Happy Christmas, Nanny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in minimum wage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I earned one of my baby's Christmas gifts.

Suddenly, minimum wage doesn't seem so bad.

That mourns in lonely exile here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Creche will go out on the fourth Sunday.

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

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

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

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

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

Blessed Advent to you all.

O come, O come, Emmanuel

And ransom captive Israel

That mourns in lonely exile here

Until the Son of God appear

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free

Thine own from Satan's tyranny

From depths of Hell Thy people save

And give them victory o'er the grave

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer

Our spirits by Thine advent here

Disperse the gloomy clouds of night

And death's dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Key of David, come,

And open wide our heavenly home;

Make safe the way that leads on high,

And close the path to misery.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,

Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai's height,

In ancient times did'st give the Law,

In cloud, and majesty and awe.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

PFO'd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm so sorry, Jenny

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

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

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

God bless you and your family.

Welcome HG sufferers and survivors

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

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

Hyperemesis makes American national news!

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

Guess I'm a Roman

HT to DH.

Remembrance Day

In Flanders Fields
John McCrae

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

Finally published!

Check it out:

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

Happy Hallowe'en!

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

She's cute and she knows it.

Our Hallowe'en treat: Mud Monsters.

Super A. and his Mud Monster Ralph.

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

Qui suis-je?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beans and cornbread had a fight

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You try that," he intones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just have to avoid making it mine, too.

May I just say...

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

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

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

I got a job!

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

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

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

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

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

Didn't get the job

All that excitement for nothing.

Little I. gets water shy

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

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

I want you too, baby boy.

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

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

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

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

Big lungs, little lungs

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

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

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

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

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

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

She still didn't see him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Spider

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

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

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

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

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

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

Super A. starts school

Yes, my first baby started school on Friday.

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

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

Wow. Parenthood is amazing.