A day as a solo mother

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

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

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

6:55 am: Dang, dang, dang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8:35 pm: Bedlunch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two, four and six

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

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

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

Happy birthday, my Sunshine and my Little Star!

Big I. and Toddler N. make wishes

Toddler N. and her princess cupcakes

Big I. and his Transformer Bumblebee cake

"Isn't seven the most powerfully magical number?"

Soon we can watch Tom Riddle turn from boy to monster on the big screen.

Woooo-hooooo!

More pics of the kids!

Even more pics. Can you believe how big they are now? And don't you love Toddler N.'s hair? Our nanny M. did it!

Finally, pics of the kids!

Here are some recent shots.

Check it out! My wordle

Megan over at Reflections in the Snowcovered Hills has been playing with Wordles, which are pictures made from words used on an Internet site.

Here's the one she made for Ready Aye Ready.

Toddler N. and self-expression

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy has arrived

Lucy Parker J. arrived Sunday evening. The proud mommy and daddy are recovering nicely, and Lucy is trying her very best to learn the art of breastfeeding. Her mother is doing an awesome job teaching herself and her little one this new skill.

S. would like to be able to do her own announcing of the details, so I will leave it at that. S, feel free to use my comments box!

I must say I am immeasurably proud of S. and her husband T. They are doing a wonderful job, and both of them were troopers during a long labour and delivery.

I could use some oft-repeated verse here, but instead I'll say this: I never knew who I truly was, my true strengths, talents and abilities, until I became a mother. This is not true for many people, but it has been for me. I have grown into my authentic self through parenting my small brood. And though self-discovery is exhausting when changing diapers, breastfeeding and trying to run the older kids to pre-school, I wish the same self-revelation for you.

God bless you over and over, my dear friend.

Baby Watch

For those that know my friend S., a brief update: today may be the day.

DO NOT CALL S! Megan, if you call her I will have to kill you.

If you are desperate for updates, call my cell phone.

On crises and desert times

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

The kids were hospitalized twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are many bright spots in all this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rusty blogger

Sorry, life kind of got away from me there, and so did my blog.

Abortion as art

Warning to HGers: please do not read if sensitive to discussion of abortion. I'm about to lambaste someone.

My girlfriend Megan recently blogged about a woman at Yale who claimed to self-induce abortions as an art project.

This is what I wrote in her comments box.

As someone who volunteers with pregnant women whose pregnancies are life-threatening, many of whom contemplate aborting much-wanted babies and some of whom do abort against their true wills in order to stay alive, this makes me want to vomit.

I'm going to be blunt: I know what an abortion looks like, a real one at a Morgentaler clinic. It is NOT art. If you're pro-choice, it's a nasty surgical procedure. If you're pro-life, it's homicide (note I use the word "homicide," which means the killing of another human being, and not "murder", which has a different legal definition.)

If you haven't guessed, I consider abortion homicide. Full disclosure: For a full week (week 18 of gestation, to be exact) I considered killing my youngest child in the womb due to a terrifying and life-threatening pregnancy disease called hyperemesis gravidarum (for more info check out www.helpher.org). I'm holding that sleeping child, alive and well and 20 months old, in my arms right now as I type this.

I cannot stress how deeply I feel abortion is a subject where brutal honesty is necessary, no matter what you believe about it. And this kind of artsy-fartsy nonsense is nothing but pretense and lies.

An embryo or fetus is not menstrual blood and semen, but a living human organism with a system that is dependent yet distinct from its mother. Any scientist will tell you human life begins at conception, duh. So we need to cut the bullshit about this and be honest. We need to say: when is it OK to kill a defenceless human being? Is it ever OK?

My eventual decision was the disease which threatened my life may take both of us, but it wasn't taking just my daughter. It was the hardest decision of my life, choosing death or life together. I never got to a place where I had to reconsider; I found a treatment regimen that relieved most of the disease's effects. I won't judge a woman who chose to abort in order to live. I often spend my spare time mourning with her over the Internet.

But people like this woman, who has taken that week I spent on my bathroom floor wishing my daughter dead and made it into some kind of game, some school art project to cause scandal and attention? Yeah, I'm going to judge her. What a f*cking bitch.

*With apologies to those with sensitive ears, and to my Lord for my judgemental attitude. But I have to be honest, Lord, and I am very angry at this woman and her flippant nonsense. Trying to pray for her and failing utterly.*

For Ron Crawley

I don't remember the first time I met Ron, since I was a small child, but I certainly remember the first time we "re-met." I was 18 years old and in Ottawa for my first year of journalism school at Carleton University. My dad had called ahead to let Ron and his wife Col know I was moving to Ottawa.

Ron called my small residence room and invited me out to supper."We'll have Thai food," he said; you could hear his smile down the phone line. I was a picky eater as a child, but when he explained there was peanut sauce in most of the dishes, I was game.

From that first supper on, Ron and Col took me under their wings and showed me the wonders of a medium-sized yet fairly diverse Canadian city. I ate my first Indian and Vietnamese with them; I visited museums alongside them. I learned more about the labour movement and unionism and philosophy at their dinner table than I learned even in my parent's home, where union was a common and friendly word.

Ron and Col gave me my first computer; they lent me books and taught me words and talked endlessly with me about the press and its role in a free and democratic society.

Ron always believed in the goodness of people and in the power of thought, speech and writing. He reinforced my upbringing of looking at the positive side of things. He always made me feel what I had to say was important, even when he was correcting a false assumption or a hyperbolic idea.

And he always had a quick and ready smile.

My life would be a poorer and less interesting one without having known him, and I think of him almost every time I see a picket sign or pick up a set of chopsticks.

The world is a little less bright now that he is no longer in it. I'm so sorry, Col, for your loss. And Dad: I know you loved him and I'm so sorry your good friend is gone. But the people we love never truly die if we continue to remember them.

Music for Good Friday

Thank you, Lord. Blessed Triduum, everyone.

HT to Megan.

