I Spy With My Little Eye...

...abundant love.

2011-06-16T00:24:00.001-07:00

These two girls of mine know love. It's all I've ever wanted them to be sure of. That they are vessels of abundant love. That they are conductors of abundant love. That they are abundantly loved.

And between them is an intensity of love for each other so electric that it could light a small town. Blows my mind every day.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

...restoration.

2011-06-09T09:50:00.001-07:00

Today I believe that sickness came to our house solely for the purpose of slowing us down. It took me a few days to figure it out, but oh how it was worth it. The fresh air seems to be the only remedy for Lola's croupy cough and after a long morning nap on daddy's chest she was ready to breath the fresh air deeply. She told me so by screaming at the top of her lungs and throwing herself on the floor. I don't know if she knew what she was asking for at the time. It was what we needed though.

Our return home was perfectly timed as the sprinkles began to fall from the heavens and nourish the earth we walked upon.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

...a thaw.

2011-06-01T19:39:00.001-07:00

And so I break the silence. The end of a long, cold winter. I feel the warmth returning to my bones. Bare feet on concrete. Baths to wash off the filth of a day outside. Freedom.

Lola begs to be outside all the time. Despite the brutal winds this spring. Despite the helicopter sized mosquitos. She just wants to walk and walk and walk. Her hunger to expand her world is so desperate. Stopping to point out random cars and dogs and kids. Crouching to inspect an ant hill and trying to pet the ants. Grinning and squealing as she shuffles down the walk on her toddler bow-legs. Stilted and reckless.

It feels good to be back here.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

...an off beat rhythm.

2011-01-12T14:00:00.001-08:00

I've never liked the idea of having a "routine" or following a "schedule". Perhaps it is just a function of my desire to be non-conforming. And maybe it's just that it doesn't feel quite right for me. Over the last few years I have found the phrase "rhythm of my life" falling seamlessly into my vocabulary. Rhythm. That is the word that sits so nicely in my bones. It implies that there is a certain ebb and flow in any given moment and yet the tempo can change and the dance can continue. It allows for the many energies that make up my family to create one dynamic rhythm that we can all groove on.

There are frequently days on end when our family has fallen out of rhythm. It's like listening to the static between radio stations. It often happens when we are all moving too quickly to stop and tune us back in. But it never feels like we have failed to maintain a "routine" or follow a "schedule". It just means we have to fine tune. And that removes the intellectual analysis of how our lives are functioning. It's a feeling, a balance, a gut reaction, an intuitive sense of what is needed in the present moment.

In this moment, right now, I am feeling a little off beat. My Rx for that? Immersion. Complete and total immersion in my family. Face to face, side by side, orbiting around each other. A couple of days is ideal but often a small portion of an hour creates a harmony that can carry us through the next up tempo frenzy of our lives. Tonight I will set our dinner table with an earthy and rich Indian stew. Warmth from a spicy homemade chutney balanced with a cool, tangy yogurt. And we will sit over this meal. Facing each other while we tune out the world and tune into each other.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

...a nap.

2010-11-17T00:36:00.001-08:00

I forgot all about "this" stage.

When I was pregnant with this babe I confessed to anyone that would listen that I wasn't really all that fond of babies. As I recalled from the first time around, six years earlier, the fun really started at about 2 years postpartum. Or maybe, as it turns out, I didn't really find my groove as a mom until that point. Don't get me wrong. I loved that baby with all my heart. She gave me what would be possibly the biggest adventure of my entire life. Becoming a mom completed me and all that cliche stuff. But quite frankly I found dealing with the demands of an infant quite tedious and my patience was taken to new edges...daily.

I could draw comparisons all day long, really. The "who I am v.s. who I was" factor, the differences in eating, playing, development, disposition and sleep patterns of my two babes, the only child v.s. the division of energy with the additional child, the stark difference in learning curve from the first to the second.....even the sheer lack of stimulation and organized activities for this second child is staggering. And maybe there is really not that much difference. The truth is I've discovered that I don't dislike babies at all. In fact, I fell completely in love with parenting this infant. She challenged me, fascinated me and mesmerized me in ways I did not recognize the first time. Or maybe I had just forgotten. Six years is a long time. Because, as it turns out I had forgotten "this" stage all together.

I know now why I waited so long in between babies. Until Meg reached the age of five it seemed like each stage became more difficult than the last. Just when I thought I had no time and no patience left to spare I was taken to a new edge. Left nostalgic and wistful about the stage we had just left. And yet when I had been fully immersed in that previous reality I could not appreciate it's gifts and apparent simplicity. And on and on it went.

"This" stage that I had forgotten is perhaps the part I struggled with last time. Perhaps this is what had me believing I didn't much care for babies. My Lola is an "easy" child. Amuses herself for hours in the day. Her defiance is short lived and easily redirected. Her determination is infuriating but admirable. She seems to understand the word "no" and doesn't always ignore it. Her ability to leave a trail of non-destructive chaos in her wake is charming. And yet it's all relative. Because she is my kid and I have only her to contend with I find that the "time-sucking" nature of parenting a toddler is....well.....frustrating.

Which brings me to today, right now, sitting in my car, outside my house. Laundry and dishes piled up to teetering heights. A diaper pail stinking to high heaven. A bathtub completely full of hand washing in various stages of completion. No plans for supper tonight (or any other night for that matter). A stack of paperwork to contend with and emails to answer. A trail of cereal boxes and granola bars strewn across the kitchen floor..... And here I sit. In the car. Listening to the deep and contented breathing of my sleeping toddler.

This busy toddler in the midst of a swirling whirlwind of change has had a lot of trouble with sleep the last couple of days. I have spent at least 17 hours over the last three days lying next to her, nursing her, comforting her, rocking her, singing to her, ignoring her, patting and rubbing her, all in an effort to get her to sleep. Both for her naps and at night.

So today I decided to forego all ideas of crossing something...anything off my list in favour of making sure that this child slept. I was out anyway and headed home around naptime. So I took a circuitous route past the bank and to the drive-thru at Second Cup. Driving until finally I heard the sweet sounds of sleep emanating from the back seat of the car. I drove leisurely towards home and pulled up in front of my house. Coffee, brownie and silence...... Now what.

I decided at this point that one could dedicate an entire blog to sharing helpful tips and suggestion for the busy mom of a car napping toddler. I started a list...

1. A directory of products and services that are available in drive-thru format.
2. Tips on how to fold laundry on your tailgate.
3. A comprehensive guide to the best places to tap into free wi-fi in your community.
4. A compilation of creative, gourmet and mess-free on the go lunches for hungry mamas.
5. The complete illustrated compendium of napping options for the front seat of your car.
6. A listing of the best radio shows available between the hours of 10:00 and 4:00.
7. A map of the best views of your city from quiet streets or parking lots.
8. Ideas for toning your thighs, buttocks and belly in a seated and upright position.
9. Directions for creating awe-inspiring crafts with old gas reciepts and slurpee straws.

And that is just a start...

...this moment.

2010-10-30T20:22:00.000-07:00

{this moment}

{this moment} - A weekly ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. I was inspired to do this by Soulemama. If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

...this moment.

2010-10-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

{this moment}

...this moment.

2010-10-15T13:34:00.000-07:00

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

...giving thanks.

2010-10-13T20:55:00.000-07:00

Life gets in the way of gratitude sometimes. Sad but true. But for this one solid weekend in October I feel like it courses through my veins and oozes out of every pore. What I am thankful for right now is...

Karma.
I am immensely grateful that my father was the kind of guy that would drop everything and do whatever was needed to help a friend or family member. I was explaining this to Meg this morning and it went like this.
Me - "Grandpa was the kind of man that loved to help and give. Because of this.."
Meg - "He made a lot of friends."
Me - "Yes, Meg. He was loved. And more than that, Meg, now..."
Meg - "People want to help Nanny."
Me - "Yes, baby. That's karma. And it works best because when he helped people it was never with the intention of getting anything in return. It was just done with love in his heart."
And now with love in their hearts many people are creating a matrix of support that is making it possible for my mom to continue to live in the place they called home together for almost 40 years.
Youth.
As parents we are given the incredible gift of seeing life through the eyes of our children. When I really connect with my girls it's as if I am able to plug directly in to the joy, excitement, anticipation, grief, frustration, wonder and intensity of their experience in that moment. I find it most profound when they learn something new or finally achieve something they have been working towards. The sense of accomplishment actually feels like a physical swelling of the chest. And an even more surprising experience I had not anticipated before I was a parent is that I get to relive my childhood. Sharing my own experiences with Meg and remembering things long forgotten as I watch Meg go through them herself. Yesterday we approached the railway crossing less than a mile from my childhood home and the signal began to flash. We pulled up to a stop just as the train was approaching. Meg suggest we wave. I opened the windows and we enthusiatically waved as the engine slowly rolled past. To our incredible delight his window was also wide open and his nonchalant wave back had us grinning like fools and cheering at our success. Having lived my entire childhood
just down the road I had been stopped at that crossing thousands of times and waved at every engine and kaboose that went past. Always excited when the wave was returned. I wonder when I stopped waving. Ah, another great thing about youth is the chance to be uncool and foolish again.

Maturity.
At the same time that I delight in the spirit of youth, I also savour the comfort of my age. With that age comes wisdom, confidence and acceptance. Peace. Less inner turmoil, more clarity. You know, maybe youth and maturity are more akin than I thought. In one stage I was layering on my psyche-protecting veils, until perhaps one day it all just got too heavy, too clouded. And then as I matured I labouriously shed one layer at a time in a search for my authentic self. With each layer peeled away becoming more raw and feeling more alive. I'm grateful that this means it will only get better.

Community.
What does that mean? Friends that have become my soul sisters. Neighbours that shovel my walk and mow my lawn. Dozens of mothers to my children. The walking school bus we are a part of everday. The children my daughter calls friends. The facebook friends that laugh at and respond to my status updates. The people that read and comment on my blog. Even the guy at the hardware store that gives you that extra piece of advice. The woven fabric of my life is intertwined with the lives of all these people by the threads of our encounters. It's a colourful tapestry.
Where does one even end? Like I said, gratitude oozing from every pore. I'm thankful for my husband's love. My big girl's imagination. My baby's sweet, milky breath. My extended family (all of them, even the slightly crazy ones). Chocolate buttons and wine. Warm autumn light. Good health. The roof over my head and food in my fridge. Air travel, email, and long distance telephone plans. My iPhone. Kids that occasionally go to bed early and sleep in late. Knowing I am surrounded by people that really love me.

Clearly I need to do this more often. Perhaps then my list would be more manageable... Nah, not likely. My life is pretty sweet. Here's proof...

...this moment.

2010-10-08T21:26:00.000-07:00

{this moment}

...this moment.

2010-10-02T18:31:00.001-07:00

Well, I'm a day late this week. I had a busy Friday. I had so many photos to choose from just from last weekend alone. I really feel as though I lived in the last 7 days. It was one of those weeks when you really know you're alive. And then Thursday gave me this special moment. I feel compelled to explain that there is one very important element that you can't see in this photograph. Hidden by the angel of a woman in the white t-shirt is a minutes old babe being held in the arms of his warrior mama.

{this moment}

...this moment.

2010-09-24T21:15:00.000-07:00

{this moment}

...tetris.

2010-09-19T23:07:00.001-07:00

You know that game? Who doesn't is more to the point, I guess.

It's my life.

Not "it's my life" as in I live for it. But actually, it's precisely what my life feels like. Like I am at the controls as tiny, huge, mundane, unexpected, challenging, time consuming, frustrating, creative, complex, joyful, productive, repetitive, tender, juicy, .....tasks filter down into my life. It's my job to effeciently slot them in. As a matter of fact, as a mom, it's my job to do this for my whole family. Most days I feel like a pro. Assessing the task and slotting it in. Sometimes spinning it around or flipping it to make it fit and other times just watching as it drifts down and lands perfectly in it's place. All of it, a very sophisticated series of well timed moves.

And then suddenly...I make a wrong move. I wager what the next piece will be and it is unexpectedly malformed to fit in my puzzle. Or I shift over just one square too far and it gets hung up and blocks the route for all subsequent pieces. Or someone comes along and distracts me for a split second at a crucial moment. From that point on things just seem to log jamb and I might as well throw my hands up in the air. At that point it all feels about as sophisticated as a bar brawl.

I'm not sure that everyone knows that moms are doing this all the time on some conscious or sub-conscious level. I think we can make it all look so effortless that people don't see what's going on behind the curtain. The only time that people are aware of the tetris juggling act is when we log jamb and things are going terribly wrong. All the finesse and grace of months, weeks or days of expertly played moves go entirely unnoticed.

It's kinda like when someone pulls that piece out of the Jenga tower that causes the whole thing to wobble dreadfully..... Wait a minute. Now I am mixing my geeky game metaphors. Let's stick with Tetris. September has been one big log jamb....There is only one cure for that. A clean slate.

...this moment.

2010-09-17T23:25:00.000-07:00

I love the blog world. It's soooo huge and oh so intertwined. I kinda began following blogs with this one. I think maybe the reason I decided to blog. Then when she was in the final days of gestating her baby girl I began following her mom's blog to catch updates and hear of the news that the babe had arrived. I got hooked on her mom too. A couple of weeks ago her mom began this Friday ritual. Inspired by Soule Mama. And now I am going to give it a whirl

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

...Peter Pan.

2010-08-21T18:57:00.001-07:00

Thursday, July 29, 2010
Kirriemuir, Scotland

This week we stayed in Thrums cottage. Owned by the National Trust for Scotland and attached on one end to J.M. Barrie's Birthplace. It is magic. I will do my best to describe it but my sense is that I will never be able to.

J.M. Barrie's Birthplace is a museum that seems to ooze magic from it's very walls. A replics of a modest weavers cottage on the upper floor and what would have been the loom and yarn store on the ground level is now a showcase for his work. In one part of the upper floor they have created a children's fantasy room with a bed upon which nightgowns are laid out and a trunk at the foot of the bed is full of handmade costumes to act out your favourite scenes from Peter Pan. One area has been designed to give you the feeling of flying. A platform with a cushion on top for resting your belly on while you outstretch your arms and legs in flying position. Then a motion sensor sets off a fan that blows the "night wind" through your hair. Murals painted all around and a mirror positioned just so that when the "flyer" faces the wind he will see himself flying through the air and audio of Peter Pan giving flying lessons floats into the room. Fantastic. Magic really.

