Capital Mom

Reminder

2011-03-03T17:44:00.000-05:00

Not that you need reminding, but in case you do, don't forget to update your RSS feed with the new URL http://capitalmom.ca/. Otherwise you will be missing all those funny moments. Like the one about me and my punctuation.

New

2011-01-01T07:08:00.002-05:00

It's a new year. It's a time to reflect on where we have been. Set our course for where we would like to go.

After a year and a half here I am moving Capital Mom to a new home. I had the encouragement of some friends. And their patience, as I tried to figure out the technical side of self-hosting.

I hope to see you there.

Play dates

2010-12-31T15:25:00.000-05:00

I open the door in my pink fuzzy bathrobe, pulling it tight around me in preparation of the cold air. The girl runs up behind me, too excited about seeing her friend to wait much longer. I open the door and we exchange greetings. A child enters and mother leaves. The play date begins.

I wander around in my bathrobe until the husband arrives home from getting groceries with the boy. Now there are three kids running through the house. I am happy to sneak upstairs and take my time getting dressed.

The day passes in chunks of time. Playing. Eating. Watching a video. Playing. Braving the cold. Eating. Saying goodbye. Hours and hours that pass like minutes.

Each activity is fully embraced. The playing is enthusiastic. The movie is considered hilarious. The homemade sushi for snack time is devoured. Everything is loved. Except for the goodbyes.

*
The mother and I sit in the kitchen at the square brown table. We can't see the kids from here but we can hear them. The sounds are happy, so we stay where we are. I have to laugh. How can the sounds not be happy when three kids wearing swim suits are jumping off the couch into a swimming pool outlined with with masking tape on the hardwood floor.

I make tea. We talk. The kids come running to us whenever they want snacks. The boy eats his piece of homemade cake brought by our guests. After I wipe off the smear of whipping cream on his left cheek he hurries back to his sister and her friend.

*
We are late but they are still glad to see us. Everyone is glad to be there, except for the boy who cries on and off about being tired. Maybe you should sleep later then 4:30am I tell him. He ignores me.

We wander the museum, stopping when something interests us. The kids play and the mom and I have the broken conversation that comes with supervising four little kids in a public place. Enough is said though. Enough to understand.

The kids are older and taller then when I last saw them. That is the funny thing about time. It makes my kids older and taller too.

*

Here's to friends in 2011. The girl's. The boy's. Mine.

Atalanta

2010-12-29T21:35:00.000-05:00

The first few strains of the music make me stop what I am doing. A smile creeps over my face. I have to dance.

The girl sees me down the hallway and she rushes to me, her arms outstretched. We clasp hands and start to twirl. The boy sees us and runs to join in. We skip around in a circle, our legs flailing wider and wider as we go.

We listen to each song and story as it comes, sometimes singing along, sometimes dancing. I think about all the times I used to listen to the CD when the girl was a baby. She was too little to understand. I really played it for me.

The girl stands as close as she can to the CD player, maybe hoping that this way she won't miss anything. Finally she walks to the next room. But my favorite story comes on. I move closer to hear better. I don't want to miss anything.

Atalanta's father wants her to get married. She doesn't want to. He doesn't understand. She tells him she will run a race and agrees to marry the winner; she only agrees because she knows she will win. She trains and trains. But so does another young man. A man who only wants the chance to talk to Atalanta. To have the chance to know her better.

The day of the race comes and Atalanta is in the lead as she nears the finish line. Until the young man, John, pulls along side her. The cross the finish line together. The race is a tie.

Still. Atalanta's father the King offers John her hand in marriage. John doesn't take it. He says he could never marry someone who doesn't wish to marry him. Instead they spend the afternoon together talking before going their separate ways, each off to explore the world. Maybe they will meet again. Maybe they won't.

I feel the tears start to come as I listen to the children's story. Tears for all the girls and women that have been married off by their fathers and brothers. Tears for the freedom I have had to choose my own life. Tears for the girl I have just danced with.

May she always believe that she is Atalanta.

Miss. You.

2010-12-28T18:18:00.001-05:00

Miss. You he says, laying his head against my shoulder. He has to lean far to his right from where he sits in the dinning room chair but he does it anyway.

He says it all the time now. When I come home from being out. When I walk into the kitchen in the mornings. When I have been gone from his sight, if only for a minute.

He doesn't just say it to me. He says it when we arrive home and find that Grandma is out for groceries. He says it as he waits for his aunt and uncle to arrive from out of town. He says it when the husband is at work. He tells the girl as soon as she arrives home from school.

He misses everyone. He misses all of us. I imagine he would like us all clustered together on the couch. He would go from one to another giving us hugs and kisses. He would lay his head against our shoulders. Miss. You he would say.

The day

2010-12-26T20:27:00.000-05:00

I lay in bed, my eyes closed, waiting. I thought I was waiting for sleep to overtake me but I think I was really waiting for her. How else can I explain why I was wide awake at 1:45 am on Christmas morning. But I was.

Click. Slam. Thump, thump, thump.

Did you hear that? I asked the husband. Yes he said. We both jumped out of bed and followed the girl down the stairs.

At the bottom step I heard her call out Grandma! Grandma! but instead of running to where Grandma was sleeping on the sofa bed she ran in circles around the hallway and living room wall. It was on one of her laps that she bumped into me.

What are you doing? I asked her. Come back to bed.

I can't find Grandma she cried.

It was just a bad dream I reassured her. Grandma is just sleeping. Everything is fine.

We tucked her back in bed and waited for her to settle. Instead she hacked loudly and coughed repeatedly. The boy's rustling in his bed made us decide to try something different. So I took the girl to bed with me.

It seems to be a holiday tradition now, spending the late hours of Christmas Eve together. I kept thinking about last year as the girl tossed and turned and tried to convince me it really was time to go downstairs. She didn't even care about the presents waiting under the tree. She was just ready to be awake.

By quarter to four I gave up trying and sent her back to her bed. She fell asleep instantly. The husband and I slept too; until the boy woke at for the day 4:30 am. Followed by his sister fifteen minutes later.

I despaired about the day when it was already 5am and I had been up most of the night. If it hadn't been for Grandma distracting them with their stocking for a few more hours while the husband and I slept, I would have been short on Christmas cheer.

*

It was close to 7:30am by the time the household was all awake. I was determined to push through my exhaustion. Luckily it was easy to get swept up in the kids' excitement. They had to show me each of the items they had earlier pulled from their stockings. The girl had to help me look through mine.

Playing back in the sunroom, the kids had yet to see the piles of presents under the Christmas tree tucked into the corner of the living room. Once we turned on the lights they rushed in and exclaimed about everything they saw. The girl was momentarily distracted by the huge dollhouse the husband and I had bought her. I wanted to have her love it. To know that she loved it. I think she does. There was just too many presents for her to stop for any one.

The girl kept us moving. She handed out the presents, helped slow people open them faster and quickly moved us onto the next. She had to cajole her brother into opening the stack of presents growing beside him. He was too engrossed with the car tracks he had been given, the very first present he opened, to care about anything else.

The gifts under the tree this year were all very thoughtful. The girl loved her ballet slippers from Nana. I was thrilled with my bread box. The boy stopped playing with his cars long enough to race up and down the hallway throwing his small Winnipeg Blue Bombers football. It was a very successful Christmas morning.

*
I felt myself flag briefly while both the kids napped. We had had to strong arm the girl into spending some "quiet time" in our bed, but finally she gave into the tiredness that was overtaking her. I contemplated lying in bed with her, knowing that this time we would both be sleeping, but there was too much to do. Too much I wanted to do.

I made lemon pudding. I cooked cranberry sauce. I helped the husband prepare and organize and prep the rest of the food for the dinner. I chatted with my sister. I talked to my mother-in-law. I felt myself float through the middle of the day on a cloud of contentment. Being glad to have so many of my family with me on this day. Happy to see everyone so happy.

*
With our guests due to arrive soon I hurried to finish getting ready. I put on a dress. I applied makeup. I wore new jewelry I had unwrapped just that morning. I was ready to celebrate.

Our friends were lovely. The kids all played well together. The food was good, especially the vinarterta. I had a flashback to Boxing Day gatherings in the past when we would join my Grandma's family for dinner, the kids eating in front of the tv and the adults in the other room. As I turned on a video for the four kids snuggled in two chairs I finally understood the value of the age separation. The adults were able to talk as the kids giggled and yelled from the back of the house.

I had to ask my friend Do you let your kids leave the table once they are done? Are you ok with them not eating everything on their plate? Can they watch a video? We have had company before where the differences in our parenting suddenly became apparent in the dining room and made for an awkward meal. Her easy attitude to everything made the evening go smoothly and made me resolve to have them for dinner again soon.

*
The kids were ready for bed, the boy wearing both his and his sister's new pajamas, and I said goodnight. I ate some more vinaterta and then headed to bed myself. Tired but pleased. Certain in my knowledge that I had my best Christmas yet.

Christmas gift

2010-12-25T10:29:00.000-05:00

I give to you my love.

You won't find it at the bottom of your stocking.
It's not wrapped up under the tree.
It's nothing you can open.
I hope it is something that you can see.

It is here in my hugs.
You can feel it in my kiss.
It's the way I look at you.
It is how much you are missed.

When I say "no more cookies".
"Stop and just sit down".
"Don't push. Don't hit".
Yes, even then, the love is all around.

I hope you like your presents.
I hope you like your toys.
I hope you know I love you.
I love you, girl and boy.

Go. Stop.

2010-12-23T21:51:00.000-05:00

Go. Stop. Go. Stop.

I have come to see my life as a series of moments. Some over in the blink of an eye. Some stretched out like salt water taffy, pulled apart piece by piece until all the little bits are shoved quickly into a mouth and slowly savoured.

Go. Stop. Go. Stop.

The holidays are almost here and the pace of life has changed. No school. Many preparations. The days feel longer. The days are fuller.

Go. Stop. Go. Stop.

I find myself thinking about all the moments that have come before. Last Christmas. The Christmas morning I found out I was pregnant with the boy. My first Christmas as a mom. All the Christmases of my childhood that seem to blend together into one. Like a technicolored dream.

Go. Stop. Go. Stop.

They rush past me. Around the table, past the tree and into the hallway. I find myself wondering where they are going. Running so fast through their their childhood; pulling me along behind them. Sometimes I try to keep up. Sometimes I am dragged kicking and screaming.

Go. Stop. Go. Stop.

4:32pm

2010-12-22T08:29:00.001-05:00

This is when I start to watch the clock. I will glance over every few minutes, hoping that a time warp has occurred and it is now 5pm. That any minute the husband will be walking through the door.

My bag of tricks is empty. We have painted. Cut with scissors. Visited the park. Read books. Baked cookies. Run around in circles. We have done everything and anything for the last nine hours.

I feel myself getting twitchy. The same way I feel when I wake too early and I am waiting for my cup of coffee to brew. I know I just need to get through these next few seconds, minutes.

But I am done.

Decorations

2010-12-21T12:48:00.000-05:00

Our tree is up. It is decorated. It looks lovely.

Today at Kids in the Capital I blogged about our tree decorations and creating a kid friendly tree. A kid friendly tree that still looks lovely.

Four ways to eat a cupcake

2010-12-20T12:59:00.000-05:00

Place a chocolate cupcake topped with two inches of vanilla icing on a plate and carefully cut it in four. Make sure all the pieces are the same size.Watch what happens.

Someone will put all the icing in his mouth in one big bite and then cry more, more. When told there is no more icing, he will eat half of the cupcake before running off to play. After five minutes he'll return to eat the rest.

Someone will spend ten minutes licking the icing as if it was an ice cream cone. Lick, lick. The sides of the icing will be eaten first until a tall tower seems to grow out of the centre. Then the cupcake will be slowly and carefully eaten.

Someone will use a fork to break off pieces of the cupcake to eat bite by bite. He will reach his long arms across the table to spear sections of his cupcake instead of moving the plate in front of him.

Someone will close her eyes as she takes the first mouthful of chocolate goodness. Each bite will have an even distribution of cupcake and icing. Each bite will be savoured.

Everyone will wish more more.

Tree

2010-12-19T13:45:00.000-05:00

We bought the tree from the grocery store. I pushed the kids home in the stroller while the husband walked ahead of us, the big tree leaning against his back as he dragged in along. The boy was asleep by the time we reached our house so I lay him on the mat in the hallway while I took off his snowsuit and then tucked him in bed. The girl started asking to decorate the tree before it was even in the house.

The boy decided that he didn't want to sleep longer then ten minutes so he joined us in wresting the tree into its stand. The girl remained focused on decorating the tree. We said that it would need to defrost and fill out first. Then we surrendered and opened the box of ornaments.

I sat on the couch fiddling with the star lights to hang in our window while the kids decorated the tree. Ornaments were clustered on the bottom left of the tree; two or three ornament hung on each branch. They were so pleased with themselves. So happy.

I remembered that I should take a picture. I grabbed the video camera from on top of the fridge and leaned into the living room from the hallway. I watched the kids through the screen as they helped each other slip the hooks of the ornaments onto the branches.

The tree looks beautiful. Every time I see it I smile. Even when I am cranky about the mess, the kids not listening, the coats flung everywhere. the demands barked at me. The tree makes me smile.

Presents from the girl

2010-12-17T14:59:00.000-05:00

I stepped onto the bus to call to the girl and hurry her along. The bus was ten minutes late and there were lots of stops after us. She bounded towards me and all I noticed was the brightly wrapped packages in her arms. Which she started to unwrap as she walked down the steps.

Look what I bought she said of the wrapped presents. There is one for my brother, and one for you, and one for dad.

Let's go inside I said, waving to where the boy sat in the front window watching us. Wait until we get inside to open them!

The girl complied only because she was distracted with telling me all about buying the gifts in the school gym. We had sent her with a handful of quarters zipped into a plastic bag this morning to shop in the parent run store. Gently-used donated items were up for sale to all the kids, with volunteers on hand to wrap them with paper and bows.

The girl started to pull the first present from a gift bag as soon as I opened the front door. This is for him she said of her brother. How about we let him open it then I suggested. Too late. Instead she handed it to him just as he came around the corner. It's a fluffy bunny she said. He grabbed the bunny and gave it a hug.

How about we take off your snowsuit and sit on the couch? I suggested. The girl stopped long enough to take off her coat and then started to open the second present. This is for you she told me. It's a Dora umbrella! For you to use when it is raining. It will be good in the rain.

Wow! I say as I take the bright pink child's umbrella covered in images of Dora and Boots from the girl. I love it.

And I got dad a book about wood. Because he really likes wood. Do you think he will like it?

Yes I said, certain that the husband has never ever read a book about wood. Never mind made anything with wood. It was very thoughtful. He will love it.

The girl chattered on about all the presents. She hugged the bunny. She opened up the umbrella to illustrate its usefulness. The excitement was high, which meant that the only possible ending to the scene was tears. They came when the girl twirled around with the umbrella and poked her brother in the eye.

I held him on my lap and cuddled him while he cried. Would you like to say thank you? the girl asked me politely. Of course I said.

Thank you.

Test

2010-12-15T09:10:00.000-05:00

I called him from the pay phone. Ignoring the handful of people waiting at the nearby bus stop I sobbed into the phone.

The midwife said the baby is breech. I have a week until my next appointment to try to flip the baby on my own. If not we have to go to the hospital where they will try to move the baby and that will hurt and it might not happen. And then if that doesn't work I will have to have a C-section.

The words poured out through my gasps and tears. All I could think about was how the birth I wanted was suddenly on the verge of disappearing. Poof. Gone.

He was quiet for a moment. I thought he was processing all I had said. But something felt wrong.

How was the doctor? I asked.

Instead of joining me at the midwife's, an appointment he rarely missed, the husband had had a medical appointment of his own. After weeks of waiting he had been to see a retinal specialist. We were both hoping for answers to the question about what was happening to his eye.

One day a blurry spot had appeared. Not in the middle of his eye, not huge, but close enough to the centre and big enough that the husband's vision was affected. He had gone that day to see our family doctor. She told him to go immediately to the Emergency, worried that his retina was detaching.

It didn't. Nothing happened right away. An ophthalmologist at the hospital looked at it. An appointment with a specialist was made. We waited.

Standing in the phone booth on a hot July day, my feet swollen, my eight-month pregnant belly huge and my face streaked with tears I listened to the husband tell me that he had macular degeneration. He was thirty-three.

The doctor really didn't go into details. He was told that they would monitor his eye. That he should call if there were changes to his other eye. He was told he would need a series of shots to try to improve or slow the damage. The doctor neglected to mention that the injections would be in the eye itself until he advanced on the husband with a large needle.