Agony in the Garden

I share last year's post with you all, and a happy update: My friend gave birth to her second son, and now is the happy mother of a healthy and growing baby. Please remember all mothers suffering hyperemesis gravidarum (HG) in your Easter prayers, especially those who are considering abortion or who have aborted due to this terrible disease.

I love Easter, and that love has very little to do with all the chocolate (yes, I adore the chocolate, too -- especially the Lindt bunnies Mom sends. Thanks, Mom!)

Easter is the time of year when I get to take the time to really, really think about my faith, the central core of what I believe about Jesus and why I believe it. I believe He died for our sins. I believe He rose from the dead. I believe He was and is God, never created and always begotten.

Most of all, though, I believe in Gethsemane. What he did in Gethsemane.

Jesus went to the gardens of Gethsemane the night before the Crucifixion. He wept and prayed and begged the Father to change his mind, to stop the Crucifixion, to protect His Son. He was frightened. He was weak. He was trembling.Then He got up and faced his captors and accusers calmly and peacefully, accepting what was going to happen.

I spent months in Gethsemane. And the only reason I came out of the Garden was that Jesus was there, and He walked out with me.

My illness during my last pregnancy started in my second trimester. It was at its very worst during weeks 16 to 18. No eating or drinking without violent vomiting. Vomiting bile and blood. Dehydration. Drugs and IV fluids and more drugs.

I used to drag myself into the bathroom, lie on the floor with my head on the toilet seat, and beg God to let me die. Or to take the baby. Or both of us. Just take this cup. Take it, take it.

There was one day when I thought about aborting my baby all day and night, incessantly. My 16-week old baby who was kicking me so hard The Hubby could feel it when he touched my belly.

I was thinking of this time during Mass on Palm Sunday, holding Baby N. in my arms, my reward for enduring The Agony in the Garden. And all I could do was thank Jesus for having gone to Gethsemane first, for truly understanding.

Jesus in the Garden tells us pain and fear and suffering are real. They are terrible. But they are temporary and surmountable.

I have a good, in real life friend who is enduring the Agony in the Garden right now. She is a private person, so all I will say is please pray for her and her baby, as well as the rest of her family.

"There can be no greater love, than to lay down your life for a friend." -- John 15:13

May you soon pick it back up again, my friend, with your child in your arms.

Have a blessed Holy Week, everyone.

Quick recap

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure enough, two black bunnies were hopping about.

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

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

Day One: A new solo adventure

The Hubby left this morning for his first sail, a ten-day trip around Vancouver Island. He packed yesterday afternoon, alternately excited and worried, while I desperately tried to get the house in some kind of order. I won't have his help for the next two weeks, so I can't just leave supper and clean up to him in the late afternoons.

The fact he'll be gone for awhile made me think about how far we've come in a month on the whole division of labour in the home front. My husband is not a sexist, but he does hate housework, and he will take whatever action necessary to only do what absolutely must be done around here. What ends up happening is I pick up the slack, so he has had a false impression of how much must be done to keep a place borderline clean.

But now I am working, and he is the first adult in the door most evenings. He is learning dishes left in the sink or crumbs left on the floor in the morning metastasize into a full-out disaster in the eight hours we're away from the house each day.

"Can you believe the mess on the floor?" he'll grumble, fetching the broom. "That was never there before!"

No, honey, it wasn't. That's because I was here cleaning it up.

He cleaned the bathroom this weekend without reminding (i.e. nagging.) He just did it!

I am appreciative to him learning to haul his own weight. But now I am hauling it myself for a little while, plus working full-time.

I know I can handle the time with the kids, no sweat. Ten days is nothing compared to five months. But can I handle the housework and the job? We'll see.

As for the rest of life, things are still a bit insane here. A. is struggling with day care. He is angry a lot of the time, has developed a saucy mouth and has hit other children from time to time. All of this leads to time-outs and groundings, of course, but also lots of time with my big boy just sitting in my lap. He often says he wishes I wasn't working. It breaks my heart, but I need to work, both for the money and for my sanity.

Little I. is a bit clingy but is adjusting well to the new sitter. Toddler N. is very happy at K.'s place. That's great, but the child should have been named Typhoid Mary, because this is the third time she's been sick this month. First the hospitalization, then a head cold, then she got food poisoning this weekend from a supper out. At the hospital, the doctor discovered she also has an ear infection. We two are home today so she can start recovering.

The boys also caught that cold, and Little I. just finished a round of antibiotics for an ear infection. Since I started my new job six weeks ago, I have missed 4.5 days due to child illness. I'm starting to understand why some bosses are reluctant to hire mothers of young children. My boss has been great, but I still worry about the impression I'm making.

Off to catch a quick nap with the girlie.

The job and the babysitter

The job is great. I enjoy it. I like my co-workers. I like my boss. It's awesome to be working again.

I do miss the children, but not in the way I did when I returned to work before. I think about them often during the day, but I no longer feel like running out the office door to the day care centre and scooping them up at 11 in the morning.

I'm glad to be away from them for awhile each day. I'm even happier to see them when I get home.

There is one enormous wrinkle though, so enormous it qualifies as a fold. I am having massive problems with my child care.

Our live-in nanny is coming sometime in late April through May. She is currently working in Hong Kong, and that's just how long it takes to get the immigration paperwork done through the Live-in Caregiver Program.

I had one week to find temporary child care. I thought I found it another military mom here in the PMQs.

The kids were there less than two weeks when she quit. I'm trying very hard not to take it personally, since she is pregnant and bailed because she is concerned about her health. Her baby comes first. I support that. But she's left me in a terrible situation.

She quit on Thursday. Tomorrow is her last day with the kids. I had 4 days to find child care.

Hubby and I managed to do it. Toddler N. is going to be cared for by my best PMQ friend who runs a day home. The boys are going to another day home in the Qs, at least for now. We may move them to a day care centre and the day home is cool with that.

If this doesn't work out, I will lose my job. I'm freaking.

Plus, all these changes are very hard on my kids, especially A. He has been moody and lashing out at Little I. I. is a terrible tease and A. just can't handle that this week.

