excitement at the idea. We immediately wrote a song based on a band we've been listening to a lot:Arcade Fire.

I still think exposing your kids to any music is a good idea. J and I will have to agree to disagree on that one. (Lucy and I sneak on Maggie G's Around the House when he's not there.) But I'll give him a point for enriching our kids' lives with good music, because this is what happens when you do:

How do you feel about kids' music? What do you listen to with your kids?

My daughter, myself... and my son

2011-05-16T11:43:00.006-05:00

The Fisher Price lights and sounds thingy is scrolling images of stars and galaxies on the ceiling to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The air is damp with the faint smell of sleepy sweat and occassional bedwetting.

She is laying down on the trundle, perpendicular to where she should be, because she likes to be different, likes to forge her own way. Powder blue down throw up to her chin, 14 stuffies around her, all accounted for in a pre-lie-down census. Her brother lays above her, slurping his thumb and thinking of space and pirates and LEGO. I sit next to her, petting her hair, glad that I get to do this every night.

"When I grow up," comes the raspy whisper, "I am going to have two daughters: Sophia and Sarah Anne."

"Those are lovely names. I would be so happy to help you take care of them," I tell her.

"Yes, and maybe Nate could be the dad."

I should just say yes, but for some reason I am compelled to tell her that having a baby with your brother is illegal, unhealthy and 65 different kinds of wrong.

"NOOOOO!" she shouts, "You're LYING!" She does not want to believe that she will grow up and meet a stranger and then fall madly in love. Her brother is her prince. He is her sun and her moon and the person she loves most in the world.

"OK, fine, Nate will be the dad," I acquiesce. She is relieved and rolls over as I sing her a song.

"But mum, I have to tell you. I think I'm going to wait until I'm at least six to have a baby. OK mum?"

"No problem Lucy. In fact, if you could at least wait until you're 26 and you're finished school, I'd be really happy."

"OK, mum. Goodnight."

************************************************

I never got a push present for the birth of either of my kids. I did get stitches and stretch marks, and while a prezzie would have been a nice way to acknowledge my efforts, I got the best gift of all, a husband who cares about his kids and works as hard (if not harder) as their mom to ensure that they are happy and experiencing life to the fullest.

On SweetMama today, I'm asking what you think of Push Presents. Feel free to go over and let me know in the comments.

Arcade Fire's "Rococo" Interpreted a la Family Silverthorne

2011-05-05T14:50:00.004-05:00

Yes, this is one of those posts, where I post a video and hope you'll forgive me for not writing.

We are aging hipsters. We used to be really fucking culturally relevant. Now we are every parenting cliche. Karate classes and swimming classes and ballet classes. I am officially a soccer mom, insofar that I watch my son attempt to kick a ball across a gym every Sunday. There are birthday parties and school fundraisers and all I talk about are my kids. What happened to us?

We used to go to concerts and shows. We used to hit the record stores on College and Queen Street, rush home with our new disc and spend a night drinking and listening and absorbing. Nowadays, we're excited when we discover an album that speaks to us and the kids and all the cool kids in between our two generations. It's like the world forgives us for breeding and getting lamer and older.

Like you, I downloaded Google Chrome last year and plugged in my first address and watched Arcade Fire's video for "The Wilderness Downtown." We weren't new fans. The first album came out when I still cared that my shoes were from the current season. But like you, I had goosebumps on the back of my neck as Google Earth showed my Scarborough townhouse complex, my first public school...

"The Suburbs" landed in our car and has been on steady play for months. Not a soul is tired of hearing it. I don't know when it happened, but at some point over the winter, possibly before Arcade Fire won a Grammy and blew up into superstardom, my kids heard the song "Rococo" and thought it said "More Cocoa." The idea marinated.

Then came the Bunch Family Luminato Fam Jam contest. My colleague Jes emailed it to me with a note that said, "I wish your fam would do one of these."

So we did. Arcade Fire, if you come across this, we love you.

When your kid wants to quit

2011-05-02T21:16:00.000-05:00

Originally published on Sweetspot.ca

Saturday morning, breakfast table, PJ-ed kids and Cheerios, the sloshing of milk on the teak table...I look at the time: 9am. "OK kids, put your dishes in the sink and head upstairs. Nate, get in your karate uniform."

