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.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
On fear and motivation
Weird things have been going on in my writing life lately.
As I've blogged before, I've dipped my toes, blushingly and hesitatingly, into writing fiction. I have never, ever written fiction; from the very first scribble, I wrote non-fiction. Character studies, non-fiction short stories, narratives, journals, and then on to articles and interviews and radio scripts. Reality was where my pen was most comfortable.
But now that I am no longer a working journalist and can no longer spend my days asking real people questions, my reporter-brain has despereately started asking imaginary people about their lives and thoughts and stories. It's weird. I don't know how to deal with all these people who hang out in my brain and tell me things.
My first fiction manuscript is stalled, simply because I do not have the time to research the minute technical details properly, what with The Hubby's training and the full-time job and the rugrats. I wil get back to it, since it is, at its core, about identity, military family life and the nature of the life of a journalist, both in and outside the newsroom. The question I'm asking the protagonist is one I ask myself: "When do you stop being a journalist? Where does the reporter end and the person begin? How does your spouse's identity affect yours? Can you be two archetypes at once?"
The first chapters of the second manuscript exploded out of me about two months ago (before the computer croaked). That one I don't need to research so much. It is much more visceral and personal, and it is about something of which I know more than most obstetricians. (A sub-group Internet friends have immediately figured out what I'm talking about. Yes girls, I'm writing about it.)
But what it's really about is fear and the strange things we do when we're frightened.
Fear is a powerful motivator, and in some ways that's supremely appropriate. When we're frightened by a physical threat, we either run or fight, depending on what will best protect our sorry hides. Adrenalin exists for a reason.
But most of the things which frighten us are not physical, and we can't physically run from them. How do you run from illness or loneliness or death? How do you run from thoughts and emotions? How do you make yourself, or the ones you love more than life, safe again?
Finding safety in those kinds of situations is never simple or straightforward, and it often takes calm and quiet to suss out the answer. But here's the tricky part: fear is fear, and our bodies react the same way to each fear-threat. Adrenalin kicks in, and that particular hormone doesn't do calm and reflective very well. Its whole point is to flush out the indecision and make us act right away.
Often, when someone we love is sick or suffering, and we are terrified for them, we want to listen to the adrenalin and just make the pain STOP. It's hard to remember the short-term pain may be worth it, in order to avoid a longer-term consequence of absolute agony.
I remember when Super A. was a toddler, no more than 14 or 15 months old, he got very sick and needed to go to the hospital. The doctors ordered an IV placed and blood drawn. I held A. while the nurse did her job, expertly getting the IV in one stick as poor A. writhed and sobbed. Hubby held his other hand and stroked his back.
Then A. hiccuped out, "I be good, Daddy, I be good boy. I be good, no more owie."
As I kissed A. and assured him he was the best little boy in the world, and we were not punishing him (where did that never-spanked angel get that idea?), Hubby kissed his head -- and walked right out of the treatment room.
Later, he told me he had almost punched out the nurse, and had to walk away to make sure he didn't -- the nurse who was fighting to get fluids into our dehydrated and very sick boy.
That's what fear and terror and heartbreak can do to you.
So I'm writing a novel about fear as a motivator. Although it's not about me, I've already lived one side of the story. Now I'm asking myself how I might react if my own precious pearl faces my greatest fear.
I'm beginning to understand how fiction is just another form of writing the truth. I already knew the truth ain't pretty.
As I've blogged before, I've dipped my toes, blushingly and hesitatingly, into writing fiction. I have never, ever written fiction; from the very first scribble, I wrote non-fiction. Character studies, non-fiction short stories, narratives, journals, and then on to articles and interviews and radio scripts. Reality was where my pen was most comfortable.
But now that I am no longer a working journalist and can no longer spend my days asking real people questions, my reporter-brain has despereately started asking imaginary people about their lives and thoughts and stories. It's weird. I don't know how to deal with all these people who hang out in my brain and tell me things.
My first fiction manuscript is stalled, simply because I do not have the time to research the minute technical details properly, what with The Hubby's training and the full-time job and the rugrats. I wil get back to it, since it is, at its core, about identity, military family life and the nature of the life of a journalist, both in and outside the newsroom. The question I'm asking the protagonist is one I ask myself: "When do you stop being a journalist? Where does the reporter end and the person begin? How does your spouse's identity affect yours? Can you be two archetypes at once?"
The first chapters of the second manuscript exploded out of me about two months ago (before the computer croaked). That one I don't need to research so much. It is much more visceral and personal, and it is about something of which I know more than most obstetricians. (A sub-group Internet friends have immediately figured out what I'm talking about. Yes girls, I'm writing about it.)
But what it's really about is fear and the strange things we do when we're frightened.
Fear is a powerful motivator, and in some ways that's supremely appropriate. When we're frightened by a physical threat, we either run or fight, depending on what will best protect our sorry hides. Adrenalin exists for a reason.
But most of the things which frighten us are not physical, and we can't physically run from them. How do you run from illness or loneliness or death? How do you run from thoughts and emotions? How do you make yourself, or the ones you love more than life, safe again?
Finding safety in those kinds of situations is never simple or straightforward, and it often takes calm and quiet to suss out the answer. But here's the tricky part: fear is fear, and our bodies react the same way to each fear-threat. Adrenalin kicks in, and that particular hormone doesn't do calm and reflective very well. Its whole point is to flush out the indecision and make us act right away.
Often, when someone we love is sick or suffering, and we are terrified for them, we want to listen to the adrenalin and just make the pain STOP. It's hard to remember the short-term pain may be worth it, in order to avoid a longer-term consequence of absolute agony.
I remember when Super A. was a toddler, no more than 14 or 15 months old, he got very sick and needed to go to the hospital. The doctors ordered an IV placed and blood drawn. I held A. while the nurse did her job, expertly getting the IV in one stick as poor A. writhed and sobbed. Hubby held his other hand and stroked his back.
Then A. hiccuped out, "I be good, Daddy, I be good boy. I be good, no more owie."
As I kissed A. and assured him he was the best little boy in the world, and we were not punishing him (where did that never-spanked angel get that idea?), Hubby kissed his head -- and walked right out of the treatment room.
Later, he told me he had almost punched out the nurse, and had to walk away to make sure he didn't -- the nurse who was fighting to get fluids into our dehydrated and very sick boy.
That's what fear and terror and heartbreak can do to you.
So I'm writing a novel about fear as a motivator. Although it's not about me, I've already lived one side of the story. Now I'm asking myself how I might react if my own precious pearl faces my greatest fear.
I'm beginning to understand how fiction is just another form of writing the truth. I already knew the truth ain't pretty.
Wow, um, sorry 'bout that
Add a month alone with the kids to a computer collapse (freaking hard drive) and you have a full month of no blog posts.
Apologies to my four readers!
Apologies to my four readers!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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!
Friday, July 10, 2009
Happy belated birthday, Hubby!
I didn't have the perfect post on your birthday, but I've found it now.
Love you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryf1NpGOgvg
Love you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryf1NpGOgvg
Monday, July 06, 2009
Defining quotation
"In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." -- Albert Camus
This defines who I am at my most basic. No matter what happens, that summer is somewhere in there.
This defines who I am at my most basic. No matter what happens, that summer is somewhere in there.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Weekend with Megan H.
I needed to go to Edmonton for business, so Megan joined me for the weekend once the work was done. Here's some random shots -- more pics at Meg's site.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Flop
The garage sale was a total flop. We had one guy look over our bike and tell me it wasn't worth any money, especially not the $10 listed on the sticker; and a neighbourhood kid who tried to buy our dinkie mat as Hubby loaded the detritus into the minivan to take it to the Sally Ann. Hubby took pity on the guffer and gave him the mat.
Salvation Army shoppers, look for some fabulous merchadise this week.
I miss Yellowknife.
Salvation Army shoppers, look for some fabulous merchadise this week.
I miss Yellowknife.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Garage sale city
I am a devotee of the garage sale and of secondhand living, and it's all Yellowknife's fault.
When the Hubby (then Fiance) and I moved North, we needed many, many things to furnish our first home. We owned no furniture, no cutlery, no pots and pans. We essentially owned the clothes on our backs and an old dresser my former roommate gave me.
What we needed we got from friends, the secondhand store in town and the Yellowknife garage sale circuit.
You see, in the North, furniture is an expensive and precious commodity, since it has to be shipped from down south to get there. It doesn't matter if the local furniture store is selling it or if you order it from IKEA in Edmonton, it still has to travel, and the consumer pays up the nose to get it there. That goes for lots of other stuff, too, such as brand-name clothes and chic baby gear.