There really is no winning. I stay home and go batty. I go to work and worry about the kids' child care.

There is no perfect way to mother, it seems. I'm screwing up both choices.

The story of the stomach bug

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

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

Toddler N. had mild diarrhea this whole time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hospital horror

We just got home from the pediatrics ward today. A. and N. were both admitted for severe dehydration. The baby is still having the odd vomit, but A. is back to normal.

I'll post a longer story and some pics on the weekend. Need to catch up on work and life.

"You want million dollar?"

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

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

The other day, he found this on the Net:

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

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

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

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

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

You want million dollar?

A whirlwind visit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cindy! And the baby!"

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

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

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

Glad to be back, folks!

Happy Christmas, Nanny

UPDATE: Nan survived the surgery and is now recovering in the ICU. Thank you, God.

My grandmother is getting a unique gift today. She is either getting a new heart valve or a ticket to eternity.

My father's mother has always been possessed of a prodigious energy. My dad used to call her "the tornado." She could cook a turkey dinner while bathing a baby and cleaning an entire house, pausing only to chase the older kids out of the kitchen with the broom for causing trouble.

Then she slowed down. At first they thought it was severe asthma. She carried a nebulizer machine everywhere. The doctors finally found the real problem: a leaky heart valve.

She had the valve replaced with a pig's valve 12 years ago. It was experimental, but it worked. Nan said she hadn't felt that well in many, many years. The tornado was back in business.

She been slowing down again lately. In early December, a pain in her neck sent her back to the hospital. At first they thought it was a heart infection. After several weeks of IV antibiotics, she started having arrhythmias.

It wasn't an infection. Her valve was entirely failing.

She is in Halifax today. At this moment, her chest is open and doctors are replacing the valve. Either that or she has died on the table.

Nan was at complete peace with either outcome yesterday. She told my mother she would rather die quickly then die by inches for months. Then again, she would be very happy if the surgery succeeded.

Please pray for my grandmother today. Merry Christmas, Nanny. I love you.

Adventures in minimum wage

I've got applications into several good jobs in my field right now. I'm hoping for the best once Christmas is over, but I'm finally planning for the worst.

I started working at a jeans store in the mall last night.

The humiliation of all this has been hard to admit, because it shows how terribly prideful I am. The worst part was dropping off resumes last weekend. Walking throughout the mall, binder in hand and makeup on face, trying not to feel like a washed-up has-been.

My training shift was last night. The work is mentally easy. My co-workers are pleasant. The boss is nice, professional and efficient. I wear jeans all the time, so an employee discount sounds wonderful.

I feel like I should have been wearing a scarlet L, for "loser." Thirty years old, three children, a very succesful journalism career in the North.... selling jeans for minimum wage. Ugh.

I fought back tears the whole drive home after the shift. I thought about all the hours my mother worked in a mall so I wouldn't have to. The straight A's. The scholarship. The magna cum laude degree.

And then a little thought occurred to me, whispered by some good angel: "How much money did you make tonight?"

I did the math and subtracted the taxes. I made enough to buy one Christmas gift for one of the children. That was money we did not have before I went in to fold jeans and hang sweaters.

I earned one of my baby's Christmas gifts.

Suddenly, minimum wage doesn't seem so bad.

That mourns in lonely exile here

My neighbourhood is very much into celebrating holidays with lights and outdoor decorations and displays of creativity and wit. The effort and expense people put into Hallowe'en was astounding and delightful. My kids were enchanted and frightened for weeks. I loved it.

As Christmas approaches, people have been trimming their outdoor trees and houses with lights and glowing candy canes and blow-up snow globes with revolving carousels inside.

Karan blogged about ways to get into the secular Christmas season that aren't all about spending money on frivolous things. I appreciate her effort. But I need to point something out.

The true Christmas season has not begun. It won't until December 25th, Christmas Day. In fact, it's still Ordinary Time around here.

I'm waiting for the season of expectation to begin. I'm waiting for Advent.

I'll dig out my Advent wreath this weekend, and we will light the first candle before our Sunday dinner. We'll pray for the Lord to enter our lives and our hearts.

The Christmas tree and decorations go up on Pink Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent.

The Creche will go out on the fourth Sunday.

We celebrate Christmas from the 25th until the Epiphany (or Old Christmas) and then we'll put it all away.

Advent is the ancient season of waiting for the birth of Jesus Christ. It is not a time of celebrating and drinking and feasting. That comes later. Advent is a time of holding our breath. It's a reminder of the millenia people waited for the birth of the King.

The world is missing out on the true meaning of Christmas when it ignores Advent. The true meaning is that void, that want, that waiting and expectation for our Redeemer, for the One who will show us the full and perfect way to be human, is finally filled. The point is to offer ourselves and Him to all who still want and wait, who still feel the void in their bodies or their hearts and suffer for that.

Isaiah 9:6
"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders.
"And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."

Now I need to find the box with the Advent wreath in it!

Blessed Advent to you all.

O come, O come, Emmanuel

And ransom captive Israel

That mourns in lonely exile here

Until the Son of God appear

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free

Thine own from Satan's tyranny

From depths of Hell Thy people save

And give them victory o'er the grave

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer

Our spirits by Thine advent here

Disperse the gloomy clouds of night

And death's dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Key of David, come,

And open wide our heavenly home;

Make safe the way that leads on high,

And close the path to misery.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,

Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai's height,

In ancient times did'st give the Law,

In cloud, and majesty and awe.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

PFO'd

I got a rejection letter today from one of the jobs for which I recently applied.

I didn't even get an interview. Eight years full-time reporting experience, one national award for health reportage, dozens of nationally broadcast stories ... but no interview for me.

And Mother Corp. isn't returning my phone calls on the other job.

I'm in the midst of applying to another employer. It has several job openings right now that look cool. If it won't hire me, I don't know what to do next.

I'm over-qualified for the retail and service jobs out there. The managers keep telling me that, or that they don't need part-timers in the evenings and on weekends. I can't afford to work for a low wage full-time; the cost of child care would be as much or more than I would make.