"But I hate karate. I don't want to go." A flood of tears.

Right before his second karate class, my kid had a meltdown. The reason? He's terrified of his instructor.

Ten minutes into the first class, I knew we were going to have a problem. Sensai Rick is old school, strict and, on first meeting, not unlike the mean sensai from the originalKarate Kid. He's a drill sargeant and karate class felt more like boot camp than an empowering lesson in respect and discipline.

My other experience with karate was such a positive one. Canadian champion, Rob Tallack, has developed a fantastic, interactive home fitness program around karate that promotes the values I'd hoped Nate would get out of a class. We've done the DVD at home a bunch of times and love that there's an online element that reinforces and encourages kids to keep up the good work. Rob himself is a kind and generous person, the kind of person who has "role model" written all over him. Sensai Rick seemed like a bully in comparison.

But the truth is, kids these days are just not used to anyone speaking to them sternly. After fighting tears the entirety of the first class (mostly due to embarrassment: "He kept coming up to me to show me how to do it!"), Nate begged me not to return. "What are you going to do?" friends asked. Like always, I was kind of on the fence. While I didn't want to crush his soft soul, I hesitated to rescue him. For one, we'd paid for nine classes, and for two, I wasn't going to be able to protect him from bullies, mean and unpleasant people forever. Wasn't there a lesson to be learned here?

As my son cried in my arms, I dried his tears and told him what I'd decided. "Nate, I think you have a unique opportunity here to find the strength within yourself to get through situations like this in the future. The sensai isn't going to hurt you, you're in a safe environment and I'm in the room the entire time. But you have to find the courage inside to turn this into a positive."

Yeah, that sounds like "Mom of the Year" stuff, but he still cried, the whole way there, right up to the beginning of class.

Eight barefoot laps around the gym to help break down his mental barrier, followed by Sensai Rick sensing Nate's sensitivity (see a pattern here?) and assigning a slightly older blue belt to coach him...when class ended my son bounded toward me with a huge smile. The mom next to me gave me a good tip, which I dropped on him right away. "Do you notice when Sensai Rick sounds mean, he has a little bit of a smirk underneath? That's because he really loves kids, but doesn't want anyone to know. It's a secret."

Nate seemed to appreciate this. Then I took it one step further. "Let's go and give Sensai Rick a high-five and thank him for the class." Hesitantly, he approached the sensai and a meek "thank you" came out. What happened next was completely unexpected. Sensai Rick launched into a gentle verbal lesson about practicing until he got it right; about how it had taken him forever until he got the rolls down pat; and he made my son laugh. Sold.

"How was karate class?" his dad asked later that day. "Great!" exalted the soft city boy who'd just found his inner Ralph Macchio. "Phew!" thought the mom who took a guess at parenting and got it right for once.

Now if only I could work the same magic for swimming lessons.

Has your child ever begged to quit a class? How did you deal with it?

When bad cavities happen to good kids

2011-04-04T21:24:00.000-05:00

Originally published on Sweetspot.ca

If you go to a certain dentist in this city, you will see the bright, shiny, smiley faces of my two kids on the "No Cavities Club" wall. Seven months ago, neither of my kids had a flaw to their teeth. That all changed a month ago.

On their second-ever visit to the dentist, my eldest, six-year-old Nate, the boy with the world's greatest smile, was diagnosed with having four cavities. From zero to four in six months. I couldn't believe it. How could this have happened? My kids are pretty good brushers, or so I thought. We hadn't been asking them to floss, because their teeth weren't touching yet. But little kids grow up and one day their teeth do touch, all the way in the back, and we're so busy asking them to hurry up and brush that, well, this mom didn't notice a pretty big grey-brown cavity developing on a molar.

My immediate cause for concern was that my son, by virtue of being the eldest, is a bit... anxious and fearful (thanks to his terrified first-time mom passing on all her neuroses to him). How would he make it through getting a needle (four times, no less) and that awful drill? I spazzed. I panicked. I worried. I called my dentist cousin for advice.