This room in the museum shares a wall with my bedroom in Thrums Cottage. In the back of the museum is a yard with a wash house. This wash house acted as Barrie's first theatre where, as a boy, he created and acted out scenes of great action for other children in the neighborhood and which ultimately served as the model for the house that the lost boys built for Wendy in Peter Pan. And next to that, across a small lane from our cottage, is a garden. Open to all and for one week it feels like ours. It has a gorgeous border of flowering perenials and a lovely wooden bench to sit a spell. In the middle of the garden is a massive hedge in the shape of a crocodile, hollow down the middle and tall enough for Meg to walk into and play inside. She has played in there for hours this week while we have prepared meals, washed dishes or folded laundry. The crowning glory, however, is the Peter Pan statue atop a carved stump that sits proudly in one corner of the garden. Spellbinding. Magic really.

That garden is what I look out to from all the windows at the rear of the cottage. The best view is from my bed. When I lay down to put Lola to sleep each night I can see the statue and the hedge at the bottom of the garden. Beyond that is another row of houses and beyond that a horse pasture and beyond that a cow pasture and beyond that hills and countryside. And as the sun dims, the twinkling lights of the town of Fofar become visible in the distance. And this week the full moon shone brightly in the clear night sky backlighting the Peter Pan statue and creating the perfect stage for the bats that danced outside the window. Enchanting. Magic really.

The best part of the view is the windows themselves. They are old, big, low (just a foot and a half off the floor), wooden framed, peeling paint, no screen.... The latch is swirl of painted wrought iron. They swing open like a door. You can easily see why ones imagination could create a world where you could just step out of those windows and if you just wiggled your toes and thought happy thoughts you could fly.

This place has cast a spell on me. I feel swept up in the simple magic of this row of weavers cottages on this quiet street in this cheerful town in the heart of rural Scotland. J.M. Barrie wrote most of his books with bits and pieces of this town and it's characters as backdrop and players. His mother featured as a character in most. As Wendy in Peter Pan in fact. The tale of a boy that never grew up...

And this week in this cottage my girls defied the magic of Peter Pan. They grew up...just a little. Lola finally, if reluctantly, allowed some food to pass her lips. It didn't go much beyond her mouth but it's something. And then sometime over night on Monday she finally cut a tooth she has been working on for months. On Tuesday she began to stand unsupported for fairly long periods of time. And on Thursday Meg lost her 8th tooth. The same one Lola cut earlier in the week. The tooth fairy will visit here in Scotland tonight. I wonder what magic she will bring.

...sand in her nappies.

2010-08-07T18:03:00.001-07:00

Sunday, July 25th
Today we found our holiday stride. A relaxing morning at our new cottage, which is in the centre of a town this time. A stroll around the streets. And even though it is Sunday and nearly everything is shut and very sleepy, there was an excellent coffee shop open and the smell wafting from through the chain curtain in the doorway was divine. It was one of the best lattes I have ever had. There was even a little latte art leaf in the foam of my to-go cup. There was a lid on the cup when they handed it to me. I never would have known if I hadn't been tempted to peek. That is a sign of a barista that loves his job. A Love Warrior Barista, if you will. Putting everything into that cup of Joe without any attachment to outcome. Knowing that I might never see that artful foam. And I could taste the love.

The blue sky was beginning to show itself as we left the supermarket with our rations for the day. We packed them in our cooler and headed out in search of sun, history and a place to use our bandy net. We have our faithful sidekick Villie in tow this weekend. Dave's friends have been joining us on weekends or when they can get a day off work. Things seem lighter on those days. More carefree. I think there are many reasons for that. But one of them simply comes down to the fact that with at least one adult always on duty with child minding there is never a time that we are completely free to engage in one another. I often find myself sitting in the car with a sleeping baby and my iPhone or knitting while Dave explores a standing stone with Meg. But with another adult along it allows for at least two grown-ups to participate in some stimulating, intellectual (or completely juvenille) exchange. Funny that...connecting as a family seems to work better with a welcome and companianable interloper. It does help that Villie is one of the most cheerful, easy going and engaging guys I know ( and he's single - goodness knows why).

We wound our way over the country roads towards the coast and the ruins of Red Castle (which is indeed rather red). After hiking up a steep trail through nettles, thistles and very spiky bushes, which Meg calls a briar patch, we reached the spectacular ruins of Red Castle. We were even more taken with the vast, clear, sandy beach below. So Dave and Villie went back to the car for our lunch and the bandy net and we headed for the beach. By the time we made our way down the path the sun was ablaze and we were sorry we hadn't selected a slightly different wardrobe this morning. Shoes were removed, jeans rolled up and the wading began. We chased after little fish with our net and marvelled at how warm the North Sea water felt where it was shallow enough for the sun to warm and the tide was not yet coming in. Meg began to sing and wander about without a thought to the rest of us. You always know she is happy when she is singing to herself. The sun was warm but the breeze kept us cool. Lola watched it all from my back. Proudly perched in the carrier. Legs swinging, squaking and laughing as she watched Meg run through the waves. Eventually Meg opted to remove her pants and prance through the waves in her knickers. Lola was put down on the sand to play. We enjoyed our very sandy picnic lunch. This was it. This is what I had been waiting for. It's not as though I hadn't been enjoying myself for the last two and a half weeks. I really have. I've seen loads of new things, seen old things with new eyes and spent precious time with my family. Today felt different. The sun was shining. Over the last few days as the sun has shone briefly here and there I have realized what a difference that makes. We can sit on the grass, eat our lunch outside the car, let our children play... It has been hard being cooped up all together so much. And this country really reveals it's incredible beauty in the summer sun.

As the tide slowly moved the shoreline closer to our picnic spot the sky began to darken with stormy clouds. The water lapping in from the sea was cold now. Not so inviting for wading and beachcombing. We had spent a surprisingly long time on that beach. I think we'd have stayed much longer if those clouds hadn't signalled the end of our time there. We packed up our stuff, dusted the sand off of our feet and reluctantly put them back in our shoes. On the hike back to the car Lola fell asleep on my back. We shifted her carefully from my back to her seat without waking her and the journey turned quiet. Peaceful.

We were stopped at Resteneth Priory when she finally woke. I took her out of the car for a stretch and opened the boot to change her bum. I laid the change pad out in the bottom of the boot and popped her down on it. When I pulled off the wee diaper pants and a small pile of sand was deposited on the change pad I knew we were in for a treat. The poor sweet dolly had a bum full of damp sand.

You know you've had a good day when you find sand in her nappies.

...wired.

2010-08-06T12:36:00.001-07:00

We are finally home and getting settled. Thank goodness no one has to rush back to work. It feels so lovely to ease into our lives and our comfy home. Upon our return seeing our surroundings with new eyes and noticing things that we want to change and things we forgot we loved. The return is....so many things all at once. I need time to reflect on it. Let it soak in. In the meantime I will post some things I wrote while we were away and off the grid. And try and get some pictures that reflect our journey for posting. I also promised some blogs from the vault and then promptly fell off the electronic map. So this is a time to catch up... Let's see how well I do.

...SEVEN

2010-07-17T02:13:00.001-07:00

It's finally here. Seven. I have been a mother for seven years. We have been a family for seven years. And in that time we have stretched, ached, cried, rejoiced, explored, gone to new edges, grown apart, grown together...woven a new tapestry that is our lives. Meg taught us how to be parents, me how to be a mama. And over the last year I have shed the last of my maiden skin. I am mother.

Based on the theory of cell regeneration, humans replace every cell in their body on a seven year cycle. So gradually my body has shed those maiden cells to be replaced with new ones. Cells that only know the mother part of my life. And now together Meg and I will pass through a gate of complete renewal (give or take a few cells). We both stand on the precipice of a massive shift. Because while I am no longer a maiden, she is no longer a newborn baby. She no longer holds in her ??? Little body any of the cells that created her. All the splitting and multiplying and mysterious growth that happened in my mother womb is no longer part of her cellular structure. And I can see in her body, ego and spirit the struggle of this shift. The seven year change is massive...earth moving. And no wonder it's hard for parents to help their children through this shapeshifting transformation. We are in the middle of our own foundation shaking growth. Saying a final farewell to my maiden self and then with gut wrenching melancholy watching the child that created this shift move into her own renewal. Huge shit going down.

I have watched this shift occur with absolute fascination to many of sister/friends over the last year or so and I have seen and felt an incredible sense of comfort and ease surge into the lives of those mothers. Some of them having their second or third baby in conjunction with that seven year milestone. Thinking that mothering has become much more rich and manageable because of their "experience". And while i think this is also true I believe the bigger truth is that they are fully realized, full fledged, ready to soar, grown up, eagle mamas. Finally having wound their way out of that labrynth that they journeyed to in birth. Finally looking outward to see themselves reflected in their world and the life they have created. Finally having every last cell of their body oscilating at the same mama frequency.

It's kinda like having been in between to radio stations on the FM dial for the last seven years and gradually, over time and space...tuning in.

...food, glorious food.

2010-07-15T14:18:00.001-07:00

Why when we holiday does it seem to completely revolve around food? From the minute I step foot in the departure lounge I am thinking about food. Why didn't I pack food? When will they feed me on the plane? Will it be icky? Should I have ordered the vegetarian meal? I often get one last overpriced beverage or snack before boarding. Not being in control of my food intake on an 8 hour flight drives me a bit mental. I eat when I'm not hungry just cause I don't know when my next meal will be and no matter how bad it is I like to eat it all cause it's included in the price of my flight and not much else is these days. On a transatlantic flight the meal times are all out of whack and your body gets a bit messed up (not to mention that i try to avoid using the loo)... And this all before I have landed in my holiday destination.

Straight out of the arrivals gate I am scanning for my next fix. Coffee? A sandwich? A foreign snack from the news agent? Once on the road my eyes are on the lookout for bakeries, grocery stores and roadside chippers. We don't make it too far down the road before we stop at a grocery store and buy the most random array of edible delights. Cheese, crisps, yogurt, a packet of Angel Delight and a jar of Branston Pickle. None of which fills the void of our immediate food needs.

Perhaps it's about living the experience to the fullest. We have to eat anyway so why not make that part of the adventure? Indulge in things we can't get at home and try things we never otherwise would eat. Or maybe it's as simple as harbouring a lifelong obsession with food. Yep. I think that's it. I love food. And I hate my relationship with it. But when I am on holiday the gloves are off and it feels less.....guilt laden.

And now that we travel with wee ones the food factor only multiplies. We strive to find balance in feeding Meg while she watches us shamelessly out of balance ourselves. Is it really ok that she has eaten crisps as an appetizer to most meals this week? Including breakfast? And might I add that breakfast is a bowl of Frosties or a plate of maple pancakes? If I hear "I'm hungry" or "I'm thirsty" one more time today I might just go batty. We have tried, without success to teach Meg that travel and urgency do not go well together. Eat and pee when you have the chance not when you HAVE to. *sigh* This is only the end of the first week.

And the only person almost completely unaffected by the food frenzy is Lola. And although she appears unscathed by it, her food situation adds yet another layer to my stress. Still not eating. I have let a lot of things go in my journey to feed Lola. I started out with all the highest standards of food selection. Organic, homemade, fresh, raw, whole fruit. Soon the cooking and pureeing began. Then the homemade rule was abolished. Next to fall was organic. And now??? It doesn't have to be fruit, vegetable or any combination of. I don't care if she shoves a macaroni pie in her mouth. I've offered her yogurt, ice cream, fish, pickles, oatmeal...I think she even had a chip (french fry) in her hand here one day, but nothing makes it past her lips.

So the battle continues. Today was all about food again. We ate a weird array of breakfast foods at the cottage, a strange assortment of snacks, a late lunch at a terrible restaurant in Inverness (I kept expecting Gordon Ramsay to walk through the door or find out I was on candid camera), then we spent the good part of an hour like kids in a candy store at Marks & Spencers (I wish I could upload the photos), we followed this with another meal out to try and make up for the earlier disaster....and now we are eating crisps and drinking cider, beer and stout. And tomorrow we will do it all again.

Eat, drink and be merry...I guess. But mostly eat!

...the hidden blog vault.

2010-07-14T13:07:00.001-07:00

In the course of sorting out my telecommunication and internet situation here in the UK I have been forced to rely heavily on my iPhone and the limited wifi in the cottage (only available in the bedrooms and only when the couple next door decide to leave the router on). So I have resorted to the blogging app on my phone. Today I was scrolling through all the entries I had made and found several nearly finished but unpublished posts. They are time sensitive because they were written to mark milestones. I was so busy that I just never got back to them and probably figured it was just too late. But I read them again and...I think they are perfectly formed and complete just as they are. Likely really just missing the photos I planned to put with them. So over the course of the next little while I will release these little gems from the vault.

In the meantime we are freezing here. I could have worn gloves and a scarf today. Wish I had packed wooly hats and sweaters for the girls. But the cottage is cozy and tonight we are settled in to do laundry, watch some trashy British telly and eat some beans and sausage. A true Scottish evening in.

...a journey.

2010-07-13T18:40:00.001-07:00

Well we are here. Back home. In the land of haggis and bagpipes (neither of which I have ever seen much of here). And it all feels very....mundane, domestic and, for lack of a better word, normal. I'm not sure why this is. It should feel exotic. It's been six years.

I don't feel that fluttery feeling in my chest at the sight of a castle or the incredible landscape. But I'm not here to connect with the history and beauty of this country. I don't even get the butterflies in my belly at the thought of seeing folks I haven't seen in years. It all feels very natural and as though no time at all has passed. But I'm not entirely here to reconnect with those people either.

I'm here to find my family. To settle in to a few solid weeks of soul nourishing adventure with the three people my life orbits around. To build a foundation of common experience that will soak into our bones and become part of who we are as a whole. It's unifying. To do things together that no one else will have in common with you. That is what I seek. That is what I am hungry for. And I felt it happening already as I arrived at the airport and was madly sending my last few texts before I was cut off for the next four weeks. I wasn't very engaged in the activity. My adventure had already begun and the pull to my family was much stronger than my tether to my life at home.

...fairies, pirates and cupcakes.

2010-07-01T23:54:00.000-07:00

In a week from today we will be in Aberdeen, Scotland. Our feet on the soil of a country we haven't visited since Meg was the age that Lola is now. 6 years. Our lives bearing almost no resemblance to the life we lives back then. We have lost, we have multiplied, we have moved, we have grown. I wonder what it will all look like through these new eyes.

But today we were totally present to our lives here. We spent the day celebrating 7. Meg will turn seven while we are away so we planned a little party for this afternoon and gathered our friends to enjoy a day in the beautiful summer air. I hatched a plan to turn all of the little girls into fairies for the day and all of the little lads into pirates. I sewed 17 pairs of fairy wings in purple, pink, turquoise and teal. And 6 black eyepatches. There were not that many kids total but I had a suspicion some lads would opt for fairy wings and maybe even some lassies for eyepatches. I was dead right about the wings. Three of the four boys donned the gathered tulle wings and "fluttered" around the park. It was a lovely day with a beautiful breeze to give lift to those wings on their backs. We smiled and laughed and ate... watched the joyful play of more than a dozen incredible kids. My gratitude as I soak up the last of this day runs deep. Friends and family that love my children, our family and celebrate our lives every day with us. Bliss.