So all this hard work while raising three kids, and no one wants to hire me.

If you're looking for me, I'm outside in the garden eating worms. Harumph.

I'm so sorry, Jenny

There are no words for how sorry I am about your angel. I shared this verse with you before; I share it again knowing it is hardly any comfort right now. But to Whom else can we turn?

No matter what has happened, know I love you and your children.

Matthew 6:19-21
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

God bless you and your family.

Welcome HG sufferers and survivors

My Site Meter tells me I'm getting many hits through Google and another site for the HG news video. Welcome! If you want to know more about my HG story, please follow this link.

For information, help and support, please visit the Hyperemesis Education and Research (HER) Foundation at www.helpher.org. I'm a moderator there, and happy to listen and help.

Hyperemesis makes American national news!

This piece was on the NBC Nightly News on Friday. Hyperemesis gravidarum, or HG, is the condition with which I suffered during Baby N.'s pregnancy.
Please watch this and tell the pregnant women around you about it. You may just save the life of a mother, a baby or both.

Guess I'm a Roman

HT to DH.

Remembrance Day

In Flanders Fields
John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

Finally published!

Check it out:

http://www.canada.com/victoriatimescolonist/features/mommy_911/index.html

Happy Hallowe'en!

Super A. as Superman, Baby N. as Nemo and Little I. as Spiderman.

She's cute and she knows it.

Our Hallowe'en treat: Mud Monsters.

Super A. and his Mud Monster Ralph.

Little I. and his creation: "Cookies don't have names, Mom!"

Qui suis-je?

On the very first day of seventh grade French Immersion, my homeroom class played a game called "Qui suis-je?" or "Who Am I?" We all had a name of a historical francophone figure taped to our backs. The point of the game was to ask other people questions (in French!) in order to figure out which name we had.

I feel as if I've been playing "Qui suis-je?" lately, but the name on my back is my own. The game is figuring out the answers to my questions.

Am I a stay-at-home mother? That's the work I'm currently doing 40 hours a week, but it doesn't feel like my vocation, my calling in life. I excel at some parts of the job, such as baking and multi-tasking. I suck at other parts, such as crafts or actually playing with my kids, down and dirty on the floor.

Am I a reporter? Inside my head, in some visceral part of me, yes, I am a reporter and always will be. I think like one. I see story ideas everywhere. I still eavesdrop on conversations in public. No one is paying me to do this stuff anymore, however. I have sold my first freelance piece, but I don't know if that qualifies me as a working journalist.

Am I still even a Christian? I have struggled so much with prayer lately, with trusting God, with forgiving. Even attending Mass is a challenge, and I love the Mass. I miss the community of Catholics we had in Yellowknife, people to help me keep my eyes on God.

Am I still a young woman? The wrinkles on my face tell me I'm not. The past two years have aged me greatly; until my pregnancy with Baby N., I was often mistaken for a teenage mother. Between the severe dehydration during the pregnancy, the third C-section, losing more than 30 pounds afterwards and raising three kids, I now look older than I am. It's depressing. Yet I am not old or even middle-aged.

Who am I? Is this what my thirties are going to be, another stage of self-discovery? Sorry, I've already done this. I just want to get on with my life!

At least I'm sure of a few things: my husband and kids love me. I love them, more than my own existence. And we're going to be okay.

Beans and cornbread had a fight

My Hubby enjoys food. He will eat almost anything put in front of him. This made the early part of our marriage much easier, since I wasn't a very good cook. No matter how charred, runny or lumpy a dish was, he always cheerfully dug in.

I am a picky eater, however, or rather a recovering one. I was the kind of child who would sit in front of a hated dish for hours rather than try it.

My brother J. tells a story about how I once ruined Thanksgiving. I tried a small bite of something I disliked because my mother threatened to take away dessert. My stomach rebelled, and I GROSSMENT puked all over the steaming turkey. END GROSSMENT

We had KFC for supper that night. J. was bitter for years.

Little I. seems to have inherited his father's cheerful love of food. But Super A. inherited my taste buds along with my imagination. I'm philosophical about it: He is healthy and growing, if a little skinny. I don't make him different food. If he doesn't eat, he goes hungry until the next meal or scheduled snack. It's his body. Whatever.

A.'s pickiness drives Hubby crazy. All A. has to do is say the magic words, "I don't like...." and Hubby's blood pressure shoots. He gets a wild look in his eye and a sneer on his face.

"You try that," he intones.

A. takes a small bite, makes the gross face and spits out the food.

This is where I usually intervene and remind A. of the table rules. One bite of everything. No spitting at the table. No complaining.

Lately, the fight has gotten worse. Hubby is pressuring him to eat more, and A. has been eating less and less.

Today at Thanksgiving dinner, Hubby looked like he was going to jump out of his seat, all over some uneaten potatoes.

What I can't get him to see is what is going on in A.'s head.

It's simple: he is sensitive to food. To its smell and taste and texture and temperature. Stress makes him more sensitive, so pressuring him to eat only makes him like the food less.

I am the same way. Even now, my food must be piping hot or ice cold. I can't eat lukewarm soup or melted ice cream or room temperature meat. Texture is important to me, too. I get it.

I don't know how to diffuse this. But in the end, eating is A.'s problem, not Hubby's. Until he accepts that, he's making it his problem.

I just have to avoid making it mine, too.

May I just say...

...I am enjoying the fact the trees here still have most of their leaves, while there is snow on the ground in Yellowknife?

This time last year, the kids and I were wearing snowsuits. Now we're wearing rainsuits and only beginning to rake leaves.

(By the way, while I like Amy very much, the only reason I'm linking to her campaign web site is to show you the snow in the pictures.)

I got a job!

I am now a freelance writer with the Victoria Times Colonist. Wooooohooooooo!

I'm going to be writing column-style articles for the paper's weekly parenting/mommy section.

I went downtown today to gather material for the first time. Baby N. came with me and we had a lot of fun.