"Who's been giving him all the candy and juice?" he asked sternly. Oh no! Really? I thought we had it under control, but quickly became aware that yeah, he probably was having way more of that stuff than I did as a kid. For example, I don't remember asking for a treat or dessert every day. Yet for my kids, the expectation is daily, sometimes after each meal. We thought that a jelly bean or lollipop here and there to reward good behaviour was OK, without thinking of the habit we were creating. And while I am not a juice fan, my husband (who does not read parenting magazines or sites) doesn't get that juice is a bad idea, no matter how many times we bicker about it. Our daycare also offers juice at snack times, so that's a lot of concentrated sugar on weak baby teeth.

So when I added it all up, I realized we had to stop. Full stop. No more candy or juice in this house. Suddenly, treats are real treats and not the course that comes after dinner. We're all flossing these days (parents can get good habits from their kids too) and I go over every kid's teeth when they are done, just to get those hard to reach spots they might be missing.

But weren't they just baby teeth and so, about to fall out anyway? Were the filings necessary? And oh dear lord, what of this root canal talk? He's only SIX! In the end, the cavities were on teeth that couldn't be extracted for a myriad of reasons. So I sent my calm, not-prone-to-freak-outs husband to the filling appointments and, without his anxious mom there to add to his fear of the unknown, my kid handled what he was dealt with courage and grace. He is not afraid of the dentist and proud of his new awareness of oral hygiene (no longer just mom nagging).

So the cavities weren't all bad. Turns out soft kid teeth run in my husband's family, but I'm not loosening up on the new juice and candy rules.

I'm Alive... Oh, Oh, So Alive...

2011-03-29T22:58:00.000-05:00

I woke up last Wednesday morning and removed the chipped polish you saw in my previous post. I put it in my head that we should really test polish removers at the office and tucked that mental post-it note away to tell the office chicklets.

Then I picked out a brand new bottle of Essie Ballet Slippers and I quickly covered my nails with it. I knew I would not get through the day without biting if I didn't. Little L is also trying to stop biting her nails and asked for the same, so I gave her a coat and two for myself. It got a bit smudgy, but it did the trick. Friday (the day this photo was taken) was officially the one-week of no biting. Three more to go before I'll be considered rehabilitated.

****************************************

I had my surgery yesterday and it went as well as can be expected. I was expected there at 8 am and at 7:30 I got a call from my dad who said he was around the corner and driving me to the hospital. He's smart. If he hadn't have just shown up like that, I would have made an excuse for him not to come. It turned out to be a great way to ease my nerves while J took care of getting the kids ready for the day.

My first procedure went well. Lefty was frozen with lidocaine and then a guide wire was inserted to the papilloma while looking at it via ultrasound.

The hell came when I had to have a mammogram with the wire in my boob. You haven't lived until you've experienced that. Wowzers. The mammogram technician was a bit puzzled, because the papilloma is not visible on the ultrasound. "Is this cancer?" she asked. I paused a moment. I don't think so... "It's a papilloma," I replied. I still had no certainty as to whether I was doing the right thing at that moment.

Then I waited. 4+ hours until my surgery. The Internets kept me company on Twitter, so that was nice. J showed up with trashy magazines, right before Jen the Domestic Goddess came to visit me (she works at the hospital). I had to act like we'd met before, because the huzzle is not on/into social media and doesn't understand that if you're at the hospital where your Twitter friend works, you've got to schedule a tweet-up. Fortunately J didn't pick up on that and we chatted amicably until they called me to be moved to the next holding area.

I was stripped and prepped for surgery, filled out forms, had an IV put in, etc. My male nurse was the gentlest and hottest African man ever (I'm a sucker for that accent). Say what you want about male nurses, they probably get a lot of poon. As he passed me a hairnet, he joked, "It matches your shoes," pointing to my hospital issue slippers. Love.

My doctor came in, joked some more (I have that effect on people) and before I knew it I was drowsy and waking up in the recovery room.

Holy fuck it's scary waking up in a room with other people waking up in a room. It's like the friggin' Matrix, except there's no Keanu (and no more hot male nurse). "Are you in pain?" the morphine angel asked. Um, a bit, I replied weakly. Rate it on a scale of 1-10. 5, I say. Maybe 6. I've pushed a set of shoulders out my hooha. This was an episode of Glee compared to that. The fog of the needle washed over me.