All of a sudden the baby being breech was less important. Even as I tried naturopathy and Chinese medicine to encourage the stubborn baby to flip, my real concern was that the husband wouldn’t see this child. I began to worry that his sight would disappear instantly. That he would wake up tomorrow and it would be gone. That one more blurry spot would be the end of the eye.

We've since learnt that it doesn't happen like that. His eye continues to deteriorate, as does the second eye that has also been diagnosed with macular degeneration, but the decline in his vision is gradual. The shots will help for a while and so the doctor will decide that he can stop treatment. Then months later the husband will begin to swear while he eats his lunch at the kitchen table on a Saturday afternoon and even though I ask, part of me already knows what is wrong. An appointment is made with the doctor and treatment starts again.

Bit by bit his eye sight weakens. But advances in drugs and treatment continue and maybe something can be done before he loses his sight completely. Five years later and he still isn't blind. He saw the girl be born. And her brother. That is something.

That is something I thought as I pushed the double stroller home over snow banks on a cold Tuesday afternoon. The girl had just been for her first eye exam. She is often skittish in new situations and with new people, but I was more nervous than her. With the boy on my lap I sat tensely while she read out the numbers projected on the wall across the room. Only when I started to hear the very goods from the optometrist did I begin to exhale.

She has twenty-twenty vision the doctor said. I grinned. There is no sign of myopia (high myopia can contribute to macular degeneration) she told me. I could have cried with joy.

I didn't. I bundled the kids back into their snowsuits while they licked at the caramels pilfered from the candy dish in the eyeglass store. I managed to get us out the door and started towards home. As I walked I felt giddy with relief. I was sure I would never care as much about her doing well on a test as I did with this one.

Go!

2010-12-14T13:09:00.000-05:00

Mommy no go! he says to me when I bring up the idea of a babysitter coming to play with him and his sister. He doesn't like the idea of me going out and leaving him with someone he doesn't know. Or maybe me leaving at all. But we have finally found two amazing babysitters, sisters, and we plan to take advantage of them.

I know I say, trying to think of something that will make him agree to me going out without him. What if your aunt and uncle have some special playtime with you when they come for Christmas and mommy and daddy goes out. He stares at me for a second as if he is seriously considering it. Then he replies, his voice firm and authoritative. Mommy no go.

What about I say trying to infuse my voice with as much excitement as possible. What about your aunt and uncle take you to the diner for a special lunch when they are here for Christmas! That would be fun.

I watch the possibilities flicker across his face. He asks if his sister could come. I say yes. He mentions that he would eat macaroni and cheese. I tell him that sounds like a good idea.

His voice firm and authoritative he issues his decree. Mommy go.

Two sided

2010-12-13T13:07:00.000-05:00

There are two sides to everything. I have to remind myself of that sometimes. When she is whiny and clingy. When he is crying and pushing. Then I forget the other side.

She is sweet and loving. He is caring and kind. They play together so nicely. They are only four and two.

And me? I am cranky and frustrated. I am attentive and encouraging. I am also old enough to remember that there are two sides to everyone.

Poetry

2010-12-11T21:16:00.001-05:00

She was sitting at the table eating her peas. I made up a poem, struggling to rhyme as I went along. She liked it and stopped calling everything bad, bad mom bad grocery list bad writing, long enough to listen.

She asked for more when I stopped but I said I was all out of poems. So she started to make up her own.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
She had so many children she didn't know what to do

We smiled at her poem, and so encouraged, she continued on.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
Because she didn't know what to do
She started to eat her children!

The last line was said gleefully. For a moment there was silence and then the husband and I broke into laughter. I looked at him accusingly as if to say gee, I wonder where she would get an idea like that from. He shrugged as if to say what? okay fine all my stories involve baking the main characters in pies. so what?

We just looked at each other and then her. And kept listening to her poetry.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
She had so many children that she baked them in a pie!
Ha ha

A long afternoon

2010-12-08T20:36:00.000-05:00

The afternoon was going to be long.

The boy fell asleep on the walk home from the girl's school after a busy morning spent "volunteering". I wondered how much help I was actually being to the teacher as I chased after the boy and tried to get him to play quietly while the kindergarten kids sat in a circle on the carpet drawing letters on chalkboard tablets. I managed to set out the snacks, clean up the snacks and use the hot glue gun to stick bits of coniferous trees to the hibernation dens being made out of tissue boxes.

I definitely got more out of the morning then the teacher got out of me.

I saw the girl in her classroom, met her classmates and watched her interact with her teacher. I put faces to the names and images to the things she talks about at home. I left feeling confident that she loves her school.

I also left exhausted. Shortly after we arrived at school the boy came to me crying. Tired he said. So am I, I wanted to say, so am I. He was lucky enough to fall asleep on the way home in the stroller. As I carried his snowsuit clad body into the house, laying him down in the hallway to remove his outerwear before carrying him upstairs to bed, I wished I could crawl under the warm covers with him.

Instead it was cooking with the girl, reading stories and listening to audio books. The boy woke from his early nap shortly after noon and then the second part of the day began.

We had snacks. Read more books. The kids had a picnic in the living room. The girl decided she didn't like the cranberries she begged me to let her eat and spat them out onto the kitchen table. Then I heated them up with water and sugar and she devoured eight crackers topped with the warm red sauce.

In the middle of the afternoon I sat on my bed watching the kids run back and forth down the hallway wearing long pieces of fabric pulled from the cupboard and tied like capes around their necks. It made me forget my tiredness, the long afternoon I was only halfway through. All I could do was stop and laugh.

Interruption

2010-12-07T14:45:00.001-05:00

She fell asleep. I was putting her brother down for his nap and she fell asleep reading books in my bed. When I opened the door to my room to get her I saw her head peaking out from under the blue comforter, her eyes closed. She looked so sweet lying there. I left her sleeping, figuring that she probably needed it after listening to her brother cough all night.

An hour and a half later and they were still both asleep. I expected the boy to wake any minute. I decided to wake the girl first.

I crawled under the covers next to her in bed and called her name. She kept sleeping. I rubbed her back. She came sleeping. I stroked her hair. She kept sleeping. I was on the verge of giving up.

She startled suddenly and lifted her head off the pillow, looking me directly in the eye.

What are you doing? she demanded of me, accusation and disgust flickering over her face.

I stifled a giggle and responded You were sleeping. I'm waking you up.

No I wasn't she informed me. I was just trying to sleep.

With that she turned away from me, lay down and fell back asleep. I listened to her breathing as it quickly deepened. I closed the door quietly on my way out of the room.

Makeover

2010-12-06T21:06:00.001-05:00

Two days later and I still pause when I walk past a mirror. Is that really me?

It is. My long brown hair is gone, replaced with a short red headed bob. I have bangs that skim the top of my eyebrows. I look noting like the me I was. I love it.

My friend won a makeover at a salon and invited me along. I was tentative at first. I would keep my hair long. I liked it long. Long hair is easy to care for. All you have to do is put it in a ponytail.

I had been growing my hair out for years now. Every so often, and by that I mean once a year, I would get it trimmed. By Monday it fell past my shoulders and stopped short of the middle of my back. If I cut it I would have enough to donate. So when my friend decided to be brave, to embrace change, to go for it, I did too.

In a bright white room we sat side by side in black chairs. Facing the mirror I watched the tattooed arms of my new favorite stylist as he poised his scissors near the top of a my loose braid. In unison our long hair was cut. With two quick snips the braid lay in his hand. As the remaining hair swung freely around my face I immediately wondered why I hadn't done it sooner. I hadn't realize how much the length of my hair was weighing me down until it was gone.

Sitting in the chair while my hair was smeared with thick white paste I stared out the window. I watched a school bus stop across the street and wondered if that was the girl's bus, finishing its rounds after dropping her off home to her dad and brother. Sitting under the dryer, smelling the faint scent of bleach, I wondered what they were doing. I wondered what they would say when they saw me.

The new cut slowly took shape beneath the scissors of the stylist. I squinted in the hopes that the blurry figure in the mirror in front of me would become clear, but without my glasses it was hopeless. So I waited while the hair went from wet to dry.

Finally my glasses were on and I could see myself. It didn't look at all like me.

*

I was dropped off just as the kids and the husband arrived home. Despite the darkness of the hour, they all exclaimed over my hair. Both kids recognized me and neither cried about the change. You look like Little Red Riding Hood! exclaimed the girl. She meant that as a compliment and so I said thank you.

The next day the girl continued to comment on my hair. The boy ignored it. The husband paid me compliments. I loved it. I still do.

I have decided that every now and again, it's time for something new. And the best way to embrace change is with a friend by your side.

*

Our makeover was filmed by the salon, so all you have to do to see the transformation is go here.

Brotherly love

2010-12-05T09:13:00.000-05:00

A brief moment of quiet among a day full of standoffs and tears, yelling and fights, finds us sitting on the couch reading books. I would happily read book after book if it would maintain the calm equilibrium we have miraculously achieved.

The boy says something to the girl. She says something back. Then she leans over to where he is sitting on my lap and gives him a big hug. I love you she says for the millionth time that day.

The boy looks at the girl. I love you he says.

It is the first time he has ever said that. I am happy he choose to say it to her.

Compliance

2010-12-03T14:28:00.000-05:00

Neither of my children are particularly compliant.

The girl likes to verify that I really mean what I say before she complies. Repeatedly.

Can I watch another video?

No.

Just one more video!

No.

How about I watch one more video?

No.

Only one more?

No.

I have a great idea. How about one more video!

No.

It will be the last video.

No.

I'm going to watch one more!

No.

Can I watch just one more?

No.

I think I should watch one more.

No.

Even as I long to gouge out my ears with blunt, broken crayons, I still admire her perseverance.

The boy prefers to ignore me.

We aren't going to have any treats.

There aren't any treats in that cupboard.

Please put the chair back at the table.

Please get down off the chair.

Get down off the chair.

Don't climb on the counter. There aren't any treats in the cupboard.

I told you there aren't any in the cupboard. Let go of the doors.

Please get off the chair or I am going to lift you down.

Don't push me.

When ignoring me doesn't get him what he wants he does the only thing left. Watching him stand in the middle of the hallway crying with all his might, I can't help but admire his sense of conviction. If not his compliance.

Waking

2010-12-01T20:26:00.000-05:00

His body is warm. His hair is tousled. He reaches his arms up to me and I lift him up. He rests his head on my shoulder and wraps his legs around my waist. I wrap my arms around him.

I sit down on the couch and pull a wool blanket around the boy. He leans into me. We cuddle while we watch his sister watching a video.

He starts to cry. What's wrong? I ask him. Papa he says. You want daddy? I ask. Yes.

I put the phone on speaker and the boy mumbles and nods his head as the husband's voice fills the room. Nothing is really said, but it's enough.

We say goodbye.

Bosom buddies

2010-11-29T20:25:00.000-05:00

The myth of the best friend was planted early with me. The one true friend. The only one you will need.

I lay the blame squarely on the shoulders of a certain red haired young lady. Anne. With an "e". She may not have had a family, she may have had to convince an initially reluctant family to be hers, but Anne of Green Gables always had her Diana. Always together, fighting off the mean girls. Always forgiven, even when drunk off of raspberry cordial. It didn't matter what happened, they always came back to each other. Bosom buddies.

I had to learn that it isn't easy to find a friend like that. One friend who will be everything to you. I kept looking, thinking that my Diana was just across the next field or in the next classroom.

Finally I had to learn that no one person can be everything to you. I stopped looking for her. And then I became a better and more thankful friend to the ones I already had.

*

I don't want to be your friend anymore I hear her yell, one of the teachables she has brought home from kindergarten. Her friend starts to cry and runs away, devastated that my girl is going to stop being her friend. I pause for a moment before making my way across the park to where the girl stands on the play structure. I think about all the things I want to tell her.

It's hard to find good friends I would say. Don't throw this one away so easily.

It isn't true I would say. Don't think that someone else will quickly take her place.

Be careful what you say I would say. Don't start saying things you don't mean to your friends. They will believe you and then you can never take them back.

When I finally reach her I speak to her in my stern voice. I tell her that it isn't nice to say I don't want to be your friend anymore. I remind her that she made her friend cry. I ask her how she thinks her friend feels. I ask her how she would feel.

*

He laughs as he tries to gets the story out, standing with our friend in the kitchen.

The girls were playing he starts. And your daughter he looks at our friend, yelled at the girl. "You aren't my friend anymore!"

She gets that from daycare... our friend begins to explains.

Oh no I groaned. What did she do?

She yelled right back. "You can't stop being my friend!"

*

She might not find her one true friend. No Diana, no bosom buddy. But I take great delight in knowing she recognizes a good friend when she sees one. And that she won't let her go.

The bus

2010-11-28T11:15:00.012-05:00

Paper flowers
Pink and blue
Clutched tightly in their mittened hands

We sit at the back of the bus
He faces forward towards his dad
She kneels and watches out the back window

The bus was crowded when we got on
I was cold from playing in the snow
They were full from the cookies and treats at the craft sale
Mommy feed me he said to me
Perfect in his pronunciation

She headed straight for the back
Past the crowed seats
Climbing up and squeezing a young woman into the corner

She starts to take off her boots
Her socks
What are you doing? I ask
My socks are bothering me she says
It's hard when socks slip down says the young woman
I nod and hurry to get her dressed as the bus heads towards our stop

The door opens and we hustle the kids down the aisle
I pick up the boy
The husband grabs the girl's hand
I left the door open for you calls the drive from the front
Thank you I say as we step onto the sidewalk
And begin our walk home

Bundled

2010-11-27T12:08:00.000-05:00

The snow whipped through the air before falling softly to the ground. The kids and I watched it out the window. They begged to go out and play in the first snow of the season.

We dug their new snowsuits out of the upstairs cupboard. I convinced them to take off their pajamas and put on clothes before pulling on their snow pants. They agreed. Eventually.

Half an hour later we stepped out the door. Two children bundled in snow pants, snow jackets, hats, mitts and boots tottered out onto the porch and down the stairs. They exclaimed their love for the cold and the white fluff settling on their shoulders.

We dropped off a loaf of homemade bread to our neighbours and then made our way to the mailbox around the corner. Half way there the boy yelled at me to pick him up. Steps from the mailbox the kids cried as the wind tore down the street and through us. The letters were dropped quickly into the mailbox and we headed home, complaints being uttered by everyone four and under.

At the corner of our street the girl changed her mind. She wanted to go play in the empty tennis court. We ran back and forth across the snow covered court and watched our foot prints appear like magic. We tramped out letters and numbers and shapes.

We headed home to the promise of hot chocolate.

Onion rings

2010-11-25T20:31:00.000-05:00

The husband stood beside the stove, poised over the cutting board to chop up the ginger that would be tossed into the hot oil sizzling in the pan. He was on the precipice of dinner, and I pulled him back.

Can we order in? I asked, finally telling him about the late afternoon that made the loveliness of the rest of the day disappear in a haze of tears. The boy cried for fifteen minutes before the teenager who was coming to play with the kids showed up at the door. Mommy no go he sobbed as he clutched my chest, fingers entwined in my shirt just in case I tried to set him down. I thought I should prepare them that I planned to sneak out to run a few errands. My mistake. When the teen showed up the boy became hysterical. Lacking the energy to deal with a crying child and a sixteen year old boy unsure of how to deal with a crying child, I sent the teenager home. My boy cried for another 15 minutes while he sat on my lap, my free arm around the girl's shoulders.

The boy would likely be disapointed to know that all his hysterics did was convince me of the importance of leaving him with a babysitter every once in awhile. Now I just need to find someone capable of listening to Mommy no go on repeat while watching tears stream down his angelic face. I am hoeful that I already have a lead.

Dinner was the perfect antidote to the afternoon. The four of us sat happily around the table eating our take-out veggie burgers and sides from the joint down the street. The girl ate all her pickle. Both kids drank all the chocolate milkshake we poured into their child sized cups.

That's an onion ring I told the girl when she picked up the foreign looking circle of fried goodness. An onion ring? she asked. Is there onion in it? Yes I told her. Did you know that when I was a little girl I would go and get onion rings and root beer in a frosted cup after dance class on Saturdays? On Saturdays? she wanted to know. Not on Sundays. No, I answered, not on Sundays.

The girl twirled the onion ring on her finger. Around and around. She took a bite and then spat it out onto the table. I watched as she freed the onion piece from the batter, licked it and then surreptitiously dropped it to the floor. Biting into the batter she finally raised her head. Mmm, onions rings are good she said to me. Thank you for this amazing dinner.

Howl

2010-11-24T09:26:00.001-05:00

He sits in the middle of the hallway and cries. Big tears that seems to be endless. The front door has just shut behind his dad and sister on their way to the school bus drop off. He wants to go too.