Conversely, when people leave, it is often more expensive to ship their Northern furniture and other items south than it is to buy all new and shiny stuff at their destination. That means you have people desperate for cheap furniture and other items, and other people desperate to sell their stuff for any price, just to get rid of it.
It's garage sale heaven.
We furnished our apartment on the Saturday of the May long weekend in 2000, with the help of our friend Julie and her trusty truck. She'd just moved North too, and with her wheels and Hubby's lifting skills, we all did well.
When the Hubby finished his basic training, I held a massive garage sale a week before he came home to move us to Victoria. It was raining, so the turnout was small. For two hours my front yard was stormed by about a hundred furniture seekers, clothes shoppers and pregnant women.
So imagine my dismay when I saw the Victoria version of a garage sale: a few paltry tables of worn-out toys and kitchen stuff, with one lonely and disgruntled shopper digging through the wreckage.
We are holding a garage sale tomorrow to sell some old furniture (Northern vintage!) along with a tonne of awesome kids' clothes and shoes (including two pairs of Robeez), a bike, some DVD stands, computer games, a computer speaker system, etc. If you live in town, come on over. Whatever is left will be free for the taking after noon. (This never would have been an issue in Yellowknife.) Wish us luck!
When the Hubby (then Fiance) and I moved North, we needed many, many things to furnish our first home. We owned no furniture, no cutlery, no pots and pans. We essentially owned the clothes on our backs and an old dresser my former roommate gave me.
What we needed we got from friends, the secondhand store in town and the Yellowknife garage sale circuit.
You see, in the North, furniture is an expensive and precious commodity, since it has to be shipped from down south to get there. It doesn't matter if the local furniture store is selling it or if you order it from IKEA in Edmonton, it still has to travel, and the consumer pays up the nose to get it there. That goes for lots of other stuff, too, such as brand-name clothes and chic baby gear.
Conversely, when people leave, it is often more expensive to ship their Northern furniture and other items south than it is to buy all new and shiny stuff at their destination. That means you have people desperate for cheap furniture and other items, and other people desperate to sell their stuff for any price, just to get rid of it.
It's garage sale heaven.
We furnished our apartment on the Saturday of the May long weekend in 2000, with the help of our friend Julie and her trusty truck. She'd just moved North too, and with her wheels and Hubby's lifting skills, we all did well.
When the Hubby finished his basic training, I held a massive garage sale a week before he came home to move us to Victoria. It was raining, so the turnout was small. For two hours my front yard was stormed by about a hundred furniture seekers, clothes shoppers and pregnant women.
So imagine my dismay when I saw the Victoria version of a garage sale: a few paltry tables of worn-out toys and kitchen stuff, with one lonely and disgruntled shopper digging through the wreckage.
We are holding a garage sale tomorrow to sell some old furniture (Northern vintage!) along with a tonne of awesome kids' clothes and shoes (including two pairs of Robeez), a bike, some DVD stands, computer games, a computer speaker system, etc. If you live in town, come on over. Whatever is left will be free for the taking after noon. (This never would have been an issue in Yellowknife.) Wish us luck!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
For my mom
Elvis singing a classic Ann Murray tune -- Mom, what more can you ask for? Happy Mother's Day!
No inner peace here
Today is Mother's Day, and I have received some of the usual spoiling from the Hubby and our little brood (breakfast in bed, flowers, a meal out, ice cream; it's been a good day.)
After a little more than eight years into this motherhood gig, and many sacrifices made for my guffers (I'd love to NOT have my C-section paunch, thanks very much), I'm at the point where I' mot sure what I've learned from all this.
When A. was born, after the first few months, I could list all the wonderful qualities I'd been learning as a new mom: patience, tolerance, forgiveness, compassion, an ability to function on less than three hours a sleep a night for more than a year (no, I am not joking.) I felt as if I was discovering my true abilities, my gifts and strength. I was a reporter and a young mother; I'd show them all this could be done. Pop in that university mixed taped of rousing feminist ballads!
Baby I. came, and Baby N., and I still felt I was doing pretty well. It was hard; I cried a lot, but I was getting better at it, day by day.
And then A. went to school. Lately, as he matures and starts doing and experiencing things I've never dealt with before, I often feel like they've handed me a newborn again (a 50-lb. one) and I have no idea what to do.
In the Gap ads, mothers are thin women with wonderfully toned arms who run through the surf with their perfect offspring, laughing and smiling at their handsome husbands with six-pack abs.
Motherhood is not like that. Motherhood is not bliss. It is hard; it can be frightening and is often downright messy.
I have learned this much: motherhood is not supposed to be sunshine and rainbows. It's not about self-fulfilment or inner peace, and I think that modern expectation is what makes so many mothers feel like failures as they deal with squalling, colicky infants at 3 a.m., or second-graders who insist on bullying their classmates, or teenagers who never want to eat and say they feel fat.
Motherhood, in essence, is about the survival and betterment of the species. Period. Little humans need a lot of things to grow and grow well, but none of them are a perfectly toned, perfectly tanned mother with a personal shopper and a perpetual smile.
Motherhood has shaped who I am, and that person is better than the one I was before the kids came along. I think that's certainly one of the benefits of motherhood. But I don't think that was the point.
The point is, motherhood is not about the mother at all.
After a little more than eight years into this motherhood gig, and many sacrifices made for my guffers (I'd love to NOT have my C-section paunch, thanks very much), I'm at the point where I' mot sure what I've learned from all this.
When A. was born, after the first few months, I could list all the wonderful qualities I'd been learning as a new mom: patience, tolerance, forgiveness, compassion, an ability to function on less than three hours a sleep a night for more than a year (no, I am not joking.) I felt as if I was discovering my true abilities, my gifts and strength. I was a reporter and a young mother; I'd show them all this could be done. Pop in that university mixed taped of rousing feminist ballads!
Baby I. came, and Baby N., and I still felt I was doing pretty well. It was hard; I cried a lot, but I was getting better at it, day by day.
And then A. went to school. Lately, as he matures and starts doing and experiencing things I've never dealt with before, I often feel like they've handed me a newborn again (a 50-lb. one) and I have no idea what to do.
In the Gap ads, mothers are thin women with wonderfully toned arms who run through the surf with their perfect offspring, laughing and smiling at their handsome husbands with six-pack abs.
Motherhood is not like that. Motherhood is not bliss. It is hard; it can be frightening and is often downright messy.
I have learned this much: motherhood is not supposed to be sunshine and rainbows. It's not about self-fulfilment or inner peace, and I think that modern expectation is what makes so many mothers feel like failures as they deal with squalling, colicky infants at 3 a.m., or second-graders who insist on bullying their classmates, or teenagers who never want to eat and say they feel fat.
Motherhood, in essence, is about the survival and betterment of the species. Period. Little humans need a lot of things to grow and grow well, but none of them are a perfectly toned, perfectly tanned mother with a personal shopper and a perpetual smile.
Motherhood has shaped who I am, and that person is better than the one I was before the kids came along. I think that's certainly one of the benefits of motherhood. But I don't think that was the point.
The point is, motherhood is not about the mother at all.
Monday, April 27, 2009
A request for my readers
I ask all readers of this weblog to have the common courtesy and respect to contact me directly, whether via the comments or the new email link on the right, if they have a complaint about this personal blog.
Thank you very much.
Thank you very much.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Thoughts on marriage
Megan over at Reflections on the Snow-Covered Hills is having an amazing discussion about the nature of civil vs. religious marriage, especially in light of gay marriage. One of her commenters, Jason, asked us to detail the differences between civil and religious marriages.
Below is my reply. I invite Megan's crowd of commenters to come on over and continue the discussion here, if they wish.
Taking up Jason's challenge -- much of my marriage, in its day to day workings, is similar to Jason's. My husband and I love and support one another, raise children together, share a home and household expenses, pool our earned money, file a joint tax return, claim each other on our benefits, take care of each other when sick, are intimate. Jason and his husband also do all these things, I'm guessing.
The differences are harder to quantify (and I'm going to talk about Catholic marriage in terms of what the Church teaches now -- many Catholic couples you know may not be living this commitment fully -- heck, I know I don't fully live up to it, but Hubby and I try.)