How about now, she asked. 3? More fog. Ugh, I actually hate the fog. Someone woke up next to me and freaked out, "I don't know where I am!" Yikes. Get me out of here. "How about now?" Uh, 1? I finally got a pass and then hastily moved to a post-op section. J was there, which made me happy to no end. He had talked to the doctor who said everything went well.

Everything went well, except...

"They think they might be missing a tiny piece of the guide wire and they're not sure, but it might be lost in you." Um, what? Just when I thought I was going to be OK with everything, boom, a fuck-up.

I was too out of it on the morphine and too done with it to care. I decided today that I could freak out about it, or I could trust my gut that it's nothing. My gut says this whole thing is nothing, but whatever, I dealt with it. I want it to be over. But the wire, well, it's a bit like George Costanza leaving something at a girl's apartment so he has an excuse to go back.

I'm "resting" at home this week. I say "resting" because I'm not the type of person who knows how to stop. Also, there's probably another post here about how men are awesome in a crisis, but can't handle the follow-up nurturing. But I want to stay married, so I might just tuck that one under my pillow for now...

Week One

2011-03-22T21:03:00.004-05:00

I had my nails done on Friday as promised, but, the asshole that I am, I couldn't really enjoy it. My kids were off for March Break and the weather was gorgeous and dammit, all I could think was, "Who has time for this?" Two hours in a nail salon. I should have enjoyed the me-time, reading about Kim Kardashian's ass instead of another issue of Tiny Titans, but all I wanted to do was be at the park with them, my family. I am one effed-up mama. I make it so that I can never win.

I use my nails more than I thought. It's been a weekend of jimmying keys onto key fobs and the like, which aren't great activities for maintaining a pale pink manicure. But I did OK. I still picked at the cuticles, but the goal was to stop biting the actual nails. And I did pretty good. Really good.

Until today.

Today I got a call from the Boob Doctor, who let me know that there was an OR opening on Thursday. I am tired of thinking of this stupid papilloma in my boob, but keep going back and forth about whether I should get it out. Should I leave it alone (it's not bothering me, nor is it causing other symptoms) or should I get it out while it's still nothing?

I decided to go for the surgery. Pretty much everyone thinks I should get it removed, except my homeopath and well, me -- some of the time. The rest of the time I just want it out, so I can stop thinking about it.

The call came at the end of the day and threw me into a tizzy. Should I do it? I just had two days off last week? Can I afford more time off work without screwing over my team? I have out of town friends coming into Toronto this weekend. Wouldn't I rather put it off and party? And what do you mean I have to spend a week to two weeks at home in bed recovering?

I am not prepared. But the truth is, I will never be prepared. I'll just keep running away and hoping the problem will go away. Also, I'd rather just keep having fun and not having to deal with it. There's always going to be some event I want to be present for. There's always going to be work to deal with. There's always going to be some fear I create to avoid the task at hand. (I am so good at that, I could win the Olympic competition of that... THAT needs a name... I can't be Olympic Avoid the Task at Hander... or can I?)

Anyway, funny how I wish to put life before health. I have been happier lately, finding my way bit by bit. I am enjoying living. But life keeps throwing me curveballs, so clearly I'm missing my great lesson (more on those curveballs soon).

So all this stressing about the surgery and my un-preparedness all evening. I was at parent council tonight and I just started to pick. Pick pick pick. I made a mess on the floor with my nail polish shrapnel. I know why I did it. I'd gone over to the dark side.

In fact I'm not sure I'm completely conscious, in the moment, right now. But I'm writing here in an attempt to clear some of the fog and digest it all.

A woman whose business we wrote about on SweetMama died last week. She had pneumonia, but (and I shouldn't surmise things about strangers from Facebook posts), from one of the last things she wrote on a friend's wall, I'm guessing that she was putting off investigating her health issue because she was busy LIVING too.

Time, time, time. We're obsessed with getting it, saving it, spending it -- much like money. And the hilarious thing is that it's a human construct. A tree or a dog doesn't know what time it is. There's no such thing as time. We don't have it. Any of us. All we have is right now.

So why am I freaking out? Because, like you, I'm trying to grab hold of something that doesn't exist. Time. Maybe if I let it go, my need to try to control time, I'll be OK. I don't know. I was hoping this post would have some sort of positive conclusion, but I'm not there yet. Any insights you might have are appreciated.