I sit him on my lap and hold him tight. Dad asked you if you wanted to go and you said no I told him. Next time if you want to go you have to say yes. Then you'll be ready in time. That makes him cry even harder.

I start to cry too. Loud, exaggerated howling sobs that echo his. He stops for a moment to look at me. Then he laughs. He laughs as I continue to wail, a smile on my face. I am determined to outdo him.

We are quiet for a few minutes, sitting together under a warm blanket. Then he remembers the injustice of it all and his cries start again. So do mine.

Elsewhere

2010-11-22T19:49:00.000-05:00

I am very excited to have one of my blog posts syndicated at BlogHer. The post Once upon a time can be read on the BlogHer site, as can many other fabulous posts by women bloggers.

Her and I

2010-11-22T18:30:00.000-05:00

We arrive late. With the last of the stragglers we scurry to find a seat. I try up near the front on the right but there is no room, so I herd her around to the other side of the stage. There I squeeze us into two seats on the floor. She has to arch her head to see the performers at the front of the room. She doesn't seem to mind.

She watches the actors as they move about and dance and sing. Every so often she turns to me, her nose scrunched up and smiles her happy grin.

She decides she wants to be closer and so she walks over the legs of other parents and around those seated on the floor until she is at the front of the room where dozens of kids sit cross legged watching the show. She finds a spot and sits at the back. She turns to wave at me. I wave back.

Every so often she stands up to get a better view of the actors lying on the ground. She doesn't want to miss anything. I wait until she checks that I am watching her and then motion to her to sit back down. She does.

When the show ends I drag her over to say hi to some friends, but she has no interest in that. She has no interest in the crafts or activities on offer for kids in the lobby. None at all. The show is over and now she is ready for the next adventure.

*

It's a long walk and I am cold by the time we arrive. I welcome the warmth of the building as we enter through the front door. I would be happy to stand there and soak it all in but the girl is already off, and I follow after her.

She weaves around people and tables piled high with crafts. I remind her to look with her eyes and not to touch. I think she hears me but she doesn't acknowledge my words. She keeps going until she sees the table of cookies being sold by some kids. That stops her.

I promise her a cookie after we have eaten. This is my favorite craft show of the season, in part because of the large quantity of free vegetarian food on offer. We load up our plates and head back to the room with the tables covered in plastic tablecloths. The girl tries a bit of everything but it is too spicy for her liking. While I savor it all, she eats three dill pickles. And then her cookie.

When we are done eating we wander the narrow aisles between the tables. She wants to touch everything. The little Santas. The porcelain plates. The vintage rings. I want to stop and look but she moves fast. She skirts from table to table until she has seen them all.

We play outside on the giant playstructure that she doesn't want to leave until our friends arrive. I manage to convince her to head back in. I watch the girl and her friend climb and play and amuse themselves while my friend shops. They play together so nicely. Only once do I have to step in and ask them to resolve their fight. Does it really matter whether or not one can talk while they are sleeping? Apparently it does.

We all walk home together. I push the two girls in my double stroller and listen to them chatter. My friend walks beside me pushing an empty stroller.

*

A day with just her and I. Long overdue. Worth the wait.

Splat

2010-11-20T15:55:00.000-05:00

Paintbrush in hand I stood in front of the small blank canvas hanging on the wall. It looked like it was waiting there for me.

I bent down to the tray of paint sitting on the white bench and dipped my brush into one of the four colours I had selected. Black, I thought, I'll start with black. My brush was twirled in the thick paint until I was satisfied and then I lifted it out with a perfectly big gob of paint dangling from the end. I took a step back. I raised my arm until the paintbrush was level with my head. I flicked my arm and watched the paint fly through the air and hit the canvas. Splat.

I did it again. And again. I dipped my brush in and out of the paints until they started to blend and create new colours I could fling against the bright canvas now hanging in front of me. Black. Pink. White. Blue. Lines and dots of colour mingling together in a random fashion.

The large rectangular canvas on the floor was there for all of us to work on. Using brushes in both hands, syringes full of watered down paint and small balloons we popped in our hands we stood above it and created. Layers upon layers of paint were laid down. All the colours you could imagine. I couldn't walk away.

The hard part of abstract expressionism is knowing when you are done said Emaly. I didn't want to ever be done. Despite the spontaneous nature of the painting, I longed to order it. All I could think when I looked at it was It needs more blue over there to balance off the the pink. And that corner needs something more. Maybe some orange. And some larger blobs of paint at the bottom would be good. And. And...

I could have stood there all night. Adding more paint. Making small changes. Adding and making and changing. Until the abstractness of it all had been rendered orderly in my mind.

*

Thanks to Emaly for hosting myself and some other Ottawa bloggers for a night of splatter painting. I think I need to do that again. Maybe every day. But not at my house. It's a little messy.

Hands

2010-11-17T13:28:00.000-05:00

I grab their hands as we leave the park. His left hand in my right. Her right hand in my left. I squeeze them tight as we cross the street.

His hand is cold. His fingers feel like little icicles despite the seasonally warm November day. It's just like my hand whenever I am outside for more then five minutes. Gloves were offered but of course he wouldn't wear them.

Her hand is warm. I am started by the heat radiating from it. She is a portable furnace, that girl, happy to run through the park in only a t-shirt while I huddle in my coat. My own hand begins to warm just from holding hers.

On the sidewalk they both let go and run ahead of me. Suddenly empty handed, I follow behind them.

Once upon a time

2010-11-15T20:35:00.000-05:00

We used to look like them. Be like them. Leaving the dark theatre they hold hands and chat about the movie. I watch as his arm goes around her waist and he pulls her close. Following them down the wide spiral staircase I wonder what they will do now. Stop at a cafe where they will linger for hours over coffee, sometimes reading and sometimes talking? Head for an early dinner at their favourite restaurant? Maybe even go their separate ways, pressing tight against each other for a long lingering kiss before making plans to see each other again soon.

We used to be like that. Once upon a time.

*

I woke up tired on Sunday. My body was tired, but my spirit was tired too. Tired of everything. The constant going and moving and never stopping. The constant demands and pleas and negotiations. Tired of all of it. The constantness of motherhood.

I want to lie in bed all day. I want to sit on the couch reading a book. I want to curl up in a chair and watch tv without worrying that it is past my bedtime and if I don't go to sleep right now I will have to function tomorrow on less then five hours of sleep. I want to be selfish. I want my life to be about me.

I have these days every once in a while. They sneak up on me out of nowhere and flatten me under their weight of longing. I try to fight them off. Tell myself to keep going, try harder, get through it. But the problem isn't my unhappiness with the life I have, it's that I suddenly and momentarily miss my old life. The life that was just about me.

*

The husband tells me to go. To go out and be alone. To take the time on this Sunday to regain my inner equilibrium. Or at least to try.

I pause and consider rejecting his offer. As much as I want it, and I do want it, guilt seeps into my thoughts before I can utter a yes. Because as much as I am tired, so is he. Because as much as I want time by myself, time away, so does he.

Okay I say and leave him to an afternoon with the kids. I sit alone in a dark room full of strangers immersing myself in the make believe lives of imaginary people. I laugh out loud. I eat too much popcorn. I ignore the world around me and focus only on the moving pictures projected high above my head. I do nothing but be.

*

I look at them and I see us the way we were. We would to go to weekend matinees. We would spend afternoons in coffee shops reading and talking. We would go for dinner in restaurants with table cloths. We would stand kissing on the street corner for all the world to see.

We used to be like that. I tell myself we will again. When the kids are older. When family comes to visit. When we find a babysitter. There will come a time when it won’t be one or the other. When the person walking out the door won’t have to ignore the guilt as they wave goodbye. When the one staying home won’t smile and wish it was their turn instead.

*

Once upon a time.

Blow

2010-11-12T13:43:00.000-05:00

Mommy blow he says holding up a quarter piece of his grilled cheese sandwich. He asks me as if the power of my breath alone can cool the hot slices of bread and melted cheese that I just removed from the fry pan. As if my exhale is more powerful then time.

But he doesn't want to wait. He wants me.

So I blow.

Lunchtime

2010-11-10T13:19:00.000-05:00

I decided to make tomato soup again for lunch. The kids wanted to help. Of course.

We all sat around the kitchen table. The boy put the onion skins in the compost bowl and the girl put the cut red onion pieces in her bowl. Until her finger started to sting and her eyes watered. Then she sat with her finger in a cup of water while she complained at length that I wouldn't let her add the onions to the pot on the stove. The boy put his finger in a cup of water in solidarity.

The soup cooked on the stove while the kids helped me make homemade fries. I cut the potatoes and they put them in their bowls. There was much stirring. With whisks.

Abandoning their posts as sou-chefs, the kids sat on the couch in the sunroom reading books while I blended the soup and poured it out into three bowls to cool. Two ladles full of soup for the kids. Three for me.

The girl ate half of the soup in her bowl. He brother sat beside her gobbling the warm fries. Slow down I said to him. Finish one before you eat another. Recognizing the wisdom of my words the boy bent over his plate and pushed three half-crewed fries out of his mouth with a flick of his tongue. Then he picked up a fresh fry, dragged it through the puddle of ketchup on his plate and jammed it into his mouth.

I scrapped the half soup/ half crouton mixture from the boy's bowl into my own. I added the girl's lukewarm leftovers and stirred it all together. The girl sat across from me writing out TOMATO on her magnetic drawing tablet. Through the open doorway I caught a glimpse of a naked meowing boy crawling down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Returning to the dining room the boy meowed pitifully at his sister from under the table until she reached down and fed him a fry. Satisfied, he meowed in thanks and continued on his way.

Hallway

2010-11-08T18:10:00.000-05:00

I wake at the same time every morning. Shortly before the boy, but still too early for the hour to be considered decent. I lie in bed staring at the dark room, trying to decide what to do. Weighing my options. Contemplating if it is worth it. Figuring out how badly I need to pee.

The bathroom is down the hall, past the room where the girl and boy sleep. Close and yet much too far away. At this hour the boy, always a light sleeper, is easily awoken. All it takes is some poorly chosen footsteps on the wooden floor boards of this old house and his day has begun. And so has ours.

Most mornings I can't resist. I pull the covers off my warm body and cringe at the cool air that surrounds me once I stand. I rub my eyes and struggle to become alert. I brace myself, cross my fingers and say a little prayer as I start down the hall.

There is a secret, discovered through trial and error, but I will share it with you. Like a rock climber scaling the craggy cliffs high above a torrental sea, you must cling to the railing for dear life. On your tip toes, place each foot snuglly against the railing, lowering it slowly. Brace your body weight on the top of the railing, distributing the weight evenly between the wodden banister and the floor. Stretch your legs as wide as possible in order to minimize the number of steps you take. Remain alert on your return journey because any cockiness can result in morning cries on the otherside on the door.

And always, always brace yourself, cross your fingers and say a little prayer.

Smile

2010-11-06T09:05:00.001-04:00

You tell me to smile and I twitch up the corners of my mouth. Not a lot, just enough. The dimple on my left cheek is barely dented. My lips are tightly pursed. Caught from the wrong angle it looks like a smirk. This is my smile.

It is a smile that folds inward onto itself and me. It is a smile that protects me from anyone watching. From engaging. And sometimes, from really feeling.

It is a reluctant smile. The one I give when I am asked or expected to smile. The one you will see when I am tired or when I reply I'm fine in answer to your question.

The smile is mine from the six years I spent hiding my braces as a teenager. When nothing seemed worth being happy about anyway. When a smile seemed like cheap currency to buy me freedom from further inspection. It served me well. I kept it.

I never thought about my smile. It just was. In moments of pure joy my smile would expand naturally until it stretched across my entire face. My lips would part slightly and a glimpse of my teeth would be visible. Then, just as suddenly, my mouth would close and my smile would return to normal. Back to a smile that didn't give away too much of me.

I am learning a new smile. I have to remember to use it. I practice it when I am told. For this smile I bare my teeth like a mare at market. All three of my dimples become concave. My mouth is wide. It feels completely unnatural to the unused muscles around my mouth, but I do it.

I like this new smile.

Thank you to Anna from Anna Epp Photography and Beach Mama for this beautiful photo. I love it.

Boy

2010-11-05T08:23:00.000-04:00

Me boy he says. Yes I reply, you are a boy. Old he tells me. Yes, you are an old boy I nod.

Which toothbrush would you like? I ask him
Boy toothbrush he says
Would you like this red spoon? I ask him.
Boy spoon he says.
Should we read this book? I ask him.
Boy book he says.
Do you want to eat an apple? I ask him.
Boy apple he says.

Whah he says, pretending to rub at his eyes. Are you crying? I ask him. Baby whah he informs me. Are you a baby? I question him as I pull him onto my lap. Me boy he corrects me. Yes, you are a boy I agree with him. But you are still my baby I think to myself.

Friends

2010-11-04T07:56:00.002-04:00

She holds the phone close against her ear even though I pressed the speaker button before I handed it to her. She climbs onto the couch next to me and stares intently at the wall as she speaks. What are you doing? she asks her friend on the other end of the line.

A high pitched voice answers back We are playing big sister, little sister.

That's crazy! giggles my girl. Who are you playing with?

We are says her friend.

Who is the big sister? the girl wants to know.

My mom! her friend squeals and I'm the little sister.

The girl giggles again, overcome with the silliness of it all. The silliness of her friend's game. The silliness of hearing her friend's voice float out of the telephone and fill up the space around us.

There was a happiness to the girl's face in that moment. It reflected the openness and excitement she felt in sharing with her friend. It looked so different from the sullen girl that sat by herself on a park bench hours later. I want to be alone she growled at her friend until her friend went off crying. Alone again, the girl lay down on the bench and looked up at the sky.

I don't want to be her friend the girl told me when I chastised her for pushing. That's not a nice thing to say I told her, feeling uncertain about the parenting territory I found myself venturing into. How would you feel if she said she didn't want to be your friend anymore?

She shrugged and looked away. I looked away too.

Later when I carried her on my hip crying and screaming out of the park because she had pushed her friend for a third time, her brother crying and screaming from his seat in the stroller because he didn't want to leave the park, I thought about friendship. The complicated intricacies of sharing toys and snacks. The new relationships and language of the school playground. The tears and heart ache that come from the friends we love the most.

Searching for Bliss

2010-11-03T08:41:00.000-04:00

It feels strange to sit for hours on end doing nothing but learning. My brain quickly overloads and I need to pour myself another coffee, maybe just one more, to make it through. People talk, I listen. People talk, I type. I think back to my school days when I would drag a pen across my notebook paper trying to write as fast as the teacher was talking. Now I type my thoughts and press send, watching as they disappear into the invisible world of Twitter. Never forgetting the hashtag.

BlissDom Canada was my second social media conference. I liked it more and less then BlogHer'10. I liked that it was small. I had a chance to meet and connect with more people then I did last August. I liked that the Canadian perspective was always present. I liked that I found myself thinking and thinking about where I am and what I want to do next.

It would be hard to top BlogHer'10. I was full of excitement and giddy to be at my first conference. I was inspired by many of the writing sessions. I was in New York City. Nothing can top New York City.

They both challenged me. I can tell that they will both change me. Already BlogHer'10 has lead me in some new directions. I have started a writing group with other local bloggers. I am exploring fiction writing. I have a better understanding of who I am as a blogger.

I learnt a lot at BlissDom. It exceeded most of my expectations and I am so glad that I went. I would need another three days away just to process all I heard. But what I wanted most from BlissDom I didn't quite get. I wanted to the answer to my question "what next?". Where do I go now? I wanted to know how to brand myself and Capital Mom. I wanted to be told how.

Maybe no one can tell me that. Maybe there is no answer. No easy one anyway. Maybe all I can do is keep stumbling along, grabbing my moments to think and write here at night when the kids are sleeping or in the afternoon when the boy has a nap. Keep trying to draw all the pieces together in my mind and figure out where I go from here.

Halloween candy

2010-11-01T20:06:00.000-04:00

Stepping off the school bus she locked onto my gaze and the first words out of her mouth were Can I have my candy? She marched into the house, dropping her coat and backpack as she walked, until she stood in the middle of the hallway. Not even waiting for me to close the door or take off my own coat she asked Can I have my candy? Considering that she had been denied the candy at breakfast she probably thought she had demonstrated outstanding patience by waiting until 10:41 am.

Yes I said. You can have your candy and handed over the lollipop, or Popsicle as she had been calling it, that I had confiscated from her that morning. I really didn't think that it would be a good idea to send her off to kindergarten hopped up on sugar. Much better that she be hopped up on sugar around me. Right?