I'm pooped. And I have much to do before we board that plan next week. Here are some images from the day... I believe they tell the story better than I could with words.

...a year.

2010-06-20T22:50:00.000-07:00

June 20, 2009

And then in the blink of an eye she was here, and she had always been here.

...another day of mystery.

2010-06-19T23:02:00.000-07:00

June 19, 2009

What can I say...this was the only picture that was taken that day. I looked down and was still staring at this belly. I had spent hours just staring at this belly... the rolling, stretching, sweeping movements of limbs, back and bum. And as the sky darkened again on this day I realized that I would crawl into bed again with my babe comfortably on the inside. I had managed to live timelessly all day...swaying, squatting, singing, laughing....but with the sun dropping low and the shadows turning into darkness I could no longer deny that another day had passed. And I knew that as much as I was loving this sweet time of waiting and holding my life in this animated suspension, something would have to change soon...

...a-n-t-i-c-i-p-a-t-i-o-n.

2010-06-18T20:10:00.000-07:00

June 18, 2009

As I look around my house tonight I remember this warm evening sunlight pouring into my house that day. My body, my belly and my heart filled with the imminence of each moment. My bones and my cells easing into the memory of this dance...

...a belly full.

2010-06-18T00:02:00.000-07:00

June 17, 2009

I was not to know that later that night the floodgates would burst open....

...a sidewalk

2010-05-29T23:10:00.001-07:00

Over the last two years I have walked hundreds of thousands of steps along a very special stretch of sidewalk. Laughter has resounded, tears have been shed, magical discoveries have been made and true friendships have been formed as we share that stretch of sidewalk with some other special people.

Over the last year alone I have walked about 800 kilometers on that strip of concrete. That is over 1 million steps. It's 1 kilometer each way and I do the walk twice daily on school days. At a brisk pace it takes 12 minutes from door to door. But most of the time it takes a great deal longer than that.

In the two years we have been making this trek to school and back there have only been a couple of mornings that we called the walk due to weather. I kid you not, it was about -50C with windchill and I still briefly considered braving the elements. Now those who know me well know that I am not an outdoor winter sports fanatic by any means. When I was a kid I was the first one to come in from the cold while my sisters continued tireless work on a snowfort or made an extra loop around the field on their snowshoes. But this commitment to my walk is different. It is soulfood.

On winter mornings we feel like arctic explorers. The only parts of our bodies you can see are our eyes. Peeking out over our thermal neck warmers. Our breath creates condensation on our eyelashes, which then freezes to stick our eyelids shut. We are captivated by the beauty of each sparkly snowflake as it falls to rest on our coat sleeve or the hood of the stroller. We were quite late for school one day because we stopped to admire the hoar frost on every branch we past. School could wait, we were in Mother Earth's classroom that day. Some days the ice mist over the river valley is so dense that the city skyline disappears completely and makes you feel as though your world has shrunk to the span of a few square blocks. On the way home we have more time for, climbing snow mountains, trekking through fairy forests, sitting on snow drifts to shoot the breeze, pulling each other in sleds, snow angels, collecting icicles and general tom foolery.

When the warm weather returns we feel the freedom of our unencumbering attire. The pace doesn't change much. Snow angels are replaced by cartwheels and climbing snow mountains shift to climbing trees. We are still almost late for school some days because the pace of our walk does not reflect the urgency to come in out of the cold.

Watching the trees and flowers blossom in spring has certainly been remarkable but it is even more remarkable to watch our children blossom, their relationships blossom, our admiration for them blossom and our sense of community and connections with our neighbours blossom. We share our walk regularly with three other families and a ragtag bunch of siblings, hitchhikers, dolls and pets. One mom calls it "the walking school bus". Some days there are as many as 10 kids and 6 adults. We have been known to block traffic and we attract a fair amount of honking and waving. This group of mom's have become a bit if a lifeline for me. I know that I can always count on them. The option is always there for them to walk Meg to school or bring her home for me...but I just can't stay away. Lola and I need that time as much as Meg does. We wake up to the world in those 30 minutes in the crisp morning air. Breathing in the peace of our block, breathing in the joy of our union with our comrades at "kids corner", breathing in the excitement and anticipation of a new day to learn and soak up the spirit of community. And at the end of each school day our children have a chance to slowly and gently transition back into our family routines. To shift and squirm their bodies in an effort to shed the weight of their day of independence and burrow themselves back into the bossom of their mamas.

This stretch of sidewalk has seen and heard some of our lives most revealing and authentic moments. I have knelt down on that pavement many times to offer comfort for a scraped knee, a bruised ego or a broken heart. I have thrown my head back and laughed into the canopy of our big old elm trees at the sheer delight of a crazy outfit or a knock knock joke. And I have grinned foolishly at the joy of it all.

...definitely not 1984.

2010-05-16T22:28:00.000-07:00

Everyday on my way to and from Meg's school I pass by Concordia College. It is anchored by a beautiful old building and surrounded by incredible mature trees. I went to school here almost 20 years ago. I never walk by without being captivated by the youthful vitatlity that kind of oozes from the old bones of this historic building and the charming exuberance that is characterized by the students laughing, studying and cavorting on the front lawn. The other day on my way to pick Meg up from school I saw something that still amazes me...

Even 10 years ago this sight would not have been so mundane. Hell, I still don't find it mundane. I thought it remarkable enough that I couldn't stop thinking about it and asked if I could take her picture as I passed by on the way home.

This tree has easily outlived the person that planted it many decades before. It has massive, sprawling branches that have given shade to many a student on a hot, sunny day. When I went to school here I sat with my back against that gnarled old tree trunk listening to Sonata No. 11 on my big, yellow, Sony Sports Walkman.

My friend, Chris, is writing a musical called "St. Aggie's 84". It's about an all girls private school and is set in 1984. Around the time that Sony Sports Walkman was all the rage. For the last few months he has been completely immersed in the 80s. As well as writing this musical he has also recorded an album for release in June that is about 50 percent 80s cover songs. Needless to say this has led to a lot of refelction about how our world has evolved since then. Or more specifically the contrast between what we thought the year 2010 would look like and what has actually come to pass. We thought that the future was in artificial intelligence, robotics and space travel. And to some extent all of those things have made advances but the dark horse of the technological race has been in telecommunications and wireless devices. Making the above scene just part of the landscape.

My 6 year old thinks nothing of this sight. For her "google" is a verb that has always been a part of her vocabulary. She can't understand that there was ever a time when the world wasn't at our fingertips. I find myself talking about encyclopedias and having to go to the library to study like my grandparents did about their horse and cart transport to school.

Every day I wake up and the first thing I do after kissing my sleeping baby on the head is reach for my IPhone to check the days weather forecast. I mentally prepare three outfits. I can't resist checking my email and facebook while I am at it. All this before I roll out of bed. This is only the start of a day in which I am completely connected without tether to almost anything in the world. And at night I often end the day as I am today. My laptop perched on the bed, me under the covers crosslegged and cozy, tapping away at my keyboard. And yet I am still jarred (and amazed) by the image of a young woman researching a term paper, composing an email or doing her online banking under the shade of a gnarled old tree.

...the future Prime Minister of Canada

2010-04-28T23:40:00.000-07:00

So today was my Wednesday coffee date with my my old BFF (aka blogger Maria Pace-Wynters). I used to love hanging out with her. She is funny & charming, soulful & authentic, talented & beautiful. And she used to make me feel super cool just to be around her. But that was until I met my new BFF, Justin Trudeau.

Lola and I were just hanging out in Spinelli's (aka The Italian Centre Shop - a coffee shop attached to a great Italian market) with Maria and Scarlett like we do most Wednesdays. We were having a lively discussion about dog poop and dental anesthesia over coffee and calzones. It's the highlight of my week, if I'm honest. Nothing can keep me from it and I mean nothing. Like the fact that I hadn't showered or washed my hair in a few days. Or the fact that moments before I had to leave Lola had just fallen asleep and I had to wake her to get her coat on. These days I don't always get it together before I leave the house. Getting the two kids up, clothed, fed and out the door to walk Meg to school before 8:30 is usually about all I can muster. I put on a hat and a smile and hope nobody stands close enough to smell me. If I am lucky, when I get home from our walk to school Lola will have a nap and I will have a shower. This morning I wasn't so lucky. But as I told you that will not keep me away from my soul nourishing time spent with Maria..... So where was I? Oh yah, dog poop and dental anesthesia.... and enter Justin Trudeau.

Thanks to the excited and sweet Spinelli's employee we got the heads up that Justin Trudeau was on his way over for a cup of joe between speaking engagements. We had pretty much finished our coffee by this time and Scarlett (3 years old) was finding every way possible to smear strawberry gelato all over her face and the table (she is a dynamic eater, that one). They had begun to move tables around. Important looking people were filtering into the building. We probably should have given up our table and cleared off but I was lingering, making excuses, nursing Lola a little more... And then suddenly he was there. And we were completely starstruck. After all the man is like Canada's JFK Jr. And there he was standing next to our table asking Lola what her name was.... Ok the man is not an idiot. He knew she wouldn't answer but I think his words were, "and what is your name?" He asked her age and talked about his daughter, Ella-Grace, who is 13 months old. And then Lola began to wail. And I mean full out, siren-decibel, ugly-faced crying. Did I mention that I had jarringly roused her from her morning nap in order to make my coffee date? Thank god the man is a father of two small children. He was so kind about it, chatted a little longer and then shook our hands and moved on. Maria and I just looked at each other, grinned and pulled out our IPhones to send a few excited texts and try to take covert photos.

After the initial excitement died down I went to the bathroom to change Lola and came back to gather up my things. I popped Lola into the sling and was making a few adjustments when "he" walked past our table again. He stopped to see if Lola had settled down from her previous wailing episode and noticed the sling. At which point he became very animated about how great he and his wife thought baby wearing was and that babies in Africa don't have colic because they are carried all the time. He even gave me a few tips on the hip carry for when she is a little bigger. Was he for real? Smart, handsome and a bit of a hippie? By now I figure we have a bit of rapport so I decide I might as well put it all on the line and ask to do something I have never done before. "Would you mind terribly if we could have our photos taken with you?"

After we left him we were like giggling teenagers. In our fantasy world we had just had coffee with Justin Trudeau. We wondered through the grocery aisles putting random things in our baskets. We went to the check out in a daze and I put my roasted fava beans and spelt pasta on the conveyer. It wasn't until I got to my car that I snapped out of it a bit and remembered that I was disguising unwashed hair under my funky corduroy hat.... that I had failed to apply deodorant before I left the house this morning... *sniff, sniff*... oh boy... had I even brushed my teeth? Nope.

I drove home to return to my glamourous life. Dirty dishes piled high on the counter, diapers to rinse in my bathtub, papers piled up on the coffee table, something sticky on the floor in the kitchen....

Mr. Trudeau, if you are reading this please don't think any less of me.

...one year.

2010-04-14T23:13:00.000-07:00

Happy Blogiversary to me, happy blogiversary to me, happy blogiversary dear I Spy With My Little Eye, happy blogiversary to meeeeee.

One year ago today I made a bit of a deal with myself. I was going to attempt to write as often as I could or at least as often as the notion struck me. Everyday, once a week, regularly, sporatically... I didn't know how it would unfold but I would write and I started with this. I surprised myself. I wrote some stuff that felt genuine and creative. I was excited to share it and increasingly delighted by the legacy I was creating for my children. For them to one day read and witness me unfolding as a mother to them. Today I gave myself a Blogiversary present. I read my blog. The whole years worth. I cried a little, remembered nuances of the last year that I had forgotten, was honoured again as I read the comments that you have left for me... and most surprisingly I didn't cringe...not even a little. I was actually hanging on every word. Hungry for more. Captivated by the honesty of the prose. Huh? Who knew? I was even intrigued and surprised at how the body of work as a whole revealed the transformation of my life over the last year. How wildly feminine and introspective my "gestational" posts were and how unaplogetically selfish they seemed over the summer. How my subject matter and focus meandered from one aspect of my life to the next in the months to follow.

I have many more bits and pieces of writing started, in process or scribbled as ideas here and there. Most of those will never make their way to this place to be read (and reread by me) but they are what keeps the fire stoked, feeds the hunger to create and ultimately nurtures the growth that I long for and realize through this process.

To me... Yah me.

...stuff

2010-04-09T11:52:00.000-07:00

I watched the video on this website while breastfeeding Lola. Six minutes in I was angry and sobbing. Watch it...you will see why.

http://www.storyofstuff.com/

...joy rising.

2010-04-07T09:58:00.000-07:00

On Easter Sunday my entire family (and some extra loved ones) gathered at my mom's place for an Easter egg hunt and dinner. In all it was 10 children under the age of ten and 16 adults. It was to be a simple holiday. No large baskets full of chocolate and candy. Just a simple outdoor egg hunt, some good food and great company. The only little extra we had all planned for was some kite flying. A sure sign of spring. A brand new kite tied onto a fresh spool of string. The sound of rubber boots when you run... You know that sound? Kind of hollow and flompy. The dads would take the kids out in the field and let those kids run up and down the furrows until they tired or the kites were lifted skyward by the warm spring breeze. Eventually the kids would give up and the dads would start running.... Or so this is how I saw it. It was the scene of my childhood for many Easter Sunday afternoons.

This Easter would be different...

The egg hunt was sublime. How ten kids could be so perfectly delighted with a hunt for a bunch of plastic eggs is a beautiful and mysterious thing to me. They all stood at the door, baskets in hand, like a bunch of wild horses at the gate. And when the door opened they ran around the yard plucking the brightly coloured eggs from branches, under steps, inside planters, balanced in downspouts and laying in random clusters on the ground. The sound and the sight of these kids was a joy to behold. One might think that they would be rushing to fill their baskets. Boastful to have the most eggs or have filled their baskets the fastest. But this was not what I witnessed at all. My 9 month old babe had a basket too. She was watching it all from the comfort of her sling on my hip. I sidled up to some Lola height eggs in the branches of the spruce trees so she could pluck her own but soon her basket was overflowing with the donations of all the other children. Eggs were being picked up and plopped in whatever basket looked a little sparse. Some of the older or more eager children would call to the little ones when they had found a cluster ideal for sharing. There was this incredible civility about the whole activity and the adult observers were grinning from ear to ear. Is this it? Have we finally reached the pay off for all those years of hovering to manage the hurt feelings or misdirected energy of our spirited preschoolers? Whatever it was no one was complaining... In fact no one said much, I think for fear of jinxing it.

