martinis for milk

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

View from the Fence

2010-11-08T22:27:00.005-05:00

So there was this article that ran Saturday. With our picture. And my name. And the fact that I stopped vaccinating my kids, because I'm on the fence.

Under the picture, it clearly stated that I'm not anti-vaccine. Quite the opposite. I don't want my kids to get sick as much as you don't want your kids to get sick. What I do want is be able to voice my concerns about the system, to give a voice to those of us who aren't comfortable with the status quo and get some reassurance and civil discussion in return.

Instead I got judgment, hatred, and bullying.

There's one disease there is no vaccine for, and that's fear. You might be vaccinating your kids out of fear that they'll get sick and die. I might be waiting on my children's vaccinations until they are a bit older because I'm afraid that while they are still developing, injecting them with diseases and chemical preservatives might give them autism, asthma or the inability to fight off other diseases on their own.

Fear is what causes people to say that what I'm doing is child abuse. The anononimity of the internet allows them to spew their vitriol freely. I was hoping for a conversation, but all I see is rage.

There's lots the article didn't tell you. Not for a lack of journalistic ability by Andrea Gordon (who is awesome and presented a well-balanced article), but probably due to space.

My first child had a stroke. I did everything by the book: ate organic, did yoga, took my folic acid. But he came out via c-section, almost dead and had seizures for the first four days of his life. This, for the record, is not a great way to start out as a mother.

I vaccinated him, lots! Where do we sign up for that?! Give him whatever is out there, because they tell me it's good for us. He needs more good stuff. Get it to him so he doesn't die and so his brain is OK and OMG please let him have a normal life.

Then I had my daughter, mostly without drugs (save a shot of demorol), predominantly out of my vagina. Everyone thought I was crazy for not just scheduling another c-section, even though I was in good hands in the hospital. But I stood by my decision. And her birth, regardless of the stitches on my hoo-ha, was the most healing experience of my life.

That little tank girl was a shitting machine. She could shit projectile, across a room, at 30 kmph. She ate well, slept as well as could be expected. Then at two months she got her first set of shots. She got sick, which was to be expected. Immature immune system, doctor's office full of germs... it added up. But when she completely stopped shitting (we're talking almost two weeks) and suffered from digestive problems (don't get up in arms, she was purely breastfed to that point), I began to worry.

Still, like a good citizen, I took her again at four months (same reaction) and at six months (same reaction). God forbid my child should get sick and then get someone else sick! But by then, I'd had enough of being told there was no connection. I had a gut feeling. And mom's are always told to trust their instincts. My kid just didn't take the vaccines as well as even the beautiful boy who'd had a stroke did. Something in them wasn't jiving with her system.

When we first introduce food to our newborns, we are told to give them one food at a time. First rice perhaps, then oatmeal, or fruit - a week at a time, to ensure they are not allergic to anything. If you mix foods in that first month of food feeding, oh jeez, the sky will fall down and you will be brandished a bad mother.

When we vaccinate an infant, we are giving them a cocktail of 7 (SEVEN!) different diseases in one go (well two shots, one in each leg). We're going on imperical data that says MOST babies are able to handle that. The benefits outweigh the risks they say. But what if your kid is that 0.0009%? I'm not anti-vaccine, but like many parents whose children have suffered severe reactions to vaccines (and I don't consider our case severe), I'm anti-one-size-fits-all healthcare.

What I'm pro is having a discussion. Asking, IS this OK? Are we OK with this? Is it good enough? Is our government, our healthcare system, the drug companies, are they making damn sure that this is OK? Are they answering the cries of those parents whose gut feeling told them, hey, my kid was different after the shot?

We forget that the brain controls our immune response. That by ingesting just about anything, we are causing a reaction, a change in the brain. When you have that Cheez Whiz or that Big Mac, you're changing your brain and then changing your body. When we get vaccinated, and again - I'm not saying it's all bad, we are changing our brain and then changing our body. Mostly for the good.

I know I haven't grown up seeing kids die of polio. I never had the measles growing up. I feel blessed to live in a country such as this. I know I am in a fortunate position that I have choices at all. I'm not trying to be sensational or trendy. While I respect Jenny McCarthy, I'm not a band-wagon jumper. I never saw the Oprah interview. I'm just trying to do what I think is best for my kids, whom I love unequivocally.

Like most of you, when I'm not sure what the right thing to do is, I sit on the fence. I observe, I research and I wait for the right answer to appear. I'm sad that in this instance, that began with a tweet saying something like, "I'm not sure what to do. What do you think?" and lead to a newspaper interview with a journalist I highly respect, ended with so much hate and fear.

Our families are affected now. And we're being bullied by all sides. We're no closer to making a decision than where we started (mostly because the side "for" vaccinations has been hateful instead of using good research to sway us otherwise), except now we feel completely exposed and as if we may have put our children in danger. Not danger of germs, but danger of crazies.

At the end of the day, they are my sweet kids. They are loved, they are happy and healthy. What I choose to do or not to do for them is the choice of my husband and myself. And part of the parenting journey is learning to accept when my choice ends up being the wrong one. It took courage to speak out about my confusion, courage that has since waned and I wish this whole thing never happened. Wrong choice. (I'll forgive myself eventually.)

I might be laying a bit low for a while. Or not. I'm on the fence about it.

From the Douchebag Parenting Files

2010-11-03T07:08:00.000-05:00

So, I've been less likely to blog about my family as of late, but I still commit some mothering crimes from time to time that I've been keeping in my pocket to share when I feel ready.

I have judgment issues, most likely stemming from my highly right-sided, ADHD-addled brain. Over the summer, we were invited to a family friend's house in Bloor West Village. It was a gorgeous day, so we decided to embrace the urban and take the subway there. (For those not from Toronto, and not stalkers, it's the other side of town from where we live. About at 45 minute subway ride. Yes, with two kids under 6.)