I have no problem with sugar. I quite like sugar myself. I have even gotten over the habit of automatically halving the sugar called for in every recipe. It was a throwback to my childhood and it drove the husband crazy. If you are going to use sugar then use the sugar he would say. So now I use the sugar.

What I like is sugar in moderation. I was never a chocolate lover until I got pregnant so I could make my bag of Halloween candy last until Christmas. It always felt like a personal victory if I still had a few pieces hanging around by the New Year. By then I would have gotten some Christmas candy and my challenge became making that last until Easter.

While I may not have focused on the eating of the candy as a child, I was highly focused on collecting the candy. I liked to plan my trick-or-treat routes to optimize my candy acquisition and minimize the number of dark houses and one sided streets. Halloween is serious business. A quick treat-or-treat with a few Halloween apples thrown in to break up the rhythm and before you know it the pillow case is being dragged from house to house.

Walking the cold, dark streets last night I thought of that younger me as I watched the husband sprint to keep up with the girl and her two friends. The girl was quick like a flash as she climbed the stairs in her Snow White costume handed down from my cousins, a large tear where the skirt and bodice met attesting to the sacrifices that must be made in the name of candy. Up to the front door and down again she went as she tried to keep up with the others and they tried to keep up with her.

From half a block away I watched her and her posse cross the street to start back down the other side. I held the boy's pink mitted hand in mine, stopping to ask him if he would like to trick-or-treat at this house. Sometimes he said yes, sometimes no. Eventually I picked up my tired grey mouse and carried him in my arms, pulling the wagon he refused to sit in behind me.

Back home the boy's bag was full and the girl's was fuller. With the lateness of the hour and their collective tiredness, neither protested too much when they were only allowed one treat before bed. The girl's request to sleep with her bag of candy was refused, me imagining her waking in the middle of the night to sort through it looking for suckers, and only after the bags were tucked away in a spot deemed secure enough did the kids both head up to bed.

As she ages the girl will come to understand the wisdom of sleeping with her hard earned bag of candy. Shortly after both kids were asleep I sat on the couch picking through the bags and sorting them into keep and giveaway piles. Some for them, some for me. I mean, some for them, some for the husband to take to work. I did leave the kids a bit of everything in equal numbers. This morning I found myself wishing I had left them even less.

When not having to deal with the girl's constant question of Can I have my candy?, I had to listen to her asking when she can have another one. The lollipop I handed her in the front hallway was quickly devoured, as was the chocolate bar the boy chose. When I asked him where his candy was he opened his mouth to show me the entire bar he had fit in his mouth and was happily chewing on.

I said No more. I was going to be firm. Then the girl found a lollipop on the floor. Before I noticed she was hiding under a blanket on the couch clutching the lollipop tightly in her grip. I decided I couldn't face the physical fight needed to free it from her grasp. She said she wouldn't eat it but every so often I would hear rustling sounds. When I saw she was carefully peeling back one corner to lick it, I caved and told her she could have it after she ate her lunch. She was pleased. After she ate it she started asking for more.

Bringing candy into the house is complicated, especially when neither of the kids are used to it. The boy isn't as interested, but I am pretty sure the girl would sit happily on the floor and work her way through her entire bag. And I would live in fear of a repeat of last year the entire time.

Halloween treats do have their usefulness. By mid-afternoon I was desperate to lie down and close my eyes. I grabbed two small bags of chips on the way up the stairs and sent the kids to eat them in the playroom. I crawled underneath the covers in my warm bed and spent a blissful two minutes doing nothing but listening to the loud crunching sounds from down the hallway. Eyes closed, I said a quick Halloween thank you as I heard their feet come pounding towards me and then any other thoughts were lost as I tried to defend myself against the onslaught of little bodies climbing on top of mine.

Return

2010-10-30T22:45:00.003-04:00

Squatting down in front of my open purse I rifle through the papers and business cards and the rest of the jumbled mess that I carry with me everywhere I go, looking for my keys. The wooden porch boards around me are already littered with books and my laptop. I pick up the purse and shake it, listening for that familiar jingle jingle sound but I already know that as much as I look I won't find them. My keys are somewhere on the other side of the locked door.

I consider lugging my suitcase and two bags down to the corner coffee shop, but the light rain stops me. Instead I decide to stay here. How long can they be? I wonder even as I admit to myself that they aren't expecting me. Turning away from the street to gather up my scattered belongings, I catch a glimpse of a grey rain coat out of the corner of my eye. I straighten and run down the steps just as the double stroller turns into our walk way.

Hi! I yell excitedly. The husband starts. The girl whips open the stroller cover and climbs out before her dad has even stopped walking. Launching herself at me from the edge of the stroller, I catch her in my arms and twirl her onto the third step of the stairs. I lift the surprised boy out from the depths of the stroller and hug him before placing him at the top of the stairs. I smile at them both. Then the girl demands to know what I have brought her and we herd them inside the house before the entire contents of my luggage are dumped out in search of whatever it is she considers to be a good present.

Sitting on the couch later, I marvel that the children that had seemed so small and young only hours ago have grown exponentially in front of my eyes. The growth in size and abilities seems to be directly correlated to the amount of noise they have made non stop since my return home. I remind myself that they are just excited to see me and that once the novelty of my return wears off they will settle down. And then I remind myself that these are my children and so no, they won't.

I find myself longing for a little bit more of what I had these last few days. Not the learning or the awesome swag or even the great friends. I find myself thinking about the queen sized bed that I sorely neglected by only using it for sleep. I tell myself that the next time I go away I will lie in the bed for hours, doing nothing but staring at the ceiling and listening to the silence.

If a blog falls in a forest?

2010-10-28T13:33:00.004-04:00

This is a live blogging transcript from the Blissdom Canada session If a blog falls in the forest? How to get your blog to make a sound

Annie @PHDinParenting
Heather Greenwood Davis @greenwooddavis
Aidan Morgan @palinode
Amy Urquhart @heartstohome
Emma Waverman @emmawaverman

Annie: Will share the secrets of blogging. It is a s simple as this: like encountering a mountain lion in forest, there is no guarantee. We can give you tips. Advantage with blogging you can try things out. It is okay to fail.

Will go through the anatomy of the blog post. Titles, comments, etc.

Titles. Should I be clever or literal? People want to be cleaver, don't know if it will work with SEO. Different titles will work with different situations. She gives examples of her posts about co-sleeping. How to title it depends on what you are trying to do. First post about co-sleeping used title in response to news. First time people found her blog other then her sister because Annie used same words as news. It was top 4 search on Google.

Also wanted a longer-term post, not news specif search so wrote more general, short title. Did key word research first with Google trends. Her post now top ranked for co-sleeping safety. Above Dr. Sears. Because of words in title, not necessarily content in post.

Post with numbers was great for Twitter. A post got a lot of traffic because numbers caught people's attention.

Body of post, If you are a gifted writer, just go and write. If you struggle with writing, keep it under 500 words. It will force you to stay on point, keep people interested. Structure it and use subtitles. Annie's posts are long. She used subtitles and structure. Helps keep people engaged. For SEO use key words in first paragraph and bold them.

A picture tells a thousand words. Didn't use pictures at first. Annie now tries to add pictures to every post. Make sit more visually appealing. She shares posts to Facebook and it grabs pictures. She loves to grab pictures from Flicker.

Internet loves lists. Two top posts are lists. Highest ranked posts, people share. Other post may be better written but people love lists.

Different styles for posts, storytellers (non-fiction and fiction), prose or poetry. Sometimes telling a story to tell a story, sometimes to get a point across. Advocates will blog to get a point across (Annie's blog). Artists use video, writing, drawing. There are comedians (ex the Bloggess). Informative posts are presenting info on a topics, lists of links or sharing other posts.

Regardless of style, you want to make people think. Annie loves to go away and think about a post. Making people think generates discussions.

Tags or categories. Categories are lists of main things you write about. People can search topics. Tags are keywords are individual posts. LinkWithin is a fun plug in that shows users related posts that they might be interested in on similar topics.

If you want comments on your blog, don't just hope they come. Invite people to comment. Ask a question or their experience. People love to share their own experiences. Ask for advice on something. This is going to get comments from own community. Annie also likes to respond to comments in post. Comment in on what they said. If it is someone new you want to engage them, invite them into community. Comment on other people's blogs. Seek out new blogs and leave comments. When Annie started she left comments on other people's blogs. the more real your comment the more people will engage.

Thread your comments. Annie won't comment if she can't engage an earlier comment, she doesn't want to be lost later in the comments. Have the conversation keep going.

Don't poke the trolls. Sometimes it is fun. Annie will sometimes poke the trolls. If she doesn't reply other readers will, so Annie will comment but not engage.

Q: would you delete the comment
A: No. I would leave it but not engage it. Never know who comment is from.
Emma: a professional troll will repost if you take comment down. They will come back
Aidan: A troll said he will never come back to post again. I deleted comment and asked if he was still there and he came back. Kept doing it!

Annie: I like to track IP address of trolls. :)

Trackbacks are links from someone else's blog to your site. They are great. Annie likes to link to other people's stuff too. Try to link to her readers to build community. Sometimes blog will catch trackback, but also use alters or other tools. Radian6 is $500 a month so use it professionally.

Some people put them after comments, some before. Some people don't approve trackbacks because they are linkbait, the post against you but you are giving it prominence.

For SEO - write good stuff. Write often. Scott (@unmarketing) said only write when you are passionate, but you may want to write more if you are only passionate 2 a year.
Use words that people search for at beginning on post.

Sharing the love. Get words out once you have a blog. People won't read it if you don't tell them. RSS readers will know, but they might not get around to reading it. Annie reads most stuff from Twitter. Use Facebook because lots of people on Facebook hat not on Twitter. Link to older posts on Facebook for new followers. Use Digg, Stuble and Reddit to share your content and others. Have a share button. Use blog carnivals to get blog out based on interest, they write post about same topic.

Don't spam others that have written posts on same topic or @ people on Twitter with lots of followers. Don't steal other people's contents - take a snippet and link back, but don't take a whole post. Don't be a jerk. Be civil. Be authentic and transparent. Be yourself. Have fun!

That is the presentation. Now panel discussion around content.

Q: What is your best post? Lots of different ways of defining best post.
Heather : I like post What matters most. Got a call from child's school and worried something terrible had happened. Everything was fine but in that moment realized I would drop everything to go. Wrote it for me. A moment of realizing what was important to me. Posts like that get tremendous reaction.
Aidan: Different criteria. Know which post is most popular because Dooce linked to it. Wife called me because of stats. My 10 am stats were at 10,000 already. Post was about direct mail that said for 57 cents you can feed an old Jew. Wrote about it because I thought it was bazaar. People start coming and telling me how evil I am. I wasn't nasty in post, I just thought it was strange. Most popular but not best post. My favorite post was Insulting the Elements. Insulted all elements in period table. It took awhile. Hard to find characteristics about all elements. in doing this post, realized it was what I wanted to do with blog: tell stories in unorthodox way.
Amy: Post that most spoke to readers was a satire of Martha Stuart. Had magazine on coffee table and on cover Martha looked like a picture of me on couch in pjs. Post was satire on Martha magazine cover. Made up own magazine. Struck a note with people. Other post was called Breast was Best about switching son to formula. Proud of post because she was afraid to publish it but she did.
Emma: Best not always most popular. Top number posts are about sex or mom against mom. Some favorite posts don't get comments. One post was about how hard it is for kids to understand difference between reality and fiction. Bets posts are often written about you. Most popular post is We are a Naked Family.
Annie: 10 reasons we don't do cry it out most popular post. Best posts are ones about feelings, moms, passion. They are the ones that just flow out.

Annie: Want to talk about where people get ideas for posts.
Emma: I am a content whore. 260 posts in last year. (laughs) Don't remember them all. Get my ideas Best ideas are looking around universe, avoiding momesphere because someone else will already have written it better. I find topics, editors send me stuff.
Amy: I get ideas from comments readers have left. Jumping off point for another post. Get posts from photographs, the story around photo.
Aidan: I get my ideas from direct mail. Also blog professionally at MamaPop.com. With deadlines, trending topics on Twitter give good ideas. Hard work is finding something interesting to say about topic. Ideas come and find me and don't leave me alone.
Heather: Ideas from all other the place. Kids. Questions about how to deal with something.
Annie: A post asking for questions was a great way to generate ideas. A series about quotes from books or other posts and write around that.

Q: How much personal info to share?
Annie: I use different names for the kids, do use their pictures. Don't want it to be really easy for people to find us. Different names for professional and personal blogging.
Heather: Have been writing family travel for awhile, son is in Toronto Star today. Did backs of heads, kept them out there, but getting more comfortable with it. Don't blog personal things about relationship with husband. Do do photos.
Emma: Do use pseudonyms. Son is 11. A lot of mommy bloggers stop blogging about kids once they hit 10 or so because it is there stories not mine.
Annie: Protecting them from what might happen in future
Amy: Decided to assume everyone is reading me. With new URL used real name and it was a conscious choice. I am accountable for my words. Know what what I say is acceptable to people in my life. Do post photos of son, real name. There is potential to use image as way for parents to teach children about responsible online presence. If you start process with images in responsible way, maybe kids can pick up on that.

Q: Any experience with something in personal life move over to professional life.
Annie: Experience of an ex-client following her on Twitter. DMed her once she figured they were on same page and now great friends.
Amy: Have had supervisor come across blog. Would rather know that people are reading it by having them leave comments.
Annie: One person had a picture of her wearing nothing but a quaker box, and maybe she didn't get jobs because of it but the job she had knew about it and they were fine with it.
Aidan: No matter how much personal info you share on blog, someone will call you a monster one day. You will have arrived.
Heather: Be aware of protecting the rest of your family too, not just kids.

Annie: What do you need to consider about blogging professionally vs personally? With a client she is more cautious writing for someone else.
Emma: My distinctive voice is my strength. Don't have a personally blog, let it all out on msl blog. Sometimes I can't mention other companies. Keep in mind who you are writing for. Sometimes I don't have juice left over for guest post.
Aidan: For professional blog you are sometimes asked because the person like your personal blog. Ironing out voice for a professional blog is a mistake. They wanted me talking about them (client). What they want is your voice, your unique style. Look carefully at writing in professional blog (links work, editing. I got all links wrong and client not happy.
Annie: Can be hard if you don't get to edit professional posts.
Aidan: Check the post after it is published. Check links.

Q: Video.
Aidan: Don't know anything about video but I do it. Writing blogs can be hard but reading blogs can be hard. My reader is full. Sometimes I don't want to read, I want to look at images, video. The cheaper and easier it becomes, the easier it is to make and consume video. I do video for MamaPop.com. I started doing it because no one was doing it. Became biweekly. When I started I was terrible but it was practice. Can use a flip. Most cameras have good video. Don't be afraid to use own face. We all have interesting and beautiful faces, even the AV guy in the back.

Annie: My only word of caution is that not everyone has broadband high speed Internet in Canada. There is huge demand. Video this morning I would watching, Nummies Bras video.
Aidan: Not everyone has access. Still on ground floor of content. In 10 years see increase in video.
Heather: Don't do video now, will use it on trip. Would prefer not too. There is a reason I did print and not tv.

Q: Any post you wish you have never written?
Emma: I don't think so. Every day there is something I want to say. Sometimes I wish I had been more or less judgemental.
Amy: If feeling uncertain about a post I leave it in draft and then come back to it. No posts, but maybe some tweets. But you would have to dig to find those tweets. Stick it in draft and come back.
Aidan: One post I regretted. I made fun of a name, like nails on chalkboard. Kyle. Wrote about it. And 3rd comment was "Not funny, Kyle". Felt like it wasn't funny.
Heather: No regrets, but once I wrote about son Kyle (laughing) I don't hit publish until I am really certain.
Annie: No posts, but parts of post. Those bits where the comments focus on that. I wish I could take them off.

End of panel. Questions open to floor.

Q: Do any of you have secret blog?
Emma: I can't keep secrets.
Aidan: I have a blog that no one reads.
Annie: Someone told me I should. Have thought about a secret password protected blog for input of community that isn't open to public.
Heather: Will have a password protected blog for trip so kids can post too.
Amy: I don't but maybe it is something worth pursuing. I can do that with a pen and paper.
Aidan: Don't count on a secret blog staying secret.