It was like finding myself again. I can't deny the reporter within.

I'll write more about the job and how I got it this week.

Didn't get the job

All that excitement for nothing.

Little I. gets water shy

I had to stand next to the side of the pool for Little I.'s swimming lesson today.

When he got in the water, his eyes darkened. He got out, climbed into my lap and said, "I want you, Momma."

I want you too, baby boy.

So I held Baby N. and stood next to the pool, occasionally rubbing his little back and hugging him when he cried.

He stayed in the water and finished the lesson. By the end he was giggling.

The lifeguard manager stood next to me throughout the lesson, watching the toddler class closely. She apologized the moment I entered the pool deck and said the instructor and lifeguard on duty last Thursday have been disciplined.

Now I must pretend I have confidence in the lifeguards. If not, Little I. might be afraid of the water for the rest of his life.

Big lungs, little lungs

Note: I've been composing blog posts in my head for the past few weeks, but have had no time to write until tonight. Please bear with me while I play catch up!

Over the past six years, I've been mothering my kids to the best of my ability, pouring the talent and hard work I used in school and work into my parenting. But in the end, all the extra work I've done has only added niceties and frills to the essential role of mother I play.

Last week, I met the most basic challenge parents face. Last week, I saved Little I.'s life.

Both of the boys have been taking swimming lessons throughout September. A. goes in the evening, but Little I. takes his lessons two mornings a week. I sit in the roped off parents' area next to the pool, towel and juice box ready, Baby N. in my lap or in the stroller. I try to make conversation with the other mommies and not look bored. I smile when he waves at me.

It was near the end of the lesson, and Little I.'s class was in a part of the pool that is over his head. There is a ledge under the water for the pre-schoolers to stand on and wait their turn as the instructor works with each child individually. Little I. was standing there, waist-deep in water, wiggling and giggling. The instructor turned her back for a moment and Little I. wiggled right off the ledge and into the water.

At first, all I saw were his little eyes poking above the water, looking very surprised. In an instant, he was completely under, arms waving above his head.

She still didn't see him.

I stood up, holding the nursing baby in my arms, and yelled with as much force and projection as my lungs allowed.

"He's underwater! I. IS UNDERWATER!"

The instructor spun, child in her arm, and grabbed my precious boy with her other hand, whooshing him out of the pool. She sat him on the lip of the pool, checking his breathing, asking if he had swallowed water. He shook his head no.

The little trooper had held his breath, just as he's been instructed to do whenever his face was wet.

I sat down, heart racing, breathing in little gasps. Forcing myself to take deep breaths, I tried to calm down. I watched the instructor hold Little I. as he put his face in the water and kicked.

"I must NOT go over there," I thought desperately. "He's okay, and if I go rushing over he will be afraid of the water."

"But I want to hold my baby boy NOW," my entire body answered back.

I held Baby N. I watched Little I. kick his legs in the instructors grasp. I did not move.

Little I. couldn't wait to tell Daddy he "went all the way under water!" The Hubby had to hold me for ten minutes later that night. I was trembling after retelling the story.

I did call the pool the next day and and had a chat with the manager about bringing three-year-olds out that deep without a lifeguard right next to them.

Thank God I was never one to go quiet when frightened.

The Spider

Autumn has arrived in Victoria in the last few days. Leaves are turning crimson and gold and are falling off the many trees. Squirrels are searching for nuts. Deer are fattening up on berries and clover. And the spiders are moving indoors.

When we first moved here, I noticed the plethora of spiders. They were everywhere. I thought they were pretty big. I had no idea they were just little house spiders.

The other night, Hubby and I were in the kitchen eating a midnight snack when the biggest spider I have ever seen outside the Bug Zoo zoomed across the floor. It was the size of a saucer, and it moved with speed and precision.

Look, I'll be honest. I screamed like a little girl. But to my defence, even Hubby said, "Holy sh*t!" and ran to get a shoe to beat that spider into submission.

When Hubby hit it, it reared up on its legs. Yikes. Hubby pummeled it several times more until it expired. He then dropped it in the garbage.

Does anyone have a nontoxic way of keeping spiders out of my house? Please?

Super A. starts school

Yes, my first baby started school on Friday.

It was just a short session the first day, only 45 minutes. He settled in like a dream.

On the way home, I watched him ride his bike in front of me, proud and upright, whistling a tune as he peddled. All I could think was, "This is the same little baby they showed to me over the C-section curtain, blue and blinking, almost 6 years ago."

Wow. Parenthood is amazing.

Introducing my new stroller obsession!

This, gentle readers, is my new Phil&Ted's Sport double stroller.

I have been salivating over this stroller for about a year, but never thought about buying one until we moved to Victoria. When we got here, I realized my double Chariot was just too big for the store aisles in this city (and also that my kids wouldn't need super protection from -40C anymore, either.)

I sold my Chariot yesterday and picked up this beauty today. It pushes like a dream, and makes me feel like a yummy mummy!

Thanks to DND for its generous reimbursement of moving expenses, because that's where the cash for this came from.

Ready for a walk

"Come to the Dark Side of the Force...."

I received my final pay cheque as a full-time employee of Big Crown Corp. today. It was a less than I expected, which got me thinking about the financial future.

So I pulled out the calculator and did some math. Money in, money out.

Our family lives modestly, and selling our house allowed us to pay off a lot of debt. Our bills for the month are paid, and nothing is dangling over our heads. We're in the black.

But when I crunched money in and out on our basic monthly bills, I realized I will have less than $100 a month to spend on groceries if we try to live on the Hubby's income.

We feed three very hungry children. A hundred bucks is not going to cut it.

Although I had a great interview the other day, Big Crown Corp is not going to be calling for evening and weekend casual work very often. They need stringers during the day more often than at night.

"Hey, I can freelance my way out of this!" I thought desperately. "Freelancers don't make a tonne, but I only need an extra $500 a month or so! I can earn that... right?"

I sat at the computer to do a bit of brainstorming. I decided to check the journalism job board for freelance here in Vic.