A major difference is the idea of the purpose of marriage. In Catholic thinking, marriage is NOT about romantic love at all (although that's very nice and encouraged.) It's about love as an action, as a set of choices. It's committing not to the feeling of love, but to the idea of raising and caring for a family. Of course many, many married couples also raise families, including Jason and his husband, but I would argue the secular view of marriage is that it is about a commitment to romantic love first. For Catholics, romantic love is secondary, although still very nice and encouraged.
As Catholics who practice our faith, my husband and I have pledged to procreate -- the Catholic wedding service requires you to state you are open to new life and will accept any children God sends through the marital act. (Notice I didn't say parenting, because Jason and his husband do that as well, as do many if not most straight and gay married couples.) That means no artificial birth control. We also accept the indissolubility of our religious marriage -- in other words, we accept that we are married until one of us dies, period. No spiritual divorce (although we have the legal right to divorce the civil aspect of our marriage, and the Church accepts that legal separation is sometimes necessary for the safety of members of the family.)
My husband also has different duties as a married Catholic man than Jason and his husband would -- Hubby is responsible for the entire family's religious education and direction, and that includes me. It's his job to feed my faith and to help me in my religious learning. He will answer for that when he meets the Lord in a greater way than I will for his education. Now, if he abdicated these responsibilities to me or the kids, I would need to step in and teach my kids my faith on my own. And of course, I am very involved in their education, but I take my lead from Hubby.
I also have a different duty as a Catholic wife, and this is a doozie -- I have committed to obeying Hubby's spiritual direction. That doesn't mean going against my personal conscience, ever, but it does mean accepting he has the duty to be involved in my religious life, and I have a duty to accept that and to at least listen to him. It also means I have to accept his primary spiritual direction of the children.
The most important difference of all, I guess, is the Catholic belief is that marriage is a sacrament, not just a ceremony, and therefore confers special graces to the couple through the Holy Spirit. It is a marriage of three, really, a promise to each other and to God, and the Holy Spirit helps us live the vocation.
I hope I haven't totally butchered this, and it is all given with respect. I know other Christians see marriage slightly differently, as will people with different spiritual beliefs. This is simply what my faith teaches, and I think the additional layers on our marriage, the non-civil stuff, is more obvious once explained like this.
Below is my reply. I invite Megan's crowd of commenters to come on over and continue the discussion here, if they wish.
Taking up Jason's challenge -- much of my marriage, in its day to day workings, is similar to Jason's. My husband and I love and support one another, raise children together, share a home and household expenses, pool our earned money, file a joint tax return, claim each other on our benefits, take care of each other when sick, are intimate. Jason and his husband also do all these things, I'm guessing.
The differences are harder to quantify (and I'm going to talk about Catholic marriage in terms of what the Church teaches now -- many Catholic couples you know may not be living this commitment fully -- heck, I know I don't fully live up to it, but Hubby and I try.)
A major difference is the idea of the purpose of marriage. In Catholic thinking, marriage is NOT about romantic love at all (although that's very nice and encouraged.) It's about love as an action, as a set of choices. It's committing not to the feeling of love, but to the idea of raising and caring for a family. Of course many, many married couples also raise families, including Jason and his husband, but I would argue the secular view of marriage is that it is about a commitment to romantic love first. For Catholics, romantic love is secondary, although still very nice and encouraged.
As Catholics who practice our faith, my husband and I have pledged to procreate -- the Catholic wedding service requires you to state you are open to new life and will accept any children God sends through the marital act. (Notice I didn't say parenting, because Jason and his husband do that as well, as do many if not most straight and gay married couples.) That means no artificial birth control. We also accept the indissolubility of our religious marriage -- in other words, we accept that we are married until one of us dies, period. No spiritual divorce (although we have the legal right to divorce the civil aspect of our marriage, and the Church accepts that legal separation is sometimes necessary for the safety of members of the family.)
My husband also has different duties as a married Catholic man than Jason and his husband would -- Hubby is responsible for the entire family's religious education and direction, and that includes me. It's his job to feed my faith and to help me in my religious learning. He will answer for that when he meets the Lord in a greater way than I will for his education. Now, if he abdicated these responsibilities to me or the kids, I would need to step in and teach my kids my faith on my own. And of course, I am very involved in their education, but I take my lead from Hubby.
I also have a different duty as a Catholic wife, and this is a doozie -- I have committed to obeying Hubby's spiritual direction. That doesn't mean going against my personal conscience, ever, but it does mean accepting he has the duty to be involved in my religious life, and I have a duty to accept that and to at least listen to him. It also means I have to accept his primary spiritual direction of the children.
The most important difference of all, I guess, is the Catholic belief is that marriage is a sacrament, not just a ceremony, and therefore confers special graces to the couple through the Holy Spirit. It is a marriage of three, really, a promise to each other and to God, and the Holy Spirit helps us live the vocation.
I hope I haven't totally butchered this, and it is all given with respect. I know other Christians see marriage slightly differently, as will people with different spiritual beliefs. This is simply what my faith teaches, and I think the additional layers on our marriage, the non-civil stuff, is more obvious once explained like this.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Isaiah 55:8-9:
"For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD.
"As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts."
Our thoughts: only the physically attractive, those who spend their time thinking about themselves and how they can get ahead, are talented and successful.
God's thoughts: A frumpy, lonely, poor, loving, compassionate middle-aged woman who spent her adult live selflessly caring for her elderly and sick parents has the voice of an angel, and is a commanding presence when she sings.
When I watch this talented and passionate woman sing, every single sacrifice for my family seems insignificant in comparison to her sacrifices for her parents.
Well done, Susan Boyle. Keep singing!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
Click the link, you will not be disappointed. But I promise you will be surprised.
"For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD.
"As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts."
Our thoughts: only the physically attractive, those who spend their time thinking about themselves and how they can get ahead, are talented and successful.
God's thoughts: A frumpy, lonely, poor, loving, compassionate middle-aged woman who spent her adult live selflessly caring for her elderly and sick parents has the voice of an angel, and is a commanding presence when she sings.
When I watch this talented and passionate woman sing, every single sacrifice for my family seems insignificant in comparison to her sacrifices for her parents.
Well done, Susan Boyle. Keep singing!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
Click the link, you will not be disappointed. But I promise you will be surprised.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Adventures in kitchen paleontology
Big I. is obsessed with dinosaurs. All small children seem to enjoy the ancient lizards, but Big I. is fixated. He now owns two separate encyclopedias on dinos. My four-year-old son can tell you about the different types of skulls each dino has, and why they have sails or plates or horns or massive claws. He can't spell my name, but he can read the names of such dinos as Baryonyx and Xenotarsosaurus.
Big I., you see, has decided he is a paleontologist.
So when the men were at Toys R Us today, and they saw a dinosaur excavation kit, all plans for baking Easter cookies were off. Big I. had bones to dig, and he needed an excavation team.
Big I., you see, has decided he is a paleontologist.
So when the men were at Toys R Us today, and they saw a dinosaur excavation kit, all plans for baking Easter cookies were off. Big I. had bones to dig, and he needed an excavation team.
Chief paleontologist Big I. prepares for the dig.
The first strike of the excavation.
The excavation continues. Digging dinos is hard work.
Excavation team member Daddy chips in.
Chief paleontologist Big I. gives the team instructions and praise.
Putting the skeleton together.
It's a velociraptor! Well done, excavation team!
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!Sunday, April 12, 2009
Happy Easter!
First, why I am a Catholic. The Lord and His Truth never change.
Second, why I am a Christian. "The grave became a place of Hope."
I have a soft spot for Michael Card's music. :-) Happy Easter, everyone!
(For my Christian friends, please do me a favour and pray for me. I need some help. Thanks.)
Friday, March 27, 2009
Gone, baby, gone
The CBC is laying off 800 people, cutting programming, and hacking at CBC North's budget (at least $500,000 gone for the North, possibly $1 million.) At least two former colleagues are definitely losing their jobs.
I'm in shock. A part of who I am is wrapped up in that place. I believe in the CBC's mission, especially in the North and in remote areas of Canada, and especially radio. And I'm so very sorry for my worried friends at the Mother Corp., all wondering who will get the ax and who will get pressured into taking early retirement. (They say it's voluntary, but I've seen how management pushes people they don't like to quit or retire.)
It's like the lockout all over again, the realization that the corporate types are out to protect themselves, rather than programming. (Why couldn't they merge the dual bureaucracy of CBC and Radio Canada? Cut the never-ending stream of managers?)
I don't even have the energy to be grateful I'm no longer there and not part of this. How can I be happy I'm not suffering, when so many good friends are, and when the listeners will ultimately lose out?