Q: How do you think Twitter had impacted blogging
Annie: Twitter is essential to my blog. On day absent from Twitter, my traffic is way down. Not because I'm not linking, people see your presence and more likely to go visit your blog. Twitter is essential to community.
Emma: Friend said blogging is dead. Without twitter you don't know what is out there. If you want to blog you need to be on Twitter.
Amy: it is a vital tool to maintaining community. I don't link to myself, because can seem spamming. New posts will be tweeted once.
Aidan: Twitter a valuable tool. Have to tweet professional blog. Hurt personally blog because I can get joke out right away. Don't want to rewrite it on blog.
Annie: I have written posts to explain tweets.
Heather: I love Twitter. I wouldn't have started blogging if not for Twitter.

Aidan: Question for Heather. You have a recent blog. What made you decide to start blogging when you wonder how relevant they are.
Heather: My blog designed around trip. I hope people are interested in this too. I wanted to share with others.

Annie: Forgot question. Why did you decide to blog?
Aidan: Boredom in my job. Stated a blog after reading others. Use it to keep writing.

Q: How to get people to comment on blog and not Twitter.
Annie: Do you ask questions on posts?
Amy: Keep leaving comments on other people's blogs and then make it easy to leave a comment. It can take time to build relationships.

Q: Did anyone had issues with families and friends about your blogging?
Annie: Don't write about family or friends unless I have permission. I don't share stories of others. Maybe sure other person ok with that. Have asked permission to share stories of friends.
Emma: I take poetic licence. I sometimes change relationships. Your family has to know that when you write a personal blog your family become characters. My husband has become with that.
Amy: Could vent about certain people, but I don't do that online. Not willing to take that risk. I assume family reads my blog so I don't tell those stories.
Heather: Husband is but of joke on blog today, but if he is in post he gets to read it and veto it. Same with parents. Once wrote post my mother was horrified with, so she gets to read about it.
Aidan: As far as the Internet is concerned my wife and I are just characters on each other's blogs. Relationship is based on making fun of each other. When writing personal blog you are a storyteller first, you can make a little but up and still tell the truth.
Annie: Don't ever say anything online you wouldn't say in person with your mother standing next to you.

Question about growing professional blog.
Annie: Don't ask bloggers to write for your blog for free. Bloggers starting to get upset being asked to write for free. Talk to people and engage them in conversation.

Emma: If you are starting a blog Twitter is your best friend. Personalise who you are and people will come to you.
Heather: Write in print media and have gotten lots of stories from Twitter.
Annie: Have to wrap things up. Thank you.

Thank you to the speakers. Any errors are mine.

Whispers

2010-10-27T07:55:00.001-04:00

She presses her mouth against my ear and speaks in what she thinks is a whisper. She says something, anything, about what she wants or what she doesn't like. I feel her breath trickle into me. It makes me shudder and I laugh.

He wants a turn too. He leans towards my ear and mumbles nonsense. Abababba, he whispers even though he is perfectly capable of speaking words I will understand. But whispering is something special and so he creates his words from nothing. All so he can breathe them into my ear.

Back of the bus

2010-10-26T12:34:00.004-04:00

When the bus pulls up in front of our house the boy and I are there waiting. We have spent the last few minutes jumping and twirling and looking for the bus. Until there it is.

The bus stops and the door opens while I scan the faces staring back at me. I finally spot her through the window standing on the seat in the very last row. The bus door stays open but she doesn't move. She is wedged in the corner by her two friends and they are slow to let her out. They are too busy yelling hello to me.

I yell hello back and wave and wave at all the kids as they wave at me. When the girl appears her coat is zipped open and she is clutching her mitts in one hand. She takes her time walking down the stairs and away from the bus, stopping only to say goodbye.

Sunday

2010-10-24T21:22:00.001-04:00

I stood in the kitchen of a friend's house cutting vegetables and wondering when it was that I became the adult. She ran around the house, weaving in and out between the grownup legs. I remember when that was me.

In the middle of the music and the singing our eyes locked. She smiled at me, with her mouth, with her eyes. She shone her joy out from the centre of her heart and I felt it across the room. She turned away to resume her dancing and left the smile on my face.

Before dinner I sat on the couch, a sick boy cuddled in my arms. He moved aside the top of my shirt so he could lay his fevered head against my skin. I wrapped him tighter in the blanket and pulled the girl in closer beside me.

Travel companions

2010-10-21T17:52:00.001-04:00

I left the gas station convenience store clutching a small bag of chips, a bag of pretzels and a root beer. Heading back to the car I started to feel optimistic. This was sure to make me feel better.

I climbed back into the front seat and we drove off. I felt guilty about the last stop knowing it was late and we were all eager to finish our long drive. The two in the back seat closed their eyes and rested quietly while the car weaved around the trucks driving with us on the highway.

It had been her idea to try the chips. At our second stop, she suggested I eat whatever caught my eye. It's what your body wants she said. So I stood morosely along the snack aisles, peeking out from under the hood of my sweatshirt that was pulled low over my head. Nervous to try anything, but still desperately hungry.

Finally, I selected a bag of Old Dutch potato chips, like any loyal ex-Winnipegger should. Settled back in the front seat I opened the bag cautiously. Soon I was licking the salt off each chip and devouring them quickly. When I found myself eyeing her bottle of pop sitting in the front seat cup holder near me I knew another stop was necessary. All in the name of me not throwing up in the car, of course.

The mistake I made was eating as soon as we started driving away from the hotel. My body was exhausted after a busy day and little sleep the night before. Even the make-up I had done at the conference, while making me almost unrecognizable to myself, could not hide my blood shot eyes. My body didn't like being so tired. It didn't like the food. It didn't like the turning and starting and stopping as we made our way slowly out of Toronto.

We had to make our first stop at a coffee shop just outside the city so I could try to relieve the car sickness somewhere other then the nice, clean car. It was a blessing and curse when I was unsuccessful. I threw up enough when I was pregnant with the boy that I am reluctant and bitter about ever having to do it again.

When the nausea overtook me I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the girl. I opened my car window and snuggled into her pillow, willing myself not to throw up. I resolved to bring the girl's chewable Gravol with me on my next car trip.

Most of all I resolved to always travel with such kind, understand and caring travel companions. Thanks.

Lego man

2010-10-18T20:42:00.000-04:00

Grr says the Lego man from where he lies on the dirty kitchen counter beside the sink. Or that is what I imagine he would say if he could talk. The scowl on his face suggests he was ripped from the middle of a tense encounter, maybe with some cowboys or vikings, and tossed onto the counter in passing. His brows are furrowed. His frown is barely visible from underneath his large moustache. He is cranky.

I know just how he feels.

I spent over an hour this morning cleaning the main floor while the girl was at school and the boy amused himself. And by that I mean he stayed one step ahead of me by creating new messes for me to clean up. I tidied, I organized, I vacuumed. My house is almost clean. I am sure it looks like yours at its messiest.

I can't keep up. Most of the time I don't bother. Some days I just can't face being Sisyphus one more minute longer. So I let the stickers stay stuck to the floor. The walls aren't wiped free of crayon. The toys aren't picked up. The laundry isn't put away. The table isn't wiped clean.

My boulder stays at the bottom on the hill. And I sit on top of it going Grr just like the Lego man.

Ranch hand

2010-10-17T21:40:00.000-04:00

She sat on the pony's back with both hands gripping the horn at the front of the saddle and a grin plastered on her face as she was lead around the muddy track. She wasn't afraid. She was eager for her turn and each time she dismounted she went straight back to the end of the line. Four times she was lead around the track by a teenager that was as patient as the girl was excited.

A purple riding helmet perched on the top of her head, a touch too small. The red rain boots I had bought that morning at a consignment sale and pulled from the trunk once I realized that the mud would easily win the battle against her white running shoes, matched her red ruffled long sleeve shirt perfectly. Her blue jeans completed the ranch hand look.

She looks like she should be in National Velvet a mom said to me. She did. She looked comfortable and at ease riding on the ponies. Suddenly I had visions of weekends spent with her in the stables or watching her ride horses across great open fields.

Then I was too busy trying to make sure she didn't step on one of the tiny piglets running frantically around the barn stall when six 4 and 5 year old invaded or hovering nearby as she clutched a small and delicate kitten to her chest, to think any more about horses. I did think about how nice it was to have an afternoon together, even if we were surrounded by the rest of the birthday party. I thought about how glad I was that she hadn't been car sick on the way to the party. I crossed my fingers that she would make it home still looking like a ranch hand.

Reflection

2010-10-15T11:12:00.001-04:00

I can see me in your eyes she said to me as we snuggled under the covers in my bed. It was true. Her face was reflected in my blue eyes as she started intently at me, her face inches from mine. I can see me too I said as I leaned closer to her. Our noses almost touched. We watched each other.

I breathed it in.

Don't move she said as she tried to poke the reflection of herself. Don't poke my eye! I shrieked quietly, worried about waking the boy asleep in the next room. I pulled my head back but her index finger pursued my left eyeball until she made contact. Satisfied, she dropped her hand onto the top of the covers. Irritated, I sighed.

We cuddled for a moment longer, my arms wrapped around her, and then we headed downstairs.

Notes

2010-10-14T12:25:00.000-04:00

Things are getting better the further away we get from September. My equilibrium is slowly being restored with every boring routine day that passes. I love boring, routine days.

A note home from the teacher yesterday caught me off guard. Notes home make me feel like the girl is perceived to be a bad kid and me a bad parent. The reason for the note sure didn't make her look good. To my surprise the girl had bitten a boy in her class while they sat together for circle time. The girl is not a biter so this came as a shock. In her note the teacher mentioned the girl had said she was pretending. When the husband asked her that evening, she said again that she was pretending. Pretending that the boy was a piece of bread.

I almost laughed out loud at that. She once gave a not too different explanation as to why she had bitten her brother.

Maybe I am just feeling the change in the seasons and the decrease in light, but I am tired. Tiredness combined with the note home titled my equilibrium yesterday and resulted in a lot of yelling. And by a lot I mean more then normal which is none.

Today the rain is causing me to think about last winter. It was long. It was hard. I ate a lot of cupcakes.

I am hoping this winter will be easier. Because despite my earlier assertions and the fact that I sometimes have to stop and wonder if I am crazy, I will be home again with the kids this winter. If nothing else my folly at somehow becoming, and choosing to be, a stay-at-home mom is reason enough to make me smile today.

Pie

2010-10-11T20:58:00.002-04:00

She asked for a piece, just like she did last night. Because it is a treat. Because it is special. Because it is pie.

I watched her closely. I started at her as the forkful of pumpkin pie disappeared into her mouth. Immediately a smile appeared on her face. A big smile. A determined smile. The grin stayed plastered in place as the rest of her face contorted in disgust. Her nose wrinkled. Her forehead frowned. Her eyes betrayed her desire to spit out the foul tasting orange coloured "food".

She didn't. Instead I watched her as she moved the pie around in her mouth. Back and forth. Side to side. Swallowing as soon as a piece was small enough.

Smiling all the time. But refusing a second bite.

Peas

2010-10-09T13:28:00.002-04:00

Sitting beside the girl at the dining room table I started thinking about traditions as I spooned peas and carrots off of her plate and into my mouth. She had pushed the plate away to focus her attention on her grilled cheese sandwich. It was Friday night. This was dinner.

I don't remember a lot of family traditions growing up. Things that we would do year after year. Things that I just assumed would happen.

What I do remember involves food. It was a tradition to have homemade tomato soup and Yorkshire pudding, and roast beef too but even back then I spurned meat, for supper when eating at the formal dinning room table in the house of my maternal grandparents. It was tradition to sit on the yellowish floral couch underneath painted portraits of my aunts in the living room of my paternal grandparents eating peas and mashed potatoes off of a TV tray while watching Little House on the Prairie on Sunday evenings.

These memories might not be of actual traditions, but they felt like traditions to me because they were what I most looked forward to. They are what stay with me. They evoke feelings of comfort.

We don't have a lot of traditions in our small family, but I am trying to make some. Every holiday I talk to the husband about what traditions we should have. Should we have special food? Should we do a special activity? How can we teach the kids to mark and celebrate these events?

I am thinking about all this because Thanksgiving is coming. Yesterday the girl sang me a song she learnt at school about Thanksgiving. The turkey ran away before dinner she sang and I laughed. What was going to happen to the turkey? I asked. They were going to eat it, she said, but we don't eat turkeys. That's right I replied. Because we are vegetarian ,she continued, we talked about that at school.

There won't be the traditional meal of turkey and stuffing laid on our table on Sunday. There won't be any extended family clustered around. It will just be the four of us. Eating homemade macaroni and cheese with pumpkin pie for dessert. Because these are the foods we like. These were the foods requested.

I ate the girl's peas and carrots off her plate as I thought about all this. Then the girl started to sing the awesome song about her dad and it hit me. Whatever we have may not look like traditions from the outside, but they are. They are ours and that makes them tradition.

Good dad

2010-10-08T10:13:00.000-04:00

I am a good mom because of him.

He listens to me when I struggle, he reassures me when I think I am failing, he praises the way I care for the kids. He walks in the door at 5pm and takes over so I can sneak off for a few moments to myself. He engages them, he plays with them, he cares for them. He loves them.

By being a good dad, he makes it easier for me to be a good mom.

I am a good mom because of him.

Late

2010-10-07T08:04:00.000-04:00

I have been going to bed too late. When the little hand on the clock hits ten I always tell myself time for bed. But I don't move. Instead I sit there while the big hand moves its way around the clock. Each night it is getting a bit later. Five after, ten after, fifteen.

When I wake up in the morning it is an effort to drag myself out of bed. I'm tired.

Still, that time is mine. I can't give it up.

Kids in Cowtown

2010-10-06T20:11:00.000-04:00

When I'm not here it is because I am busy over at Kids in the Capital. And things have been busy. We are getting ready to launch a redesigned blog with a fabulous new logo and look. Really, just looking at the new homepage makes me smile. And feel proud.

I am also really excited to have just helped launch a new Calgary parenting blog called Kids in Cowtown. It's Kids in the Capital but, you know, in a different city. Kids in Cowtown is being run by a great mom (and ex-Winnipeger) Danielle. I am sure that it will be just as well received by parents there as Kids in the Capital is by Ottawa parents.

If you live in Calgary or have friends or family that live there, make sure you visit for lots of great ideas of fun things to do with kids in that city!

Dat bus

2010-10-05T12:31:00.000-04:00

We sit beside each other on the bus stop bench. Just waiting. We are always early, so worried am I that we will be late. So we wait.

Is that your sister's bus? I ask him pointing at a car as it drives past us. No! he shrieks as if I have said the funniest thing he has ever heard. Is that your sister's bus? I say about the bike heading down a cross street. No! he yells.

Dat bus? he asks me pointing to a truck coming down the road, a pleased smile on his face. No! I laugh, as if what he has said is the funniest thing I have ever heard.

We sit and wait and pretend to see the girl's bus. Until we actually do see it, and then we stand and wave. Waiting for her just a little bit longer.

Couch

2010-10-03T17:36:00.000-04:00

She is tired so she leans into me. She rests her head on my shoulder. I stretch my right arm around her and pull her closer. She snuggles in and continues to read the book open on her lap.

The boy sees us. He climbs up onto the couch and settles in on my left. He motions angrily at me until I tuck the wool blanket around him too. He picks up a book to read.

We sit like that, all together, until the husband calls us to dinner.

Say it

2010-10-02T16:50:00.000-04:00

Say it out loud.
Tell me I am not alone.
Admit it.
I want to hear it.
This is hard.
It's not just me.
Say it.
Please.

September

2010-10-01T07:57:00.000-04:00

September was hard
From start to finish
It wore me down
Bit by bit
I'm glad it's finally over
Now to put myself back together
October better not suck too

Set of three

2010-09-29T22:26:00.000-04:00

She pulls the white envelope out of her backpack on the walk home from the school bus. Look she says. She flaps the envelop in the air while I try to grab it. I herd the kids up the stairs and into the house while simultaneously peeking at the pictures stuck to the back of the envelope. Her first school pictures.

In each one she smiles. Wearing a white shirt against a blue background, we had forgotten it was picture day, she smiles. Each of her smiles are different.

In the first picture her smile is tentative. It looks a bit forced, as if she is unsure why she is sitting in the gym in front of a strange lady and being asked to smile. She relaxes in the second picture. Learning forward, she looks directly into the camera and smiles sweetly. In the third picture she sticks her neck out, tilting her head slightly to her left and the cheeky grin she wears on her face is mirrored in her eyes.

That's my girl.

Bribe

2010-09-28T14:02:00.000-04:00

When she got off the bus there were no tears. I didn't cry she said. Yay I said. I wanted to ask more but she was distracted by the dogs waiting at the bus stop with us. She pet them and they licked her. Everyone was thrilled.

We walked home. I went to drop off the boy's push car on the porch and when she saw me she yelled. I want to go to the restaurant! she hollered. She had not forgotten the promise I had made her yesterday. No crying at school or on the bus and we can go to the diner for lunch I had told her, not really believing that the bribe I was offering would work.