Don't get me wrong. I love the subway. I wish we had more of them, which is probably the only item on our new buffoon's, er, mayor's agenda that I agree with. This is not a post where I complain about public transit in Toronto or malign the TTC in any way. This is a post where I am about to humilate myself.

Walking through the gorgeous old Toronto neighbourhood with my daughter on my shoulders, I felt very much a part of my city. On the train we'd passed above ground stations with stunning graffiti left on visible walls to entertain and provoke thought amongst sleepy passengers. On foot I scoped possible SweetMama stories, examined the local schools, pondered futures where we don't live in a tiny East end shack.

We ran into my SIL and my niece on the way. We were greeted by our family friends, the best friends of my in-laws, and their visiting children and grandchildren. Three generations ate hot dogs and swung in hammocks with the sun caressing our faces and it was just like I hoped it would be when I was a child watching movies like Cousins. (I remember really liking that movie at the time, OK? I'm a huge Ted Danson fan.)

There was a lot of commotion with kids playing baseball and Lucy wanting to watch TV inside while drinking a giant juice and me telling J that we really need to make sure the kids pee before we leave, but neither of us actually making that happen. We left at a half-decent hour and made the trek back to the subway station. We could get them to go pee there, right?

Except hardly any of Toronto's TTC subway stations have actual bathrooms in them for the public to use. (Oh, I said I wouldn't lambast them right? My bad.) Because why would we spend taxpayer's money on something they actually need?

So sure enough, three stations in, Lucy had to go pee. And when she has to go pee she sort of gets dramatic. "Hafta go PEE! Hafta go PEE!" J informs me that there's a pull-up in his backpack. But how to get it on her while on moving vehicle where people may not appreciate the cuteness of her bare bum?

And while it wasn't those fancy Huggies with the sides that can open and reclose, I ripped the sides open and shoved the pull-up in her pants. Then I held her in crouch position in a privatish corner of the subway car (with me seated) and told her to go. Except she couldn't. Because she's been potty trained forever and that goes against everything she believes in about herself and her hygiene. So she protested over and over again. It was pretty awful, but there was no getting off and back on, because hey! The TTC doesn't work that way either (*unless you have a Metropass).

It's OK sweetie, I coach her, just go this one time. It's OK.

And that's when I hear the splash.

Then I feel the warm wet up against my sandals. Fuuuuuck.

My husband, who disagreed with my diaper tearing and stuffing methods, looks at me with I-told-you-so eyes. I am mortified, but feel OK about the fact that a) the train is very full and b) the stroller seems to be blocking anybody from seeing the puddle at my feet.

That is, until the train stopped.

When a TTC train stops, it screeches forward, thrusting everyone and their belongings in the direction of the door. So imagine my face when an insane amount, like an entire Del Monte puffy juice pack's worth, of pee rushed towards the door.

Add this to the fact that my upset daughter was sitting on my lap for comfort, wet jeggings against my now-soaked dress. Add this to the verbal I-told-you-sos. I could not make eye contact with the other passengers, though I would glance at them from time to time to make sure they weren't looking at the river whose source was my feet. I had sullied the train.

I wish I could say that this was a one-off; that this was the only time something like this has happened in my tenure as a mom, but alas, no. Just the first pee-on-the-TTC incident.

More files from my Douchebag Parenting Handbook to come.

Engaged

2010-10-30T20:45:00.004-05:00

Remember when our mothers used to open the front doors after lunch and let us out, like the family dog into the yard, to play on our streets with our friends until the streetlights came on?

The world is no longer like that. Our kids now live in scheduled bubbles, where they no longer get exercise unless it's during a scheduled class; no longer play with friends unless preordained by both parties' parents; no longer have any semblance of street smarts. But it's not all bad.

The new world also bridges the gap. It helps lonely gay teens, Burton Cummings fans and solitary moms find like-minded friends online.

I've written about this before and someone validly commented that an internet friend can't hug you when you lose a parent, or make you laugh until you cry, etc. But that's where the new world is different. You can meet people you "know" online face-to-face, and not in a creepy stalker way.

Just like the difference between the kid who just watches Dora listlessly (my son) and the one who gets up, does the actions requested and screams at the TV (my daughter), well the internet works the same way. It can be a passive, observer type pastime. Or it can be an interactive, very human experience. It's really up to you -- and, I suppose, your comfort level.

I strongly believe that most of the people put on this earth are good souls. Sure, the planet has its fair share of assholes and evil dudes. But for the most part, people are kind and looking for some sort of shared experience. Because these experiences help us to feel less alone and, more importantly, they help us to feel more alive.

So I have chosen to always put myself out there, where I feel a reasonable amount of comfort doing so. Actually, it's probably more apt to say that I do it when I feel least like throwing up beforehand.

This past year, I attended both the BlogHer conference in New York and the Blissdom conference in Toronto. Both were immensely rewarding experiences for different reasons. But both had the same current running through them: I made friendships that will hopefully last a lifetime.

W0men that I've been friendly with on blogs or on Twitter; women that I'd been friendly with professionally; women I barely knew... when it comes down to it, revealing bits of yourself in a room full of people is way more courageous that baring your soul online. We are bound for life now through our shared experiences and because we've seen a side to one another that we wouldn't have if we'd only chatted on a screen or passed each other at a PR event.

What was especially excellent about the Blissdom Canada event was that it was the first conference of its kind in Canada. And as a result, we let our national internet stars shine. We tooted our own horns for a change -- very un-Canadian.

After practically barfing into my laptop bag from fear of putting myself out there (practically, so still worth taking the chance), I had the pleasure of sitting on a panel with the very curly Angella Dykstra of Dutch Blitz and the very tall Jen Maier of UrbanMoms.ca (both brainiacs in their own right), which was lead by the phenomenal Jeanette Miller of LimelightPR. None of us are superstars by international standards, but we've earned our stripes in the Great White North. We were kind of the Debbie Downer panel, because we sort of said, "Hey dudettes, sorry, but if you think you're going to make more than mani-pedi money by putting ads on your blog, that's a bit of a myth."