When the hunt was over we went inside for an incredibly civilized meal as well. There seemed to be no major meltdowns about who would sit next to whom. Or tears about gravy leaking out of the potato well and contaminating brussel sprouts. Plates were cleaned and tummies were full. The women folk began the pleasant chore of finding containers for the leftovers and loading the dishwasher. Laughing and teasing while eating the crunchy bits of stuffing that get left on the inside of the serving dish. This is when my perfect Easter Sunday was to manifest itself with the sight of half a dozen kites flying in the sky outside the kitchen window.... Not a chance.

Last year our changing family dynamics and a 20 year old car in need of some extensive repairs led us to buy a new(ish) car. The 1990 Dodge Spirit that had been our trusty chariot for more than ten years was put out to pasture at my mom's. It was a perplexing decision to retire the old dear. She had never really failed us. We had to remind ourselves that she had begun to use a lot of gas, the brakes locked when called upon to stop quickly, the trunk was no longer watertight and so therefore smelled... real bad. But after more than a year of sitting on mom's lawn the old bucket needed nothing more than a bit of battery charging and she fired right up. So while most of us puttered away in the kitchen my husband gathered up the two daredevil children and went out the Spirit for a bit of a spin around the yard. Sam (7 years old) and Sydney (8) piled into the front seat with Uncle David, one on the passenger seat and the other on his lap. He would operate the gas and brakes and they would "drive" the car. Pretty soon the windows were lined with children and grownups alike watching the kids drive around the 3 acre yard. Some of the other kids wanted to go outside but we wouldn't let them for fear they would be run over by a wreckless 8 year old driver. But as Uncle David pulled up on the front lawn to trade drivers we would send one or two more of the older children out to climb in the back seat. The little ones were begging to go out too and eventually we caved. They could get in the car but they were NOT allowed to drive. Soon there were nine children and one adult in that car. Dave would let them make a couple of rounds and then pull up on the front lawn where all the doors would fling open and the musical chairs would begin. On the longest straight stretch Dave would slow right down and then put his foot on the gas. Causing fits of laughter, screaming and feet to go flying up in the air as they fell back into the well worn seats. As they drove past the deck where most of us had gathered to watch they would all shout "Happy Easter" out the open windows. I don't know when I have ever felt so awash with the unbridled joy of a group of kids. Their grins were contagious and I wish I could have harnessed the energy. It was joy rising.

In the end 8 of those nine kids took the wheel. The youngest, pictured here, is three.

We had planned to donate that car to a charity this spring. Finally say goodbye to it and thank it for all those years of reliable service. But on Sunday I could envision that in a few short years that same gaggle of giggling kids could pile into that car and head into town to get slurpees at 7-eleven. Just as I had done, in a car ten years older than I was, testing the waters, spreading my wings....

... interdependence.

2010-03-24T12:51:00.000-07:00

Today Lola brushed my teeth. I thought it was remarkable.

A few days ago I started brushing her two little chompers with a silicone tooth scrubber you slide on to the end of your finger. Although she has had those two teeth for three months now I never felt the desperate need to brush them because she still doesn't eat anything that doesn't come out of my breast. But I figure part of the reason she doesn't eat is because she isn't conditioned to having anything else in her mouth... Like her mouth is sensitive. She never puts anything in her mouth. She doesn't gum her toys, eat paper, chew on her fingers. Besides my breast the only thing she seems to put in there is her bottom lip. Sucking on it perpetually, like a living and breathing cabbage patch doll. So I decided that perhaps I should try brushing those little pearly whites and see how she reacted. It wasn't easy getting that brush in there but when I did she giggled and squirmed. I have repeated the process a few times over the last couple of days and let her play with the brush when she wants. Today she sat on my lap while I tapped away on my keyboard ...suddenly this little silicone cloaked finger was waving away on my lips. It took me a few moments to register that what she was doing was trying to brush my teeth. I opened my mouth and let her get in at them. I shook my head back and forth so her finger would run over my front teeth in a brushing motion and the laughter bubbled up and spilled out.

We looked at each other with a little bit of mutual surprise and pride. She's figuring it out... She has a part to play in this relationship that isn't based completely on dependence. Today was a red letter day. One day soon she will learn that she can propel herself without aid and won't need me to get her where she needs to go... but until then this little gesture seemed like a big assertion into that world.

On Saturday we celebrated the spring equinox and Lola's 9 months on the outside. I took a few photos to mark the occasion and began to write a tribute to this milestone. I will post that in the next few days with photos. I wanted to leave you with a photo of that toothy grin but in most of the photos she had that bottom lip sucked in over her little chicklets. So here you go... this is what 9 months looks like over here.

...a freeze frame.

2010-03-16T22:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Meg said, "I don't want Lola to ever grow up". I wish I didn't have an ounce of melancholy in me. I wish I could say that I don't feel the same way. Hell, I wish I could truly enjoy the unfreakin'believable bliss that is my life as a mom in this moment without the underlying sadness that it can not stay like this forever. I honestly could pinch myself at the sheer joy of parenting my two girls right now. Meg as a six year old is... where to start? Clever, funny, charming, beautiful, generous, adaptable, kind-hearted, ethical, soulful, inspiring and the best damn big sister a girl could ask for. She seems so at ease with herself and so intouch with her moral compass. I am a proud mama. And I ask myself "how did I get so lucky?" Lola is an incredible baby. Mothering her is delightful. My patience seems to be limitless with her. She and I seem to be in a lovely, flowing dance. I can't fully explain it but it feels so very right. And all the while I have a little trickle of that melancholic angst rippling through me. Like I am so happy I could cry, but it's not really a happy cry.... It's a cry for the fear of losing this. It is my daily practice to be present to my joy and allow that to flow as freely as the melancholy. Perhaps one day the joy will wash the melancholy away in a raging current of love...

...a sleeping beauty.

2010-03-07T21:40:00.000-08:00

Tonight my big girl fell asleep on the couch before I could get her to bed. I can count the number of times this has happened in her life on my fingers. She was never the kid that fell asleep in her spaghetti or curled up in a nest of toys and blankets on the floor. I knew she was tired tonight. She barely ate any supper and seemed very pleased to change into her pyjamas early and curl up under her blanket. So I scooped her up off the couch and carried her up the stairs to her room. As I brought my knee up to take each step up the stairs it would thump gently into her dangling legs. Her feet swinging about, somewhere around mid-calf on me. I cradled her head with one hand and held her up to my body with my other gently cupped under her bottom, just as I do with Lola. How was it that she had grown so big? Never needing to go anyplace that her own two legs can't take her? Before this week I couldn't remember the last time I carried her anywhere. But strangely this was the third time in as many days that I had her in my arms in that way. What a stark contrast to the baby I hold in my arms for most of the hours of the day. Sometimes I feel closer to the baby that Meg was now because I am reflecting on those months of her infancy as I go through the same things with Lola. And then she says something so remarkable, pulling words into her vocabulary that sound years beyond her 6 year old self. Or she accepts things with a grace and maturity that astound me. Or I simply slow down and look at her. Her body moving with the sureness and agility of an athlete. Or I carry her up to bed... her feet coliding with my calf with each step.

...a hungry wolf.

2010-03-04T11:08:00.000-08:00

I need to admit to the world that I was completely and utterly obsessed with the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics. I would get home from dropping Meg off at school and turn on CTV Olympic morning and watch all day long. It was perfectly timed with our two weeks of sickness and I wasn't leaving the house anyway. When I did though I was worried the whole time that I would miss a gold medal performance. And I did, I missed plenty. I would invest an entire afternoon watching ski-cross and have to leave before the final heat to go get Meg from school. One day I watched Clara Hughes lay down a record breaking skate in the 5000 meter and had to leave when there were two pairs left to skate. My mom obliged and texted me the bronze medal outcome. One Wednesday evening I had to take Meg to gymnastics during the Canada vs. Russia hockey game and found a website on my iphone that gave me a streaming, text, play by play of the game. It was intense. Both my kids had colds and I had Olympic fever.

The 17 days ended with an overwhleming sense of Canadian pride. I felt awed by the depth of spirit of our young athletes. Joannie Rochette, skating a bronze medal performance after the sudden loss of her mom only four days earlier. Now that is what I call grit. The true Canadian soul of a character like Jon Montgomery. He decided he wanted to be in the Olympics one day and then chose a sport. Only a Canadian would decide on a sport akin to toboganning. And one of my favourite moments of the games was when Charles Hamelin won gold in short track speed skating while his sweetheart, double silver medalist, Marianne St. Gelais, cheered from the stands. She was then gallantly helped over the gaurd rail by an Olympic volunteer to launch herself into one of the most genuine embraces I have ever witnessed. JOY!

We are all going through a bit of Olympic withdrawal around here. Meg is still wearing her official Olympic hoodie and mitts everywhere we go. Dave is once again reminded of how crap North American television is. I have been so inspired that I have taken to the sloppy, late-winter streets in my running shoes. And Lola wonders why that box in the corner of our family room has fallen silent. She seriously got used to it's constant glow and the sounds of the familiar adverts. One of them in particular would stop her in her tracks and get her bouncing with joy. It was a montage of cheering Canadian fans with a Celtic riff in the background. I am sad to report that it was advertising Coca-Cola.

On the last day of the games I watched an interview with Donald Sutherland. He was fabulous, real and genuinely thrilled with the games and what it meant for Canada. I forget the context of this exactly but he told a story that I had heard before. I was so happy to hear it again. I needed to hear it again...

An elder Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said to them, "A fight is going on inside me.. it is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith."

"This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too", he added.

The Grandchildren thought about it for a minute and then one child asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

The old Cherokee simply replied... "The one you feed."

Seems random, I know. But it wasn't for me and my life right now. It was as if Donald Sutherland was looking right at me out of my TV and saying "hey you, listen up". Life is actually quite simple at the heart of things. Just feed the right wolf... What does this have to do with the Olympics? Nothing.

...the other mother.

2010-02-22T20:37:00.001-08:00

In the true spirit of "Not-Me-Monday"...

...'nuff said.

...a pail full of diapers.

2010-02-22T08:36:00.001-08:00

Who knew that I would find all the answers to my life, in this moment, in a pail full of dirty diapers. But as I opened the lid on the diapers today to add another to the pile I noticed it was almost full. Almost time to wash....again. And just before bed last night I had folded and put away the last batch. It is an endless circle. Never the smug satisfaction of having everything tidily finished and put away. It's like a finish line that keeps moving just out of reach. Even though I know that I will never get on top of everything I still feel this burning need to "feel" on top of most things. To have my surroundings tidy and uncluttered, to clear out the junk, check things off the list, put everything away in it's place. But this is just an illusion anyway. Arbitrary at best. Like those diapers in the pail, swishing in the washing machine, snugly wrapped around bum, folded on the shelf... they are all in the middle of a process. No start, no end. Surely I can live more of life in "process".

The only real finish line in life is death and I am certainly in no hurry to get there so I guess "unfinished" will always be my state of being...

...8 months.

2010-02-20T14:57:00.000-08:00

My snotty, coughy, poor wee thing is 8 months old today... She is the happiest wee sicky I have ever seen, but only when she is in my arms. Making it hard to type anything, especially a well thought out blog post. I have started 3 posts in the last two weeks so when I do get a chance to sit and type with two hands I will be prolific.

I truly treasure that I am able to hold my dear baby while she breaths raspily on my chest. She has just fallen asleep sitting up on my lap. Her face caked in snot, as it is perpetually these days. Gurgling each breath through her open mouth. Goobers will glue her eyelashes shut as she sleeps. Under her nose and her bum, red and raw. Must be awful to have fiery pain at both ends. My clothes are all covered in slobber and snot stains and I thank the goddesses for giving nursing mothers immunity of steal. I can feel the sickness creeping in a little but I hold it at bay so I can look after my girls.

Perhaps this sickness came at just the right time. I broke down in tears this week thinking about how these 8 months have passed by and I have spent so much of it bemoaning how I have so much to do and am unable to do it. Being haunted by my overwhelming list of tasks so long uncompleted. Obligations unmet.... In trying to chip away at my list I have often been distracted and ineffective at any of my many jobs. The list is still there. The obligations must be met. But this week I have seen that I can slow down, choose my task and bring my full attention to that task alone. It feels good. I am glad the task that caught my attention was this one of holding my babe and being present to her as she struggles through her first crummy sickness.

...something that is 36.

2010-01-31T21:28:00.000-08:00

Today is that last day of a long month of celebration for our family. Birthdays and anniversaries seem to fall one on top of the other. My parents would have been married for 45 years this month. We have been married for 16. 16 years... This isn't monkey business anymore. 16 years is serious stuff. We had known each other just a few months when we got hitched. And now... 16 years. Did I say that already? I'm amazed.

But the reason for today's celebrating is my baby sister. Today is the day that 36 years ago my mom became a mother to her fourth daughter. The baby. The last of her brood. This is the baby that she wanted to rock and cuddle and hold for hours. To soak up her last drink of mothering a baby. I don't actually believe that my baby sister was ever still for long enough to be held for any length of time. I should have been her last baby. I wanted nothing more than to be in my mothers arms. Still do.

All things being fair I should have blogged about my other sisters on their birthdays. But... well....life isn't always fair. And the reason that I was compelled to share this day is because it is close to my heart right now. I feel deeply akin to the woman that my mother was when she was basking in the joy of this, her last baby. My best guess is that Lola will be our last baby. And that means that she will be the baby of our family. Meg's baby sister. Just as Kathy is to me.

When Lola was born and I brought her up and into my arms I was immediately filled with a sense of peace. I know that I would have loved a son. That our lives would have been turned upside down by it, in a good way. But I have to admit that I cannot imagine a life without sisters.

Happy Birthday baby sister. And Happy "Birth" Day warrior mama to four pretty fantastic girls.

...a sketchy past.

2010-01-28T22:08:00.000-08:00

I was listening to CBC... I start a lot of stories that way these days. I am addicted to Radio One. I know I am not the only one! I am often in the car on Wednesdays. I have a regular coffee date with my dear friend and her daughter so I listen on the way there and the way home for sure. On the way there it is the Debaters and I often laugh out loud. And on the way home I catch the tail end of Writers and Company, my new favourite show. The authors are just so fascinating and the way they speak is so eloquent and lyrical. This week Eleanor was talking to Eva Hoffman. I caught such a short bit but it was so good (actually the end of her interviews are usually the best part). Her latest book is called Time. So they were talking about time in general. And she said "the present reconstructs the past". I know that I have always known this but the way that she spoke about this really brought it into focus for me. It is truly amazing how our stories change. In so many ways and for so many reasons. Perhaps they change purely due to the fact that our memories fail us but often it is so much more than that. Ultimately it is because that person we are as each day passes is new. We are seeing our history from a new assemblage point with each passing minute. So with the veil I wear today I will see my history differently than with the veil I will wear tomorrow. Fascinating isn't it? Our stories are not static. They are as full of life today as the day that they played out. Shifting and changing as we need them to in some cases.

