The Hoover

Baby E. likes to explore the world around him, just like most nine-month-olds. But he has a prodigious talent for finding things that could hurt him, and promptly sticking them in his mouth.
Stuff we've fished out of his gob this week include:

• three pieces of LEGO;
• dirt;
• a hot banana pepper;
• many, many pieces of paper;
• the front page of the National Post;
• a bottle cap;
• a plastic bag;
• wires;
• a crayon;
• a magnet.

Yes, I know this shows an appalling level of baby-proofing at my house. But come on, I have three other kids, and they have to live their lives, too. They try their best, but now that E. can crawl, he sometimes saunters into their rooms and helps himself to the bounty of forbidden objects.

My trusting swiping finger is getting a workout, at least.

To the perfect pregnant ladies

Dear pregnant lady with the model limbs and basketball belly,

I am so pleased you are enjoying your first pregnancy, still wearing your favourite jeans cinched under your perfect belly with a Bella Band while eating salad and taking Pilates class. Good for you! How wonderful you can still work 50 hour weeks and have all that energy for jogging. How great you are gaining 20 perfect pounds. I am sincerely glad you enjoy being pregnant.

But sister, can we talk? You see, there's one little problem, one I don't even know if you can help solve, but in light of The Sisterhood of Pregnant Ladies, I hope you'll try.

You see, your glowing happiness is great -- but for some reason, people seem to take it not as the wonderful ideal, but as the pregnancy standard. They see you running five miles and they expect all of us to do it. They see you working overtime without being the least bit fatigued, and suppose that is normal. Heck, they see you keeping your old, pre-pregnancy routines even, and consider those of us who can't as somehow failing.

Some pregnant ladies experiencing these wonderful pregnancies also seem to fall into this trap. They are often the ones I overhear talking about how pregnancy isn't a medical condition, but a stage in life, and rolling thier eyes when discussing friends who needed medicine for morning sickness.

I know you're not like that, of course. That's why I'm calling for your assistance.

Many of us pregnant ladies are not like you. Some of us are unfortunate and are really sick -- that was me in my last pregnancy. But the rest of us, myself now included, are not seriously ill. What we are is exhausted, sore, overwhelmed and cranky. We used to handle stress wonderfully, but can't cope as well now that we're cooking a baby. We worry about what everyone is saying about our reduced superwoman abilities.
But most of all, we live in terror of being compared to you. Because there is no way we can survive that comparison without damage.

So, my fortunate friend, please continue to glow and jog and work and ride your bike and have an amazing pregnancy. You should sincerely enjoy and cherish this wonderful blessing.

But the next time someone points out the exhausted, bedraggled pregnant woman in the office or the restaurant and says, "You're pregnant, and you're not like that," please stand up for her. Point out every woman and every pregnancy is different, and while you wish every pregnant woman was as fortunate as you, that's not always the case.

Thanks. I can promise you, as the woman with the wonderful postpartum experiences, I will viciously stand up for you when your baby has colic, you have PPD, and someone points out you haven't washed your hair in a week. In fact, I'll even come over and lend you a hand.

Sincerely,

The Tired Out Pregnant Lady

Joy conquers fear

When The Hubby and I decided the time was right to be open to a new baby joining our family, I had a few worries and concerns. The first was medical, of course: after my last pregnancy, expecting a baby became a medical condition more than a natural state of being, courtesy of hyperemesis gravidarum. We did a lot of planning and preparing. I wrote a treatment protocol, gained some safety pounds, and searched out a doctor who knew HG, knew it well and was up on the latest treatments and research. Through God, I had conquered my fear. I was ready to try again.

With all that in place, I was both elated and a little overwhelmed when we conceived the very first month we stopped avoiding conception (for information on the scientific form of natural family planning we use, go check out http://www.woomb.org/ . You do not have to take chemicals or use artificial barriers or devices to control the timing or size of your family. Stepping off soapbox now.) "Wow, that was fast!" was my first reaction when I started getting sick in the mornings, followed by a pink plus sign on the test a week later.

My biggest worry was the reaction of well-meaning family and friends when we told them about the new arrival.