Huh. All that's posted is a communications job. PR. The Dark Side. I'm not looking for full-time work anyway...

I went out and sat on the step with my mom, who is in town visiting.

"Where's the PR job?" she asked.

"Oh, at the university up the road, the one with the castle and garden we visited."

"You mean the one you can walk to from here?"

"Yup."

"What's the hours?"

"Full-time."

"Nine to six, like the CBC?"

"No, 37.5 hours a week, so I guess nine to five, or 8:30 to 4:30."

"Is the pay good?"

"The highest range is about 54 grand."

My mother looks at me.

"Are you nuts? Good pay, good hours, interesting work and no commute! You'd be around the corner from your kids. Split the pay with a nanny, so what? You're still much better off financially than you would be if you stayed home."

I blinked. Then I ran for the computer.

I have sent my resume and cover letter. I will drop off my writing samples in the morning. I am pumped.

But I can't shake the feeling I am failing.

I am the last of two of my BCC girlfriends who are still technically "working journalists." All the rest have crossed over to the Dark Side.

Now, I've always had tremendous respect for many of the hardworking people in PR. My first media mentor was a PR director in New Brunswick. I only poke fun with the Darth Vader reference.

But I always saw myself as a reporter. I live it. I breathe it. Even on mat leave, I have reporter brain.

In her latest book, The Pickton File, Stevie Cameron writes about experiencing this feeling when she was gathering material for the book.

"Sometimes, in dark moments I would never admit to anyone, I felt I wasn't even a journalist any longer," she writes. "What I am, all I want to be, is a reporter."

That's me. But I am also a mother with children who need clothes and want swimming lessons, and we can't afford either on a hundred bucks a month.

So today I choose motherhood over journalism. I guess I'm on my way to the Dark Side. I just hope, when my kids are older, there's a way back.

Back on the payroll of Big Crown Corp.

On Friday, I escaped the bonds of housewifedom for a few hours and plunged back into the adult, workaday world again.

In other words, I had a job interview.

While I'm not interested in going back to work full-time, I am going a little shack-wacky here in the burbs. Being with the children can be fun and fulfilling, but many times it is also emotionally and physically draining, as well as boring. There are only so many times I can talk to Little I. about his favourite Transformers or teach A. how to spell a new word.

So about a week ago I called the manager of the local CBC Radio and asked if he wanted to meet and talk about casual work. He did.

We made a number of plans for a get-together, but my child-care schedule kept getting in the way. Finally, we agreed on Friday afternoon, since the Hubby gets off early on Fridays.

That morning was a flurry of washing and shaving and hair-styling. I picked up the boys at day camp and hauled them to the local McDonald's for lunch, then ran some errands around Esquimalt. Baby N. and Little I. dropped off to sleep in their car seats while the minivan sat in the Canex parking lot. A. listened to a CD while I put on make-up.

I marveled at how wrinkly I had become over the past year, and how the concealer was NOT concealing how old I looked.

We picked up the Hubby and headed downtown.

I was incredibly nervous.

I found the building easily enough, and the manager I had spoken to. He welcomed me into the office and we started talking.

The first thing he asked me was if I had been a lockout blogger.

"Why, yes," I stammered. "How did you know that?"

"Because I used to read you every day," he said. "I was on the management bargaining committee."

Oh dear Lord, I thought. There goes my casual job.

Seeing my discomfiture, he laughed. "I loved your blog," he chuckled.

After that, we got along like a barn on fire.

I've been added to his "stable" of available casuals, working the odd evening and weekend shift.

He even hinted about a full-time producer position being boarded right now, but that's too many hours for me right now and too much responsibility.

I can't tell you how relieved and comfortable I was in that news room. It felt like a little piece of home.

For C.

Almighty and Eternal God, You are the everlasting health of those who believe in You. Hear us for Your sick servant C. for whom we implore the aid of Your tender mercy,that being restored to bodily health, she may give thanks to You in Your Church. Through Christ our Lord, Amen.

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession was left unaided.

Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me. Amen.

Saint Gianna, patron of mothers, pray for C.

Saint Michael Argemir, patron of cancer patients, pray for C.

All Holy men and women, pray for C.

Please, please, please pray for her, whether you believe in prayer or not. Her children are still in elementary school.

I love you, C. We're praying our rosaries off.

Too romantically satisfied to post

Sorry, faithful readers, but I had a MARVELLOUS date with the Hubby last night, with no children, and am far too happy and mooning about to post anything intelligent. I have a few posts in draft, but just can't seem to get my brain to work.

Ah, l'amour....

Be back with housewifely, feminist angst later.

Act of rebellion

I am a reporter/editor with CBC Radio in Yellowknife. I am an employee for two more weeks. And I blog.

I do not have my supervisor's permission to do this. She would probably laugh if I asked for it.

I will not bow down to the false gods of censorship and "guideline documents" in my personal time on my personal blog.

Nothing I write here reflects the opinions of the CBC. It is a personal blog.

Everything I write here conforms to the journalistic policy of "Outside Activities".

I have not forgotten the lockout, or the blog I penned then.

Back to my regularly scheduled natterings about my perfect and beautiful children and the state of my dining room floor.

(Go see this and this for an explanation. Man, this stuff ticks me off.)

Happy first birthday, my little star

Yum, cake

Morning at the local beach

Happy Third Birthday, Little I.!

A hard day's potty training

Potty update

I think Little I. finally has the hang of this potty training thing. He went potty 4 times yesterday. He stayed dry all last night with no diaper, and the first thing he did this morning was pee in the potty.

Hooray! He's on the right track now!

Woman vs. Toddler

You already know who won this battle.

Little I. will soon be three years old. In September, he starts attending pre-school two days a week. Both he and I are very excited about this.

There's a catch, however. He has to be completely potty-trained before his first day. That's five weeks away.

So I started training him today. He went once in the potty (hooray!!!!). He's had 10 accidents.

Accidents my butt.