This last week I have been getting the email updates of a friend that has just had her tonsils removed. I had mine removed at the age of 7 or 8. She is in her thirties. When I heard that she was going in for this day surgery it immediately took me back to my memory of my tonsillectomy. It was a defining time for me. I remember it very well. Back then it was a few days stay in the hospital and I had to be overnight in a strange place without my mom. Of course a lot of what I remember is not clear. The passage of time has taken its toll on many of the details but there are a few things that have stayed with me. I remember that there was a girl a little older than me staying in the same room that had just under gone back surgery. She had a rod in her back and was unable to move. The nurses would come in and rotate her from one side to the other every few hours (or maybe it was twice a day). I talked to her from across the room but I wasn't really supposed to get out of my bed. I also remember promises of ice cream and jello leading up to the surgery. I recall that going down a hallway lying flat on my back was dreadful and that hospital porters should respect that and slow down. 100, 99, 98, 9...... I remember feeling ripped off by those promises of ice cream when afterward ice cream was not even close to enough to soothe my raw throat. And I really remember this one incident over a bowl of oatmeal.

My mom had come in for a visit on one of the evenings following my surgery and she had asked the nurse about my meals. She was very excited to tell me that the next morning I would get porridge. This was one of my favourite things. I loved being in the kitchen with my mom when she made the quick oats in a sauce pan on the stove. It would bubble and burst while she stirred them down with the wooden spoon. I loved the little volcanic eruptions in the pan as the oatmeal spewed a little lava with each bubble bursting. The sound, the smell and the anticipation. It was often served on particularly cold mornings and I would alternate between watching the oatmeal boil and sitting on a heat register at my mother's feet. The promise of a meal like this while I was in the hospital held the comforts of home and I was tickled at the idea of it. That night I literally fell asleep with thoughts of oatmeal dancing in my head. I dreamt of the warm, soft oatmeal mixed with the cold milk and brown sugar. How I loved the hot/cold and salty/sweet perfection in a bowl porridge. In the morning I silently and eagerly awaited the sound of that food cart coming up the hall. It arrived without much fanfare on the hospital gray tray and I lifted the lid to find a cold, solid ball of oats. And if that wasn't enough of a disappointment... I can clearly remember the lump forming in my raw throat at the realization that there was not a spec of brown sugar in sight. So I sadly poured the icky 2% milk (not the skim I was used to) over this gooey, grey sludge and tried to gag it down. I think as I was trying to stomach it my mother arrived for a morning visit. I could feel her disappointment too. I think we cried together.

But of course this story holds a whole new tenderness for me. I am a mother now. I feel my mothers heartache as well as my own. I imagine her rushing to park her car and run up to my room to steal a few minutes with me before having to rush off to tend to the needs of her other three children at home. I see my disappointment, fear and frustration as if they were the emotional mine field of my own school age child. This memory is somehow closer to me now then it was a few years ago even though chronologically it is further away. Time... In poems, plays and books time has been written about as a character. Sometimes even given a human form. Father Time, for instance. We joke about time playing tricks on us. We struggle with not being able to reconcile details of our history in the stories we tell of it. But perhaps it is just this. Our history is more akin to folklore and the oral tradition than it is to a factual account. And we are just once again caught up in this crazy media driven culture that has a quest for knowledge, facts and numbers. The Wikipedia Age.

I say screw it. Let the details blur and melt together. See your history as a watercolour landscape. Let your story be as rich and alive as you are. Allow yourself a chance to examine your life anew every once in awhile. It gives us a chance to feel as if we have lived more than one lifetime. The path behind us as mysterious as the one that lies ahead. In a few years when I think back to that porridge again I wonder what I will see...

Thank you, Laurel for sacrificing your tonsils last week so that I might take this journey again. To see my mom in another new and tender way, to see my girls through the eyes of my childhood. And thank you Eva Hoffman for reminding me that is what I was doing.

...adoration.

2010-01-25T20:47:00.000-08:00

I just cannot get enough of how my two girls look at each other. Both of them always delighted to see the other. Every once in a while I catch myself in some melancholic thought process that leads me to a time, not too far away, when this will not always be true. When curious hands will ruin a well loved toy or tear up an art project. When the hot tears of frustration will well up in the eyes of a babe that cannot follow her sister up the stairs or join in her more mature games with friends. But I do catch myself and bring it back to what we are so fortunate to be enjoying right now. This incredible adoration for each other that seems to know no bounds. Because for right now I continue to be amazed that no matter how many times Lola grabs and pulls Meg's hair, she never complains. And no matter how over zealous and wild Meg can be in her hugs and helping, Lola seems to tolerate it and mostly even enjoy it. When Lola cries or fusses and I have my hands full, Meg will dance and sing to keep her amused. She has learned the complicated lyrics to an old Scottish folk tune and will sing it with gusto whenever it's called for. She will endlessly pick up the dropped toy while we try to sit together for our evening meal. And she will cry in sympathy when Lola seems inconsolable. I could not have imagined a better sister in Meg. And Lola... well she just comes alive when Meg walks in the room. In fact she has burst into fits of laughter just at the sight of her. The other morning Meg climbed into bed with us and pulled the covers over her head. Lola clawed at the duvet to try and uncover her big sister. For now I am completely satiated with this incredible relationship I am so lucky to witness.

I was going to delete this photo but it actually really sums up the two of them. Meg moves slowly and intentionally in everything she does. Lola is a blur!

And then the funny faces...

LOVE

...a midnight blogger.

2010-01-24T23:50:00.000-08:00

I look forward to a day when I will not be trying to write a new entry for my blog every night and actually achieving my goal every two weeks or so. I have so much I want to write, remember, share... And I have really begun to crave my time at the keyboard. I am always happy when I am creating. I am a knitter, a seamstress, an artist... I love to give handmade gifts. This Christmas it was fairy wings, felted crowns, a knights tunic and scabbard and of course pints and pints of lovely red jam. But I have now discovered that writing falls into this category too. I love to weave a tapestry with words. It fills me up in ways I had no idea it would. For about 10 months I have been writing when I can and wondering if my musings make sense to anyone but me. I have been doubtful that my grammar would pass muster in an English class and am pretty sure that my misuse of vocabulary would make the average linguist cringe. Not to mention my liberal use of non traditional punctuation... and sentence fragments? I decided right from the start that I would write how I am thinking or at least how I would speak so I have stuck to it and it fits.

I struggle with the legitimacy of all of this. I am not a writer. I am just a soulful thinker trying to put my thoughts into words. And when I can steal the chance I tap them out on this keyboard. Almost always it is at or near the witching hour because that is when my house is sleeping, my work is as done as it's going to be for the night and I can briefly turn my attention inward to see what is bubbling up and trying to get out. Often the tap, tap, tapping at my keyboard wakes the babe sleeping next to me and I stop for a nurse. Sometimes the break gives me a chance to let my mind shuffle the chaos into something readable. It isn't glamorous, my nightshirt often wet with breast milk and my snack of chocolate buttons and a glass of water is hardly romantic. Maybe that is what keeps it real.

And although I crave to write more and more often I am pretty happy with my midnight blogging. The things keeping me from being here more often are precious to me too.

And I have decided to let myself be a writer. I'm tired of feeling like a fake so I've decided that I'm not.

...a "birth"day.

2010-01-10T22:27:00.000-08:00

Seven years ago today I was blessed to be witness to my first birth and welcome my third niece into the world. She arrived at the perfect time. Born on my grandmother's 85th birthday. Tonight we celebrated with family, cake and presents.

I have never celebrated a birthday in quite the same way since her birth. I used to celebrate the babe that was born on that day. The day that, miraculously, brought this spirit earth side to walk among us. This in itself is a remarkable thing to celebrate. And now I cannot think of a "birth"day without thinking about the other spirit that was born on that day. The spirit of the warrior mama. It seems impossible to separate the two now... to not honour that moment when the maiden is no more and the baby-mother emerges from the wreckage. And when I say wreckage...I mean wreckage. That which brings forth life is so explosive that it does leave us in pieces. I find that when I look into a mother's eyes on the birthday of her child it's as if there is a window opened to that raw place of being in pieces once again. There is maybe even a wistful realization, when going back to that place, that when those pieces/bones were gathered and placed back together the wild, warrior woman that emerged was not the innocent maiden that resided in those bones before the explosive force of birth.

Tonight my niece kept saying and singing happy birthday to her mom, my sister. I'm not sure why. Most seven year olds wouldn't dare think of sharing the spotlight on their special day. After all, the cake is for them, the presents are for them, we sing to them, light the candles for them... And somehow this little soul, consciously or not, knew to deflect a little of the love to her mama. The woman standing in the background with pride all over her face. Seemingly doing nothing more than marking the passage of time with a party for her child. But I know otherwise. I was there. My life changed forever as I watched the layers peel away to reveal her true self. Allowing her to be fully present as she brought her squirmy, wet newborn daughter into her arms. It was my humble honour to watch her face light with joy and awe in those first moments, those first breaths. Until then I had never seen anything more genuine and pure in my entire life.

Since that night seven years ago I have been truly blessed to witness this incredible sight over and over again. It never gets old.

This is that babe today. Toothless, tousled and full of joy.

Happy Birthday Madeline!
And Happy "Birth"day Mama Arden...

...teeth, teeth, teeth.

2010-01-06T21:59:00.000-08:00

For a week in December I felt the heart-tugging, hot tears that come when one realizes that her babies are growing and nothing can be done to slow the process. And it came in the form of a seven day toothapalooza. On December 11th, I ran my finger along Lola's gums to soothe the ache of teething only to find that that razor sharp tooth had finally sliced through her gums.

Why was this so jarring to me? I knew it was coming. I could feel the raised line of the tooth straining against the tissue of her lower arch for weeks. She was approaching 6 months. She had been drooling, red-cheeked and a bit off her game for weeks. This was not a surprise. But still I was jarred by it. I sat on the sofa in a bit of a stunned, silent moment of disbelief or perhaps denial.

Five days later Meg lost one of her front top teeth. I pulled it out in fact and then proceeded to sit on my knees in the middle of our living room with her little stump of a tooth in between my fingers and a tear in my eye. What had I just done? This was the tooth that would make her say "toof" instead of tooth. This was the tooth that would change the shape of her face and soon be followed by an adult tooth that will look awkward, and misshapen and ten times too big for her little mouth. And here I was holding it in my hand.

Closely on the heels of this, on the 18th of December, Lola's second tooth popped through her tender little gums. This was more than I could bare...

My mother has often spoken tenderly of her time spent with her fourth baby. She knew that this would be the last of her brood and she relished every little moment of that little ones first years. She held her, rocked her and cuddled her more than any of her three previous babes. At that point she had a 7 year old and three children under four years old. And yet she managed to create the time and space to give this baby a little more... Or in fact to give herself a little more of this baby. She has spoken about this so much in my lifetime that I wonder if she feels a little guilty that she never did that with the rest of us too. It comes up again and again when we are holding our babies as they sleep in our arms. I think she is trying to tell us that we will never be sorry that we did that. And as I hold this baby I now see the depth of what she was speaking. She was saying "don't be in such a rush". "In your joyful exuberance of motherhood don't wish away these precious days for the can't-waits of tomorrow" Meg cut her first teeth at 3 and a half months. I was proud. And I "couldn't wait" for the next great thing she would do. I was in a rush.

Now I am clutching at the moments and holding them close. The pendulum has swung wildly in the other direction. I am melancholy and wistful with each small change that takes Lola closer to becoming a little girl. I am so thoroughly ensconced in her infancy that I am forgetting that she is growing. One day a few weeks ago I sat her up to see if she could balance. She had it mastered in a few minutes. She had been ready for that weeks earlier but I had been blind to this fact. In my heart and mind she was still a newborn.

I absolutely and completely adore the people my two girls are becoming. Lola has a quirky charm that brings a smile to light on my lips hundreds of times a day. She looks at her sister with complete and total adoration ... Meg is a truly creative and independent soul. She loves deeply and does not hesitate for a moment to show it in any situation. She makes me laugh a lot and I admire her in a way I did not know was possible. When asked in the past who my hero was I would have answered "my mother" but now I would have to add that my daughter is too. This is a surprise to me. So I do look forward to seeing more of the people they will become. I really do... and for now I will try and find some balance. I will hold fast and let go. Or maybe for a little while longer I will just hold fast.

Tonight Meg lost the second of her front top teeth. She worked away at it herself all afternoon. It was hanging on by only one side and when it was very nearly falling out she lost her courage. She said she was scared and she didn't seem to know why. I was too. She called my mom and asked if she would come over. She wanted her to pull that tooth. Nanny is the go to lady when it comes to teeth. She pulled every last one of mine. I remember it clearly. Most of the time she was sitting on the lid of our green toilet seat with me standing between her legs. She would expertly squeeze my tooth right at the gums and it would painlessly pop out into the tissue she had used to get a grip. Tonight was no different. And immediately my big girl's face was changed. She looks beautiful. The huge gap in the front of her mouth making her look incredibly vulnerable and yet more mature. She made quite a production of the tooth fairy preparation tonight. Insisting that we leave her a snack, a small gift and a note. She has an absolutely blind obsession with fairies at the moment so this is almost a spiritual phenomenon for her. She mindfully prepared a beautiful alter on the bathroom counter for her fairy to behold. A snack of tiny chocolate covered sunflower seeds in a very tiny dish, a small piece of soft fabric that she found after a soulful search in her room (she imagined the fairy could use it as a sleeping bag), her tooth floating in a small dish of water, and a lovely handwritten note with pictures.

She will wake tomorrow to find that her fairy has taken her tooth and in doing so has dipped its wing in that dish, revealing its colour by tinting the water green. We have kept the water from each tooth she has lost in the freezer and in the spring we plan to water some flower seeds with it in hopes that they will grow with a bit of magic inside. Kinda like my girls...

...growing with a bit of magic inside.

...a renewal.