There were a few negative reactions when we announced Toddler N.'s conception. Most were very well-meaning, of course, and were simply the mouth moving faster than the brain's editing button. A lot of people think two children are more than enough, and do not understand why Hubby and I would want more. Even so, pregnant women are not the most rational creatures on the planet, and I was a little hurt by some of it.

Little did I know that was just the beginning. You see, people started to really worry when I got so very sick carrying N. Worry breeds fear, and fear can make well-meaning and loving people say some pretty stupid things. And some of the things people said crushed me.

I had good, dear and loyal friends who were worried sick about me and sometimes said things that stung -- but looking back on that, I understand why. They thought I was going to die. They were terrified, and fear is always a bad motivator. I know these people love me so very much, and it was easy to forgive them.
 
Funny thing was, the people who loved me most and helped me the most during that experience -- who took on the greatest burdens, whether helping me at home or being available to listen to me complain (thanks, Mom) or just worrying themselves into a frenzy -- were the people least likely to say the really, really stupid things. In fact, it was acquantances rather than good friends, and extended family rather than immediate family, who said the real doozies. The worst, the very worst, was when people ordered me to not have any more kids, as if these people who did not love me and did nothing to help me were somehow burdened by my ill health. They acted as if it was their decision to make.
So, going into this pregnancy, I was reluctant to share the news. I didn't want to worry those I love and who love me, and I didn't want to listen to everyone else.

Then two miracles happened.

The first is that I did not develop HG, but managed to avoid it through early, aggressive treatment with anti-vomiting drugs at high doses, and a dash of pure luck (read Providence). I prayed so very hard for this to happen, but I don't think I truly believed it would. I knew the Lord could spare me, certainly; I also knew the tremendous good work He did for my soul by allowing me to suffer HG last time, so after preparing as best I could, I just left the illness to His will. (Praise Jesus, and thank you St. Gianna Molla for favours received.)

The second is no one has said a single stupid thing about this baby to me. No one! Instead, there has been such an amazing outpouring of good will, congratulations, prayers and love. It seems almost everyone has reacted to the news with real joy.

What a stupendous gift to my family! I had prayed about this too, but also had decided that, besides my own parents, I didn't give a hoot what other people thought.

So, to all my wonderful friends and family, my co-workers and former colleagues -- thank you. Thank you for respecting my family's faith and our decisions. Thank you for loving me through hard times and good ones. And thank you, from the bottom of the two beating hearts in my body right now, for biting your tongue out of love even when you think I am insane.

I love you all. Come on over and snuggle the baby anytime (once he or she has arrived, of course!) And while you're here, do you mind washing some dishes and throwing the burp rags in the washer? Thanks.

Memories of Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day has always been an important occasion for me. As a little girl, I donned my Girl Guide uniform and marched in parade after parade, and laid a wreath for my mother's father, who served as a gunner with the Newfoundlanders in the Second World War. Grandfather Spawn served in many places, including Africa, and was reportedly the tallest man in the British Army.

In university, I was fortunate enough to hang around with friends who were also grateful for the sacrifices of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers. I attended at least two ceremonies at the National War Memorial with Kathryn and John; each year, we skipped classes (shame on Carleton for being open on Remembrance Day) and headed down to the War Memorial to do our duty as proud and grateful young people.

John was a former reservist by then, and made a point of introducing us to any soldiers and veterans he knew. I remember making signs one year, saying "Thank you for our freedom, from students of Carleton University."

One year, the War Memorial was under construction; the government held the ceremony right on the lawn of Parliament Hill. We felt strange, walking onto the Hill; it just didn't feel right. Many people looked uneasy.

But then, music swelled from the Peace Tower. It wasn't the tolling of the hour. It was a song played on the clock's carillon.

"What is that?" I said to John and Kathryn. In reply, John began to sing along.

"They'll be blue birds over/ the white cliffs of Dover/ tomorrow, just you wait and see...."

They were playing war-time music and hymns. "The White Cliffs of Dover" faded, followed by "For Those in Peril on the Sea" and then by "To Thee My Country" and many others. And suddenly, holding the ceremony there on the Hill felt right, and the crowd was united in singing.