He requested a pull up for bedtime, but made me promise I'd get out his "big boy underwear" in the morning.

At least the dining room floor got mopped again today because of it. Five times.

Woman 1, Toddler 10.

"Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good..."

I waited in line with almost a thousand others last night to get my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows shortly after midnight. I finished it tonight at 10:30.

What an immensely satisfying ending to Harry's story. Rowling spared us nothing, and yet I finished the book smiling.

"All was well."

Thanks, Jo, from the bottom of this bookworm's heart.

What did the rest of you think? Megan?

About a year ago....

...I was chanting my end of pregnancy mantra, "Give me life, give me pain. Give me myself again."

HT to Megan for reminding me of how wonderfully emotive Tori's music is.

Woman vs. nature

Anyone who knows me well knows I'm an outdoor kind of girl. I love to camp Girl Guide-style, in tents and lean-tos and quanzees. My bedrolls are water-proof and tight as a drum. I love to start a cooking fire with one match, some newspaper, pine cones and kindling. I excel at cooking on rocks heated in a fire. I make the best S'mores ever.

But I loathe bugs in all their shapes and forms. And Vancouver Island is full of spiders and hornets and bees and beetles and ants of all shapes and sizes.

There are earwigs in my backyard and three types of ants in my front yard. There are flying insects everywhere -- everything except mosquitoes.

Ugh.

Our PMQ (that's a house for all you civvies out there) has hardwood floors in the living room and dining room, and lino in the kitchen, front entry and laundry room/back entry. The hardwood is lovely, but every drip and spill on the dining room floor shows up, even after being wiped with a sponge.

My floors were filthy last night. Two weeks of visiting relatives and days at the beach and a heat wave will do that.

Last night, the ants discovered a way in my back entry. And they discovered the bounty of dried beer and wine and pop on the floor around my blue box.

The bugs had invaded my domain. And they were looking hopefully towards the bonanza that was my dining room floor.

Attack!

Out came the mop and bucket, hot water and Pine-Sol. I mopped the back entry and kitchen, teeny ants shrivelling up as the soapy water hit them. Mwahahaha!

Then I entered the dining room. And an alarm started sounding in my brain. It was using my mother's voice as a weapon.

"Cindy Marie, don't you DARE use Pine-Sol on those hardwood floors!" it admonished. "Vinegar and water mopping only, followed by a quick buffing. That's the PROPER way to clean them!"

"But, Mom," I countered in my head, "the ants are coming! I need to disinfect, and fast. Besides, my neighbour Kim cleans her hardwood this way."

"You'll leave a film on them!"

I was pondering this when one tiny ant skittered from kitchen to dining room.

"Sorry, Mom, this is war. And war is ugly."

Twenty minutes later every ant in the house was dead, and all my hardwood was gleaming. The whole downstairs smelled of pine trees.

Woman 1, nature 0.

Happy Birthday, Hubby!

The Hubby turns 30 today. Happy birthday, love, and many happy returns. I love you.

Update: An excited wreck!

Update! The realtor called about an hour after I posted the note below. Our house is sold, effective July 13, 2007. We are making a modest profit, too. Hooray! Thank you, Lord, and thank you St. Joseph for favours received.

I'm waiting for our real estate agent to call with a possible sale of our house in Yellowknife. The other party made an offer, we accepted, and the house was inspected yesterday. Now it's all a matter of the final decision.

My stomach's in knots. Sell, house, sell! Saint Joseph, pray for us!

Fun in Baby N.'s room

The boys decided Baby N.'s nap was finished.

Adventures in pebbles and baby poop

It was bound to happen sometime.

Baby N. enjoys putting things in her mouth. A lot. More than the boys did at the same age, let me tell you. We are constantly scooping stuff out of her gob, everything from pennies to sticks to dust bunnies. She always complains loudly every time we rescue her digestive system from these objects.

Yesterday, however, she triumphed. Yesterday, she swallowed a pebble.

We were out on the back step. I was hanging laundry while Baby N. sat at my feet, playing with a toy. I had scanned the step for swallowable objects when we came outside. Nothing, I thought. Then Baby N. got that gleam in her eye.

She dived. I scooped her up, grabbed her cheeks, pushed on them to open her mouth, and inserted the trusty swiping finger. I could see the pebble at the back of her mouth. We struggled. She screamed, pulled her head back and went gulp! The pebble was gone.

I sighed, brought her inside, and called the BC Nurse Line.

She wasn't choking, wheezing or in pain; in fact, she was sashaying around the living room, enjoying her success.

The nurse told me to keep an eye on what comes out her other end.

"If she hasn't passed it in a week, bring her to the doctor," she said.

Princess Plumber Butt passed the pebble this morning in her ritual morning deposit.

And I wonder why I'm going gray.

The Trip, Day One: Yellowknife to High Level

Note: This is the first part in a series describing our adventures on the trip south.

Our last morning in Yellowknife started well enough. The Hubby and I got up early, fed the children, then washed, dressed and diapered the brood. I started packing everything in sight in the hotel room while Hubby dragged luggage and backpacks and cooler and squeaky toys down to the Bratmobile.

We finished packing; we checked out; the children said good-bye to each Yellowknife landmark as we passed. It was 9 a.m.

"Good-bye, family centre! Good-bye, park! Good-bye, Co-op!"

We turned onto the highway. We started the big drive. And then Hubby noticed a sound. A strange, whirring sound. It was coming from the back, right-hand side of the minivan.

"There's something wrong with the back right-hand tire," he said.

We started discussing what to do. Should we turn around now, or get it fixed in High Level? Were we safe?

And then Hubby said, "Cin, where's the laptop? I don't remember packing it in the minivan."

We turned the Bratmobile around and headed back to Yellowknife.

"Hello, Co-op! Hello, park! Hello, family centre!" A. announced cheerfully.

Back at the hotel, Hubby tore apart the hotel room and found the laptop. I had put it in a "safe place" and promptly forgot about it.

From there we headed to the Chrysler dealership. The mechanic, after listening to our sob story, brought the van in right away (bless him). Sure enough, the bearings in our right back wheel were worn out.