Oh, but hey, I didn't bite my effing nails in all this. I may have put them in my mouth, but they are still not bitten. It's something.

Are boys easier to raise than girls?

2011-03-21T21:05:00.000-05:00

The momosphere exploded last week after Babble.com blogger Kate Tietje wrote an article titled I Think I Love My Son a Little Bit More Than My Daughter. That's right. Publicly. (Go over and read it. I'll wait.)

When I was first told about it, I was shocked. How could anyone actually admit that? I've read her post over a few times now, and each time I get something else out of it. And I think if we put down our judgy side for a moment, we would all relate to some parts of what she says.

Like Tietje's, my first birth and early mothering experience was also a bit of a disaster. My son had a stroke in labour and delivery. The experience of over a week in the NICU, the follow-up appointments and the uncertainty of his future (he's recovered beautifully and I'm very grateful), coupled with the fresh hell that is new motherhood — well, let's just say I wouldn't wish that for anyone.

My daughter's birth, on the other hand, was an incredibly cathartic experience. I felt it healed a lot of me and I embraced her newborn stage with experienced eyes. I didn't pick favourites between them, but I did like myself better as her parent than his at the same stage. Then she became a three-year-old girl.

Are boys easier to raise than girls? I wonder this as my gentle, old soul of a six-year-old patiently puts up with his sister's tantrums and fits of drama and manipulation. But Lucy's dark side is also part of her charm. We're all pretty funny, but she makes us laugh more than anyone. She sings us adorable songs in her raspy voice, completely un-self-conscious. She can also be the sweetest girl in the world, offering the tightest hugs, which is even more appreciated after an episode where she turns into a whiny three-headed monster.

While Nate will mostly go along with whatever is asked of him with little opposition, Lucy feels she must try on the word NO at regular intervals. And maybe because she's three and the second child, she gets her way more when she ~~banshee screams~~ freaks out because, well, we just want her to shut the heck up. Few humans are strong enough to resist and ignore that kind of crying.

Tietje's article begs a deeper question though: do we love one of our children more than the others? The truth is, it depends on the week, and sometimes the hour. One child can charm you more than the other, fill your heart with a bit more love or make you more aware of the present moment. But if you charted it, you'd probably find that it all works out to even-stevens at the end of the day. The key is to never make them aware of those subtle shifts.

"I love you both exactly the same amount," I tell them, pouring water into identical glasses, making sure they're exactly even to illustrate my point. "My heart has exactly the same room in it for both of you." This is 100% true. I may love them differently, but when all is said and done, I love them exactly the same amount.

PS: I think the photo above illustrates it perfectly. There's me, happy in the moment with both of them. L is about to lose her mind, as evident in her face. N is just happy to be having dessert.

What do you think? Do you love one of your children more than the others? Do you think boys are easier to raise than girls? HAve you ever picked favourites publicly?

Day One

2011-03-16T22:24:00.005-05:00

OK, so I figure that I should start by writing down a list of some of the habits I'd like to reform.

1. I would like to stop biting my nails and tearing my cuticles to shreds. I remember exactly where I was the first time I started biting my nails. I was in 7th grade. Mr. Sherriff's class. It was a new school, new kids and I was already on my second or third desk assignment (they switched up every semester).

I wasn't your average kid, even then. I remember reading George Orwell's 1984 for my book report. I was 12 or 13. There is a sex scene in that book. I remember being confused about the whole thing, but generally understanding the idea of Big Brother. (FYI - Facebook is Big Brother and we're all responsible, but that's another post). Sorry, tangent.

My mother thought that putting your hands in your mouth was gross. Disgusting. Which it is, in fact. My nails were long and white and I'd always liked them, but life was starting to get out of control. My parents' marriage was on the rocks and I understood my father's midlife crisis about as much as I understood George Orwell. I was in a new school where I was pretty unpopular as the brainy know-it-all I'd been raised to be. One or two semesters hadn't changed that.

I had braces and bad hair and dressed like Molly Ringwald two years too late and it was just the beginning of one of the lowest times of my life.

My long nail broke at recess and in class I picked at it. Suddenly I was disgusted by how uneven that made my hands, revolted by their imperfection. I'd seen other kids bite their nails and somehow, in my inexperienced, naive mind, I thought that maybe biting my nails would make me cool.