It did.

The three of us sat in a booth. She ate her grilled cheese sandwich and he ate his mac and cheese. Much milk was spilt. A large tip was left for the server.

I cried in the playground she said to me on the way home. What? I asked. You cried before school started in the playground? Yes she said, happy to be truthful now that her stomach was full.

I didn't care. There may have been some tears, there may still be tears, but having her get off the bus with a smile instead of tears was worth the price of a grilled cheese sandwich.

Crying and throw up

2010-09-27T21:49:00.000-04:00

The girl came home crying from school. She doesn't want to go. She wants to stay with us.

The crying started before she left her class. She cried on the bus. She cried in my arms.

I'm not scared of the bus she said I'm scared of school.

I feel caught between not knowing how to help her and like her difficulty adjusting is somehow my fault. Like we made some mistake along the way raising her. And then I think, is this really such a big deal? Aren't all kids having trouble adjusting to school for the first time?

She was fine this afternoon. Happy. Her normal self. Which was a good thing because her brother suddenly got sick and spent the afternoon throwing up.

Tomorrow we will wake up and do it all again.

Haircut

2010-09-26T19:27:00.000-04:00

On Friday I cut the kids' hair. That's right. I didn't take them to have their haircut, I did it myself. Last time we went to a hair salon and there were too many tears.

Don't look so worried! It turned out great. I trimmed the girl's bangs and took a few inches off the bottom. She asked for the same haircut as her brother but I said no.

What to see what the boy looks like with his new haircut? I blogged about opening Salon Mom over at Kids in the Capital.

I may even starting taking clients. Anyone want me to cut their kids' hair?

Homework

2010-09-25T21:42:00.000-04:00

Dinner was done and the girl was clamoring for one of the cupcakes we had baked on Friday in an attempt to be celebratory. As I struggled to hold her off until everyone else was done eating and convince her that asking every minute wouldn't make the cupcake appear faster, I had the idea to suggest we do the homework sent home by her teacher in the middle of last week. She loved the idea. As only someone who has never before done homework can.

I found the sheet of questions and we all sat together at the table. The husband finished eating. The boy yelled until I got him his own pen and sheet of paper on which he proceeded to scribble his own "homework". Meanwhile the girl and I worked through the questions together.

She started by writing her name at the top of the page. True to her sense of self, she wrote out her nickname instead of her full name. We talked about why the husband and I choose that name for her. I wrote down the reasons and then she read it back to me, repeating the sentences I had read to her only moments before.

We need a picture of when you were a baby I said. I'll draw one she said yanking the paper from me. We can use a photo I said. That excited her even more.

I found one of her early baby albums and she and I flipped through it. Every few pages the boy would lean over, point to the baby in the picture and yell Me! He didn't appreciate being corrected.

The girl and I settled on a photo and she helped me tape it to the bottom of the page. Her work done she went off to play and I tucked the sheet into her backpack for her teacher to find on Monday morning.

Unbirthday

2010-09-23T08:07:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was my birthday. It was a very unbirthday.

I was still feeling sad about Odin.
I was dealing with some personal stress. For some reason I haven't been dealing well with any kind of stress these past few weeks.
I was sick with a stomach bug and my appetite was gone. It really isn't a birthday unless there is a cupcake. Soup doesn't cut it.

I try not to have high expectations about my birthday. In the past I have always ended up feeling disappointed. Now all I expect is a few well wishes and a card from the kids. My kids (well really the husband) made me lovely cards. I had lots of well wishes. Thank you.

Now I am dusting myself off from yesterday and trying to fix a smile firmly in place. The sadness and stress and stomach bug are all still there. But today I will try a little bit harder. And if I have learnt anything in my now thirty-four years, life is all about trying.

Odin

2010-09-21T15:07:00.000-04:00

It's been almost a year since we last saw him. He ran out the door, under my mother-in-law's car and down the street. Into the night.

We brought Odin home from the Humane Society back in 2003. We thought our other cat Princess (named by the Humane Society where we found her) would like some company. She didn't. She hated Odin. She hated him like she was a cool teenage girl and he was an annoying younger brother. She hissed at him, she swatted him, she ran away from him.

He loved her. Her intense and constant dislike for Odin never swayed his love for her. He always went back for more, as if he was convinced that this time she would finally play with him. Finally love him.

Odin was the perfect cat for kids. He was interested in the new baby we brought home four years ago. He would sit next to me while I nursed the girl. He would lay nearby on the floor while she rolled around. He would let her chase him when she learnt to crawl.

A favorite activity for both of them was for the girl to launch herself onto his back and squish him into the ground. She would lay her whole body over him while he purred happily. The boy did this too. He just didn't get the chance to do it for very long.

Odin was always an outdoor cat until he met us. He was found out in the countryside and from the beginning he tried as hard as he could to be outside. He would run through our legs when we opened the door. He would scratch at the windows. He would cry at the door.

When the boy was born we were too tired to fight him anymore. We got him a collar, made sure his shots were up to date and opened the door to his freedom.

The husband looked for Odin for weeks after he disappeared. He made trips to the Humane Society, even though our cat had a tracking chip and they would have our information if he was brought there. The husband put up posters around the neighbourhood. He went on long walks looking for any sign of Odin.

I liked to think that Odin had wandered too far away from home and couldn't find his way back. A lovely family with lots of kids found him and fell so deeply in love with his crazy spirit that they couldn't bare to give him up. So he stayed there, curled up on a warm lap.

As I left the house this morning in the pouring rain to walk to the bus stop and pick up the girl after Kindergarten I was told that one of our neighbours' cat had been found. We call him The Friendly Grey Cat because, well, he is grey and friendly. The cat had been missing for a few weeks. We heard the news. We saw the posters.

His people found him at the Human Society. His leg was damaged and he had to undergo surgery. His leg fur was rubbed raw and maggots had infected the wound when the Humane Society had found him abandoned on the street. He had wandered into someones animals traps. He had been wounded and those people with the traps, people the neighbours have identified and whose house I can see from my window, moved him and left him. They left him on the street to die.

Is that what happened to Odin? Was he hurt and wounded only meters from our backdoor? Did the people with the traps find him and move him somewhere far away from us? Did they leave him on the street to die?

I can't stop thinking about him. In my heart I know this is what happened. It sounds like truth to me.

Gabba Go Gabba

2010-09-20T14:03:00.000-04:00

When the balloons fell from the ceiling she rushed for them. Out of her seat, past me and down the aisle. I paused for a moment and then headed after her, worried that she would be lost in the crowd of small children and not be able to find her way back to me. For a few moments I couldn't see her through the darkness. Then she straightened up clutching a blue balloon.

We went back to our seats but that didn't last long. No longer afraid of the noise and crowd, no longer nervous about the brightly coloured costumed dancers on the stage, she tore out of her seat once the bubbled filled the air. Up to the front of the stage she went. To the area that would be a mosh pit if the kids were only ten years older.

She and I sat up by the stage for the rest of the show. She sat on the ground cross legged and tilted her head straight back so she could see the dancers. When it was time to sing the goodbye song she cried. Sitting in my lap she cried because she didn't want the concert to end.

I won tickets to the concert from Bunch. Thank you.

Dress up

2010-09-19T19:48:00.001-04:00

What's this she asks me picking the small container off my dresser table. It's lipstick I tell her. And then I tell her what lipstick is.

I don't dress up much. My daily uniform is one of functionality. I wear clothes that don't show the sand I sit in everyday at the park. Clothes that don't show the snot wiped on me when they lean in for a hug. Clothes that withstand spilt tomato sauce and yogurt.

As I rushed about my bedroom trying to find clothes dressy enough for my short appearance on television I let her play with the lipstick. She watched herself in the mirror while she used the stick to apply the coloured gloss to her lips. She applied some to my lips. And the area surrounding my mouth. She painted some on her brothers lips.

Not on your cheeks I said. Not on your brother's arms I said. Not on your legs I said. Finally when I found myself saying not on your feet I took the lipstick away. Thankfully, I had picked out an outfit by then.

I dressed up on Friday. I wore a black skirt and red top. I wore stocking. I dug some coloured lip balm out of an old purse. I did something to my hair that might be considered a style. I put on my new birthday earrings from my mother-in-law.

People noticed. My sister noticed the earrings when she watched the YouTube video. Friends said I looked nice. It was nice to hear.

When another birthday package arrived later that day from my dad and stepmom I put on the pink pearl necklace contained inside right away. I wore it with my new earrings and my semi-styled hair. I wore it with my grey yoga pants and blue long sleeve t-shirt. I wore it even as the girl tugged on it and the boy grabbed at my earrings. I wore it to the park while I sat in the sand and build castle after castle.

Out

2010-09-17T13:56:00.000-04:00

When I started blogging I surprised myself.

I am a pretty private person. I keep things to myself. I am careful, cautious, sometimes reluctant about sharing bits of myself.

Then I started blogging. I wrote out my feeling and thoughts, sometimes writing things I wouldn't tell my friends. I convinced myself that I was blogging about the kids, not about me. But really, it was both.

I started blogging anonymously. No first name for me, the husband or the kids. I felt safe hiding behind a picture of the boy's ten toes. No one would know it was me.

I am realizing anonymity only lasts so long. Bit by bit I have been outing myself. First meeting some other local bloggers in person, joining Twitter and going to meetups, watching my social circle of local bloggers expand, launching a parenting blog with a friend and writing for it, attending a blogging conference. Every time I introduce myself and say my real name I out myself.

Today we went on television to talk about Kids in the Capital. The host said my name, the camera filmed me, the clip is on Youtube. There is no going back. I am out.

It feels weird. A bit strange. But also good.

Day one

2010-09-15T21:32:00.000-04:00

We had to wake her up. She was still sleeping when 6:30am rolled around. We opened the door to her room and in the three of us traipsed. The boy climbed up beside her into her bed and called her name. Where is she going today? we asked him while we tried hard to wake her. School! he said.

Dressed and finished eating breakfast, we all headed out the door. Her new shoes were on her feet. Her new backpack was on her back. I made her stand on the front porch and took picture after picture. She even let her brother stand beside her. Some of the time.

We were at the bus stop early, so afraid were we of being late. She watched for the bus while trying to keep warm. It is cold at 7:30am on a September morning. It is only going to get colder.

Before the bus arrived our neighbours showed up. An older girl, a Third Grader!, said she would look after my girl. They would sit beside each other on the bus. She would show my girl where to go once they got to the school. The youngest of three, I couldn't help but notice a slightly smug smile on the face of the third grader. She was the one with all the experience now.

Finally the bus arrived. The girl walked straight for the open door of the long yellow bus. I called to the bus driver and introduced the girl. The husband called too, mentioning the grade and school the girl was going to. Just in case. Just to make sure the girl was expected.

I quickly called the girl to me for a kiss and then she was up the stairs, no looking back. I waited for the door to close and the bus to pull away. Instead it sat there. I could see the girl standing in the aisle, looking around. The husband and I resisted the urge to rush in and find out what was wrong. We stood watching. When our third grade friend had finally managed to move kids around enough so that she and the girl could have a seat to themselves, the door closed and they were gone.

No tears from me. I felt pride. I felt awe. I wondered what she would do and who she would be with. But no tears. At least not from me.

The boy cried. He cried and cried. Tears streaked his face. He howled after the bus left, so overcome with sorrow that he wasn't on it. Me bus! he yelled. Into the house we went, me still clutching a crying child. Distractions were found. Snacks were supplied. He calmed down.

Until I uploaded and watched the video I took of her getting on the bus. Then the tears were back. Bus! he wailed. When you are four, I said. When you are four you can take the bus. Those words are cold comfort to a two year old.

And so the morning passed.

It was a strange morning. Strange for it to be just the two of us again after the girl was home from preschool all summer. Strange not to have her with me as we walked the aisles of the grocery store. Strange that the boy fell asleep on our walk to the park and spent the next hour sleeping in his stroller while I sat beside him in a coffee shop staring off into space.

I was early for the school bus drop off. The boy and I sat for a long time waiting for the bus. It caused some halfhearted howls from him, but they were weaker then the ones earlier that morning. I think he was anxious to see his sister.

When a small school bus, a bus I had earlier seen drive down the street at the end of the road where I was waiting, stopped at the corner I panicked and ran towards it. I almost left the boy where he sat, but remembered to grab the stroller at the last minute. The driver had some words for me but I am new to this I said and didn't realize that the bus had a different drop off and pick up spot. And really, it didn't matter. Because here she was walking off the bus.

All smiles.

Saying what he wants to say

2010-09-14T22:31:00.000-04:00

Two big bites he said to me as he walked into the kitchen. I stood at the stove, spooning risotto onto my plate but I stopped and laughed as soon as I heard him. Words strung together so carefully in response to my request to eat his dinner. He let me know that he had eaten some. He was done. He wanted dessert.

While I sat across the table from him watching him eat a bowl of yogurt and frozen berries I thought about the words he has been saying. The way he has been saying them. One by one by one he has been stringing them into short sentences. He has been clearly pronouncing his sister's name. He has been saying what he wanted to say.

This morning at the grocery store I watched his sister play with the long packets of chewing gum hanging from a rack. Before I could say anything, the boy turned towards her from his seat at the front of the shopping cart. No no no he said wagging his finger at her. Just like I do.

Those days

2010-09-13T22:04:00.000-04:00

You know those days where you wonder why you didn't just stay home? Those days where you push and push to get the kids out of the house but they resist you at every turn because, well, you are mean and make them put on shoes and sweaters. And then you manage to get them out out the house and in the stroller and to the library where you sign them up for their very own library card, because you are awesome like that. But then you didn't bring a book bag and the girl wants to carry all her books, in fact she insists on it, even though there are too many so they fall out of her arms onto the floor. So you help her pick them up and offer to carry some of them while she cries and cries at the injustice of her situation and because you aren't looking your two year old falls off the stool he is standing on to check out his books. He cries and cries. You persevere though and you get them out of the children's section only to remember that the elevator is broken and so you have to walk down a steep set of stairs with the both of them. But the girl cries and cries because she wanted to walk down the steep set of concrete steps first and you told her no while you imagining her falling down them in your head. So her books fall and she sits on the stairs and cries and yells at you and you listen as her voice echos through the quiet library. You bring out your sternest voice, one rarely heard, and threaten to leave the books at the library and carry her out of the building if she doesn't stop yelling and quiet down. And you mean it at the time but once the words are out of your mouth you realize that it is an empty threat because there is no way you can carry her, her brother, the snack bag, the diaper bag, three rain coats and the books that would need to be dropped into the return slot. She believes your threat though and so you manage to get the kids down the stairs and almost to the exit before she tries to test you on that "no talking" statement you made. You shush her while trying not to stare at all the people that are staring at you wondering why that mother can't control her cute but obviously badly behaved daughter.

You know those days? Sometimes I have to tell myself the day would have been even worse if we had stayed at home.

Teacher

2010-09-10T21:46:00.000-04:00

I think I was more nervous than you were. You made your name tag for your cubbie, four letters drawn along the line and then two squeezed in at the top of the page where there was space, and then ran off to play with the giant wooden dollhouse on the other side of the room. I sat in a little chair at a little table across from your dad and your new teacher and worried that she would like us.

I smiled like I was at a job interview. I said good things about you. I answered her questions. I drew a blank when she asked if we had questions for her. I attempted not to embarrass you or sabotage the rest of your school-life with a stupid remark. I marveled that this was the place, this was the room where you would be spending so much time over the next two years. With this person other than me.

I felt exhausted by the time we left your class. You asked if we could go and visit your old preschool, so we walked across the hall. You made a circuit of the room smiling at your old teachers and looking at what was so familiar to you only months ago. Your old teachers noticed how tall you are, how much older you look. I noticed that too. I looked around the preschool and could see how ready you are for kindergarten. With your new teacher.

Tomato soup

2010-09-08T21:58:00.001-04:00

I made the soup while the boy napped and the girl watched a video. It was only 11 am but the boy was tired so I had tucked him into his bed earlier then usual. His sister, who had been clamouring moments before for me to take her to the park, grew excited when I mentioned it was nap time for her brother. Now? she asked as I changed his diaper. He should nap now she said, motivated not by kindness but thoughts of curling up on the couch with her favorite video.

I didn't have all the ingredients so I improvised a bit. I took pleasure in the chopping and the stirring and the smells that soon filled the kitchen. I looked forward to eating one of my favorite comfort foods from my childhood.