And now the politicking really begins, but it's going to make no difference. Thanks for trying, MP Charlie Angus.
I'm in shock. A part of who I am is wrapped up in that place. I believe in the CBC's mission, especially in the North and in remote areas of Canada, and especially radio. And I'm so very sorry for my worried friends at the Mother Corp., all wondering who will get the ax and who will get pressured into taking early retirement. (They say it's voluntary, but I've seen how management pushes people they don't like to quit or retire.)
It's like the lockout all over again, the realization that the corporate types are out to protect themselves, rather than programming. (Why couldn't they merge the dual bureaucracy of CBC and Radio Canada? Cut the never-ending stream of managers?)
I don't even have the energy to be grateful I'm no longer there and not part of this. How can I be happy I'm not suffering, when so many good friends are, and when the listeners will ultimately lose out?
And now the politicking really begins, but it's going to make no difference. Thanks for trying, MP Charlie Angus.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Who's on top?
On my very first day at CBC Radio, my manager sat me down at a table with a piece of paper and a pen between us. P. drew a triangle on the paper; he drew a little circle on the top and a bunch of little circles on the bottom. He then drew some lines horizontally through the triangle.
"This is the CBC," he said. "The circle here is the president of the corporation. These circles down here are our listeners and viewers. In between are the vice-presidents, directors, managers and staff."
I nodded. It seemed like a pretty routine corporate structure to me.
"This is the way some people see it," he said, showing me the graph with the president on top.
Then he turned the paper so the viewers and listeners were up top, and the president at the bottom.
"This is how it really is," he said. "These people who listen to us, who watch us, they are the boss. They are the reason we are here. They are the reason we produce shows and run the news and try to make them laugh from time to time.
"We're here to serve them, to give them what they need, to tell them stories they need to hear. Never forget that, and you'll do all right."
Over my years at Mother Corp., I tried to remember P.'s advice. I tried to tell stories my real bosses needed to hear. Because of that, I was lucky to do some fun, intriguing and (I think) important work. I often covered stories people outside the North would think unimportant -- but hey, my bosses were Northerners, and at least half of them lived in small Aboriginal communities.
With all of the problems at the CBC lately (the enormous budget shortfall, the passive-aggressive statements from the federal minister responsible, the anxiety and panic amongst the staff as rumours of 600 to 1200 lay-offs float about), I keep remembering that Sunday morning in Yellowknife, and the look in P.'s eyes as he showed me that graph.
That's what is the root of the problems at the CBC, really. Sometime in the past ten years (or longer), the upper levels forgot they are actually the lower levels. They forgot about the real bosses. And oh boy, it showed
"This is the CBC," he said. "The circle here is the president of the corporation. These circles down here are our listeners and viewers. In between are the vice-presidents, directors, managers and staff."
I nodded. It seemed like a pretty routine corporate structure to me.
"This is the way some people see it," he said, showing me the graph with the president on top.
Then he turned the paper so the viewers and listeners were up top, and the president at the bottom.
"This is how it really is," he said. "These people who listen to us, who watch us, they are the boss. They are the reason we are here. They are the reason we produce shows and run the news and try to make them laugh from time to time.
"We're here to serve them, to give them what they need, to tell them stories they need to hear. Never forget that, and you'll do all right."
Over my years at Mother Corp., I tried to remember P.'s advice. I tried to tell stories my real bosses needed to hear. Because of that, I was lucky to do some fun, intriguing and (I think) important work. I often covered stories people outside the North would think unimportant -- but hey, my bosses were Northerners, and at least half of them lived in small Aboriginal communities.
With all of the problems at the CBC lately (the enormous budget shortfall, the passive-aggressive statements from the federal minister responsible, the anxiety and panic amongst the staff as rumours of 600 to 1200 lay-offs float about), I keep remembering that Sunday morning in Yellowknife, and the look in P.'s eyes as he showed me that graph.
That's what is the root of the problems at the CBC, really. Sometime in the past ten years (or longer), the upper levels forgot they are actually the lower levels. They forgot about the real bosses. And oh boy, it showed
They chased after potential listeners/viewers, and ideal listeners/viewers, and hip ones and young ones and ones who dig it when you use swear words on the air. They worried about being contemporary and trendy. They Stromboed the news, rather than just The Hour.
And you know what happened? Some of the original bosses quit. Especially the television bosses, the elusive viewers. A lot of them quit. They went over to CTV and Global, where they weren't the boss, but at least they weren't being condescended to death.
Then the lower levels forgot the middle levels are the ones who keep the bosses around, who make radio and television worth listening to and watching. They tried to make us all expendable, contractors with no job security and no defense against being fired on a whim. At the same time, the amount of managers (who do not produce stuff for your eyes and ears) increased dramatically. They locked out the staff and pissed off a lot of the real bosses. Some of them never came back after the lock-out.
And now we are in a recession, and revenue is down, because why spend money on ads on a network that is losing its viewers hand over fist?
I don't know how to solve this crisis. But I do know if the CBC is going to continue to exist in some semblance of what was meant to be, the guys at the bottom need to wise up and remember the guys at the top.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
...with a carful of quintuplets who are all cutting teeth
... and I'd be smiling underneath.
Having an Ani week -- this woman still speaks to who I am, all these years and vast changes later.
To you, Hubby. You're worth it, too, always.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
I would defend to the ends of the Earth her perfect right to be here
I've been commenting elsewhere and on Facebook about my feelings on the media collapse. I have to admit much of it is selfish, because it looks like I will never get to go back. Tonight, after a busy evening with the brood, I'm remembering why I left in the first place.
For N.: I've been mourning my career, and my youthful appearance, and all I gave up for you to be here, and for the family to be in a financial position to raise three kids.
I will always regret leaving journalism. But I will never, ever regret leaving it for you and your brothers.
For the boys: You may not hear me on the radio anymore, but you see me every night. And my feelings of wasted talent are nothing compared to how I used to feel about my wasted motherhood.
I love you all. You are worth it. Keep reminding me of that.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
My new hero
Good job, Selma Hayek. Women did this for each other for millenia before formula. I think this is why we let down milk even when someone else's baby cries.
(I have to admit, now I'm wondering if Angelina Jolie is pumping her milk to ship to Sierra Leone.)
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/02/10/salma-hayek-breastfeeds-a_n_165676.html
(I have to admit, now I'm wondering if Angelina Jolie is pumping her milk to ship to Sierra Leone.)
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/02/10/salma-hayek-breastfeeds-a_n_165676.html
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Overheard in Buses #1: Teenage Bullies Attack
The bus is packed and at least 20 of us are standing in the aisle. A teenage couple is standing near the door, shooting dirty looks about. A man in his 50s, balding, fat and wearing glasses, is standing nearby.
Boy to Man: What are you looking at?
Man, taken aback: What? You mean me?
Girl: Yeah, you, what are are looking at? Are you looking at us?
Man, flabbergasted: What? I wasn't looking at you.
Girl: See this bus, it's full of windows for you to look out. So look out there, don't look at us.
Boy: Yeah, stop looking at us.
Man, looking nervous: Listen, I wasn't looking at you. I wasn't.
Boy and girl share the triumphant glance of successful bullies. I resolve to speak up at the next exchange, but the man turns his back on the kids and spends the rest of the bus ride trying his hardest not to look at them. I spend the rest of the ride wondering why a grown man allowed two children 40 years younger than he to bully him, and why I allowed it to happen.
Boy to Man: What are you looking at?
Man, taken aback: What? You mean me?
Girl: Yeah, you, what are are looking at? Are you looking at us?
Man, flabbergasted: What? I wasn't looking at you.
Girl: See this bus, it's full of windows for you to look out. So look out there, don't look at us.
Boy: Yeah, stop looking at us.
Man, looking nervous: Listen, I wasn't looking at you. I wasn't.
Boy and girl share the triumphant glance of successful bullies. I resolve to speak up at the next exchange, but the man turns his back on the kids and spends the rest of the bus ride trying his hardest not to look at them. I spend the rest of the ride wondering why a grown man allowed two children 40 years younger than he to bully him, and why I allowed it to happen.
Monday, January 26, 2009
True writer's block
I've hit another blogging drought. I have lots to write about, but a certain reticence to put it here. It's all so raw, and some of it is just not pretty, and lots of it is not happy.
I am generally a very happy person, and I am happy right now in my life, but my writing is always a little darker than who I am. I think I need a fresh start for this Year of the Ox.