So I chewed one. And then another. A little bit at first, just to even things out. 20-something years later I still do it. I do it in meetings, while I'm working, it must totally creep out my colleagues. I've worn my teeth out from the chewing, given myself a permanent jaw click from the repetitive chewing, but I don't know how to stop.

I've stopped for months at a time. Going for regular manicures helps. I am totally aware now that I do it when I'm slipping into the unconscious, the disengaged me. And sometimes I tell myself that I'm just OK with knowing that.

My daughter has started to bite her nails. I can't get her to quit. We're in this together. Another case of "have to fix myself, not just for me, but for my family."

I've made an appointment for a manicure Friday. It's the first one I've had since the summer. But this time I'm going into it with the thinking that it's a means to an end. Leo says it takes 30 days for a new habit to stick. I'm sure that a lot of good psychological junk is going to rise to the surface as I rid myself of this crutch. I promise to write it all down.

Leo says one habit at a time -- don't try to change too many things at once or you'll be doomed to fail. Not sure how exciting a month of nail-biting updates will be, but it's me -- even I feel confident about it today. Look: I set out to write about bad habits and you got a piece of me circa 1987. This could be fun.

I Don't Know What This Blog Is Anymore

2011-03-15T22:03:00.003-05:00

Well friends, it's been apparent for some time that I can no longer write the way I used to, candid, open and raw. But yet people still come here, looking for hope, amusement, laughter, meaning, something relatable. So what can I do?

I have been in the process of trying to evolve my life for sometime and I've only been writing about it here and there in spurts. But I want to make 2011 about habits. Good habits.

My "friend" Leo talks about habits a lot. He probably doesn't think of me as a friend, but I've come to respect and admire him very much. Sort of how you probably think about me. A somewhat one-sided, but still very warm, relationship.

But I digress. Habits. I'd like to form some new, positive ones. Even some of the ones that Leo suggests. I'm sure that reading this would make my husband irate, and possibly my mother, because they've been saying this for years, but I was never able to follow through and now I have deprogrammed them instead of the other way around.

It's never too late to try to improve yourself. Leo recommends posting your progress publicly. Hey wait, I thought, I have a public forum, a soapbox if you will.

So I'm making a pact. This might be boring reading, but I'm going to document my self-work here. It might be boring as fuck, but it might also help you too. I can't possibly lose any more readers, so maybe writing regularly in brief bursts might keep the two of you who are left.

Fingers crossed.

Art with heart

2011-02-21T21:46:00.000-05:00

Originally published on Sweetspot.ca

Before the holidays, my family was invited to try out Canvas Jam, a studio where kids can go wild with canvas and paint under Cindy Rose Leech's gentle, unobstrusive guidance. On the initial consultation, Cindy and I selected the colour palette (based on my home décor) for what would be a gift to my husband that would hang in our bedroom.

The finished product was a beautiful masterpiece (as you'll see below.) No macaroni art here folks. I took what we learned and tried to recreate the results at home, and while our versions turned out OK, the amount of clean-up and staining afterwards was hardly worth it (though the grandparents loved their presents.) So try this at home, but preferably in a basement or garage where you won't mind paint on your walls.

	Start with your base colour (in this case white) of washable, non-toxic latex paint and have your child apply it with a big thick brush. Globs and drips are acceptable, but pop any bubbles gently. The key is to guide them without interfering too much, so that real art happens.
	If the paint is on thick, take a favourite object, like a toy car and run it through to give the painting texture. Throw the truck in the sink before anyone drives it over your Grandmother's antique Turkish rug (take it from me, kids have a way of getting around tarps).
	The key to Cindy's pupils producing fabulous work is how she keeps each colour separate. Genius right? I bet all the paintings in your house were essentially brown before this tip, too. Keep the pre-mixed paint in clear plastic containers so excess can be re-used at a later date. Make sure to close that lid up tight.
	Our finished Canvas Jam piece. Isn't it splendid? The long splashes were made with a syringe, which Cindy discovered as a way to take the scariness out of needles while painting with children at Sick Kids. Daddy was surprised and truly impressed.
	Don't forget to get them to sign and date it. Allow your painting to dry (some place where the kids can't get to it). Then spray the painting with aprotective varnish.
	Here's what our homemade versions look like. I'll spare you the photo of my kitchen floor. The faint of heart should call Canvas Jam at 416-971-7912.