The best part of the national ceremony, every year, was the veteran's parade. They marched by, some of them using canes, others being pushed in wheelchairs, as thousand of people lined the route. We would clap, and wave and cheer, and yell "Thank you! Thank you!" until our throats were hoarse and our voices gone.

Back then, I remember feeling as if these were the very last veterans of a "true" war for Canada, the last ones to carry that burden. Little did I know that 12 years later, I would be living in a military house on a military base, with one neighbour and friend just returned from Afghanistan last year, haunted by what he's witnessed; another neighbour  who just left for Afghanistan earlier this month; and more friends than I can count who have sent their husbands and wives over to that country. We worry ourselves sick about these friends, and yet we are so proud of their willingness to risk their lives for women and children in another country, women and children who have been brutally oppressed and abused and scarred.

The Hubby is sailing today, and therefore is attending the ship's Remembrance Day ceremony, rather than helping me drag our kids to the local cenotaph. The children and I are watching the national Remembrance Day ceremoney in Ottawa this year, and as always, it's making me cry from a mixture of homesickness and pride and gratitude. But this year, I'm also thinking of D. and C. and the others I know who are modern vets; I'm thinking of my grandfathers and Hubby's grandfather, who served in the First and Second World Wars; and I'm thinking of Hubby, ready and willing to fulfill the same duty these men have.

Of course, like everyone else, I hope that wherever he serves, he stays safe. But I won't prevent him doing what he thinks is right. And I hope the next generation of university students lines the streets of Ottawa to clap and shout thank you to the veterans of this generation, many years from now.

Honesty and privacy

I kept a journal from the ages of 13 to 18, pouring my thoughts and dreams and aspirations, my observations of myself and others, and my spare story ideas into its pages. I got the idea from three sources: a friend who journaled (as her mother journaled before her), the diary of Anne Frank (which I first read at age 12) and the published journals of my favourite author, L.M. Montgomery.

While two of those journals were published works, only one of these authors had ever written a journal with some awareness it might later be published. Montgomery kept detailed and voluminous handwritten journals, but she later meticulously typed and edited volumes for publication after her death. Although she tried very hard to be honest and bare in her edited version, leaving little out, there are things she dropped for public consumption. Most of these had to do with her son Chester, who turned out to be a major disappointment to her.

When I started this blog almost three years ago, it had a purpose: to give an honest and thorough account of a woman alone with three children in the sub-Arctic for five months, while her husband attempted to pass Basic Officer Training with the Canadian Forces. I think I gave a fairly honest and accurate account of that experience, while also posting pictures of the children Hubby could enjoy whenever he got five minutes in front of a computer.

When we were reunited and moved, the purpose of this blog changed. It became more of a personal ranting and writing spot, a place to share thoughts and ideas, religious beliefs and personal causes. I think it is less successful in this, less satisfying to the reader, but for the few who read, it suffices.

Back when I was a reporter (I shall return...), I often told people new to the reporting process who were telling me personal stories to self-edit. "I have every right to ask you any question I please, and you have every right to refuse to answer it," I would say. "Edit yourself before you say it, because once I know it, it's too late. Take your time and think about what you want to tell me about you, but be as honest as you can be." People always appreciated the advice.

I find I often self-edit on this blog, and leave out ideas I would love to write about. Although I have many reasons for this, the main one is simple: I don't want to hurt someone in my life.

So I limit what I write about the children's misbehaviour as they grow. I leave out information I don't want extended family members to discover. I curtail my need to write about some relationships. In the end, protecting others' privacy is worth it.

But I admire writers who write without fear of the consequences. I think they give the rest of us the gift of truth about our shared human experience.

So if you wonder why I haven't written lately, I probably have a blog post I am dying to share... but I've curtailed myself.

I think I need to restart my paper and pen journal.

American stroller

The Hubby has been away for a month on the final sail of his officer training. Although he has been home for the occasional weekend, and will be home for a few more, I am essentially alone for a full seven weeks. No biggie; it's just part of Navy life.

While Hubby has been gone, my house and budget have decided to self-destruct. The computer, BBQ and washer all broke within a few days of each other, wiping out what little savings I had left from a rather expensive last six months.