I will soon start two new series of posts; one is called "Overheard in Buses," which is inspired by the amazing "Overheard in Cabs" by NWT blogger Mongoose over at Trucks and the City.
The second series will be called "Journalism Heroes," looking at some famous and obscure reporters I admire, and why.
So stick around -- there's more than pictures of adorable Navy brats and me in my PJs on this site, I promise.
I am generally a very happy person, and I am happy right now in my life, but my writing is always a little darker than who I am. I think I need a fresh start for this Year of the Ox.
I will soon start two new series of posts; one is called "Overheard in Buses," which is inspired by the amazing "Overheard in Cabs" by NWT blogger Mongoose over at Trucks and the City.
The second series will be called "Journalism Heroes," looking at some famous and obscure reporters I admire, and why.
So stick around -- there's more than pictures of adorable Navy brats and me in my PJs on this site, I promise.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Christmas in the infirmary... I mean our house
So A. and I were sick Christmas Day, and Hubby and Big I. were sick just before New Year's. And that's why I haven't posted Christmas pictures.
So here are a few for you to enjoy, at the end of the Christmas season.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Happy birthday, Super A.!
Super A. is seven years old. SEVEN.
I've been a mother for seven years. Wow.
Happy birthday, my awesome big dude!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Happy Christmas!
Happy birthday, my little newborn Lord! (Thank you, Mother.)
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Little L.
Because of my work with the HER Foundation, I know a lot of women across North America I have never met in real life, and I "know" their babies and children.
One of those women, the brave and tenacious C., lost her two-month-old daughter today.
L. was diagnosed in utero with a serious heart condition. C., ill with hyperemesis gravidarum, continued to fight for her baby, planning for delivery in a children's hospital where doctors operated on L.'s tiny heart right away.
After multiple surgeries, L. was transferred to her home town children's hospital, then released and sent home with her overjoyed family. She was doing well, growing, blooming. She was beautiful.
She was readmitted a few days ago, and died suddenly today.
I have no words for how sorry I am, and for how utterly devastating this must be for C. and her family. How do we understand the death of an innocent child?
The thing I am struggling with the most tonight is this: My God, don't HGers give enough? After such horrific, sometimes life-threatening, isolating and frightening pregnancies, don't all of my HG sisters deserve to go home with a healthy baby? A live baby? A baby who learns to crawl and walk and dance and sing?
The author Anne Rice, after her reconversion to Catholicism from atheism, was once asked by an interviewer if her husband's death from cancer made her wonder why God took him. She shrugged and said, "I never look at it that way. I think God was just as sorry it happened as I was, and he cried along with me."
Her thought gives me some small comfort tonight. Until I think of my unmet friend and her enormous grief.
I know life isn't fair, I know that. But sometimes its cruelty is breathtaking.
One of those women, the brave and tenacious C., lost her two-month-old daughter today.
L. was diagnosed in utero with a serious heart condition. C., ill with hyperemesis gravidarum, continued to fight for her baby, planning for delivery in a children's hospital where doctors operated on L.'s tiny heart right away.
After multiple surgeries, L. was transferred to her home town children's hospital, then released and sent home with her overjoyed family. She was doing well, growing, blooming. She was beautiful.
She was readmitted a few days ago, and died suddenly today.
I have no words for how sorry I am, and for how utterly devastating this must be for C. and her family. How do we understand the death of an innocent child?
The thing I am struggling with the most tonight is this: My God, don't HGers give enough? After such horrific, sometimes life-threatening, isolating and frightening pregnancies, don't all of my HG sisters deserve to go home with a healthy baby? A live baby? A baby who learns to crawl and walk and dance and sing?
The author Anne Rice, after her reconversion to Catholicism from atheism, was once asked by an interviewer if her husband's death from cancer made her wonder why God took him. She shrugged and said, "I never look at it that way. I think God was just as sorry it happened as I was, and he cried along with me."
Her thought gives me some small comfort tonight. Until I think of my unmet friend and her enormous grief.
I know life isn't fair, I know that. But sometimes its cruelty is breathtaking.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Second Week of Advent
During Advent, I often think about Mary nine months pregnant. Those feelings of expectation and fear and just being ready to no longer be pregnant, added to the enormous responsibility of being the mother of the Son of the Most High.
At no more than 14 or 15 years old.
Little Mother, pray for us.
Monday, December 08, 2008
O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us
People often misunderstand Catholic devotion to Mary. I am no theologian, but here's my attempt to explain why we hold her in reverence.
Notice I didn't use the word worship. Mary is simply a woman; however, we believe since she was given the singular gift of being the Mother of God, that God made her a little bit different from the rest of us. The Holy of Holies couldn't reside in a womb with a stain, not for His own sake, but for the protection of the one who carried Him. So God preserved Mary from that touch of darkness the rest of us have, what Christians call original sin, right from the moment of her conception. And that's what we celebrate today, on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
A very good priest once explained to me every baptized person has original sin removed from their souls from the moment of baptism (after that it's our own mistakes that muck us up.) So, in essence, all Christians are like Mary after baptism, which means Mary could have sinned if she so chose.
Catholics believe she did not. So it is not only her spotless nature we revere; it's her choices. Mary chose to refuse sin. Mary chose to accept her unexpected, virgin and potentially dangerous pregnancy. She chose to give us our Saviour. Her choices are why she is the mother of all Christians.
I have also had some profound religious experiences involving Mary, before I ever "got" her. She was an enormous source of help and comfort during my last two pregnancies. I wear a Miraculous Medal around my neck every day in honour of her help during my pregnancy with Toddler N. -- a medal, strangely enough, my Anglican mom picked out for my birthday that year, thinking I would like it because it had Mary on it and was beautiful, not knowing its full meaning and purpose.
Both of my mothers take very good care of me. I love you both.
Happy feast day, readers!
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
First week of Advent
O come, thou Dayspring.
Saint Edith Stein, pray for us.
Saint Maximillian Kolbe, pray for us.
Remember what the Lord's first Chosen People, the Jews, have suffered for their faith, and what all the Christian martyrs have suffered for theirs. Let's hold onto ours.
Blessed Advent, everyone.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The Self-Portrat Challenge: Writer's Block
Amy over at ...on the present moment is running a self-portrait challenge. Now, I'm not usually one to do these sorts of contests, especially if the contest involves David Hasselhoff ; however, Amy's looked like a creative challenge, and also a way to avoid working on my book.
Here's my entry, a triptych I call "Writer's Block."
Here's my entry, a triptych I call "Writer's Block."
Friday, November 28, 2008
Work in progress: writing playlist
So Stephenie Meyer gave me a good idea. She uses playlists as inspiration while writing her books. And while I don't think Ms. Meyer is the best author I've read, she has sold five novels which I find quite enjoyable to read.
So, like any good author, I'm stealing her idea. (Actually, Stephenie shares writing tips sometimes, and this is one of them -- set your writing mood.)
Here is a very partial, only-just-begun playlist for the novel I'm trying to write. Does this give you any ideas about my mood for this book?
So, like any good author, I'm stealing her idea. (Actually, Stephenie shares writing tips sometimes, and this is one of them -- set your writing mood.)
Here is a very partial, only-just-begun playlist for the novel I'm trying to write. Does this give you any ideas about my mood for this book?
Saturday, November 22, 2008
In one piece
The Hubby was in a (thankfully) minor motorcycle accident this week. A driver performed an illegal lane change and forced him to "ditch" his bike. It was either that or hit the car.
He has a few scratches and scrapes, and some sore muscles, but that's it. His bike, on the other hand, may be a write-off, a month after purchase.
Hubby, this is for you. Thanks for not dying.
He has a few scratches and scrapes, and some sore muscles, but that's it. His bike, on the other hand, may be a write-off, a month after purchase.
Hubby, this is for you. Thanks for not dying.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Remembrance Day, toddler-style
We have lost 97 Canadians in Afghanistan. Hundreds have been wounded. My next-door neighbour just came back. Two of Super A.'s classmates have daddies there.
Remember the veterans and fallen of our own generation, and remember their families.
To all Canadian veterans of all conflicts: Thanks. I know this little girl above is one of the reasons you fought and are fighting now. Her mother appreciates it very, very much.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
This blog is being neglected...
...so I can actually work on writing my book.
There. I typed it out loud. I am committed. I am writing a novel.
I must be insane.
More posts this week, I promise.
There. I typed it out loud. I am committed. I am writing a novel.
I must be insane.