The soup was ready by the time the boy woke up. I filled two bowls covered in multicoloured hearts with hot soup for the kids. While the soup cooled I herded the kids to the table. With their bowls already on the table, I set mine down and a bag of store bought croutons next to it. I climbed over the back of my chair and squeezed myself between the table and the chair. Between the girl and the boy. There we sat, the three of us all squished together on the long side of our rectangular table. Eating our tomato soup.

Changes

2010-09-07T21:56:00.000-04:00

Life is always changing. The only constant is change. I can fight it all I want, and I used to fight it hard and dirty, but it happens all the same. The change you want. The change you longed for. The change you dread.

One day I held out my hand to change and said let's not fight anymore. Now I tolerate it, it tolerates me. I try to guide it, it lets me keep my illusions of control. Sometimes.

The heavy rain and the cool weather tonight has reminded me that change is coming. Change is happening. Some of it thrills me, like watching the girl pull on her big backpack so she can dance around the house in preparation for her first day of school. Her new shoes already worn in with trips to the park and runs down the sidewalk. I laugh when I see the boy put on that same bright pink backpack and I marvel that one day, soon enough, it will be his turn too.

You can't outrun change. Change is coming. Change is happening. The good. The bad. Sometimes I wonder if it is already here and I didn't even know it.

Nicknames

2010-09-04T20:52:00.000-04:00

I never had a nickname. My name is short enough, only four letters, and doesn't lend itself easily to a nickname. Or so I would tell myself while secretly wanting one.

During my first pregnancy I thought a lot about names. I thought a lot about names that had commonly known nicknames. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl, but I was pretty sure I wanted my kid to have a nickname.

The girl was named in the hospital room. Thankfully she was a girl because we didn't have any boy names we liked. We hadn't settled on a girl's name, and the husband was ready to have a discussion, but I knew. And so I named her.

From the beginning it felt strange to call her by her name. It seemed so long for such a small child. When I would hold her in my arms I would call her everything but her name. Whispered terms of endearment. Laughing silly words. Always coming back to her nickname.

From the time she could talk she called herself by her nickname. She would speak about herself in the third person. She would introduce herself to others that way. When the girl was not yet two and she met another little girl with the same name, she just called her MoreNickname. She still calls her that.

The nickname was who the girl saw herself as being. It is who we see her as too. Until I want her to stop jumping on your brother and listen to me! Then I trot out her full name and repeat it loudly in my sternest voice.

The boy wasn't named when we left the hospital. Thinking, but not knowing, we would have another girl we had decided on a girl's name but not a boy's name. We discussed a few. We had a preference. It wasn't until we were home and the girl said her brother's name that we were sure.

The boy's name is longer then mine but shorter then the girl's. It has a common abbreviation that I love, despite the fact that it is also becoming a popular girl's name. To us the boy is both this full name and his nickname. He still doesn't call himself by either. He is just me.

I never had a nickname. I have one now. Another four letter word. A word that is shouted. A word that is filled with demands and pleading. A word that is shared with countless other. I love it.

Jittery

2010-09-03T12:39:00.000-04:00

Maybe it was the coffee. More likely it was the fact that the boy was in tears in my friend's arms as soon as I came back to the park from the coffee shop. I wiped his nose with a tissue and then took him from her. He cried as he rested his seat on my shoulder. Tears and shot streaked his face.

Ever since then I have felt jittery.

For a long time he wouldn't leave my arms. He clung to me. There were moments when he would be happily distracted and I could gulp a breath but then he would remember that I had left him or that he wasn't in my arms where by all rights he should be and he would start to cry again. I tried to comfort him. When I asked him where it hurt he said teeth as he pointed to his jaw.

So I walked with him in my arms while the lady from the community newspaper took our picture and I felt jittery. I felt embarrassed that I was the one with the crying child. I felt silly that all the other parents at the park saw me having my picture taken and I wondered if they wondered why. I felt strange talking about me.

When I saw the girl go to bite her friend because he wouldn't give her a fishing net they had found at the park and the boy started to cry as soon as I went to get her, I knew it was time to go. Time to be at home. It was better at home. The boy stopped crying and clinging. The girl played with her little friends.

Now there is a moment of silence for me. The boy is napping and the girl is watching a much anticipated video. And I still feel jittery.

Wishes

2010-09-02T14:11:00.000-04:00

What I wish for you is happiness. May you find joy in your life. Be who you are and who you need to be. Chase your dreams and ignore the voices that will hold you back. Treat everyone with respect, but walk away from those that are not respectful to you. Listen so that you may learn and understand. Go and discover the life that is waiting for you.

All that I wish is that you always know I am here for you to come back to.

TWO

2010-09-01T19:23:00.000-04:00

I ask him lots of things. What his name is. What he wants for a snack. What colours his shirt is. How old he is.

How old are you? I would say to him.

Three! he would say, drawing out the vowels.

No I would tell him. You aren't three. Your sister is there. How old are you?

Four he would tell me once his sister was four.

No I would reply. You aren't four. You are one!

Then he would hold up one finger just like he does when he wants to persuade us that more, more, one more minute.

When I asked him today how old he was he said Two! is a singsong voice. It's your birthday I told him.

Happy birthday.

What he calls himself

2010-08-30T12:49:00.000-04:00

What's your name? I ask him.

Me! he says happily from where he sits on my lap.

What's my name? I ask.

Mama he answers.

What's your name? I ask again.

Me! he replies.

Me is how he thinks of himself. It's who he is. No other name seems necessary to him.

Treats

2010-08-28T20:09:00.000-04:00

Take off the icing she says to me holding out her cupcake. Are you sure I ask, certain I must have heard her wrong. Take it off! she says again.

I take the cupcake from her and lick at the icing. All of it! she says. I pause. Then I scrape all the brown sugar icing off the top of the cupcake with the index finger of my right hand and hand the cupcake back to her.

I stand sheepishly nibbling the large dollop of icing off my finger. I glance around quickly to see if any of the other parents at the birthday party notice me. As I sweep my gaze around the park, I catch sight of the boy sitting at the blue metal picnic table across from his sister. He is eating his cupcake. More accurately, he is contemplating eating his cupcake. Before he spurns it in favour of the play structure he manages to rub some of the brown icing on his new blue shirt already stained with pizza sauce, chalk and sand.

I pause for a moment after he leaves his seat. Then I eat his cupcake.

*

Do you want to play? the girl asks. My girl stands mute, uncertain what to say. She isn't often asked to play at the park. She usually knows all the other kids and so they just play without questions.

Before my girl can answer the other girl has run across the park towards her mom. Back again she comes holding an inflatable beach ball and asks again Do you want to play? My girl nods and follows her new friend towards the empty wading pool where they throw and kick the ball together.

My four year old and her new six year old friend traverse the entire park in their play. They swing on swings. They hunt for treasure on the small play structure. They race back and forth across the pool. For close to an hour they play together. As I sit quietly watching the boy happily putter in the sand and the girl chase after her new friend I decide that she needs to play with more six year old girls. A six year old can keep the play moving and changing and fresh for a four year old with an endless amount of imagination. At least this six year old girl can anyway.

At one point the six year old tells my girl that it is time for a snack. She herds the girl, and eventually the boy too, over to the kid sized picnic table so she can share her snacks. The three of them sit in a row with their backs to the table as they dip their hands into a Ziploc bag of potato chips. I watch the girl and imagine how happy she must be.

Thursday morning

2010-08-26T13:13:00.000-04:00

A cool morning at the park. She wears an ocean blue halter sun dress with purple tropical flowers around the bottom. He wears long pants and a black and while striped zebra fleece. The hood is pulled up and the black ears point towards the overcast sky. I sit nearby thinking about my afternoon dentist appointment. She clutches the small tray of sushi we had bought at the corner store. We pass the time.

Baby birds

2010-08-24T11:50:00.000-04:00

They come to me with their mouths open. Sitting at the computer eating my bowl of porridge I stop typing long enough to deposit bits of cold porridge in their mouths with a fork. The girl comes first, always first, and her brother waits patiently while she lifts her head towards me for her bite. When it is his turn I lower the fork to drop the cooked oatmeal on his tongue. Mouths full they turn and run back through the kitchen towards the front of the house.

Back and forth they run. To me and from me. Like little baby birds.

Fall

2010-08-23T21:25:00.000-04:00

Fall has snuck up on me. One day it was hot and I was sitting by the edge of the wading pool watching the girl splash around and then the next day a cold wind had blown in and the pool was deserted. The sky was overcast and the rain smelled like the end of summer. Then the pool closed and that was that.

Every day is bringing us one day closer to Fall.

I have grown to love Fall. The cooler weather is so welcoming after the heat of the summer. The long sleeves feel cozy against the chilly days. The red leaves I see out the window make me smile.

I didn't used to love Fall. It meant the return to school and mixed emotions. Excitement about being in a higher grade. Nervousness about new teachers and what they might expect. Happiness at seeing old friends after a long summer. Wariness of frenemies and tension from last year. Joy at being one year older.

Now it's Fall again and I am filled with some of those same mixed emotions. Excitement about the girl starting kindergarten. Nervousness about how it will go and if she will like it. Happiness that she will have friends in her class and that she will make new ones. Wariness of the tensions and struggles that come along with friends. Joy that she is one year older. Sadness too.

I find myself looking at her sometimes and wondering who she is. Her tall, lean body. Her long face devoid of any babiness. Her vocabulary that she uses to cajole and explain and demand. Her pink backback worn constantly in anticipation of school.

She is four and starting kindergarten. She is just beginning her season of Fall.

Party in the park

2010-08-22T10:24:00.000-04:00

The first year, the girl turned two. I was pregnant with the boy and my huge belly felt like it was strained under one of the few summer tops that still fit me. We invited lots of friends. We had lots of food. The kids were handed pails and shovels when they arrived and sent off to play. There was cake. I loved it and decided that this is what a party should be.

The next year, the girl was three and boy almost one. He wore his blue striped romper and walked around the park holding onto my two fingers. Our friends were there and so were the girl's. Most of our extended family were there. There was too much cake and lots of wasps.

This year, the party was small. Us. Old friends. New friends. Most of the kids were the girl's friends and their brothers, who are also the boy's friends. I was at the park early hiding cut out letters of the alphabet for our scavenger hunt. A friend helped me transport all our supplies to the park in our wagon. The husband frantically cleaned our messy house in case the rain didn't hold off until after the party and we needed to return home for cake.

The rain didn’t hold off. A light drizzle fell throughout the party but we all ignored it. The kids hunted for letters, decorated their snack bags and threw the sad looking piñata we had made in the air like a basketball to break it open. There were healthy snacks and once again, too much cake.

There was walking hand in hand with friends, lots of hugs and impromptu picnics on the ground of snacks dumped out of snack bags. Like any good party there were tears. The husband took the boy home when his repeated crying told us it was nap time. I took the girl home when she started crying about not being passed the soccer ball.

The party broke up. Until next year.

Welcoming committee

2010-08-19T21:08:00.000-04:00

I wasn't sure how things were going to go when the boy woke up from his nap shortly before two pm. I was expecting the babysitter to arrive any minute and worried that my quick departure would startle a still sleepy boy. Guess whose coming over? I finally said to him while he sat on my lap. Before I could answer the girl happily told him that her old preschool teacher would be coming over to babysit. He didn't say much, just snuggled his head deeper into my shoulder.

At five after two I thought I had better prepare him again. She's going to be here soon I said. Should we go to the front window and watch? Without answering he climbed off my lap and ran to the front window. Before I made it out of the kitchen I could hear him screaming though the open window Aaaaeee! Jooooo!

His sister soon joined him. They sat perched on the back of the couch, faces pressed against the screen, yelling for a good for ten minutes until she showed up. She was late, but I was amused so I didn't mind.

Presents in the mail

2010-08-18T12:25:00.012-04:00

The package was already in the mailbox when we went to leave the house. I grabbed it before she noticed and threw it behind me as I closed the door. Good thing too, because it proved a useful distraction when we walked back in the front door from the park where I had denied her a bag of chips being sold at the park BBQ.

Look I said your birthday present came in the mail. And the boy's is upstairs. Should we open them.

Yes she said yanking the envelop out of my arms and heading for the stairs.

Sitting on the floor of my room I used a pair of scissors to open first her envelope and then the boy's box. What is it? she asked as she pulled the folded pink material free. It's your new backpack for school I said. It is your birthday present from Poppa Bruce and Mo. Ooo, she said and slipped her arms through the straps.

I helped the boy free his early birthday gift from the box and the wrapping. What is it? I asked him. May-ee he said hugging his favorite book character. The boy loves Maisy. He will always pick a Maisy mouse book over anything else.

The girl wore her backpack most of the afternoon. She even filled it with books. I told her she couldn't take it to the park with her. Even though she wanted to show it off to her friends, she relented. The boy carried Maisy around too, but he wasn't as attached to her as I thought he would be. When I put the doll on his bed at nap time he got irritated. Mine he said as he threw Maisy to the floor and climbed into his bed alone.

There was a discussion about these new gifts at bed time. The girl wanted to sleep with her backpack. We suggested she put in on the floor at the end of her bed, beside her bed, at the top of her bed. We countered with on her bed but at the foot of her bed. Finally we gave in with promises to each other to sneak in later and move it. She fell asleep with it tucked into the corner of the bed and the wall, right by her head for easy reach.

We asked the boy if he wanted to sleep with Maisy. Once again he threw her off his bed and onto the floor. Poor Maisy.

Interrogation

2010-08-17T18:43:00.000-04:00

The room is dimly lit except for the bright spotlight shining on me. I sit hunched over with my head resting on the cold metal table, arms outstretched in front of me. Waiting.

The door opens and she walks in. I listen to the sound of her bare feet feet as she moves across the room. She pauses briefly in front of the two way mirror I had tried hopelessly to peer through earlier. When she reaches the table she scrapes back a chair and climbs up onto it.

Surrender she says.

Never! I cry as I throw back my head and look her in the eye.

You'll never defeat me she continues. I will wear you down until you are begging me for mercy. Give up now and it will all be over so quickly, she coos softly to me.

No! I shout with as much conviction as I can muster. I am the mother and I will stay strong.

Really? she asks me. How much longer can you hold out? Hmm. let's see, shall we she says as she grins at me.

Mum, mum, mum! she whines at me from across the table I'm hungry! No, I don't want to eat an apple. No, I don't want a cracker. I'm hungry for something else. I want something different. Something new. Something good. I want ice cream. No I haven't had ice cream in a really, really long time. I'll have it today and then I'll never ever have it again. I promise. Yes, it is good for me to have ice cream! Mum, mum, mum!

Stop I whimper as I cover my ears.

Mama! Mama! I want to paint. Now! I want to paint now. I don't want to have a bath, I want to paint. I know, I know. How about this. This is a good idea. How about I paint and you have a bath. Because painting is funner then a bath. How about I paint for ten minutes and then have a bath. But ten minutes isn't a long time. I can paint really fast. Or we could skip a bath and have one tomorrow. Mama! Mama!

I cringe as her words wash over me. Be strong I tell myself, be strong. Inhaling deeply I think of all the mothers that have come before me. I will be strong for them.

I stare her in the eye. I will always be your mother. You will listen to me. You will respect me. You will stop whining and making demands and negotiating every simple request I make of you. You will, I continue as my voice rises, listen when I ask you to go upstairs and use the toilet instead of peeing in the training potty in the living room!

My forceful declaration exhausts me and I lean back in my chair. Let's stop all this I say. Nothing you do will break me.

Oh, really she asks with a smile. Let's see shall we.

With that she turns her head to the door. Confused, I follow her glance and am surprised to see the door open. In walks a smaller, male version of her. He runs across the room and flings himself onto the seat of the chair before pulling himself up to sitting.

Oh no, I think bracing myself for whatever is coming next, there are two of them.

Rain

2010-08-15T20:23:00.000-04:00

He wore her red ladybug rain coat, the sleeves rolled up, and her hand-me-down yellow rain boots. She wore her too small pink polka dot rain coat and blue buckle shoes. They peddled their bikes across the basketball court in the rain.

She rode her two-wheeled pink bike with training wheels that don't both touch the ground. He sat and pushed his feet to propel his multi-coloured tricycle forward. He can reach the peddles, but he prefers not to try.

I stand and watch them. Feeling tired from the boy's 4:30 am morning risings. Feeling guilty that while I wake, I usually go back to sleep while the husband heads downstairs with the boy. Feeling overwhelmed.

I was thinking about what you said the husband told me. It is all about the moments. I nodded. Waiting for the next moment.

*

I can hear the rain outside the bedroom window. I brush her wet hair while she sits in front of me on her bed. The husband discusses pajama options with the boy. I give her kisses once the two French braids are finished and tuck her into bed. I pretend to kiss the boy and he squeals in delight.