We're broke. I could barely afford my school supplies this year ($226 for supplies and shoes for 2 kids, and a backpack and shoes for Toddler N.'s preschool. Insane.) In order to save money, I went through the children's closets and fall/winter gear meticulously, compiling a comprehensive list of what they need in clothing. Except for Super A., they don't need much, thanks to the magic of sibling- and neighbour-hand-me-downs.

"Great," I thought as I hung the list on the fridge. "$150 should do for everything else they need, including rain boots and winter mitts."

This past weekend, the Hubby sailed into Olympia, Washington. He had some time off on Saturday, so he did a bit of shopping and toured the town via bus. He knows about the money situation, so he virtuously limited his personal spending.

A very pregnant, very young woman boarded the crowded bus, and C. got up and offered his seat. She took it and thanked him, and he struck up a conversation. She started telling him about her current situation -- just left an nasty boyfriend, no real home, staying at a relative's house and trying to afford what she needs to bring a baby into the world.

Now, before I go any further, you need to know something about the Hubby. He truly feels pregnant women should be treated very well by everyone around them. He feels it is the most beautiful and amazing time in a woman's life, and that all pregnant women should feel special, because they are. He was (generally) ridiculously doting whenever I was pregnant. So I know this girl's story must have cut him to the quick.

He asked her what she still needed. She replied she had clothes, a bassinet and a crib, all secondhand, and all she needed was a car seat/stroller combo. She was looking to get them secondhand, too.

At that moment, a Bible verse popped into his head, the one about how hard it is for a rich man to get into Heaven, harder than a camel going through the eye of a needle. And although he knew I might kill him, he said, "Let's go to Target and get you a new one. On me."

So that's what he did. He took this young woman to the store and spent $150 on a car seat/stroller travel system.

He bundled up his courage and called me the next day.

I admit it. I yelled at him. But it was half-hearted, because how do you yell at a man who loves women and children so much that he bought a lonely and hurting stranger a stroller, even as he knew it would cause some financial troubles for us? How can I not respect, admire and love him for that?

Jesus teaches us to give the coat off our backs and the food from our hands to other people who need it more than we do, to give until it sincerely hurts. On Sunday, my husband became one of the few Christians I've ever met who actually did it.

I'm proud to be his wife.

Still saving that dance

Fifteen years ago, when I was 17, I went to a homecoming dance in Stellarton, N.S. with a friend. She was hoping the boy she was crushing on would be there, and although I had acquired a very pretty black eye trying to play Ultimate Fribee that day, I smeared on some make-up and grumpily agreed to go.

Alas, the boy in question wasn't at the dance, not was anyone else over the age of 14. Chris and I prepared to leave; we weren't going to dance with teenyboppers!

"Wait," Chris said, peering into the dark arena. "There a guy from my class over there, and he looks bored to death. Let's go over and say hi."

As we approached, I saw a tall, skinny seventeen-year-old boy hunched up on a chair, elbows on knees, hands cradling his face . His shoulders were too big and wide for the rest of him, his hands too large. He had curly hair, tanned skin and was scowling at the infants dancing nearby.

"C., what are you doing here?" Chris shouted through the music.

He looked up and finally smiled. He'd been dropped off at the dance by his folks. He was stuck there. He seemed very glad to see us.

We spent the rest of the night dancing. I gave him my phone number. He called the next day, and every other day that summer. I liked him, but found his persistence a little annoying.

A month later, he picked me up for another dance. I opened the front door for him and realized I was in love with the guy.

We had a great final year of high school together. I went to Carleton, leaving him behind in Nova Scotia -- or so I thought. But no matter who I dated, no matter how crazy my hijinks, no matter how many times we dumped each other, I always seemed to find my way back to him.

So, to that boy, who is now my husband, my soulmate, and the father of the most beautiful children on the planet: I saved that last dance for you. I always will. Happy 15 years!

Perceptions of "working" motherhood

I've been alone with the children during the evenings this week. A few days ago, I took them to the playground down the road after supper, to blow off some energy. A mother out alone with three children usually attracts a lot of attention in B.C.; people tend to stare and either marvel or scowl.

While pushing Toddler N. on the swing, I started chatting with another mom. She asked me if the three of them were all mine. I said yes and prepared to hear the dreaded phrase, "you've got your hands full!" Instead, the mom nodded and said, "We've got four: my daughter, my older son, and the twins."