But then I cracked a few jokes and was my nervous, exposed self and I hope that it made the room feel at ease. My fellow panelists did a bit more by suggesting constructive ways to build a business and blog opportunities. I mostly picked at my croissant and hoped my ADHD wouldn't put me into rambling with no point territory. Then I neurotically wondered if the room would think I'm rude for eating while on a panel, and am I an ass to suggest that people should take a job with a regular paycheck... oh well. I still think I imparted some wisdom and some insights from my experiences on the wild, wild web over the last 10 years. First panel experience, I give myself a B.

I also got to lead a round-table discussion, that was sort of like speed-dating for bloggers, on How to Pitch an Editor. My good friend Jen Reynolds, editor of Canadian Family magazine, asked if she could help me out and I immediately agreed (I'd be too forthright on my own, plus I could stand to take some notes from Jen myself). She graciously prevented me from rambling to long. (Note to nervous talkers: pair yourself with a pro.) We had three groups of women at our table in three 20-minute shifts and by the end we basically had a line-up of people piling chairs around us, which felt pretty freakin' awesome.

It was actually difficult to decide which panel sessions to go to at Blissdom, since many women that I am friends with or a fan of were on each and every one. The topics were all great and the discussion interesting and engaging. The parties were top notch. And even though I missed half of the conference due to sick kid issues, I was proud to be part of the inaugural one.

Besides the obvious highlight of putting human faces to Twitter avatars and learning more about them in person, I realized while there that I can be myself online and still succeed. That I can put myself out there, reveal to you my insides, and you'll still respect me in the morning -- f-bombs and all.

But I think that the best part for me was feeling that I could help others on their journey. Which is a lot like what I blog about. It was a revelation that this could extend to real life. That by showing people, in the flesh, that I am flawed and quirky and honest, but whip-smart and willing to share what I know, I could somehow help them to find their happy medium. They might not agree with me or like my style, but at least I could feel good about being true to myself and know that my words would have some impact on their decisions.

It was scary and awesome and I can't wait to do that again.

Bliss

2010-10-28T14:39:00.003-05:00

Forgive me readers, it's been two months since my last confession.

I'm speaking tomorrow at the BlissDom Canada conference. Which seems fitting, because as this blog has evolved, I've searched for and found my bliss. I just don't make time for it very often -- at least, I haven't made time to write about my bliss as of late.

I'm speaking about Monetizing Your Blog, which is interesting, considering I've never sold an ad here, nor do I do any selling at my day job at sweetspot.ca. But I promise it's going to kick ass, because as a result of my non-selling, my point-of-view might surprise you.

I make money chasing my bliss. Which is writing. I love playing with words, love finding puns, playing with cliches and aliteration. That's what I get to do all day and get paid for it. Coming up with short bits of goodness is a fun way to spend your day. Helping other writers find and hone their voice, well that's the part of being an editor that I absolutely love. (I could do without spreadsheets and budgets, which would be no surprise to my lovely boss, but I get to them eventually too.)

On rare occasions, I get to exercise my writing muscles in longer format. Most recently I came home to find this awesome sauce in the mail and plunked it down in front of my dad. We all proudly stared at my byline; my mom squeezed me extra tight. It felt good.

I read it aloud to my kids (well, kid. Lucy's attention span was diverted to Silly Bandz or some shit. Not enough pics to keep her interested.). Nate, started to get disgruntled at first. "You shoulda put ME in there, right there where you said dad was a baseball fan!" Just wait, I told him, be patient.

Nate, who can now READ! spotted Lucy's name and got giggly. I kept going. I read his name aloud. He beamed. I was fair, I gave them two mentions a-piece like a good mommy should. Then I got to the last sentence. He leapt into my lap and hugged me, "Mmmm, Mama."

Doing what you love feels good. Getting paid to do what you love gives you validation and a reason to keep going. Having an editor believe in you, your talent, your style, enough to take a chance on you is immensely gratifying. If you can't make it to my session tomorrow, I'm basically going to be telling you one thing: Stop selling yourself short. Set your price, figure out what your time is worth and then don't accept anything less.

Take Me South to the Ballgame by Nadine Silverthorne is in the November issue of Canadian Geographic Travel, on newsstands now. You can also read me every Monday on my SweetMama blog/column Silver Spoons.

I'll be back here from time to time, I promise. I just hafta figure out how to add that 8th day to my week.

Pigeons in the Subway

2010-08-25T22:24:00.005-05:00

Quick housecleaning note: I don't have breast cancer! Woo hoo! Sorry to keep y'all hanging. I do have some sort of boob "wart" that needs to be removed called a papilloma (still gross, but prettier than "wart").

Today my daughter turned three. THREE! And I got a bit worked up, frenzied, trying to get my working butt home to help the huz with the family party details. I was in the ugly zone, the one where I was thinking about all the things I wasn't doing, instead of all the awesome things I'd done. Regardless, Eckhart Tolle would probably say that both are exercises in futility since neither act is rooted in the present moment.

The Bloor subway was hotter and sweatier than usual. I could count six different bodies touching mine. There was extreme heat emanating from one man and when he moved, the man next to him exuded a cold draft. I began to think of True Blood (my current fave show), and then I let my mind wander to that place that I despise: I began to panic about terrorists.

Post-911, I, like many, have terrorist-related panic attacks. A crowded subway when I haven't slept (because I stayed up to make Lucy cupcakes - the first cupcakes I've ever made in my life) and deadlines are looming is a sure trigger. What was different about this time was that I was able to talk myself off that ledge pretty fast. I breathed, I found the zen, I entered the now, and I was saved. (Yeah, it sounds insane to me too, but it's nice here in the light, so I'm staying.)