More posts this week, I promise.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
The wasp
I have a terrible, reason-numbing fear of stinging insects. I never liked bees and wasps very much, but my fear became a phobia when my brother, father and I were swarmed by a nest of black wasps at Mary Ann Falls in the Cape Breton Highlands when I was 13.
When wasps surround our backyard barbecue or the church picnic, I have one reaction: scoop up the kids and run.
I've been fighting my flight instincts this summer, trying to be a better role model for the kids, because Victoria is full of wasps. It's as if a cloud of yellow and black terror appears whenever I step outside in the late summer and early fall. I don't want the kids to inherit this irrational fear, so I've been trying to push myself. I try to flinch when I usually run, and swat when I usually flinch.
The children and I were at a birthday party today. Afterwards, while I was loading them into the minivan, a wasp flew in the open window.
I encouraged it to fly back out the window. It kept inside the van. I tried shooing it out. It would fly out the window, then right back in. I tried swatting at it. It headed back towards the kids, then straight at me.
It landed on the windshield. I snatched up a napkin from the car console, and stared down my adversary.
"Mom, are you going to kill it?" Big. I. asked.
"Yes," I said, steeling myself. "I love you guys enough to kill a wasp."
I slammed the napkin down over the wasp. Ha! Got it!
The black and yellow nemesis walked out from underneath it and down towards my hand. Arrggghhh.
I moved the napkin, trapped the bug under it, and brought my other hand over it with a slam.
Squish. Adversary defeated.
I might be a world-class chicken, but my kids make me brave enough to face some fears, wasps included.
When wasps surround our backyard barbecue or the church picnic, I have one reaction: scoop up the kids and run.
I've been fighting my flight instincts this summer, trying to be a better role model for the kids, because Victoria is full of wasps. It's as if a cloud of yellow and black terror appears whenever I step outside in the late summer and early fall. I don't want the kids to inherit this irrational fear, so I've been trying to push myself. I try to flinch when I usually run, and swat when I usually flinch.
The children and I were at a birthday party today. Afterwards, while I was loading them into the minivan, a wasp flew in the open window.
I encouraged it to fly back out the window. It kept inside the van. I tried shooing it out. It would fly out the window, then right back in. I tried swatting at it. It headed back towards the kids, then straight at me.
It landed on the windshield. I snatched up a napkin from the car console, and stared down my adversary.
"Mom, are you going to kill it?" Big. I. asked.
"Yes," I said, steeling myself. "I love you guys enough to kill a wasp."
I slammed the napkin down over the wasp. Ha! Got it!
The black and yellow nemesis walked out from underneath it and down towards my hand. Arrggghhh.
I moved the napkin, trapped the bug under it, and brought my other hand over it with a slam.
Squish. Adversary defeated.
I might be a world-class chicken, but my kids make me brave enough to face some fears, wasps included.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
On unseen friends
This Thursday was the Feast of the Guardian Angels in Catholic Christendom. I try to remember this feast day ever year; some years I plan an entire dinner and crafts for the kids. We used to do this with our friends G and G, and their children. Some years (like this week's feast) I remember to bring home dessert, and then discuss guardian angels with the kids.
I know many people think of guardian angels as cute, naked babies. I don't. The picture above is is more what comes to mind when I think of them.
Guardian angels are powerful protectors of what's most important: our souls. It bothers me when people focus on how they can save us physically; while I think they can and do try to keep us generally safe, and may have some ability to help us heal, their power is spiritual, not physical. I'm never going to expect the children's guardian angels to scoop them out of the path of a truck, and I've told them point-blank their angels will not protect their bodies if they do something extremely dangerous, such as run into the road. We have free will, after all, and God has created this world so that actions have consequences. Running in front of a truck usually nets you the consequence of injury or death.
I do think guardian angels can influence us, if we're willing to be open to that. And I know they pray for us unceasingly.
My dad and lots of other readers are going to think this is a lot of tosh, and that's fine. But let me tell you, I firmly believe Toddler N. would not have survived my pregnancy if it wasn't for the influence of her guardian angel -- over me. Whenever I seriously considered aborting due to my illness, it was only a prayer to Toddler N.'s guardian angel that could push that thought away.
I also think my grandmother has the toughest guardian angel in the business, and when she finally decides to head up to God's neighbourhood, I almost envy the zygote that's going to get next dibs.
Super A. has a vivid imagination, so discussion of angels always fascinate him. He told me a few months ago his guardian angel is his big sister Hope -- the baby I lost to miscarriage in my first pregnancy eight years ago. No matter how many times we explain angel duties are not given to human souls, he insists. It's so indicative of A. -- wanting a special relationship, a loving and protective one, with this sister he never met. A chance to not be the biggest, but to be a little brother in need of help.
If you're looking for a way to introduce guardian angels to your little ones, I heartily recommend "Angel in the Waters" by Regina Doman.
Dear guardian angel, pray for me. And N.'s guardian angel: once again, thanks so much, my friend.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Wherein my optimism gets beaten down by my own journalistic rigour
Oh, dear. Oh, oh dear. The bloom is off the rose.
For the three people who read my blog regularly (hi, Mom, Hubby and Megan!) you'll know I posted some thoughts on American VP nominee Sarah Palin awhile back. About how I could never vote for her, due to her positions regarding oil and drilling, but I did have great admiration for what she's achieved both personally and professionally (I am an old-school feminist in one respect only: the personal is political to me, all the time.)
Through all the news and scandals and dissections, I stuck to that opinion. I didn't think she was ready to be VP, but I still found her ambitious and smart, a woman who could "breed and lead."
Then the feature interviews with Gibson and Couric happened.
Gibson was criticized for being mean and nasty and unfair. I didn't think so; he was a little brusque, but he treated her the way he treats any politician, and that's the way it should be.
Couric: Oh, dear. Couric was too gentle. And Palin.... look, she sucked. She couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence. Her prep for the interview was obviously poor, and the message tracking scripted for her was AWFUL (look, I write this stuff every day, writing messaging is my job, and I can spot one a million miles away.) She needs new PR staff. I keep joking she needs Megan and me.
Anyone who knew me as a reporter, who was ever on the other end of the mic, will tell you I was a polite interviewer, but I was relentless. The minister responsible for welfare in the NWT swore for years I pushed him into a heart attack, smiling sweetly all the while. I would have eaten Sarah Palin alive, then cracked her bones for the marrow.
You might ask why her performance on a TV interview is even important. I'll tell you why, and it isn't the entertainment factor. When someone runs for public office, she (or he) accepts the duty and obligation to answer pretty much any question lobbed at her about her professional life, and I would argue aspects of her personal life that affect her political positions (the personal is political. Rinse and repeat.) If she can't answer them calmly, succinctly and in a way that makes sense, then she is failing her primary responsibility as a candidate for public office.
What happens when something serious happens while in office, something sudden, and you can't rise to the occasion? Mass panic and confusion, for one. (Examples: Bush after Hurricane Katrina, Bush after 9/11. Remember how his inability to answer even the most simple questions in a clear and truthful manner threw people into a panic and a rage?)
Both interviews made an intelligent woman look stupid. And it was her own fault.
In the end, good communications advice would have fixed a lot of this. When it came to all the foreign policy stuff, all she had to say is this:
"When I became governor of Alaska, I had a lot to learn about running a state as opposed to a town. But the lessons I learned as mayor were often applicable to life as governor. What I didn't know, I learned, and quickly.
"The same applies to this new role and challenge. A lot of what I have learned as governor will help with being VP. (List one small but powerful example here.) The rest, I am learning, and quickly. That's why I went to the UN this week. That's why I was so grateful to the myriad heads of state and ambassadors who sat down with me and allowed me to learn from them.
"I will continue to learn and observe. I know how to govern, I excel in that role. I know how to use diplomacy in state-to-state relations. In a country such as the United States, diplomacy is part of being governor. Now I will learn from those on the larger world stage, and apply what I already know. I have no doubt I can handle that, with Senator McCain as my guide."
Any 10-second clip from that statement would have saved her derriere. Bragging she can see Russia from her house did not.
For the three people who read my blog regularly (hi, Mom, Hubby and Megan!) you'll know I posted some thoughts on American VP nominee Sarah Palin awhile back. About how I could never vote for her, due to her positions regarding oil and drilling, but I did have great admiration for what she's achieved both personally and professionally (I am an old-school feminist in one respect only: the personal is political to me, all the time.)
Through all the news and scandals and dissections, I stuck to that opinion. I didn't think she was ready to be VP, but I still found her ambitious and smart, a woman who could "breed and lead."
Then the feature interviews with Gibson and Couric happened.