2009-12-09T20:33:00.000-08:00

Six and a half years ago I was sitting on the precipice of my plunge into motherhood. Hovering in that knife-edge place between mother and maiden. I didn't have any clue what that first baby would have in store for me. What she would teach me. Whom I would become as I was reborn a mother. I don't know if I fully know now as I look back. Too much of what unfolded in those first weeks, months and even years remains in a bit of a fog... But I think she was my baby of grounding. Not that she was grounded... No way! She was my flexible baby. Would sleep anywhere, could stay up til midnight and sleep in the next day. We travelled with her, partied with her, shopped with her...basically we towed her along on every wild adventure we could. But slowly she tamed us. And I became a very, very capable mother... Oh who am I fooling? I became a bit type-a like I am with everything I did. If I couldn't do it to "perfection" then I didn't bother. And I couldn't throw in the towel on this one so I had to get it right! I cloth diapered her little bottom and laundered them myself. I made all her baby food and froze it in perfectly portioned cubes. I read to her, took her to music class, taught her sign language... I wasn't trying to be the "perfect" mother. I was just trying to get really good at my job. Meg taught me how to be a mother. And for that I will always be grateful. She was a great teacher. Yielding, yet firm. And clear about her expectations most of the time. We became a good team and I got good at my job. It didn't always look pretty but it always got done.

Today I had the overwhelming sense that Lola is my baby of renewal. Or perhaps of awakening. Although this has been happening over the last few years I feel like Lola was the piece to this puzzle that I was missing. Like a catalyst for a big plunge deeper into my youthful spirit. I want to play more and work less. I want to sing and dance and create. And it's not as though I haven't always been that way. But this feels more like a living, breathing, dynamic, undeniable, passionate force working through me. Its a beast, whose insatiable hunger for growth and creation is only matched by its insatiable hunger for chocolate! My conversations feel more alive. My body feels more.... full. And sometimes I feel like I am spinning in a vortex over which I have no control so I spin freely and try not to fight too hard. Sometimes I even will the spinning to accelerate. What the hell, if the ride is gonna make you dizzy then you might as well do it large.

I wrote this a few days ago and now as I reflect on it maybe I have it all wrong. In fact I was tempted to delete and edit the entire first paragraph. It feels stilted and inaccurate. It feels like I was searching for something and never quite found it... and that is why I left it. That was me I suppose. I had spent a long time crafting the persona I portrayed to the world. And in one psyche shattering event I didn't know which way was up let alone who I was supposed to be now. But what I think now is that maybe neither Meg nor Lola had any specific thing to teach me or reveal to me. Maybe it is just about shedding one more layer to reach my true authentic self. Maybe with the birth of each baby I have just rendered myself more transparent. Found more of who I am. But not the kind of finding that happens after you lose something. The kind of finding that happens when you never knew it was there to find. You know what I mean? Perhaps that is why it feels like Lola has revealed to me my more youthful spirit. After all, our most authentic selves are the ones unencumbered by our domestication. How lovely that we get to experience our youthful spirits again as we age. Some of our filters are shed with each layer too. And we are able to express ourselves more fully and with less inhibition. And with the added grace of our maturity........ and hopefully our wisdom.

...some yummy treats.

2009-12-03T22:37:00.000-08:00

Look what I had for breakfast, lunch and dinner today! Deeeelicious...

...the other mother.

2009-11-30T08:20:00.000-08:00

My business partner, dear friend and fellow mommy-blogger, Skyla has a regular feature on her blog, Cool Beans, called "Not Me Monday". I love it! It is honest, funny, charming and clever. I was at her house last Monday and we talked about it over ~~scones with jam~~ a healthy snack. I told her I was gonna give it a whirl on my blog if I ever had a reason to. But I didn't think it would happen because I am a perfect mother... the person that screws up, neglects her children, eats too much chocolate, worries too much about her appearance and doesn't have a piping hot meal on the table and a clean house when her husband comes home......well that is "the other mother".

So here is my first tale of the "other mother"...

On Wednesdays I have a great routine. Walk Meg to school, Lola falls asleep, I do some work around the house, meet Maria for coffee at The Carrot and then walk across the street to my great yoga class at Bedouin Beats. Last Wednesday however things went a bit pear-shaped. Miss Lola did not fall asleep on the walk home. I was definetly not pissed that I wouldn't get the breakfast dishes away and my emails answered. Nope, I was thrilled that I would have some extra quality time to hang out with my delightful 5 month old. I would never just pop Lola into her Rock and Bounce ~~still in her pyjamas~~ so that I could carry on, business as usual.
Those emails could wait and I certainly wouldn't ~~waste~~ spend time on facebook or catching up on my favourite blogs. No way, not at all! In my perfection I would never have heard a huge rumble in her diaper and smile sweetly at her only to carry on with my indulgent business. Her comfort and happiness is my number one priority. I wouldn't hope that the ~~episode of Sex and The City~~ educational programming on TV would keep her amused while I finished just one last thing. And of course there is no way that I would hear even more poop sounds and keep blindly typing away. Never ever would I wait another fifteen minutes before looking up at her again only to find her skating around in a poop puddle. Her little legs slip-sliding away under her, grinning from ear to ear. If this did happen, which I assure you it did NOT, the last thing I would be thinking of is grabbing my camera to document the event. That would be ~~hilarious~~ dreadful, unforgiveable behaviour for a mother of my caliber. Let me be clear about this... I would never have phoned my mother to tell the tale and laugh about it while she continued to swirl her toes in the yellow mess. Nope, not a chance. And under no circumstances would I look at that smile on her face and decide that if she was still happy then I could surely get a bit more work done while she ~~wallowed~~ played for a while longer.

There is no way I could fathom stripping down to my knickers right in my living room to retrieve her from her filth so that I would not ruin my new shirt and jeans. Unacceptable! Wouldn't do it. After an escapade like that a child would most definetly need a 30 minute soak in a warm bath. Of that I can be sure. I know I could never let this poopapalooza happen because you would not find me on my hands and knees scrubbing the yellow poop grout out of the cracks in my hardwood floor. Not on your life.

Nope, that would be the "other mother" and I have the pictures to prove it.

...someone that is shivering.

2009-11-20T10:01:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Today I got a phone call from the school... I hate it when I see that name on my call display. My heart always skips a beat and I try to answer with a calm sound in my voice. The secretary at our school is an angel. She has experience with my kind. "Hello, it's Bonnie calling...It's not an emergency." Bless her heart. Those are always the first words out of her mouth. I have never asked her but she must be a mother. I breathe again. She was calling to tell me that my big girl had a bathroom accident. She needed me to come with a change of clothes. My mind raced. Why? Why now? My girl with a bladder of steel. She potty trained at 2 and a half, in one weekend and we never looked back. So far I have only changed the sheets in the night because of vomit, never pee. We have had a handful of very minor accidents at home but that is it. I babbled something about how surprised I was and tried to form a coherent thought. She made it clear that my girl was standing in the office waiting for me. Right... "get moving" my brain said to my body. I looked down at the sleeping baby in my arms. Nappus Interuptus once again. I ran up to grab a new set of clothes. Funny what went through my head. "Must find something as similar as possible to what she was wearing", "What will I say to her?", "How did the other kids or her teacher react?" It is only now that I replay this process that I can see my big/little girl standing in that office, one shoe sloshing with pee, being offered a jelly bean, the seconds ticking by while I am looking for just the right clothes. I ran out the door with babe on my hip and a bag full of clothes. Sped to the school and ran in the door to find her standing there shivering with the cold and the wet of it all. Lately she has seemed so big to me. She is the big sister, the grade oner, the six year old... But today when I saw her standing there as I stood in that doorway, catching my breath... she seemed so small. So fragile. So... vulnerable. It is my job to protect her and I want to do that so completely.

We walked to the bathroom. I hadn't anticipated that she would be shuffling so awkwardly with that shoe full of pee. I was surprised at just how wet she was. I crouched down to look her in the eyes. I needed to see into her and find out how she really felt. I tried to be lighthearted about it but not just blow it off. I could see my reflection becoming more clear in her eyes as the tears began to pool. Her lip beginning that twisted downward curl of utter disappointment in herself. This is what I signed up for. The messy, scary, challenging trenches of parenting a school age child. I face it all as squarely as I can but I had no idea that my heart would lead and then ache so much in the process. I held her and she whimpered that she was scared. Scared seems right to me. I'm scared.... shitless sometimes. I realized that I couldn't help her out of her wet clothes and clean her up with a babe in my arms so I ran back to the office and handed the slobbering 5 month old off to that secretary. She willingly swept her up in her arms (I do think that woman needs a bouquet of flowers). When I got back to the bathroom I was able to get to the business of it. She told me more of what happened and that she was cold. She told me about the offer of a jelly bean and her polite refusal. She told me which friends helped her. She told me there had been a puddle and they had to call the custodian. Each detail making her seem more vulnerable. We quickly got her changed and while doing so she asked me if she could go home. There was only an hour left of school, I wanted nothing more than to take her home but I wanted her to decide what she needed, so I hadn't offered. I was glad she asked. When we headed for her classroom the other kids were just getting ready to go out for recess. So I asked if she wanted to join them before we headed home. I wanted her to go home feeling better about her day. It looked like business as usual on the playground.

And that was just one of the things I did today...

...someone that is refreshed.

2009-11-19T08:18:00.000-08:00

Ran into a friend as I was flying through the local Italian Market (Spinelli's) before I had to get Meg from school. The night before I only had 5 hours of very interupted sleep. That morning my non-napping babe kept me from washing my hair or even my face. Don't even think I brushed my teeth, either. She told me how amazing I looked.

huh?

Asked me where I had been and we both smiled knowingly when I told her...

...I love yoga!

...an Argentine Tango.

2009-11-17T22:58:00.000-08:00

I love that dance. Have you seen it? Argentine Tango

This dance requires complete connection with your partner. Feet so close and so intertwined at times that one wrong move would lead to a pile of body and limbs on the floor. It is breathtaking to watch.

Wikipedia says this, "Argentine tango is a new orientation of couple dancing. As most dances have a rational-pattern which can be predicted by the follower, the ballast of previous perceptions about strict rules has to be thrown overboard and replaced by a real communication contact, creating a direct non-verbal dialogue. A tango is a living act in the moment as it happens." I like this description. It is so much more than steps to follow. So much more than footprint diagrams showing you where to step next. It is not about "dancing". It is about being that act of dancing.

I have a new dance partner. She and I have only been dancing together for just over a year. At first we were all left feet and I, quite frankly, did not feel the least bit graceful. I was still enjoying very much the fluid and effortless footwork with my dance partner of 5 years. I wasn't sure if I was ready for another one. It had taken all of those 5 years to perfect some of the steps with her. We were starting to take on more challenging footwork some days or enjoying the ease of something familiar on others. Did I really want to start from square one again? But after a rough start and a lot of resistance on my part we just clicked one day. It took about 7 months before I found that I felt really beautiful as we swayed together in our nested embrace. We had shifted from "gestating" to "being the act of gestation". Together we were a whirling dervish of growth and creation. Culminating in the wildest, most frenetic dance of our lives on the day we met. Now with 5 months of face to face dancing under our belts I am happy to report that we are just as clumsy as ever some days and as skillful and agile as professionals on others. It helps when we both pick the same dance of course. Sometimes I am in the mood for a waltz or a foxtrot but Lola is all revved up for a quickstep or jitterbug. The roles reverse just as frequently too. But it truly does feel like one, long, seamless (or attempt at seamless) dance. Each move by one of us having a direct impact on the other. We ebb and flow, sway and shuffle... It isn't always pretty but it works. Now that we are a family of four it gets complicated. I guess on a good day we get quite the hoedown going. Our unconventional square dance is a sight to behold. But most days I think it looks like more of a mosh pit.

I find that at any given time I have a good groove going with one of my dance partners and the others are a bit awkward. One day maybe I will become skillful enough to dance with all three of my partners with grace and endurance, simultaneously. For now I will dance with wild abandon. I will feel the beat deep in my bones and create a rhythm that rocks our love-filled home.

...a family, all just trying to get it right.

2009-11-05T21:38:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I had one of those defining moments as a parent. The kind of moment that brings into sharp focus the magnitude of our impact on our children and the enormity of our job as parents. The kind of moment that has given me a constant and physical reminder all evening with the stinging and fatigue of eyes that have wept. An all too familiar feeling sometimes.

It was 17 degrees here in balmy Edmonton today. Unheard of for the 5th of November. Early dismissal at school so a perfect day to stay for a long, lingering play at the park. We stayed too long. Joyful play turned to frustration and unkind words. Words, that as soon as they are spoken almost choke a six year old with regret. But their fragile little egos hold fast to their convictions and sorry is a word too hard to utter in this frustrated state. I was serenaded with muffled sobs the whole walk home. Wishing I had a transporter beam so that we could just be home, cuddled up on the couch and talking about how darn hard relationships are sometimes. How grown ups feel the same frustrations with our friends sometimes but we just don't have the guts to tell each other how we are feeling most of the time. The walk, the sobbing and my frustration with not being able to help her with just the right words had worn me pretty thin by the time we got home. When we got in the door it was like my patience abruptly expired. Everything she said sounded like a whine after all that crying and I just didn't want to hear it anymore. She was tired and hungry. She asked for a granola bar. I just couldn't make another decision and sent her to ask her dad. We have been working pretty hard to help her notice her whining voice and when she asked him for a granola bar he asked her to try again in a different voice. Poor dad. He didn't know the ordeal we had both just endured and Meg couldn't handle this blow to her ego. She came back to the front hall where I was hanging up coats and melted onto the floor. I left her there while I continued to tidy her school things away. When I came back around the corner there she was... knees to chin, tears streaming down her cheek, practicing out loud "Can I please have a granola bar" in the nicest voice she could muster between sobs. And then muttering to herself that it wasn't good enough.... What had I done? Why does she have to feel that way... that aching, tormented, struggle to try and just get it right? I gathered her up in my arms and cried my heart out with her. I don't even know what I said to her. We went to the kitchen and got a granola bar and then I cradled her in my arms again and told her how much I loved her. Dave looked down at the two of us crying in a heap on the floor and said "I don't know how I am doing as a dad but I can tell you one thing Meg, you have the best mom in the world." ................... Stunned silence .............

And there we were the three of us...clearly all just trying to get it right. And as quickly as if nothing had happened at all our lives just went back into step. Meg ate her granola bar and got out her colouring book, I sorted through Meg's school bag and Dave got out the ingredients for supper. And I wonder, will that be one of the moments that Meg remembers, reflects on and agonizes about for years? Or maybe her moments and mine will be completely different. Or maybe there will just be some sort of psyche imprinting from this experience. It will add another layer to her armour. She won't remember the incident at all but her psyche has been undermined... or strengthened(?) by the experience.