I looked around at my fellow subway passengers and tried to beam joy. Like a big giant joy energy field that would wake them out of their sleepwalking states and allow them to see that, fuck, we're all ALIVE! It's so beautiful! Why do we hate so much of it? What is SO wrong with most of us in the west that we have to numb ourselves to the most beautiful experience on the planet? LIVING!

The train rumbled through the Bloor Viaduct and I was suddenly overcome with joy at the sight of trees in the valley below. We get to SEE this, to bear witness to it. Beauty exists when we CHOOSE to see it.

I smiled one of those goofy smiles that make people believe that you are batshit crazy, which is OK on a crowded subway because it gleans you more personal space.

I looked around the train at all the zombies and thought about how I should read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies or whatever it's called, because the walking dead are amongst us every day and I should probably see if any authors think like me about it vs. the George Romero version of what zombies are. (Welcome to my brain on ADHD.)

Then the train stopped at a station and I absent-mindedly looked at the opposite platform across the tracks. There, acting like it was nobody's business, was a pigeon on the platform.

There he was all pigeon-like, acting like he needed to get the next car home so he could eat some KD and get the kids to bed in time to watch So You Think You Can Dance. He was doing that impatient pigeon move -- you know, that neck-bobby shit that only pigeons and PeeWee Herman do well? He was pacing and neck-bobbing and waiting for that motherfucking train like the rest of the world at rush hour.

And I laughed.

Then I looked around at all the zombies to see if any of them were alive enough to see the comedy show that was there for all of us, but everyone was too busy staring into laps and blank air, thinking about emails unsent and bills unpaid, to see the Alec Baldwin of pigeons.

I felt sad. I wondered who would bear witness to this magical life moment with me. Why couldn't we all see the pigeon and be happy? Why couldn't we all see the light that's in me, beaming out of me on good days?

"Nate would have loved this," I thought. Then I got happy again, because I realized that I did have people to share it with. I raced home to tell my son about this pigeon. My husband's family was there, my husband barbecuing, the party all set up and as soon as I said, "...and there was a pigeon, waiting for a train...," everyone stopped what they were doing and laughed at my story.

I have a family of people who saw the humour in my pigeon story, who got the beauty in the randomness of it. I have my tribe. They get me. I see pigeons on subway platforms now. I see my family for who they are. I am alive. Life is good.

My Left Boob

2010-08-16T22:35:00.004-05:00

Hi. My name is Nadine Silverthorne. You might know me as Scarbie Doll or scarbiedoll or some other nickname/handle/avatar/acronym. I might come across as a bit rough around the edges. But inside, I'm quite soft.

And really, really lumpy-bumpy.

My body makes cysts. Lots of them. One for every serious stress I've ever experienced. Yup, there's a cyst for that. That's my body's way of coping. To package hurts and worries up in little balls of fat and fluid and deposit them in random places in and on my body. I have several cysts on my eyelids for example. A big ol' lump in my left arm. A pebble in my left thigh. Something funky on one of my ovaries. And several weird, painful bits in my boobs.

When you have tendencies towards being a hypochondriac with moderate to severe anxiety and panic issues, well, sometimes it's hard to tell when you should let things be and when you should advocate for better care for yourself.

I've had a lump in my left boob for 15 years, give or take a few. Lately, it's been feeling larger and hurting more. So after bugging my doctor over and over to give me breast exams, she finally suggested I have an ultrasound to put my mind at ease.

"What will that tell us?" I asked like an idiot.

"It will tell us you have cysts in your breasts, like we already know," replied my slightly annoyed doctor. Then she warned, "Look, we know your body makes cysts. You don't want to go down the path of poking yourself full of holes either."

I figured she was right, but the allure of putting my worry to rest was too appealing.

I had the ultrasound. They found my teenaged fibroid. But then they also found two suspicious hobbly-nobs. (YESTHAT'STHEMEDICALTERMFORTHEM!) And so I had to go back, to have two pricks and one rather large hole poked into me (doesn't that sound like a porn synopsis?).

The radiologist was hot. Correction. HAWT. And I immediately regretted opting out of plucking crazy-ass, stray nipple hairs. (Hey, I'm an Armo. Nipple hairs are God's way of saying, "You're lucky I didn't give you chest hair like your cousin Arpi!")

Then the ultrasound technician totally started flirting with the hot radiologist and I was all like, "Bitch, there's not room in here for the both of us! Now move out the way so he can admire my long nipple hairs and fall in love with me."

Anyway, I basically let them gang bang my cysts with a really long needle, because I'm a freak like that, for the better part of an hour. I don't actually know how I got through it without a panic attack, but I suspect I was doing some Eckhart Tolle Power of Now thinking (as in "All I have is this moment with the sexy radiologist and this needle and if I focus on his tanned biceps, then the needle doesn't exist."). Then I got dressed and hazily walked through the breast centre, out the doors to find my family waiting for me. Boy, were they a sight of sore boobs!

Outside, I asked if we could make our way into the Metropolitain United. I love churches for their ability to make me cry and let me cry in peace. The huzzle loves churches because he thinks, "Silly humans. Look at all this lovely artwork you've created for someone that doesn't exist." So he agreed.

I sat in a pew and stumbled over the Hail Mary. Then I sang the Armenian hymn Der Voghormeyah in my head because it's the surest way to get the tears out. And I sobbed. Like a baby. I had only wanted reassurance of my health and now, maybe, I was going to be facing a whole lot worse.

Let me tell you fellow panickers -- the "I told you so" is not worth it.

Then my daughter decided the altar was a stage, performing clumsy pirhouettes and Rupaul stances. My son's Zhu Zhu pet kept chattering away, causing Nate to cover his mouth and giggle, then shush his little batteried love pet. I wiped my tears away and laughed. No more feeling sorry for myself. I've got too much to live for.