We immediately started talking full speed; another mother-of-more-than-two is rare here. I thought I'd made a new best friend when I happened to mention I work full-time outside the home.

The other mom blinked and said, "Oh, that's why you're so calm. By six o'clock I'm ready to lose it."

I wanted to sit down on the wood chips and cry. I finally found a person who understands a part of my life, and she threw the Mommy Wars in my face.

I find this tendency of moms to suppose other mothers' work arrangements are easier to be tremendously annoying. I've been a stay-at-home mom for three and a half years and a working mom for four years. Both are hard.

Sometimes, they are hard in the same ways -- kids are kids and their needs don't change. It's just a matter of how many hours you're dealing with it on weekdays. But there is a dramatic difference in being with your kids all day long versus being with them half the day, I admit that.

But why anyone would think working all day long in a high-stress job, commuting for an hour each way, then coming home to cook a meal and deal with children alone all night (another high-stress job) would induce calm is beyond me.

Let's be honest here. I do a very demanding and stressful job with multiple deadlines in a day. The only reasons I can do it between 8:30 and 4:30 is because my bosses are understanding and because I am a ninja. It often takes the entire bus ride home to find my equilibrium before walking twenty minutes from the bus stop in heels to children desperate to see me. And this isn't even me at my very best -- I gave up my best so I could be home before 6:30 p.m. or 7 p.m. every night.

I wasn't in the mood for that kind of judgment at the park, so I wished the mom a pleasant evening and started climbing the jungle gym with Toddler N.

The next day, I stumbled across a conversation about working motherhood and stress at Momversation.com. "Ooh!" I thought. "Awesome, let's see what the bloggers have to say."

I was disappointed: although there are some 9-to-5 workers who are panelists on Momversation, NONE of them were part of this discussion. All of the mommy bloggers in the conversation worked for pay from home. That's valid work, and has its own set of stressors I've never had to have. But let's acknowledge it is not the same as strapping on heels and trooping out the door at 7:15 in the morning. When you work at home, your child's school play, dental appointment or field trip is not a professional crisis. It takes a long time for me to get home; the round trip means I lose half a day of work. There are many days I just can't leave, and I don't know that until 20 minutes before I was planning to go. I've managed to avoid missing anything important, but it is always on my mind. I would have liked that reality, the reality of many working for pay moms, to be reflected in the discussion.

Work is work. It can often be stressful. Motherhood often conflicts with it. Can't we find a way as mothers to acknowledge the differences in our work without thinking everyone else has it easier?

Quick Easter pic

Sorry I don't have more Easter pics to share (long story), but here's one of the kidlets after Mass on Easter Sunday.

Happy Easter!

OK, enough about the States!

That's enough politics around here. Back to crowing about my children.

Toddler N. told me yesterday I'm "boo-ti-ful." Thanks, baby girl!

Couldn't have said it better myself

I wish I'd written this calm and logical rebuttal to those people who treat me like one of Satan's minions for having kids.

http://www.slate.com/id/2143659/

HT to Pansy.

I love my kids (deep breath)...

I'm getting to that wiggy stage, where I just want to hide from them all and go get a pedicure.

Hubby gets back on Friday, thank goodness.

A day as a solo mother

The Hubby sailed to Alaska on Tuesday morning, so I am alone with the kids and a temporary live-out nanny for the month. (for those of you who don't know me in real life, we have had child care hell the past few months. I can't get into it here for many reasons, including legal ones.)

People often say, "I don't know how you do it." Well, let me tell you! Here's what happened today.

5:30 am: Alarm goes off so I can get up and exercise. Toddler N. wakes up at the sound, demanding baba. I'll just nurse her for a few minutes in my bed and then sneak downstairs to do my Pilates....

6:55 am: Dang, dang, dang.

7:00 am: Shower, dress and blow dry.

7:20 am: Head to the kitchen, empty dishwasher, plug in kettle for children's oatmeal.

7:40 am: Go and wake sleepy heads. Convince boys to get dressed ("No, Big I., your penis is not supposed to stick out of the underwear hole. Put it back in. Now.")