I don't feel like the "best mom in the world" and by his comment I know Dave doubts himself as a dad. Both of us have had life long struggles with "trying to get it right" despite the fact that we know there is no "right". And I have watched Meg colour inside the lines since she was 3. Painfully realizing that my paralyzing quest for perfect would be an enduring legacy.

...sliding doors.

2009-11-04T22:05:00.000-08:00

It's funny how the mind works isn't it. I'm sure we all have our quirky little way of partitioning and filing our thoughts and beliefs. More specifically about time and space. For example I have a very graphic picture of how I lay out the year in my head. I can't describe it really but I can see it perfectly in my own mind. There aren't really starts and finishes so much as there are turning points and there are months that are grouped together for some reason and parts that go up and other parts that go down and some that are static. Does this all sound a little weird? I presume that everyone has these little quirky ways. For that matter there are ways we must be doing this with our lives as well. Grouping certain years together or imagining certain steps that might serve as a marker for a shift in our psyche or a rite of passage. I may be way off here but I bet if I asked you to draw the timeline of your life the way you see it in your head it would not be dots on a line. OK so where am I going with this? Well in my life "timeline" I have a few points where I have little nubs.... Like the starts of paths I chose not to take...or the impossible dreams that I kinda knew would never happen but I wasn't willing to close the door on so I just drag them along with me... They kinda feel like my "sliding door". Like there is another dimension where I am living out those dreams or walking those paths. But over the course of the last couple of years I have come to view all of that a little differently. Call it maturity, enlightenment, maybe even cynicism.... But I have decided that I don't have to leave those nubs in my timeline unanswered. Because the truth is that this is the "dimension" I am living in and I only get one kick at the can so I might as well kick the living daylights out of it.

Last week I turned one of those unanswered, silly, little dreams into a reality of minuscule proportions! I went to an edge. It was uncomfortable and exciting. But the opportunity was there and I took it. I have a dear, dear friend (more of a sister really) that makes me feel cooler than I am. She is like Audrey Hepburn, Nigella Lawson and Georgia O'Keefe all rolled into one skinny-jean-wearing, red-lipsticked, groovy, artist mama. And I adore her! She makes me think I can do anything. Her husband is a musician. He is in the middle of recording a new album and I have been teasing him for months that he can call me when he is laying down the background vocals. Last week he told me to be at the studio at 10 am on Thursday morning. I thought I was calling his bluff when I agreed. But the truth is that he called mine.

He has heard me sing a hand full of times. Happy Birthday at our kid's parties, a bunch of children's songs while bouncing around a kindermusik class and maybe I have squeaked out a melody or lyric when trying to pick his brain about an artist or song title. None of these would qualify as an audition and yet he was quite serious about giving me this chance. Was he crazy? Tone deaf? Really, really polite?

I don't really know how to describe the experience. I couldn't shake the image of all the bad American Idol auditions I have seen. All those people that really, truly think they have the voice of an angel. They genuinely do not know they suck, do they? All I could think of was how much work he was going to have to put in to make me sound half decent. But he kept encouraging me and telling me that it sounded good... It still makes me feel a little queasy thinking about it all. But I did it! And I would do it again if given the chance... Because maybe in one of those "sliding doors" dimensions I am a smooth and sultry lounge singer or a bad ass rock and roll diva or my personal favourite, a long haired, barefoot, acoustically inclined folk singer with flowers in my hair.....

Thanks Chris.

...watery eyes, runny noses and fever.

2009-10-28T22:09:00.000-07:00

The "sickness" entered my house this week. It came in like a speeding bullet and I thought we would all be hit by it and hard, but so far it just seems to have tiptoed around our house quite gently and we are hoping it has already taken it's leave of us. However, even this most gentle of bugs did completely consume our home while it was here. Meg might not agree that it was so gentle since she was the one that had fever, chills, aches and puking. Knocked her on her ass for 24 hours. But the rest of us were overtaken by constant hand washing, gargling, nasal hydrating and an awkward dance of avoidance. Poor Meg. No one wanted to snuggle the poor little sicky and she slept in a nest at the foot of our bed so that she was near but not near enough to sneeze on us. She handled the whole thing with absolute grace (and a puke bowl in her lap for most of Tuesday)... Lola handled it all the way only a four month old could, with total oblivion...
And I let it totally consume me. I spent Tuesday doing what my mom did for me when I was sick. I made a bed for Meg on the couch and turned on the tv. I catered to her every need. When she asked for banana bread, I made banana bread. When she puked on her pjs, I did laundry. When she wanted a snuggle... I rubbed her feet. We were a good team, all three of us. Today she was better. So as the dust settled this evening and I looked around my house I saw what a couple days of getting out of our rhythm causes. I missed the deadline to order school photos, I missed our parent teacher conference this afternoon, Meg's tell and show homework is not done, her lunch for school is not made, her outfit for the morning is not laid out and she got to bed a bit too late. When I put her to bed (in her nest at the foot of our bed)tonight I thought she would be back at school tomorrow. Her fever will have been gone for 24 hours and she is pretty much back to normal. But just now she woke up in a confused stupor and wandered around the room looking for something, anything to comfort her. When I couldn't help her she brought me the phone, then she went to the bathroom and looked for something that she couldn't find there.... Maybe school is a long shot. One more day of mama loving couldn't hurt in the big scheme of things could it?

...a pudgy faced pre-schooler.

2009-10-25T06:39:00.000-07:00

Today would be my father's 65th birthday. He was 63 when he died almost a year and half ago. I was looking on my computer for a picture of him to post here in honour of his birthday. I wanted to find the most recent one so I started looking from the day before he died and went back in my files. I only got a few folders in when I found this...

This is the photo that made me burst in to tears. This is the pudgy faced pre-schooler that my father knew. This is the little girl that rode her bike from the church to the senior's centre at my dad's funeral to honour him in her own way while we were all on motorcycles. This is the innocent child that watched her mom cry and ache with the deepest sorrow I have ever known. Those little shoulders had no idea the weight they would have to bear in the weeks to follow after this photo was taken. This sweet little soul isn't the same now. She can ride her two wheeler, she can do the monkey bars, she can read and count to one hundred and today she learned to write her name in cursive. She is a big sister, a grade oner, a six year old... She is someone that my father will never know. I can barely see the keyboard through the tears as I type these words. My grief still overcomes me regularly and fills me so completely that I feel I will burst, or melt, or scream.

Happy Birthday Dad.

...4 months of lovin'.

2009-10-23T23:34:00.000-07:00

Today was a PD day for Meg so we got to spend the day, sleeping in, baking muffins, drawing pictures and playing with Lola. I miss those days. Grade one has robbed us of a few of life's great pleasures. This morning I was reminded of one of them. My six year old is charming and lovable when she wakes on her own. 6 days a week now she is awoken with her curtains being drawn and her mother's voice singing sweetly (or so I think anyway) in her ear. She is still delightful but we are always in a hurry and there is no time for the love we would like to give each other in the morning. Dave is sick and last night he slept in Meg's bed so we could keep the sick out of ours. So this morning the three of us girls were in bed together when we all surfaced for the day. It was all smiles and giggles! And do my girls ever love each other. Meg played with Lola while I had a bath and this is what I found when I came out of the bath...

I love my iPhone but it doesn't like low light or movement. However this moment was captured because it is always handy! They are in LOVE, no?

The tone was set by this and our day was slow and sweet. Lola spent quite a bit of time in her "Rock and Bounce" and has started to push herself all over the floor in it. Every time Meg would leave the room Lola would push herself along and strain her neck to try and see where Meg had gone. And today she even started the old drop and retrieve game with a toy and Meg was happy to oblige...

...but who could resist this face.

4 months. And it feels like she has been a part of us forever. She probably has...

...a mettalic blue pontiac, a fiery red-head, a bushel of fruit and a box of pint sealers.

2009-10-18T19:18:00.001-07:00

On Sunday I did something that I can't believe it has taken me 37 years to do. I spent part of the morning making jam with my baby sister. Oh, I have been somehow part of many, many, many a canning and preserving project over the years but it has been awhile and I was never co piloting the mission.

Last fall was really amazing. It was long and warm and each perfect day felt like it was borrowed. Like it was a gift from mother earth. We squeezed every last drop out of those days. Wringing them out like a wet rag. In June the promise of many great days to come has you squandering a few hours here and there but by September, when each warm day could be your last for months you tend to live it as fully as possible. We had so many days like that last fall that I felt I lived more fully for weeks. We walked, road tripped, geocached, picnicked and cycled. We found new places to explore in our own back yard and were surprised by the treasures we uncovered in the process. One of those days we packed all of our bikes in a few vehicles and headed out to cycle along the river in Fort Saskatchewan. Their trail system there is beautiful and most of it was very ridable for our gang of five year old bikers. Along the route we found an outcropping of chokecherries. Right next to the path. The branches were heavy with the weight of the fruit and we were shocked that no one else had relieved the trees of their bounty before us. We had some bags in our picnic basket so we began to pick. The kids loved it and in very short order we had filled all the bags we had with us. We hadn't even made a dent in the massive amount of fruit. We couldn't bear the thought of it rotting on the branches so we returned the next day with pails and bowls. As much as we could carry in the bike trailer. The picking was so gratifying. One of us would get near the trunk and pull the branch within reach and the other would hold a bunch of the cherries at the top and "milk" the berries into the pail. My Grandma would have been in her bliss. She used to take us for long car rides up and down the county roads looking for a crop like this. I spent hours upon hours of my childhood sharing the back seat of her trusty old Pontiac with a mountain of pails, my eyes peeled for the elusive berries. When spotted we would wade through thistle and tall grasses and stand perched on the slope of a steep ditch with a honey pail hooked on our belt.

I was so smug with the find and tickled with our harvest that I forgot about the labourious task of extracting the usable fruit from the cherries. So a few days later there were mom and I washing and boiling the mountain of fruit and then pressing it one cup at at time through a sieve with a spatula. For those of you not familiar with the chokecherry it has a surprisingly large pit for a fruit the size of a small blueberry. The first few sieves full had me cursing this brilliant idea...but then something happened. I became completely consumed by getting every last bit of pulp out of those cherries. Watching the thick, rich flesh ooze into the pot. Mom and I would trade off because the effort would soon turn our arms to rubber and force us to take a break but the satisfaction of the job kept us coming back for our turn to urge the fruit into our pot.

My mind is now swirling with what this all means.... my love of fall, the harvest, the warmth of the autumn light, the heaviness of the burden of winter to come. This subject is rich for me. I could write for hours in a meandering torrent of words that would turn over and over like a falling autumn leaf. Focus. Where was I? Ah yes.... I feel as though there is something in my DNA that compels me to harvest, and then preserve food for the long winter months. So far it hasn't been compelling enough to line my pantry with jars of preserves or my freezer full of pies but every fall I feel this urge to don an apron and juice, freeze and can everything in sight. I love to walk down the aisle of the supermarket specially stocked for fall with pint jars and pickling salt. There is something so completely wholesome about a mason jar and a fresh box of snap lids.

So that brings us to Sunday... My first foray into the world of jam making. The chokecherry pulp was bagged and frozen last fall. And then shortly thereafter I was launched into the throes of gestation. Canning no longer held its romantic allure. In fact food prep of any kind was pretty much agony. Fast forward to this fall... My baby sister came into town unexpectedly this weekend and I bought a couple of boxes of pectin for the occasion. Mom took a couple of bags of raspberries out of the freezer for us. (The chokecherry pulp will lay in waiting while I hone my jam making skills.) Soon the sound of metal jar lids rattling in a pot of boiling water filled the air and I was up to my elbows in raspberry mush. Potato masher in hand, grin on face. We were a bit shy on raspberries so on the fly we made up the difference with fresh pureed apples. I felt like i was channelling my grandma and my Auntie Gwen all at once. The sugary fruit was bubbling away on the stove and my baby sister was juggling jars and lids with her tongs like an old pro. We poured the rich, red, molten mixture into the jars and carefully sealed them. Then they were gingerly lowered into a pot of boiling water to process for ten minutes. As this was all taking place I had started the second batch. I was merrily stirring and measuring when Kathy took the first jars out of the water. The first one popped as she extracted it with her tongs..... That sound... I had forgotten about that part. I almost burst into tears or song or applause or all three. A tangible, audible, heartwarming sign of success. It immediately transported me to my youth. To rows and rows of jars draped in teatowels and the sweet/sour smell of crabapples in the air for days. To my red thumb, raw with the tiny cuts of a paring knife after hours of halving those little red apples. To a stovetop filled with pots all bubbling away with juice or jam or jars in process. To my gran's agility in the kitchen when timing is everything and the nourishment of her family hung in the balance. All of those things and more flooded into me (or oozed out of me, I'm not sure which) in the moment following the sound of that jar lid popping. Each pop sent a tingle through my body. The feeling was sublime.

I plan to make more jam this weekend...

...two moms and five kids.

2009-10-12T20:09:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I came home from a whirlwind trip to Manitoba and Ontario. We were going to a cousins wedding in Ontario's cottage country and so I decided that I would pack up the girls and spend a few days in Manitoba on the way there. I was looking for a chance to nourish my spirit a little. And the best way to do that is to run to the arms of someone I know will feed my soul.

The days leading up to my trip were filled with stress as I rushed around trying to get everything done that I needed to before I would be gone from, home, work and school for over a week. I finished packing just an hour before leaving for the airport and only let my shoulders come down from beside my ears as I sat down in the boarding lounge. Whatever I had not remembered or got done before I left was out of my hands now... My girls were dreamy! Meg carried her own bag, helped me with mine and just chilled with some markers and a journal on the flight. Lola nursed on takeoff and landing, hardly fussing at all. We were greeted at the airport in Winnipeg by one of the most amazing women I know. She had Lola in the sling and Meg by the hand within moments and I felt completely at home. It was late and when we finally got to her house we all just tumbled into her big bed for what would begin 6 nights of co-sleeping bliss.

In the morning I awoke to a little face peaking through the crack in the door. This dear, sweet 5 year old had been on pins and needles for a couple of hours while she waited to see any movement from our room. What a glorious way to wake up! And within the hour I had been warmly welcomed with love and hugs from the whole family. My Manitoba family. I have never felt more at home in someone else's home than this entire family made me feel. Little did all 5 of our combined children know that by feeling so at ease it would mean that for the next five days they would all have two moms! It was like a practice run for me, a glance into my future. You see, the youngest of this family is five but she has a fourteen year old brother and a fifteen year old sister. A larger age gap than my two but a similar dynamic. It was fascinating to see their relationships with each other and to see their own unique gifts, that when combined built the framework for a family that embraces life (and each other) in such a special way. I drank it in as I sat in their family room nursing my babe and being waited on by all of them. I watched them bicker, show off, open up and show up... To be honest the thought of teenagers had me scared shitless until I spent these five days with two of the most amazing young adults I could imagine. We had planned to do soo much while I was there. We always do. I think we imagine that when we are together we become super human. But in the end the time we value most is the time we share cuddled into bed together talking about our lives, our kids, our work and our dreams. Or the time we spend preparing food with a glass of wine or gin and tonic. We are wildly feminine as we pour our love into creating a feast for ourselves and our families. We often eat late because we are overly ambitious and so in the moment that we loose all track of time. And some of my favourite moments of my time with my Manitoba family were on the last night when a fifteen year old warrior woman in the making joined us while we laughed, and talked and baked cookies. Don't get me wrong... I am still afraid of my own life with teenagers but for now I have softened towards the idea.