Tomorrow morning I will get the results from my intense threesome with the radiologist and the needle. Regardless of the outcome, I've already decided how I'm living from this point on: fighting to stay fully awake in life, battling to get out of my head and to live, completely, in the present moment. Just being. Not fighting what is insane to try and renounce. Life. Living it. Alive and kicking.

Welcome to Nadine 2.0.

Pitter Patter

2010-08-03T07:24:00.002-05:00

London, England, 1999.

His roommates were out at their jobs. One worked for MTV UK, the other for FIFA - both ambitious women with wildly different career paths. They shared a ground level flat in an unremarkable section of Fulham. The pilot light frequently went out on the water heater, making baths (there was no shower) a challenge. The washing machine leaked in the kitchen and bits of old newsprint, that they'd used to sop up the laundry spills, clung to the linoleum floor.

It was my first time travelling alone. I was not one to leave my comfort zone, nor rock the boat with my strict-for-Canada, liberal-for-Armenians parents. But I was in love and my love had decided that he needed to live abroad for a while.

We had just spent three glorious weeks together on his new turf, playing house. I went to the theatre while he worked. His roommate introduced me to her friends and took me on a journey to East London, to a flat where boys made films and art and smoked too much pot. I ended up in a Peugeot, listening to My Bloody Valentine and driving past a spot where one of Henry the Eighth's wives had been beheaded -- now a footie arena -- and then all the way to Greenwich, the place where time begins. I planted my blue nail polished toes on either side of the world and snapped a pic.

I rode the Tube, went to museums, walked for hours trying to get lost (impossible in London -- there's always a Tube-stop to help you gain your bearings). We drank in dive bars in Chinatown, in after hours bars in Camden, in fancy bars in Soho, in delicious pubs on Fleet St. I shopped on Portobello, saw skateboarders at Sheppard's Bush. I drank wine and wrote in my journal in Covent Garden while a man juggled swords and an opera trio serenaded me. I did our laundry at the laundromat on the high street, took the bus alone to Sainsbury to get the fixings for a lasagna I would bake him. No matter the adventure, I always came home to him.

He snuck into his roommate's room and put on his Neil Young Unplugged CD. He grabbed my hand and twirled me over bits of dried newsprint in the kitchen, out into the hallway, "Harvest Moon" playing softly over our missteps. And he whispered in my ear, "Pitter patter. Pitter patter."

***************************************
Toronto, Canada, 2010

I hear the padding of soft, plump feet on the cork floor, the rustling of her buckwheat pillow, the dragging of her duvet on the floor. I open one eye to see her standing there, eyes still puffy from sleep, face determined and pleased at this ritual. She thrusts blanket, pillow and lovies on top of me and demands, "Middle."

It is 6:30 a.m. and this ritual, while sweet, sometimes has me wishing for a snooze button. She senses our mild iritation and tries to amuse us with her Jerry Lewis act. We turn our backs to her, pull the covers up a little higher, hiding our amused smiles.

"Mama, are you mad?"

Oh no my sweet, dear child. You brought the whisper of two young lovers - an idea, a suggestion - right into this very moment. You start my every day with love and joy and presence. How could Mama be mad?

"Mama, is your heart happy?"

Indubitably, emphatically, yes.

Realizing Your Limitations

2010-07-21T22:10:00.000-05:00

or... Why I'm Not Really an A-hole, I Just Have ADD.

I know we all joke about ADD. "Oh look, I just saw something shiny and I got distracted -- I have ADD."

When you actually have adult ADD, it's no joking matter (though it's me, so I'll likely allow it.) Every day is a struggle. I can feel my brain wanting to pull away and look elsewhere as I write this post. It's bizarre. I used to think it was merely a poor discipline thing. Lately, I've been investigating the mindfulness thing, which helps a bit. But mostly, I feel like my brain is wired wrong and I have no idea how to fix it. Some days, I'm ready to take meds to stun my brain into submission.

Being on time is a struggle. I cannot even explain to you how this is the biggest source of strain on our lives. My inability to time manage, my constant lateness... I used to think that I chose media as a profession because of the deadlines. If people gave me a deadline, I had to stick to it right? But it's a struggle. I can't focus easily, get distracted easily and before I know it I am panicking and rushing to meet my deadlines.

I am pretty sure I was like this as a child too. They just didn't have this sort of diagnosis back then. Instead, my parents were constantly trying to challenge me academically, so that I wouldn't get bored. I would hyper-focus on something that I loved (usually reading or drawing) and totally space out on other tasks.

Not procrastinating is a struggle. I got a speeding ticket a while back. I could have saved myself a lot of hassle if I just filled out the damn paperwork to have a court date to contest it -- meaning it would likely get thrown out or reduced. Instead, I ignored it, hoping it would go away. The first notice arrived. I stuffed it in my bag hoping it would get dealt with somehow, but no matter how many times I schedule "ticket" or "expenses" or "insurance benefits" paperwork onto my calendar, I push it back, trying to justify it by completing another task I'm late on instead. Needless to say, I had to pay a lot more money than the original ticket to get everything back in order with my license, etc. This is very common for ADDers. We can't actually perceive time correctly, so we always think we have more time than we do.

Balancing books is a struggle. I am impulsive. I have no clue about money. The only clue I have is that I should have way more money than I do, but I can't tell you where it goes. I am not a crazy shopper like I once was. I just have no idea how to budget. I lose things of value and pretend it's not a big deal, as if losing a 20 dollar bill would be no big deal. Or I'll need to return something, but procrastinate till it's too late and then act like it's no big deal. It's bizarre, my relationship with money.

Talking to people is a struggle -- you either show them that you have no filter really fast, or you talk over them constantly. It's quite normal for me to blurt out something completely inappropriate in a meeting, or to space out and completely miss the conversation. Or respond to someone without fully understanding what they were saying and then having your reply come out sounding like you're Heidi Montag.