7:45 am: Change Toddler N.'s diaper, convince her to sit still so I can put her hair in a ponytail. Give up trying to put her in shorts and cede to her demand for a "pwincess dwess."

7:50 am: Breakfast for the kids while I desperately brush teeth and throw on makeup.

7:55 am: Nanny arrives on time, like clockwork. Realize we have no bread.

8:00 am: Tear out of the driveway in minivan to the corner store for bread, head back home, drop off bread. Kiss oatmeal-eating children. Deal with last-minute Big I. tantrum. Run out door at 8:15 am.

8:38 am: Arrive at work after taking every shortcut I can think of. Still have not eaten breakfast.

9:45 am: Sneak down to the Starbucks for a low-calorie, high-fibre smoothie (4 Weight Watchers Points.) Ask for a shot of espresso in smoothie (o WW points.) Pick up cup by lid and drop it on floor.

9:50 am: Starbucks barista remakes smoothie (with double shot now) for free while I sponge smoothie off myself and another 'Bucks worker mops the floor.

10:00 am: Think about lunchtime. Continue writing news releases.

noon: Go out to lunch with office staff, have a salad (yeah me, on diet!) and have a great time. Also drink a cosmo (bad girl, alcohol at noon.)

4:40 pm: After quiet day at office, run like mad thing toward parking garage. Wish I was riding my bike but takes too long.

5:15 pm: Arrive at home, receive hugs, kisses and nanny debrief.

5:30: Start cooking supper while trying to load washer and listen to kids talk about their day.

6 pm: Supper of low-fat burgers and veggies with dip. Kids actually eat everything served, including vegetables. Sit in stunned silence.

6:45 pm: After kitchen clean-up, brave the grocery store with all three kids. "I., don't sit on the bread. A., come back here and stop flapping your arms and head around [Someone is going to think there's something wrong with him, heck sometimes I wonder.] N., Bella [her doll] does not need her own cookie; share yours. I., you need to pee again???")

7:45 pm: Arrive home, chat with neighbours, put away groceries. Catch N. eating cookies out of one of the bags, shrug and let her.

8:25 pm: Clean-up of bedrooms and living room; kids actually help!

8:35 pm: Bedlunch.

8:45 pm: Send them upstairs to brush teeth while I prise Cheerios off the floor. Wonder why cereal bonds with hardwood on contact.

8:55 pm: Find kids brushing teeth instead of fighting as expected. Hug them all, help them finish.

9 pm: A full hour after bedtime, put the boys in bed, tell story about Daddy sailing, say prayers, turn out light, turn on music.

9:15 pm: Prepare for Toddler N.'s bedtime showdown, and am shocked when she asks for baba. She falls asleep nursing, an almost unheard-of occurrence lately.

9:30 pm: Sink into office chair and drink Coke Zero.

So there you have it, an easy day when Hubby is sailing. You don't want to know about the ones when I end the day sobbing and begging the two-year-old to go to sleep. Feel free to send wine, though.

Two, four and six

Big I. turned four yesterday, and Toddler N. turned two today.

That means my kids are two, four and six. It also means there are no more babies living in my house. I'm having a hard time grasping either of those statements.

Here's some pics of the birthday kids today, below.

Happy birthday, my Sunshine and my Little Star!

Toddler N. and self-expression

Toddler N. is turning two next month, and while I find it impossible to believe she is no longer a baby, I am enjoying the discovery of her true personality.

She is will on legs. She wants her way, right away. Who cares if running away from Mama means a car might hit her? She wants to run, so run she does. Fie to other's need to sleep or eat or sit on the toilet. Diva's wants are much more important.

Although I've raised two toddlers before her, this fierce will always takes me by surprise. The boys were easy-going at this age. Not N. She truly takes after her namesakes, my mother and great aunt. They both have a fierce will.

But she's more than a walking, talking ego. She has a great sense of humour and enjoys practical jokes. She loves to pretend to be a cat or dog, and laughs uproariously after licking your leg and barking.

She has a sweet little voice and lilting diction. She recently learned to say, "yes" instead of "yeah", and my heart melts everytime she says, "Yes, Ma-ma." (She also like the word "nope" a lot, especially when said with a certain insouciance.)