In the Pursuit of Beauty

2011-02-09T21:50:00.005-05:00

I just finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog. Translated from the original French, it was a bit clunky at times, the pretension in its discussion of philosophical, intellectual and social matters making some of it hard to digest. (Or even get through.)

ETA: My friend Grace suggested that if you are currently reading the book, you may want to finish it before reading this post. No spoilers, but yeah, I agree. If you haven't read the book, you could still glean something from this post.

But push through I did, because this tale of a lowly-but-intellectual French concierge and a well-off, hyper-intelligent-but-hopeless 12-year-old girl ultimately had a great message. Not to teach us, because frankly, we all know it deep inside. But to remind us of it.

When we grunt our way through our lives, we often vacillate between complaining and wondering what the fuck we're complaining about. (Yes I said fuck. No, no one has ever called me elegant.) And somewhere in between, we have glimmers of pure joy.

The meaning of life is life. We're just meant to live it. That's all. Pure and simple. Yet we search for something else. Something that doesn't exist. Because we don't quite get that the secret to a happy life is in the Art of living it.

The pursuit of Beauty. The pausing to take mental snapshots of what makes our life so much more unique than say the life of my cat. This is the Art of Living. And if we pursue this, our lives would be full of more kindness and more joy than we might feel we're worthy of.

And so we focus on the ugly. We focus on what's not working. We stress about what we don't like: about ourselves, about our kitchens, about our parents or our partners. And to do this is creating Hell on Earth.

We think, if only. If only I had a bigger house, a better-paying job, a million dollars, a smaller bum, a more romantic husband. If only I could change X, then I will be happy. But we, stupid humans that we are, don't seem to realize that the problem is not X. If it was, we'd certainly find eternal happiness in new appliances and new shoes. But those highs are fleeting, superficial. Nothing lasts. Nothing except the soul.

So how to honour our creation, the one life we're given and find happiness? By seeking beauty. By truly seeing it. That age old cliche of stopping to smell the flowers.

It's like you have to change your eyes to the close-up lens. Look at the amazing details of what's around you. The soft peach fuzz on your child's arm and the way it catches the light; the crest of chest hair peeking out of your husband's shirt -- how it looks like that Japanese wave painting you love. (Yes, there is meaning in body hair. Therefore I am truly blessed as an Armo woman.)

That chunk of wall that's missing as you go up the stairs? Think of the sweet little finger that pried the plaster off, wanting to know what lurked behind it. That wee finger won't be wee much longer. Love the dent.

Don't think about what you suck at. Think about what you're amazing at. Go chase after that for a while. Start to talk as though you believe it.

(OK, at this point, I have to take a panic attack break. Yes, because you see, people always say that once you figure out the meaning of life, you die. Is that a metaphorical death? The death of your ego perhaps? The death of the superficial person you assumed was you but isn't? I don't know, but let's just say the end of the book didn't give me that impression.)

So we learn and relearn the lesson until we finally get it. We make the same mistakes over and over until we are able to be mindful of them, and even then we might trip a few more times at the same spot. We fall back into our comas, heads under water, sleepwalking through life...

Until Beauty awakens us again. Reminds us that we're alive and indeed, we did just hear that, see that, taste that, smell that, FEEL that.

We make the mistake of saying, "I'm on a journey." Staying in the singular. When really, we're all on this ride together, at the same time, just at different stops along the tracks. We make life hard for ourselves, but also for each other, because we're not really paying attention, we're just getting by, passing through, asleep at the wheel.

Wake the fuck up. Start living. Start by searching for the Beauty in everyday things and pausing when you TRULY see it, when you feel it in the depths of you. Note it. It's only real if we SEE it. The trees are all dying because we no longer see them, no longer stop to smell their freshness, nor pause to think about their purpose. If all we see is ugliness, hatred, negativity, there will be nothing good left in the world.

Camellias on moss.

ETA: I have had this thought before, but didn't quite get it in the same profound way. Read Diamonds in the Roughage to see what I mean.