Listening to people(and NOT listening to people) is a struggle. Contrary to what you might think, I don't suffer from a deficit of attention, I suffer from an abundance of it. I might be listening to you, but then my brain thinks, "Hey, look at that thing over there." Or, "What's that they're talking about on the other side of the room?" Every sound, every thought becomes a distraction.

Having sex with people is a struggle: Once, during sex, early in our marriage, I blurted, "Did Kev leave his jacket here?" DURING sex. I now know that was ADD.

Being tidy is a struggle. I pick up the mail and suddenly I remember to write something down on the calendar, and then I set the mail down without thinking about it, in an unsuitable place to set the mail down. Then I can't find the mail later and I get frustrated. Clutter is everywhere. I know where to find things that are important to me, but my husband walks around the house picking up after me.

I think a lot of authors probably have ADD (creativity is one of our gifts). I remember an interview with Diana Gabaldon, where she said she often has three writings going on at the same time so she can cycle through them when she gets "stuck" on one. Wayne Johnston spoke of having a soundproof room built where he can take no calls and works till dawn. I am constantly wishing for that kind of quiet so I can hyperfocus on my characters without being interrupted to fetch someone a glass of milk.

Living with ADD and me is super hard on my husband and my kids. J says my hurdles are insurmountable to the rest of them; that they are stuck because I can't get myself unstuck. But lately, I've been doing well to get myself unstuck. I'm not cured (doubt I'll ever be), but I'm on top of it instead of letting it steamroller over me.

More to come. Thanks for your patience.

Hip-Hoppin'

2010-06-21T07:10:00.000-05:00

I'm writing, but in the past, I've hit publish without thinking (which is something many of you probably like). But because I'm trying to digest and retell something so huge in scale, I want to be sure I do it right.

And, truth be told, it's summer! I have been enjoying my family and living life and loving it. I feel good. I feel at peace. I feel joy. So writing has taken a back seat to making amends with the people I neglected for far too long - neglected by spending so much time in my own head.

Thankfully, my family seems to be making a series of videos lately, keeping my readers somewhat entertained. Here's the latest from this past weekend. Father and son gettin' down to Average White Band. Apparently, according to Nate, this song, "Picking Up the Pieces," now usurps his love of anything by the Beatles.

I just think it's a great way to start your week. Happy Monday...

freelancer

2010-06-08T09:25:00.004-05:00

Sorry dudes, I owe you a post. It's in drafts and I'm hoping this will tide you over.

A couple years into our young marriage, J decided to try "working from home." Being that we're both artists, neither of us is very disciplined when it comes to running our own business. But he had let me take 8 months off the year before to try my hand at freelance writing and I owed him the same graciousness. We didn't have kids or a mortgage at the time (just a REALLY ugly-but-cheap rental), so it was easier to say, "You can have some time to pursue your dreams."

In hindsight, he was a bit depressed (as was I the year prior) and trying to figure out what he should do with his life and how to get there. I would come home to dinner not made, bills not paid, the same gross sweatpants day in/day out and resentfully ask, "What did you DO all day?"

So he made me this short video (because he's ridiculously talented, stupendously funny and has biceps to spare). Enjoy! And please, share it with your friends -- I think everyone should have a little Jan Silverthorne magic in their day!

Alive, Part Two

2010-06-04T20:07:00.004-05:00

The second really big thing that happened -- the big lightbulb going off -- began before the ADHD revelation. Which, I guess, technically makes it the first thing, but I'm thinking it might freak you out a bit and/or scare you off, so I'm burying it here as the second thing. Which makes sense to MY brain.

But hey, if telling you I have a very highly mockable brain disorder didn't scare you off, then perhaps I'm OK... whatever, my frontal lobe will take DAYS to tell the rest of my brain what was inappropriate to share anyway... and by then I'll just shrug it off with a joke.

One night, at my sister's very un-childproofed highrise haven for wayward moms, while we were in ADHD heaven (PVR-ed shows on TV, laptopping random shit, iPodding and BlackBerrying all at the same time -- yes ALL VERBS IF I SAY SO!), she put Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now audiobook onto my iPod.

(Here's the legit audiobook and here's the Pirate Bay torrent, because Eckhart's not trying to be a zillionaire -- he's trying to get us to wake the fuck up, so I think he'd be OK with that. Can't say the same for his publisher though...)

Now I had tried to go down the Eckhart road before, when Oprah was touting A New Earth. I had made some headway with it, but asking someone with ADHD to sit through a non-fiction book is like asking Charlie Sheen to be a good husband -- not gonna happen. But the audiobook was magical. It has mindfulness bells to ring in chapters or moments of great importance. It has two other voices asking the questions you or I might be thinking.

And, as someone pointed out to me today, while "gentle soothing German voice" isn't something that you might think of (sorry good Germans, lotsa people still trying to get over the baddies) -- Eckhart's voice IS soothing and gentle and German. Like an IKEA radio commercial without the Swedish guy and the funny.

(Actually, Eckhart IS kind of humorous, as evidenced in this interview with him on The Hour. Keep in mind this was before the Tiger Woods scandal, which makes the context of a part of this interview unintentionally hilarious.)

Anyway, whatever you think about New Age-y spiritual stuff, I've thought it too. Because hey, it's easy to diss it. In fact, we've made it cool to diss it. But this isn't all patchouli and incense and CDs of people singing in Sanskrit (though if you're into that, go for it). This is just the TRUTH. This is reality. This is the meaning of life - which I'll eventually get to, for those who are rolling their eyes severely at this point.

As I take you through my journey, I will be referring to this book a lot. You don't HAVE to read it, it's not to pawn a book on you, but it's only fair that I tell you HOW I got from past to present. If you're tired of sleepwalking through your life, waking up with dissatisfaction most days and wondering why you can't be happy when you have so much in your life, then come back Monday...