Gibson was criticized for being mean and nasty and unfair. I didn't think so; he was a little brusque, but he treated her the way he treats any politician, and that's the way it should be.
Couric: Oh, dear. Couric was too gentle. And Palin.... look, she sucked. She couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence. Her prep for the interview was obviously poor, and the message tracking scripted for her was AWFUL (look, I write this stuff every day, writing messaging is my job, and I can spot one a million miles away.) She needs new PR staff. I keep joking she needs Megan and me.
Anyone who knew me as a reporter, who was ever on the other end of the mic, will tell you I was a polite interviewer, but I was relentless. The minister responsible for welfare in the NWT swore for years I pushed him into a heart attack, smiling sweetly all the while. I would have eaten Sarah Palin alive, then cracked her bones for the marrow.
You might ask why her performance on a TV interview is even important. I'll tell you why, and it isn't the entertainment factor. When someone runs for public office, she (or he) accepts the duty and obligation to answer pretty much any question lobbed at her about her professional life, and I would argue aspects of her personal life that affect her political positions (the personal is political. Rinse and repeat.) If she can't answer them calmly, succinctly and in a way that makes sense, then she is failing her primary responsibility as a candidate for public office.
What happens when something serious happens while in office, something sudden, and you can't rise to the occasion? Mass panic and confusion, for one. (Examples: Bush after Hurricane Katrina, Bush after 9/11. Remember how his inability to answer even the most simple questions in a clear and truthful manner threw people into a panic and a rage?)
Both interviews made an intelligent woman look stupid. And it was her own fault.
In the end, good communications advice would have fixed a lot of this. When it came to all the foreign policy stuff, all she had to say is this:
"When I became governor of Alaska, I had a lot to learn about running a state as opposed to a town. But the lessons I learned as mayor were often applicable to life as governor. What I didn't know, I learned, and quickly.
"The same applies to this new role and challenge. A lot of what I have learned as governor will help with being VP. (List one small but powerful example here.) The rest, I am learning, and quickly. That's why I went to the UN this week. That's why I was so grateful to the myriad heads of state and ambassadors who sat down with me and allowed me to learn from them.
"I will continue to learn and observe. I know how to govern, I excel in that role. I know how to use diplomacy in state-to-state relations. In a country such as the United States, diplomacy is part of being governor. Now I will learn from those on the larger world stage, and apply what I already know. I have no doubt I can handle that, with Senator McCain as my guide."
Any 10-second clip from that statement would have saved her derriere. Bragging she can see Russia from her house did not.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Kids and self-absorption
In many ways, I am very self-absorbed, and I always was. Ask my parents or brother or husband. It's true, although many people seem to think I'm not.
I was the kind of kid who was always very focused on my own goals and needs. This kind of focus is very much encouraged nowadays. We tell kids to reach for the stars, achieve their dreams, do their very best. Most of the time, there's nothing wrong with that. However, I know the effect on me (and on lots of other people I knew) was to think personal achievement was the most important aspect of life. In other words, self-absorption is necessary if I didn't want to waste my potential.
A good upbringing kept me from thinking I was the centre of the universe. I think having my kids young helped me get over most of the rest of my self-absorption.
A lot of my extended family was horrified when I chose to marry "young" (I was 23) and have my first child soon afterwards. The family was proud of my academic and professional achievements. They fully expected me to be the next Peter Mansbridge. And I was also confident I would achieve great things in journalism.
But after I married the Hubby, I wanted other things. Most of all, I wanted little smiling faces that looked like him.
Those little ones needed me. They didn't need me to file stories to the National. They didn't need me to be famous or successful. They needed me to be around. They needed my love and attention and cooking and cleaning. They needed me to read them books and put them to bed and nurse them.
They still need many of those things. For them to have what they need, I have to give up a lot of what I want.
Here's the hard part: I still rail against giving them what they need over what I want.
I want to read for hours in peace and go to yoga and write freelance articles. I want to be admired for my writing. I want to have lots of money.
My kids are often the only people who can save me from my own selfish self-absorption, in all their clingy, whiny glory.
I know lots of childless people who are giving and generous and selfless. I don't think I would have been one of them. think I would have been a miserable person.
And in the end, when I need it to be all about me, I can always blog. Let's be honest, what else is this blog but a showplace for my thoughts?
I was the kind of kid who was always very focused on my own goals and needs. This kind of focus is very much encouraged nowadays. We tell kids to reach for the stars, achieve their dreams, do their very best. Most of the time, there's nothing wrong with that. However, I know the effect on me (and on lots of other people I knew) was to think personal achievement was the most important aspect of life. In other words, self-absorption is necessary if I didn't want to waste my potential.
A good upbringing kept me from thinking I was the centre of the universe. I think having my kids young helped me get over most of the rest of my self-absorption.
A lot of my extended family was horrified when I chose to marry "young" (I was 23) and have my first child soon afterwards. The family was proud of my academic and professional achievements. They fully expected me to be the next Peter Mansbridge. And I was also confident I would achieve great things in journalism.
But after I married the Hubby, I wanted other things. Most of all, I wanted little smiling faces that looked like him.
Those little ones needed me. They didn't need me to file stories to the National. They didn't need me to be famous or successful. They needed me to be around. They needed my love and attention and cooking and cleaning. They needed me to read them books and put them to bed and nurse them.
They still need many of those things. For them to have what they need, I have to give up a lot of what I want.
Here's the hard part: I still rail against giving them what they need over what I want.
I want to read for hours in peace and go to yoga and write freelance articles. I want to be admired for my writing. I want to have lots of money.
My kids are often the only people who can save me from my own selfish self-absorption, in all their clingy, whiny glory.
I know lots of childless people who are giving and generous and selfless. I don't think I would have been one of them. think I would have been a miserable person.
And in the end, when I need it to be all about me, I can always blog. Let's be honest, what else is this blog but a showplace for my thoughts?
Monday, September 15, 2008
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!
Toddler N. told me yesterday I'm "boo-ti-ful." Thanks, baby girl!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
SOGC worried Trig Palin will prevent abortions
First read this, and note the response of the vice-president of the Society of Obstetricians and Gynecologists of Canada:
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20080909.wxldown09/BNStory/lifeFamily/home
Then read this.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/09/09/AR2008090902519.html?hpid=opinionsbox1#
There is something wrong with an obstetrician who wishes more parents would abort babies they might actually want, who is lamenting a role model that belies the scare tactics many geneticists use when counselling the parents of unborn babies with Down Syndrome. And there is something wrong with the SOGC for allowing a V-P to say this in public.
Let me say this: I have no desire to ever be pregnant again because of how ill I get, but if God told me tomorrow He was giving me the blessing of a child with Down Syndrome, I'd sign up for my PICC line the next morning. Different and challenged is NOT wrong or evil or unwanted or unneeded. I think the world needs people with Down Syndrome in it. They are teachers.
Full disclosure: I won a reporting award from the SOGC in 2004.
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20080909.wxldown09/BNStory/lifeFamily/home
Then read this.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/09/09/AR2008090902519.html?hpid=opinionsbox1#
There is something wrong with an obstetrician who wishes more parents would abort babies they might actually want, who is lamenting a role model that belies the scare tactics many geneticists use when counselling the parents of unborn babies with Down Syndrome. And there is something wrong with the SOGC for allowing a V-P to say this in public.
Let me say this: I have no desire to ever be pregnant again because of how ill I get, but if God told me tomorrow He was giving me the blessing of a child with Down Syndrome, I'd sign up for my PICC line the next morning. Different and challenged is NOT wrong or evil or unwanted or unneeded. I think the world needs people with Down Syndrome in it. They are teachers.
Full disclosure: I won a reporting award from the SOGC in 2004.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
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.
http://www.slate.com/id/2143659/
HT to Pansy.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Finally, my thoughts on Palin
I've been chewing over Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska's vice-presidential nomination on the Republican ticket for days and days. While I'm not obsessed with American politics, I do follow them during presidential races, since the American president affects the world entire (and it's like a reality soap sometimes.)
I know Palin's selection has more to do with cynical pollster politics than anything else, really. McCain was desperate to liven up his campaign, to steal some of Obama's excitement and wonder. He's succeeded for the time being.
But I still find Palin a fascinating person and a role model.
A mother of five children who ends up as a mayor and then the governor of a state with some of the dirtiest politics in the country. An unapologetic career woman married to a normal dude -- he belongs to a union, has worked in oil at the bottom of the industry and loves to snowmobile, but also actively helps with the kids. A woman who can shoot a gun, who loves to hunt, who is sporty.
