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.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, July 31, 2008
"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!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
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!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
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."
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."
Thursday, June 26, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, June 20, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, June 16, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
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.*
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.*
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Monday, March 10, 2008
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 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.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
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.
I'll post a longer story and some pics on the weekend. Need to catch up on work and life.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
"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?
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?
Friday, January 11, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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 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.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 19, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
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!"
Sunday, October 21, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 08, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
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.)
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.)
Saturday, September 29, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, September 09, 2007
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.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
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.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
"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.
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.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
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.
Ah, l'amour....
Be back with housewifely, feminist angst later.
Friday, August 03, 2007
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.)
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.)
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
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