At this point, I would normally invite you to send me private emails, but what I have to explain will take SO LONG, that I need to use this avenue to tell it. I will tell you when I'm ready to help you via email, so hang in there lonely souls. I feel you out there, ready to click. Patience, it's coming... I won't let you down this time...

Alive, Part One

2010-06-03T20:24:00.004-05:00

Forgive me readers. It's been 56 days since my last confession...

I'm sorry. I abandoned you. I had to. I was in a bad way again. Lost in my head. Floundering at work, in my relationship...

Things were bad, real, real bad. I was beating myself up on the regular. And then something happened. I saw a light, which lead to several other lights being lit and then, by George, I think I got it.

That was vague, so let me backtrack.

I was a total mess at work. I was missing deadlines, stressed out, pissy and generally not giving a fuck. And, well, I kinda got called on it. And I didn't take it too well at first. "I'm going to quit! I'm just going to freelance!" I said defiantly, not really thinking about the massive debt we were staring at, nor the springtime sorta-layoff that is apparently going to routinely happen to the huzzle while he's on call for our nation's broadcaster.

The huz, while super supportive and encouraging me to "write that damn book already," looked at me one day and said, "You realize this is a pattern right?"

And suddenly, I totally did. I had nowhere to run this time. No babies to have so that I could take a year to care for them while I thought about career options, no other prospects on the horizon. What. The. Fuck? I had done this with every other job I'd ever had. The honeymoon was over, but who was to blame?

I took a look around my office. I realized just how much I love my colleagues. I realized I actually quite enjoy much of the day-to-day of what I do during office hours. It's fun. It's pink. There are cupcakes and an endless supply of shampoo and all sorts of things that wouldn't happen at any other office in the world.

But why was it so hard to concentrate? Why couldn't I get done in a day what others seemed to get done without complaining? Why did I procrastinate? I could no longer blame endless meetings and workload. The real question was: What was wrong with ME?

My whole life, I've found myself getting frustrated. Feeling locked in my head, unable to get out. I've had concentration problems for as long as I can remember (every report card said, "Too chatty" or "Easily distracted" or "Disrupts others". Time was never a concept I could manage. I've never set realistic deadlines for myself, never showed up when I was supposed to... and I've always just made excuses for it. I habitually lose time.

I blurt out inappropriate things when I shouldn't. I interrupt people constantly. I can't sit still for long. When I'm in a meeting, I either hide behind my laptop or pick my cuticles until they bleed.

And for so long I made up for it by being funny. Not a bad tactic really. Funny makes up for a lot.

But I was fed up of hating myself for not being like everyone else. I just wanted my brain to shut the fuck up. Some days I would imagine taking a knife and stabbing my brain to kill it. I just wanted to silence the constant chatter in my head.

Then two things happened. First, I googled something random, about concentration, and I came across some things about Adult ADHD. Now we all joke about ADD. Modern life is basically a constant distraction or interruption, with Google, Facebook and Twitter leading the way. But when I did a quiz where six or more symptoms across three categories meant you might have ADHD, I answered yes for every single item. Inattentive, Hyperactive, you name it. It's me.

I cannot tell you what a relief this was. What a huge weight was taken off my shoulders. My brain is wired differently. It's why I'm creative without having to do a thing, why I spit out new ideas by the second but execute none of them. Why... shit, I just had two thoughts at the same time and lost what I was writing down... Oh right, why I suck at follow-through. Why I've been fired a few times in the past.

ADHD explained my anxiety problem, my childhood issues, just about everything made sense all of a sudden. I didn't see THE Matrix, but I did see MY Matrix - the web of stuff that makes up who we are.

I'm writing this all down for you tonight, in several parts so that you're not reading forever. Tomorrow I'll publish part two and then so on... I hope you're still checking in on me from time to time. I'm here and I am thinking about you. You are all with me every day. You don't really know it, but I carry you in my head and in my heart. I want to brighten your days, make you laugh, reveal an insight, but every now and again I have to put my life so far in front that I can't share it with you until I process it.

I'm ready now. See you tomorrow I hope.

An Ode to Catman B

2010-04-07T14:42:00.003-05:00

If you know me well, you'll undoubtedly know about my former neighbour/60-year-old foster child, Byron the Pirate, who loved my cat (my kids call him Catman B because of his love of the neighbourhood cats) and kept watch over my family until he moved away last year.

We helped him move into his new place, gave him some set-up stuff: a couch, some blankets, etc. I took him out for brunch around Christmas and got the most heartbreaking message of thanks via computer-translated text message on my answering machine. He helped us feel less bourgeoisie. We helped him feel less alone.

But the winter divided us. He recently got into an altercation when someone tried to steal his bike and ended up spending a night in the clink.

J told Nate about it and my Cornelius instantly expressed his emotions via a spoken word poem.

Neighbours, neighbours
Everywhere
All the time.
Going to jail,
Turning to crime.
Feeling the world,
In their eyes.
Always everywhere,
Until they die.

Nathaniel Silverthorne, age 5.

All signs point to GO

2010-04-04T22:39:00.000-05:00

I am a chicken shit. I always have been. Wanting to please my parents, make the right choices, not fuck up -- it meant I rarely took risks. I hated how I felt when a decision I made had a negative outcome or reflected badly on me in any way.

Now I'm slowly preparing for the next big step in my life: my eventual move to freelance writing and penning that book that you'd all rather read than having to check this space several times a week, only to be disappointed that I haven't updated. And I'm kind of terrified.

I love my job. I'm working really hard to stay committed to it -- much like a marriage -- being good at work is work! (Who knew?) But I'm not going to lie, it's changed a lot as our business has grown and while I still enjoy it immensely, I find it taxing on occasion while I try to balance a family too. It's demanding and rewarding and I'm growing professionally - for that I'm forever grateful. But at the end of the day, my heart is in the writing of words, not the trimming of them.