Same kids. Same me. Different moment.

FOUR

2010-08-13T07:46:00.001-04:00

I went away for a few days and when I came back you were different. Not bigger. Well, maybe just a little. Not taller. No more then an inch anyway. Not older. How could you be, I was only gone for five nights. But different.

You were all those things already but I just couldn't see them with my arms wrapped around you day after day. Only when I blinked for a moment did my eyes readjust to see the girl you are.

Remember when you were my baby? I do. We brought you home from the hospital and I was terrified I was going to break you. I lay you against my chest, you head resting on my shoulder, and I worried about all the ways I could mess up your life or you could hate me even as I gazed lovingly at you. You were beautiful. People would stop me as I walked down the street just to tell me I had a beautiful baby. But I already knew. I knew as soon as I looked into those deep blues eyes that never seemed to close, not even to sleep. And why would they when there was so much life to be lived.

Remember when you were a toddler? You finally let go of the one finger you liked to clutch as you walked when you were fourteen months old. It was Thanksgiving weekend and I laughed so hard to see you walk; almost as much as I laughed when we taught you to crawl by moving a chocolate milkshake back and forth across the room. You went from crawling to walking to running. Usually with a smile on your face, except when you decided that a deep scowl would be more appropriate. But even that face made me laugh.

It is hard to believe that the boy is almost the same age you were when he was born. You seemed so old to me then. Now I look and you and I look at him and he seems so young. From the beginning you loved him like I hoped you would. Being a big sister can be hard sometimes, but I always think how lucky he is to have you. While I have seen you use your birth order to your advantage, you always look out for him. He repays you with complete and utter love. How lucky you are to have him.

Remember when you were a preschooler? I do. I am holding onto this last few moments as hard as I can. Kindergarten starts in a few weeks and while I anticipate that you will be nervous and scared those first few days, your excitement now is contagious. You make me wish I was four so I could take your hand and walk with you into your classroom and this new part of your life.

Instead I will watch from the front stoop as you climb the steps of the school bus and drive off without me. I will watch as you become bigger and taller and older. I will remember all those yous from before, the ones that you might want to dismiss as childish or silly as you get older. But those yous will be with me always. Even as you stand in front of me at four I still see my baby.

Freedom

2010-08-12T16:32:00.000-04:00

I overlooked the boy reaching his hand into the freshly flushed toilet bowl and then licking his fingers. I washed him off and tried to keep going. It was when he reached those wet hands into the sand used to hold cigarette butts at the front door of the field house that I snapped.

We are going home I said as I grabbed the boy and marched over to our pile of bags and towels spread out on the grass. I bundled everything up and got us home. As quick as you can get home with two kids, two bikes, armfuls of stuff and an angry mom.

Home hadn't been that much better earlier, which was why we ended up at the park. The girl and I had been fighting on and off all afternoon as she insisted we go to a further away park and I said no because I was too tired. I yelled. She yelled. We both cried.

I am finding it hard to be back home. The euphoria of seeing the kids quickly faded as I was pulled back into the day to day life of a stay-at-home mom. Hours after our plane landed I was starting to wonder if I could keep doing this. If maybe I shouldn't go back to work after all. It had to be easier then this I found myself thinking.

For the first time in a long time I had a taste of freedom. It tasted sweet. Like chocolate cake. Like new love. Like who I used to be. You know, that girl who had so much time on her hands that she didn't know what to do with it and so she squandered it carelessly. Oh the things I would tell that girl if I could.

I am just readjusting I tell myself. In a few days I will have settled back into a familiar pattern and it will be easier. I will remember why I do this. I will forget that sweet taste of freedom. And it will be easier.

Home

2010-08-10T17:35:00.000-04:00

I saw the decorations on the door as soon as the cab pulled up to the house. Primary coloured paper hearts strung from string taped to the window and paper chain loops. I knew just who had made them.

When we opened the door the house was quiet. Then I saw my sister pop out from the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Look who's here I heard her say. Who asked the girl, as if she was slightly annoyed to be receiving unexpected guests. Mom and dad replied my sister. Oh said the girl and she ran down the hall into my arms where I was kneeling waiting for her. The boy made his way towards me to, but then walked right past to look at the pile of luggage we had dumped in the hall.

I hadn't really missed them. Not at first anyway. I was too busy reveling in being alone, being with friends, being the master of my own time. I had needed that break almost too much to be missing them. It wasn't until the husband joined joined me in New York that I started to think about them. Knowing they weren't with him I started to wonder how they were. Only occasionally though. A brief thought until I was easily distracted by food or a pretty building.

A email from the mom of a boy whose birthday party the kids were to attend on Saturday brought an end to my relaxed attitude. You have probably already heard, she wrote, that the girl didn't want to join the pirate ship and so they left. My heart stopped when I read that the girl had been very upset. All of a sudden the fact that I wasn't there to comfort her and wipe away her tears had me crying.

Sometimes I think it is better not to know.

I managed to talk myself through it. I walked myself through it as we traipsed across the island of Manhattan making our way down towards the Brooklyn Bridge. But when I woke up the next morning all I could think about was getting back and being with them. The break was over, and if I had to return to the real world I wanted to do it now. Like pulling off a band aid, I wanted the trip home to be over with quickly.

There were delays of course, but when we made it home we saw that everything was fine. A long sheet of brown paper taped to the hallway wall recorded all the highlights of the past few days. The kids weren't traumatised or heartbroken. While they likely missed us, I have a feeling the missing was probably offset by the spoiling they received from my sister and grandma. There are new books and new toys and, I am predicting, new things the girl will inform me that she is now allowed to do.

I am back. I am here. I am trying to figure out where to go next.

Sitting in Starbucks

2010-08-09T12:47:00.000-04:00

Oh baby baby it's a wild world plays over the speakers while I sit at a table in a 7th Avenue Starbucks. A big bag of shopping purchased at a Goodwill store a few blocks away sits in a chair across from me. The bag makes me happy. It is filled with fun finds, including my first pair of ridiculously high heeled black pumps that I fell in love with on sight. I had quickly slipped off my Birkenstocks and teetered around the store with a grin on my face.

We have been walking the streets after a quiet and lazy morning in the hotel room. My first such morning in a long time. These past few days have been filled with everything but rest, and while I have loved them, I am tired.

Tired and ready for nothing more then walking the streets hand in hand with him. Talking and eating and remembering who we are together without our kids.

The last time we were in New York together was almost six years ago. This was before the girl and the boy and us as parents. Back then we spent our time walking the streets and talking and eating. We sat for hours in a Starbucks on the Upper West Side dreaming about all the things we wanted for our future.

And here we are.

BlogHer moments

2010-08-08T17:35:00.001-04:00

Lying in a warm bed waiting for the clock to read 4am so I can finally justify climbing out.
Sitting in the back of a taxi as we drive through dark streets on the way to the airport.
Waiting in the lounge with a friend for the plane to board while drinking coffee and laughing excitedly.
Cursing in my head as the shuttle drives back and forth between terminals for half an hour picking up passengers until the van is full and I feel car sick.
Standing in Times Square with a camera in one hand and a smile on my face.
Glimpsing her walk down the stairs into the darkened room and rushing to hug the person behind the words.
Driving through the streets of New York City on the top deck of a double decker bus in the heat of the day and wishing I hadn't forgotten my hat.
Seeing us all together in a city other then our home.
Watching a friend giddy with happiness over meeting the person she most wanted to meet.
Lounging in a pinkly lit room as the music pulsated and women posed with plastic umbrellas.
Walking past horse drawn carriages stopped in front of Central Park and smelling the horse poo as the night descends upon us.
Waking with a jolt at an unreasonable hour as the excitement of the day to come overwhelms me.
Making plans for next year before the day had barely begun.
Listening to the words I have come to believe I needed to hear.
Starting to type as the words I hear fill me with inspiration.
Continuing to type as thanks filter in for the words I am tweeting.
Talking with women just like me while we eat and share our lives as mothers.
Thinking about community and blogging and how they have come to mean the same thing for me.
Admiring all the women I hear speak about their loves and passions and lives.
Trying not to cry, crying and but also laughing as the speakers proudly read their words at the front of the room.
Swearing as much as I want to just because I can.
Packing and storing my many bags with friends until I can retrieve them later.
Checking out, for now.
Deciding to be both a better blogger and a better writer.
Feeling like time is moving too fast.
Believing that small blogs are beautiful and stats aren't the only measure of success.
Wishing I could be less afraid of talking to people I don't know but accepting that is who I am.
Resolving to try harder next year.
Checking in, again, but this time with the husband who has arrived only hours ago to be with me.
Missing the kids less then I would have thought.
Realizing just how much I need this time away and feeling grateful for it.
Eating good food at a full table of friends in a small Italian restaurant.
Dressing up in new clothes I would never wear at home.
Retreating to the hallway with a friend I had wanted to meet so we could share with each other away from the loud noise of the parties.
Crying over the kind words of a woman I admire as I wait for the elevator to take me back to my room and bed.
Loving all the people I had met, the things I had done and the ideas I had learnt.
Wanting to do it all over again.

Flashback: Scissors, paint and glue.

2010-08-07T13:29:00.012-04:00

I am having a great time. I am almost too busy to miss the kids. But of coarse I am missing the kids. Missing the things about them that I love. The things that drive me crazy. Things like this from last September.

On the way home from playgroup at the children's garden this morning we stopped at a friend's house. They had been away for the joint birthday party and the girl's friend wanted to give her a gift. It was a thoughtful gift. A gift that reflected the girl's love of drawing and colouring and crafting. A gift that is now hidden on top of our refrigerator.

The gift was a large carrying case full of Crayola crayons, pencil crayons, paint tubes, stamp markers, glittery glue sticks and scissors. The girl wanted to open everything immediately once she received it. She didn't care that we were standing in the middle of a residential street. She wanted it open and she wanted to draw. I made her wait until we got home.

The boy was asleep by the time I pulled the stroller up in front of our house. I unloaded the girl and all our gear before bringing the boy inside. I even got the girl upstairs and left her as she headed to her room with the open bucket of Crayola goods. Much to her dismay I left without opening each of the individual packages. I thought she would be happy with the box of crayons that I knew she could open herself. No. Just as I settled the boy into his crib I heard her yelling like a banshee for me to come and open it up!

I did. I opened up everything. She was so excited and wanted to start drawing on her construction paper right away. I was smart enough to take away the paint and glue since I didn't want it to get on her bed. I should have just hidden them right then. Unfortunately I did leave her with the scissors.

Not that I realized anything was amiss at first. I should have. She was much too quiet. I had the opportunity to clean the kitchen a bit and grab a snack before she started yelling for me to come and get her from her room. Right away I noticed the cut up purple construction paper on her bed. I did not notice that she had cut her hair until we sat together on the couch a few hours later. "Did you cut your hair?" I asked. "Yes" she said.

My guess is that she picked up the scissors in her right hand and then cut a chunk of hair out of the top of her right pigtail. At first I thought that some of her hair must not have been pulled through the elastic all the way and that was why it was sticking up near her head. It looked like a tiny bundle of straw.

I decided to leave it there, sticking out of her pigtail. I was partly too nervous to take out the elastic and see exactly how much hair had been cut away. The other part of me wanted the husband to see it. Even though I took a picture, I still wanted him to witness it for himself. It would have been smarter to have removed the hair immediately. By bath time raspberry juice and melted Popsicle made it impossible to remove the cut hair that was now matted down and clumped with the rest of her blond hair. We had to take the scissors to it ourselves in order to cut away the clump.

The discovery of the cut hair happened after I had left her on the floor of the sunroom happily playing with her gift. She was fascinated by the five paint tubes. When I looked over at her after a little more kitchen cleaning (with two kids there is always kitchen cleaning) she had squeezed multiple colours of paint all up and down her legs. Even her feet were decorated. There was much sighing on my part and protesting on her part that she wouldn't do it again. I still tided up all the art supplies and put them back in the container. I wiped off as much of the paint as I could. We moved on to other things.

Except that later I needed to keep her occupied while I dealt with a dirty diaper. And I was sure that she wouldn't dare paint her legs again. Not after the talk we had had. True to her word she didn't. When I came back in the room she had decorated her legs and arms with the coloured, glittery glue.

More sighing, more protesting. Everything went back in the container and the container went on top of the fridge. The girl assured me that it wouldn't happen again. I do believe her. I don't think she will cut her hair, paint her legs or try to adorn herself with glittery glue for awhile. I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about what else she could possibly do.

Scissors, paint and glue.

Flashback: Pillow

2010-08-06T11:13:00.002-04:00

Right now I am probably exhausted and wandering the streets of New York looking for coffee. Wishing I had a pillow. So here is a post I wrote January 6th, 2010.

He screamed. I could hear him through the wall. Despite the husband holding him, rocking him, walking with him nothing would stop the ear shattering yells that sounded as if he was being tortured by a thousand rabid monkeys.

Teething? Maybe. Something else? Maybe that too.

I took him to bed with me. I nursed him. Two things that I haven't been doing anymore at night. But I was desperate. I was sick and I was tired. The husband was worn out and tired too.

When he was done, he didn't fall asleep. Instead, he sat up and looked at me and started screaming. Laying next to him on the bed I frantically tried to think of some way to get him to sleep.

Would you like some blanket? I asked.

Yee-ah he said and lay down so I could lay some blanket over his legs. He looked at me. He screamed some more.

Do you want some pillow too? I asked, surprised.

Yee-ah he said.

I shuffled the pillow over towards him. He sat up and then lay down with half of his body on the pillow. He closed his eyes and his breathing deepened. I lay my down on the pillow next to him.

He let out one short yell before lifting his left hand off the pillow and smacking me in the face with it. Then he pushed me off my pillow.

Shocked, I lay with my head on the mattress at the edge of the bed. I listened to his breathing slow until he fell asleep. I moved him off of the pillow and onto the mattress. I reclaimed my pillow.

Teething? Maybe. But I think the screaming maybe be something more. I think it may very well be his new favorite way of communicating. Lucky me.

Flashback: Uniform

2010-08-04T20:27:00.000-04:00

I am leaving for New York early in the morning. It is another world there. I will shower everyday, no one will wipe their hands on me and I will wear nice, clean, new clothes. Yes, I splurged on fancy tops and an actual dress (gasp) so I could go forth and walk among other adult. But don't worry, as soon as I get home I will be back in my uniform.

The morning sunlight filters through the window. I listen to the sounds of the husband corralling the kids into their coats and boots downstairs. I enjoy my moment alone.

I pick up my black yoga pants from their spot on the floor near the bed. I ignore the yogurt and porridge stains from the day before. I put them on, along with a pair of clean underwear. I pick up yesterday's t-shirt and throw it in the overflowing laundry basket. I grab a clean t-shirt from the drawer. I pull on the pink hooded sweatshirt I have worn everyday this week. I rifle through the black socks lying on the floor until I find two of mine without stickers stuck to them. I don't bother checking to see if they match.

I glance in the mirror. I contemplate brushing the hair I washed yesterday. Instead I pull it back into a ponytail and pin my bangs back with a bobby pin.

The husband has started herding the kids out the door and into the stroller parked on the porch. That's okay. I'm ready.

Go away

2010-08-04T06:20:00.034-04:00

I am going away. I am pretty much beyond excited. This trip is coming at the perfect time. In fact, it couldn't have come soon enough.

I am looking forward to being with myself, being with friends, being in New York City. I am eager for BlogHer'10 and all the fun it will bring. I want to learn, to meet other bloggers, to party.

I am not sure how often I will blog while I am away. Maybe everyday. Maybe twice a day. Maybe not at all. In case I'm not here and you are missing me I will be re-posting some of my favorite blog posts. You know, just in case you haven't read them yet.

If you are going to be at BlogHer'10 too, please say hello. Tap me on the shoulder and introduce yourself. I will probably blush and get embarrassed that you know who I am. But then again, maybe not. I may be the one tapping you on the shoulder.

Awesome

2010-08-03T14:39:00.001-04:00

It came about one night while we sat around the dinner table. It had been one of those days. Patience was short. The day had been long. Yet, I was trying. Trying to see the positive, find the silver lining, look on the bright side.

Let's talk about how daddy is awesome I said, feeling thankful for the husband swooping in after work and taking over the care of the kids. I started to sing.

Daddy is so awesome,
awesome, awesome,
Daddy is so awesome
because......

he made dinner, changed the boy's diaper, told the girl a story, let me go hide upstairs.

The song is sung often. We change the name of the person the song is about. We change why they are awesome. The boy and girl both love it when we sing about them, but they also love to sing about each other.

It doesn't always make the day better. The hardness is still there. But it makes me smile. And reminds me how awesome my family is.