We went to lunch while he doctored up the van.

Finally, repairs complete (thank goodness for our extended warranty!), we all piled back into the minivan and headed to High Level.

It was 1:15 pm. The drive to High Level is eight hours. I was trying my very best to be grateful we had caught the problem with the wheel and not left behind our computer.

The boys took to driving fairly well. Baby N., however, decided about two hours in that the trip was a plot to kidnap her and sell her to a baby-slavery ring. She screamed almost nonstop, unless she was sleeping or had my nipple in her mouth.

About that nipple: in order to nurse her while the two of us were safely belted in, I had to remove my shoulder strap, lean forward and dangle the breast over her car seat. That involved pushing my right ribs into the hard plastic of her seat, sometimes for hours on end. I still have bruises on my ribs from the five-day ordeal.

We reached the ferry across the Mackenzie River in the late afternoon. Break-up of the river ice had happened only a week before, and the boys were amazed at the giant slabs of ice floating around the boat. We snapped the picture above, one of the few we took on the road.

We finally arrived in High Level around 10 at night. After some Daddy-Sons wrestling, we all hit the beds with a resounding thump.

I went to sleep thanking the kids' guardian angel I forgot the computer. The mechanic said if we hadn't have turned back, we would certainly have broken down on the road before Fort Providence. And there is NOTHING on the roads between towns in the Northwest Territories: no houses, no garages, no gas stations. Nothing.

Congratulations, Stace and Trevor!

Stacey and Trevor enter together.

The vows (yes, she's crying; it was sweet.)

Stacey and me!

Stacey and Megan share a sisterly laugh.

Edit: I've finally found my camera. Here's some of our pics. But go over to Sally's blog for the best one.

Still catching up over here!

This past weekend I went to a happy and beautiful wedding, and watched my "sister" step into the world of The Marrieds, holding the hand of the man she loves.

Congratulations to you both, and many, many blessings to you.

Here's some shots from the wedding, above.

Whaddya think of the new duds?

Do you like the new template? I think it's rather appropriate, myself.

C'mon, tell me what you think.

To my father

Dad,

I called you on Father's Day, but there was no answer. My guess is you were swinging a golf club. Good.

Dad, you were the person in my childhood who showed me the pleasure of a good discussion, the value of thinking on the bigger things in life. Although we have come to markedly different conclusions about all that, I was introduced to it all by you, and at a very early age! Who else would have talked to a skinny ten-year-old about aliens and eternity and the depravity of human nature?

You were also the one who helped me through the storms produced by a sensitive nature and teenage hormones. I can't count how many times I curled up in your arms at 16, 17, 18 years old and cried. Thank you.

I don't think I ever told you how much I admired your decision to return to school when I was a kid. As I watch my husband struggle to get his homework done while making time for his family, I think about how much harder it must have been for you, with a full university course load of math and physics. And yet you succeeded.

Thanks for being there, Dad, and for showing me what a man should be. Happy belated Father's Day!

Jumping on the Ickler vent

Okay, so I know I owe you about a month's worth of stories and explanations (and I will get to them, I promise), but I couldn't resist joining Sally and Megan. I need to vent my spleen on Rebecca Eckler.

Ickler is the Paris Hilton of Canadian journalist mothers. Self-absorbed to the point of mental incapacitation. She's one of these wealthy people who moan and complain about their lives all the freaking time. She's got it sooo hard. Being a mom of one spoiled brat with two nannies is soooooo difficult. (One nanny for the week, one for the weekend, mind you.)

She recently posted a time line of a typical day so you can get her hard work and motherly devotion.

Mademoiselle Eckler, try my day on for size.

5:30 a.m. Nurse baby for the fourth time that night, but wake up during the process because the sun is up. Realize I need to get up in half an hour, meaning I got six hours of sleep -- a good night.

6 a.m Get up, wash and dress (a little early -- usually up at seven.)

6:25 Eat breakfast, wake house guest, clean up mess in kitchen and dining room.

6:50 Start a load of laundry.

7:10 Kiss husband goodbye -- he's been awake since 5:50, and is dressed in immaculate uniform with shined shoes.

7:15 Check email, CBC.ca, G&M, Facebook and the HER Foundation.

7:25 Children wake up. Washing, dressing and feeding frenzy begins.

8 a.m. Chivvy kids into shoes and coats, pack diaper bag and snack, head out door.

8:16 Leave for airport with house guest and three kids in minivan.

8:50: After much swearing, arrive at airport. Have Tim Horton's with Megan and kids. Send Megan back to the North.

9:30 Potty break.

9:40 Pack kids in minivan. Head home.

10:30 Arrive at home. Carry sleeping baby into house.

10:40 Log food at Weight Watchers Online.

11:00 Clean more messes.

11:16 Baby awakes. Carry her downstairs.

11:30 Make lunch for children and self.

12:15 p.m. Clean up lunch.

1:00 Pack boys in stroller and baby in backpack. Walk to rec centre (20 minutes). Register boys in swimming lessons.

1:30 Arrive at rec centre playground. Push swings, hand out water and snacks, etc.

2:30 Pack kids in stroller and backpack. Walk up steep hill to grocery store while all three kids nap.

2:50 Pick up supper supplies.

3:10 Walk home (25 minutes), then put away stroller and backpack. Sit on front step and watch boys play and baby try to eat grass.

4:00 Start supper prep (roast chicken and potatoes.)

4:10 Kiss Hubby hello.

6:10 Serve supper with Hubby's help. Hubby and I clean up.

7:00 Free time. Read book.

7:30 Chat with neighbours.

8:00 Hubby bathes all kids. I dress and diaper baby.

8:20 to 9:55 Nurse ravenous yet sleeping baby while surfing Net.

I still have an enormous amount of housework to do.

And you know what, Ickler? Today was a GREAT day.

In Victoria!

We're here! We made it safe and sound, and didn't even kill any of the kids during the 5-day drive.

More info when we're settled.