I often look at her and wonder what her life will be like, in a way I just don't with the boys. Of course I am eager to see what they all choose to do with their lives. But my only daughter makes me wonder what her life will be like compared to mine. Will she makes the same decisions, the same mistakes? Will she do something completely different with her life?

She just woke from her nap, warm and sleepy, asking to nurse. She is patting me right now, giving me that look that means, "I know you want to wean me, but that ain't happening. Diva needs her baba."

On crises and desert times

When the Hubby and I planned our escape from the Great White North, we expected life to change, and change a great deal. What we didn't expect from our first year of southern living was a year full of illness, intense stress, disillusionment and crises of faith. But that's what we got.

The kids were hospitalized twice.

I couldn't get a job in journalism to save my life, despite eight years with the Mother Corp. and the statue in the living room.

My grandmother almost died, and I had to take a trip home I couldn't afford, at Christmastime, paid for by my mother-in-law (bless you, N.) so I could say good-bye. Thank God she lived.

I took a job doing something I always said I'd never do, simply to pay our student loans. We went through three sitters in five months. We are still waiting for our permanent nanny, five months later. (For new readers: a live-in nanny is a lot cheaper than day care when you have three kids.)

I had the worst Valentines Day, birthday, Easter and Mother's Day of my life.

As a family, we have struggled to attend Mass, and I have struggled with my prayer life and my faith. I feel very far from God lately, and I know I'm the one who put the distance there.

As a consequence of all this, my marriage has suffered. Nothing terribly serious, but something we need to work on.

There are many bright spots in all this.

A. has learned to ride a bike with no training wheels. His four front teeth have all fallen out, and his adult teeth are coming in nicely. He can read, which forever amazes me.

Big I. is no longer Little. He is a brown, sturdy, upright little man who has an incredible imagination and a lively wit.

Toddler N. is almost two, has about 150 words and is the most stubborn child on the planet. Her head is a mass of strawberry blonde curls. She loves to sing.

The Hubby 's training is going well and he is enjoying life in the military. He still has that zany sense of humour, and is well-liked at his latest assignment.

I like my co-workers very much and can live with the work I'm doing, but I know I am not doing what I am meant to do in life. To quote Stevie Cameron: "All I have ever been, all I have ever wanted to be, is a reporter." So I continue with this work because it pays the bills, and dream of a time when I might steal a few hours here and there to sell the odd article, to build my reputation here and get away from the Dark Side.

I have also been thinking about my other passion, health, and wondering if I have a future there, wondering how old is too old for medical school. I can't even think of going until the kids are all in high school or beyond, so perhaps it will never be anything more than a dream. But I know I could do it; I was always a straight-A student, and nothing can gross me out too much anymore, not after all the IV needles and vomit I've endured. I might puke, but I wouldn't pass out.

My parents are coming to visit this week. My dad hasn't seen the boys since Isaac was a baby. He and the kids have been plotting days filled with ice cream and beaches and parks.

So I sit, halfway through 2008, and ask myself to consider my blessings rather than dwelling on all these hard times. This is what I come up with:

1. The kids are healthy and whole.
2. My husband loves me and I love him.
3. My parents, in-laws and grandparents are well.
4. My friend E. had her first son (yaaaayyy) and my friend S. is expecting her first daughter any day.
5. I've only gained back 10 pounds of the 30 I'd lost since I switched from stroller-pushing to a desk job, and I've maintained that weight for five very hard months. (Hey, you can't know how incredibly happy I am to still be in single digit sizes!)
6. My faith is based on logic rather than feelings (or I don't think I'd have any left!)
7. A house, food, clothing and beer in the fridge.

Quick recap

The children were hospitalized again last week. The boys this time. They were in the hospital at night, Hubby was at sea and I was at home with Toddler N.

I looked into their empty room with its empty beds. I thought about my brave little men, alone except for each other. I couldn't enter that empty room.

I sobbed for hours. I wanted my boys safe at home.

I raced into the hospital the next day, running through the halls to get to their room.

My boys were sitting up in their beds, groggy from sleep but looking much better than the night before.

"Wook, Mommy!" I. said. "There's bunnies out the window!"

Sure enough, two black bunnies were hopping about.