So what to do?

Well for the time being, I've decided that I'm going to stick with it. Really give it all I've got and make it work. Because there is so much positive that comes out of what I do during office hours that I want to see it through until I have nothing left to learn.

And in the meantime, I do something I've never really done before. I plan.

I know. I know. I always say, "Man plans, God laughs." So yeah, there might be a snag or two along the way. But that's OK. It's going to have to be. Because I know now, more than I've ever known before, that I need to stay on course. I need to stay with the words in my head.

This week I'm signing up for a course that teaches the business of freelancing. It's not really a secret; I would divulge this to my colleagues and so I don't feel surreptitious about putting it down here. It's more like I need to tell the Universe so that I WILL STICK TO IT.

I excel at ideas and thoughts and anything right-brained. I can draw a bunny face with my eyes closed. I can whip off an 800-word article in an evening.

But I am not so strong when it comes to execution of said ideas, nor of organizing my space or my time. If I'm going to turn myself into a business, perhaps I'd better learn some life skills first.

So this is the year of magical doing. The year I will attempt to grow up a bit, change some behaviour that's been dogging me for decades, learn me some new tricks and finally look FEAR in the eye and make my peace with it.

Step One, Day One. Just putting it out there.

Mommy Blogging In Real Life (IRL)

2010-02-26T22:42:00.003-05:00

I went to a cool event tonight at the Women's Bookstore. It was to celebrate a book called Mothering and Blogging: The Radical Act of the Mommy Blog. (So I mean, how could I not go?) Also it features works by the fabulous Jen Lawrence, the brilliant Ann Douglas and the notorious Catherine Connors (had to give her a bit of a "bad" sounding intro).

I haven't read the book yet, but I bought it. Not quite the beach read I had in mind for our Florida trip next week (first beach vacation since our honeymoon 10 years ago -- there better be sun Universe!), but from what I heard read aloud tonight I'm quite certain I'll enjoy it.

Let me just put forth what I love about mommy blogging, because I realize sometimes it may seem that I'm a mommy blogger who hates mommy bloggers. (Not true -- though a certain segment bug the shit out of me.)

Since my children were born, some of the coolest events I've attended have been, in essence, an excuse to go out with mommy bloggers. Maybe that's because I'm reading liberal, feminist mommies and feel like my IRL friends just wouldn't get my desire to go to these kinds of cultural events instead of watching The City. (They wouldn't.)

Maybe it's because my IRL friends don't blog, and therefore, have no idea what it means or what it feels like to sincerely care about strangers and think of them as friends. Let's face it, not that long ago this meant meeting up with someone from a chat room or message board, who may or may not have turned out to be the person you thought. There's still a stigma to meeting people online and taking it to IRL.

But then a funny thing happened on my way through the blogosphere -- mamasphere -- whatever you want to call it. I met friends online that I actually REALLY enjoy IRL. In fact, some of my best friends IRL are people I met through this forum (who hilariously -- and sadly -- no longer blog).

I have always been the square peg. I have always had ideas and dreams that fell outside the sphere of the average Armenian girl growing up in Scarborough. In Scarborough you were supposed to grow up, do some sort of post-secondary education that got you the sort of job that made you attractive to men so you could marry into your race, have babies, the house in the suburbs, two cars, etc. You were supposed to love Must-See TV and go to mainstream movies, listen to Top 40 hits and dress like everybody else.

To be radical woman often meant going outside your social circle. And as the daughter of strict Middle Easterns, this was hard. I was expected to hang out with people who were "like us", who had the same curfew rules and the same expectations for their girls. Italians, Greeks, etc. Basically people who had different rules for their daughters than their sons. I rebelled some, but eventually I conformed a bit to make my life easier. Some of those friendships stuck.

Some days it seems really weird to me that I have this life online. My childhood best friend, my sister and my husband all know about this site but don't read it. The girls don't think this is the true me (which I find odd). Admittedly Scarbie Doll is a persona, but I get to be SO HONEST here that I wonder if it's just that they don't want to see this side of me.

My husband just thinks you all know which way his penis bends. He hates walking into a coffee shop or my office and having someone look at him as though they "know" him, when they really shouldn't. (Hence I've stopped writing about his penis.) But his issues about this are... well they need to be considered... but I digress.

Via the Internet I have found a group of women I really and truly identify with. They get me. I can be a super nerd. I can admit that I'm full of shit. We can geek out over tech gadgets and the fact that our third children are our PDAs. We can use nerdy acronyms one second, and discuss pop culture the next. We can laugh at ourselves, laugh at each other and it's OK. We understand each other.

When I talk to my best friend there's this weird feeling that she's trying to keep up with me, trying to be a certain kind of mom for me. I don't really get it. I'm not stupid, I suppose on paper I can be sort of intimidating. For someone who is constantly skint, I lead a very fortunate and charmed life (which can come crashing down when interest rates go up, but I doubt I'm the only one skating on that ice). In fact my whole life could come crashing down at any moment. The seemingly dazzling things about me are all superficial. Strip it all away and this is what you get. But IRL, that doesn't seem to get across.

I'm just me. I want you to like me. I want to talk about cool shit with you. I want to make you laugh and giggle my head off with you (but without being mean-spirited if possible). I want it to be OK with you that I am checking Twitter while we watch TV. I want my life to be a constant stream of ideas and discussions, no pressure, just good energy. I don't care what kind of car you drive or what you fed your kid last night. I just want to be real. And the people I've met through Mommy Blogging seem to be the only ones who get that.

Any ideas on why that is? Is it because only in blogland is it OK to have your head so far up your own ass? I'm I a self-absorbed, crappy friend IRL? I dunno. But you complete me Internets. If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.