A woman who has walked her talk, who chose life for Trig when most babies like him are now aborted simply because they have Down syndrome. A woman who is trying to become the vice-president while raising a child who will need her ongoing care for the rest of his life.
A woman who supports her teenaged daughter after a bad decision to have sex and the resulting unplanned pregnancy, rather than kicking her out, shipping her off to a home for unwed mothers or pressuring her into an abortion because the pregnancy will embarrass Mom.
This is impressive to me. This speaks to me. This is the kind of woman I try to be every day: a pro-life feminist. A woman who believes we can run the world while having kids. A woman who believes, truly believes, taking care of a large family should never be the end of a woman's potential.
We can breed. We can also lead.
However, I would never vote for Palin.
She supports drilling the Arctic Wildlife Refuge. The refuge is the calving grounds of the porcupine caribou herd. That herd isn't just a bunch of pretty animals. It is the food source and cultural anchoring point for many people in the North, especially the Gwich'in. If those animals go, the Gwich'in culture and language, in all its complicated beauty, will die.
Food is culture.
I can't support someone who thinks the life blood of the Gwich'in is unimportant, especially when she is a hunter. She should know better.
Finally, I think she needs some more time as governor -- at least a complete term -- before she should be trying to help run the U.S. Experience is not everything, but a little bit more would help her.
So that's what I think. I also think the press has been apologetically sexist and two-faced about Palin in a way it was not for Clinton. And that makes me sick. I thought journalists aimed for balance. I always did (and hopefully will again.) This "bring down the Republican MILF" thing is garbage. And don't tell me the GOP started it and deserves it. They're politicians. They play dirty. Journalists should never act like politicos.
Finally, the coverage shows me how completely out of touch reporters are with normal people. Get this through your head, former colleagues: there are lots of pro-life people in the States who want medicare and a living wage and a social safety net. Most people are not red or blue -- they're each a different shade of purple. Until journalism learns this lesson, reporters will never understand Sarah Palin's appeal.
I know Palin's selection has more to do with cynical pollster politics than anything else, really. McCain was desperate to liven up his campaign, to steal some of Obama's excitement and wonder. He's succeeded for the time being.
But I still find Palin a fascinating person and a role model.
A mother of five children who ends up as a mayor and then the governor of a state with some of the dirtiest politics in the country. An unapologetic career woman married to a normal dude -- he belongs to a union, has worked in oil at the bottom of the industry and loves to snowmobile, but also actively helps with the kids. A woman who can shoot a gun, who loves to hunt, who is sporty.
A woman who has walked her talk, who chose life for Trig when most babies like him are now aborted simply because they have Down syndrome. A woman who is trying to become the vice-president while raising a child who will need her ongoing care for the rest of his life.
A woman who supports her teenaged daughter after a bad decision to have sex and the resulting unplanned pregnancy, rather than kicking her out, shipping her off to a home for unwed mothers or pressuring her into an abortion because the pregnancy will embarrass Mom.
This is impressive to me. This speaks to me. This is the kind of woman I try to be every day: a pro-life feminist. A woman who believes we can run the world while having kids. A woman who believes, truly believes, taking care of a large family should never be the end of a woman's potential.
We can breed. We can also lead.
However, I would never vote for Palin.
She supports drilling the Arctic Wildlife Refuge. The refuge is the calving grounds of the porcupine caribou herd. That herd isn't just a bunch of pretty animals. It is the food source and cultural anchoring point for many people in the North, especially the Gwich'in. If those animals go, the Gwich'in culture and language, in all its complicated beauty, will die.
Food is culture.
I can't support someone who thinks the life blood of the Gwich'in is unimportant, especially when she is a hunter. She should know better.
Finally, I think she needs some more time as governor -- at least a complete term -- before she should be trying to help run the U.S. Experience is not everything, but a little bit more would help her.
So that's what I think. I also think the press has been apologetically sexist and two-faced about Palin in a way it was not for Clinton. And that makes me sick. I thought journalists aimed for balance. I always did (and hopefully will again.) This "bring down the Republican MILF" thing is garbage. And don't tell me the GOP started it and deserves it. They're politicians. They play dirty. Journalists should never act like politicos.
Finally, the coverage shows me how completely out of touch reporters are with normal people. Get this through your head, former colleagues: there are lots of pro-life people in the States who want medicare and a living wage and a social safety net. Most people are not red or blue -- they're each a different shade of purple. Until journalism learns this lesson, reporters will never understand Sarah Palin's appeal.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
I will blog about Palin, I promise
I will eventually post some of my thoughts about Sarah Palin's nomination as the VP candidate for the Republicans. I'm still sorting through how I feel about it. I've been commenting over on Megan's blog, but I need to think about it without anyone else's opinions getting in the way for awhile.
I'm feeling very conflicted.
I will say the woman's personal life impresses me mightily. And I still believe the personal is political.
I'm feeling very conflicted.
I will say the woman's personal life impresses me mightily. And I still believe the personal is political.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Homecoming
Hubby is home, which means I get a break from the kids and I get to enjoy his company.
I have to say this was the nicest homecoming I think we've ever had.
I have to say this was the nicest homecoming I think we've ever had.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
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.
Hubby gets back on Friday, thank goodness.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Friday, August 08, 2008
On prudes and mammary glands
At lunchtime today, about 60 breastfeeding mothers and their children crowded into H&M (a trendy clothing store) in downtown Vancouver to protest the treatment of a mom who dared to breastfeed her two-month-old daughter in the store a few days earlier. Employees forced that woman to hide in a change room.
A woman was also told to cover up on an airplane this month, while another Canadian woman visiting Florida was harassed at a theme park for breastfeeding.
Look, to all the people who think breastfeeding is fine as long as they don't have to be around it, let's get something straight here, once and for all. A baby's human right to eat as soon as it is hungry trumps your preference to be a prudish nitwit and never see a woman breastfeed.
I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable, or makes you blush, or even gives you an erection. I don't care if you stare, or tsk, or harumph and say, "disgusting!" I don't care if you think my two-year-old with a bloody knee and tears coursing down her cheeks is "too old" to nurse.
The simple fact is this: you can look away if you don't like it. Babies and small children have a right to nurse from mother's breast, and I have a right to not be imprisoned in my house like a woman during the Taliban regime in Afghanistan.
This society is sick and twisted if the comfort of men and old ladies comes before the rumble of hunger in a baby's stomach.
A woman was also told to cover up on an airplane this month, while another Canadian woman visiting Florida was harassed at a theme park for breastfeeding.
Look, to all the people who think breastfeeding is fine as long as they don't have to be around it, let's get something straight here, once and for all. A baby's human right to eat as soon as it is hungry trumps your preference to be a prudish nitwit and never see a woman breastfeed.
I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable, or makes you blush, or even gives you an erection. I don't care if you stare, or tsk, or harumph and say, "disgusting!" I don't care if you think my two-year-old with a bloody knee and tears coursing down her cheeks is "too old" to nurse.
The simple fact is this: you can look away if you don't like it. Babies and small children have a right to nurse from mother's breast, and I have a right to not be imprisoned in my house like a woman during the Taliban regime in Afghanistan.
This society is sick and twisted if the comfort of men and old ladies comes before the rumble of hunger in a baby's stomach.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
First meme!
I think this is the first time someone has tagged me in a meme. Here goes...
- Four places I go over and over: my workplace, the grocery store, Super A.'s school and Big I.'s preschool. Exciting life, I know.
- Four people who e-mail me regularly: Megan, the nanny agency, Stacers and Hubby texts me.
- Four of my favorite places to eat? The Vietnamese place around the corner (Saigon Harbour -- order the spring roll and the Chicken curry with rice, amazing), the Broughton Street Deli (great soup), any Thai place, but especially Sod Sai Thai on Douglas and Baan Thai on Blanshard, and the Noodle Box (Malay-Style Fried Rice, brown rice, no prawns, medium hot.)
- Four places you’d rather be? Close to my mother and father, back in Yellowknife during the summer, Paris in winter and working in a newsroom.
- Four TV shows I could watch over and over: Entourage, The Hills (guilty obsession), the fifth estate and (this is a radio show, but I'm putting it in) White Coat, Black Art on CBC Radio One.
- This tag is passed to four people I know in person: I don't know any other bloggers in real life except the ones Megan tagged, so I'll tag the Catholic women blogger I read: Arwen, the Summa Mamas, Pansy and Alicia.
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