I never expected their first night outside the family would be in hospital beds.

They are fully recovered, but I just keep waiting for the next illness to hit. What a winter.

The story of the stomach bug

About three and a half weeks ago, Little I. started complaining his tummy hurt. He started eating less and less. Then he had the diarrhea. Then he started puking.

On the Saturday, five days before I started my new job, we took him to the ER. We were there 12 hours for IV rehydration. I took him in again on Sunday. He seemed to perk up and got over the illness.

Toddler N. had mild diarrhea this whole time.

On Wednesday night, Super A. started throwing up. He seemed better Thursday, but by Friday, my first day of work, he was very ill.

Hubby stayed home with him Friday so I could start my new job. On Friday night, N. started puking too.

By Sunday my oldest and youngest were so dehydrated the nurse who lives next door said they needed the ER right away.

It took five sticks to get an IV needle into A., his veins were so small from dehydration. He was listless, vomiting bile and passing out between vomits.

They had to put N.'s IV into her external jugular vein. She was poked six times before that. Her kidneys stopped working properly and she didn't pee in three days.

They were in the hospital four days. They were the worst four days of my life, camped out on a cot, praying their organs wouldn't shut down.

The kids were released a week ago. They looked terribly thin. Hubby has been feeding them up ever since.

I've been watching them sleep at night this week, looking at the bloom of health on their cheeks again and thanking God I didn't lose them.

And I've been thinking about the mothers who do. Mothers in the Third World who lose children to vomiting and diarrhea.

There are millions of them every year, dead for the want of IV fluids and simple medications.

Even in my children's illness and suffering, I am blessed and fortunate. It's not fair and I am not deserving.

"You want million dollar?"

For those of you who have never met my Hubby, he has a fairly zany sense of humour. It's one of the reasons I fell in love with him, and one of the things that helps us through tough times.

Hubby has an obsession with YouTube, especially when he can find episodes of the show Robot Chicken there. And unfortunately, he has a bad habit of showing these (admittedly side-splitting) clips to the boys.

The other day, he found this on the Net:

http://www.dumpalink.com/videos/Robot-Chicken-Who-Poop-Last-5a15.html

The boys, being boys, thought this is the funniest thing they had ever witnessed. For two days, our happy PMQ has rung with shouts of: "You want million dollars? Who Poop Rast!!!!"

It was all very funny until this morning. Super A. woke up at 6:30 a.m. and the first thing that came out of his mouth was the triumphant shout, "Who Poop Rast!!!!"

He woke everyone in the house. Soon his brother and sister were also shouting, "Who Poop Rast!!!" (Baby N.'s version was just the word "POOP" over and over.)

I sent Hubby to put them back to bed. His "poop"y mess, not mine.

You want million dollar?

A whirlwind visit

I haven't dumped you, readers. I've just had a whirlwind trip across the continent.

My grandmother had open heart surgery on Christmas Day. She survived the operation but there were doubts she'd live in the days following the surgery.

I was a wreck. She had asked to see me and baby N. before she went into the OR. Here I was in British Columbia, too far away and too broke to fulfill what might have been her last request. I cried for most of Boxing Day.

My sister-in-law L. was visiting over Christmas. Just before we took her to the airport on Boxing Day, she gave me a big hug. She understood, she said. She would have been a wreck, too. And she also understood how grief and sadness just creep up on you in unexpected moments.

She would know, I mused. Her beautiful father died when she was in high school and her grief was enormous. It seems to have made her wise.

My mother-in-law called on the 28th. After much wrangling, she had gotten me and the baby a plane ticket.

Four hours later, I was on a plan to Halifax. It was the red-eye. We spent 12 hours in Pearson on my anniversary.

The look on Nan's face when I came into the hospital room was worth every torturous minute. Her face shone as she looked at N. It was the first time she'd ever met her.

"Cindy! And the baby!"

Over the next few days we had a chance to talk and to pray together. Mom and I also spent lots of time hanging out and playing with the baby like a pair of nuts.

I returned home yesterday to two little boys who missed me and their sister desperately. C. held his own fairly well, though.

Now I must go un-Christmas my house. Taking down the tree is something I insist on doing every year.

Glad to be back, folks!