I know how much I loved having a co-parent for those five days. I felt invincible actually. Like Supermama! I was bolstered by someone who's mothering I aspire to. We often joke when we are together that we understand the allure of communal living. Maybe we do become superhuman when we combine our gifts. What I don't know is how our five kids felt about having two moms.

Honourable mention goes out to those two husbands/fathers that indulge us in this soul nourishing love fest we yearn for every so often.

...the dynamics of being human.

2009-10-08T22:45:00.000-07:00

Wrote most of this a few weeks ago (September 12 to be exact). I finally got a chance to get back on here and I like what I wrote so here it is. Finished hastily tonight, but finished and posted.

My mom got a tattoo this week. I went with her. I suppose I went to support her in some way even though I was not really supportive of the tattoo itself. I knew that this ritual was to be part of her healing, her honouring and her new life on her own. So I gathered up my 2 and a half month old and went to the tattoo studio with my mom. It was a bit nerve wracking to provide council for her on something that would be so permanent but in the end she did what she wanted and she is delighted with the results. The tattoo artist had a great rapport with us and we talked about a lot of stuff. I am fascinated by the medium of ink in skin and took the opportunity to study the process as he worked with such ease and confidence. He had a very light hand and was able to just kiss the skin with ink. Intricate lines were followed by an infusion of colour and then the addition of highlights and shadow it was really amazing to watch. At some point in our conversation the unique aspects of working in this medium were explored and he offered a perspective I had not considered. A canvas, piece of paper, lump of clay, slab of stone all remain fairly static upon the completion of the artmaking. But the skin is dynamic. By its very nature it will shift, grow, wrinkle, sag, sluff and regenerate. It is not the same from one day to the next.

A few days later I had the pleasure of a walk with a friend on a lovely fall afternoon and we talked about change in our families. Did I ever regret the decision to have another baby? Was I truly happy when we were a family of three? What was it like to have such a massive shift in our family? The truth is adding a new member to the family certainly created a landslide kind of change in our existence but by our vary nature we are human. And like the flesh that was the canvas for my mom's tattoo, we are dynamic. We change. Our relationships change. Our lives change. In five minutes I will not be the same person I am now. So although my answer is a resounding YES to the question of my happiness with my family of three, it was going to change anyway. New member or not I could not clutch that triad of perfection to my breast and will it to stay the same. It would not. Meg would grow and we would all age and stretch and shed and sluff and wrinkle and sag and regenerate...

...a do-over.

2009-09-09T22:34:00.000-07:00

Little by little this baby of mine is weaseling her way deeper into my heart and feeding my soul with her very clearly unique being. She has big personality already. She laughs and squeals with delight when you find just the right thing to tickle her funny bone and then if you are distracted by something else and turn away she will complain fiercely until the attention is back on her. She also has a coy little smile that she delivers with a turn of her head that will melt your heart. She is her own person through and through. So why do I feel like it is my Meg do-over? Why has nobody told me that this is what a second baby feels like? Is it just me? I find myself talking about the things I am going through with Lola as if it is my second time around with Meg. Like Meg and I are both 6 years on and starting fresh armed with what we know now that we didn't know then. It is like "sliding doors", an alternate reality. You would think from that perspective I would have it all figured out this time. After all I already had my trial run 6 years ago. Made all my mistakes and learned from them. Shame on me if I haven't.... right? Bahhh. Things are different this time, that's for sure. This time she cries a lot more. She gets ignored in favour of getting a meal on the table or wiping another child's bum. She is awoken from naps and in the morning to make the trek down the road to drop off or pick up at school. Smiles and coos are missed as we struggle to keep our house and lives in order some days. She will need to exert her personality just to be noticed. She hangs off my hip as I run around getting stuff done and quietly tolerates this existence for the most part. Can I pinpoint the things that would make my life easier if I had done them differently the first time? Was there a derailment in parenting that I can avoid in order to help my child sleep better, eat healthier, live a happier, more carefree life? Maybe... but somehow I find myself parenting by feel again. As if blindfolded, flailing arms, shuffling feet, hoping not to bump into anything or fall off a step. It feels like a crap shoot once again and I don't think there is any other way to do this thing. It's messy, heartbreaking, completely perplexing... But there is love...lots of love in this house.

On another note. We are seeing how things are unfolding for Meg as she navigates her first few weeks of grade one. She is so open to her experiences right now and it is allowing for such a lovely transition into this new phase in her life. We are still struggling with the six year change here at home but at school she is flourishing, flowing, blossoming...bliss.

...the end of our first summer vacation.

2009-08-31T22:30:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is the last day of summer vacation 2009... Our first real school vacation for Meg. It has been short. In some ways we are all craving the return of some routine to our lives but in quite another we are already feeling the loss of our freedom. So in a show of true rebellion we have spent the last week in carefree abandon. Maintaining our late bedtimes and erratic eating patterns. I thought I would be using the last few weeks of summer to work ourselves into the routine needed for our early morning start at school. But instead I decided not to "waste" two weeks easing us into a routine when we should still be enjoying our all too short summer. Even tonight Meg settled into her bed after 10pm. And now on the eve of our last day I am wondering what we should do to squeeze out the last few drops of sweet summer nectar. It almost feels like a panic. We MUST make the most of the day. Like the last day should encapsulate all that is summer. A bike ride, a swim, a play in the park, a bbq and of course some ice cream. But what about the other part of summer I love so much. Doing absolutely nothing... A day spent in our little backyard, kiddie pool filled, camp chairs with cupholders and a fortrel picnic blanket for the kicky babe to squirm around on. I wonder what will win out...

I'll let you know.

...something that is sleeping.

2009-08-26T23:10:00.000-07:00

I haven't done this in awhile. I am sitting cross-legged on my bed, computer in lap and remembered that I have a blog. This is how I blogged before Lola. Or at least when she still interfered with my lap and wasn't beside me (interfering with my sleep instead). My whole house is sleeping except me and my brain is racing... a few hours ago I had a million things I wanted to do and couldn't because I had a babe in my arms, a six year old that I promised I would make muffins with and a date with a zucchini or two. Now that I have my arms free and my house quiet I can't remember what it was that was so damn pressing. But I will remember tomorrow afternoon when my arms are full of chubby baby again and the six year old has me captive with some very intriguing story or high priority task.

I noticed a shift the other day. I am sure that I have been shifting (physically as well as emotionally) a lot these past two months but in my postpartum haze I haven't been able to recognize these shifts. Ahhhhh yes, I forgot one cannot witness their own death and rebirth.... I have been piecing myself back together. I forgot... I forgot that after you have looked death in the eye you turn to mush. So the other day when I noticed this shift it felt very surprising to me. I felt as though perhaps I had been approaching this new baby and new mothering very mechanically (much as I had the first 6 months of my pregnancy). Why hadn't I been mothering soulfully, why did it take two months for me to feel something noteworthy bubbling up from under the surface? But I had forgotten. Ah, the grace. I can open myself up to feel things and know things on a soul level again because I don't have to protect the raw flesh of my being as fiercely. I wasn't a shallow mama, just going through the motions and watching each day pass mindlessly. I was surfacing...

What was it that I felt shift? What awakened me to ask these questions and remind me that I have been on the hook? Crap, I can't remember... I know I was in the bath with Lola. I remember thinking "oh, this is good, I should blog about this"...

... the dog days of summer.

2009-08-03T23:32:00.000-07:00

Oh how I love this time of year. The days pass timelessly and we revel in the length of our evenings here and find ourselves falling into bed only after the sun has made it's descent into the night sky. It is not uncommon for us all to go to bed together at 11 pm or later. On really hot nights we all lie on our bed with the window open and the fan on... eating frozen grapes and reading fairy stories. Without the rush of an early bedtime routine and the need to get up early to meet our academic obligations we can be free to live as our bodies desire. We are all late to bed, late risers. The first few weeks of summer I fight this flow because I have to work so hard all year to keep us in anything resembling a routine. And I fight the guilt until I remember that "early to bed, early to rise" is only an arbitrary virtue.

This summer we have enjoyed a little excuse named Lola. She has allowed us the opportunity to do as we damn well please and so we have! We have grown a garden and are now harvesting the rewards. We have travelled to the coast and dipped our feet in the ocean. We have adventured close to home, picking berries, throwing stones into the North Saskatchewan river, having parties, going to parties... And still our summer holds so much more for us.

We are looking forward to Folk Fest this week (Sarah Mclachlan and Tracy Chapman all on one night) and the arrival of a dear friend from Scotland on Saturday to give us the great excuse to vacation on our own turf.

All of this leaves little time to sit and write and I miss that but I will have plenty of time to catch up in the fall when the cool evenings bring us indoors to find warmth in our home once again. So I leave you with a few juicy images from the last month or so...

...a name.

2009-07-25T17:31:00.000-07:00

I just realized I have never shared that we settled on a name for our sweet girl. I am getting settled back in to our routine at home since we returned early in this week. We caught up with family (my sister pointed out that this baby was only a month old and had been on vacation for half her life), caught up with work, saw the midwife (11lbs 5 ozs), and are throwing a six year olds birthday party. After I get a chance to breath again I look forward to a date with my computer. I want to answer the emails of all the people that have sent me their love and best wishes. And mostly I want to write. I had fallen in love with blogging. It was such a lovely part of waiting for Lola... Oh yah her name.

Lola Skye Dexie Walker

There is a long story behind the name and I will blog about that too... The summer is slipping by though and I will not be a slave to commitments when we have such a short sweet chance to feel the freedom of the long days of this glorious season in Northern Alberta.

...a road trip.

2009-07-14T09:52:00.000-07:00

Road trips and newborns make it difficult to blog. We left Edmonton almost a week ago. It took five days and nights to get from the heart of the Alberta prairies to the West coast of B.C. Yesterday we made it to Vancouver. Our goal was to get the girls to an ocean and we did it. There were some sketchy parts to the car ride with a 3 week old that could not understand why we wouldn't pick her up out of that car seat. But there were some highlights for Meg. Hotels with pools and waterslides are at the top of the list. I forgot the cord to download photos from my camera so the visuals will have to wait.

...a few sweet images.

2009-06-26T11:52:00.000-07:00

...a man I was honoured to call my father.

2009-06-21T19:24:00.000-07:00

My father had seven grandchildren that were able to cuddle on his chest and know his love in the flesh. His eighth will have to rely on all of us to help her know him in a different way. This is what I wish he was doing this father's day with her.

Dad and granchild number 2, Sydney.

...another blessing.

2009-06-21T13:41:00.000-07:00

I thought I had been blessed two weeks ago when my house was filled with women I love, showering me with adoration and love. This weekend my blessings multiplied...

... a baby ready to enter.

2009-06-18T13:35:00.000-07:00

The house blessed, the energy of many open hearts, the water broken and now finally labour has begun. Soon we will know this little person. This souls that feels like it has been clawing it's way out for a couple of months now.... I am warrior ready.

...a home birth home.

2009-06-13T22:11:00.000-07:00

Last June, on our first night in our new home my mom called me at 2am to hasten me to her side and ultimately to be with her as we lost my father. For a long time my house has felt like a sad place. In order to really believe that this horrible thing had happened I replayed that night in my head over and over again. I can still feel the leap in my heart at the ringing phone and the feeling of looking out my window as she told me what had happened. Over the past 12 months I have begun to feel the warmth of a home seep into this place and I am now starting to feel settled here. We have worked hard to achieve this and we have a long way to go to put our stamp on it. But last Saturday night my life in this home changed forever...

I knew that part of planning a homebirth would have to involve the preparation of my home. I don't mean clean floors and inflating a birth pool. I needed an infusion of the kind of energy that can sustain a mother through the darkness, mystery, pain and intensity of labour. The kind of energy that will provide peace for me as I unfold as a mother of two and work through the process of integrating a new soul into our family. At my mother blessing I received that in spades. Everyone crossed the threshold into my home with an open mind and heart. I was in awe of the edges that everyone went to in this powerful sharing and what came out of it was so rich and juicy. So much of that evening surprised and delighted me and even left me breathless. The ceremony began after I had been adorned by my "hand-maiden" with a wreath of flowers for my head, a double strand of lapis blue beads, gold bracelets and a blue woolen robe (or reasonable facsimiles). I then waited in my chambers for the signal to start my descent. As I came down the stairs all of these women I love were standing with arms reached above their heads forming an arch. As I passed through each pair of women in turn they whispered their truth about their relation to me. "I am the one who..." The power of those whispers to me as I walked under the arches of their arms left me in a puddle of warmth, love and bliss. I never noticed before how much a whisper can resonate through your whole body. I wanted to stand still after each whisper and let the words ripple through me to my toes. Sublime! The ceremony that followed was so rich with the bearing of souls and the softening of all the women in the room. It was sacred. There is almost no other words to describe it. This space where we sat in a circle to weep, laugh and share our love is now a sacred spot in my home. It is now the spot where my birth pool sits inflated and waiting to receive our babe. The ceremony was followed with a feast of epic proportion. Not only do my family and friends have the deepest of hearts but their culinary skill is beyond expectations. YUM! The house was filled with the most delicious smells and the table was bursting with the rich display of food. As we feasted I was treated to a footbath and the most divine foot and leg massage. My belly was hennaed and we even had a slide show of my recent "belly" photo shoot. All this time everyone in attendance wrote or drew in a "blessings" book that my sister made for me. I am so grateful to have that to read and re-read while I recall the power of my blessing. The evening went on for hours and I was thrilled that everyone stayed so long to let the richness of our ceremony sink into their bones. My house is now thoroughly prepared to receive this feisty little soul.

The next afternoon we held a similar ceremony for Meg. We also adorned her with a wreath of flowers, a blue robe and a lapis blue necklace. She walked under the arched arms of Nanny, Auntie Lee, Auntie Kathy, Cindy, David and myself. I hope she will remember the words whispered to her. She nervously sat in the circle as we lit candles and shared our feelings about sisterhood. We read to her and showered her with love and gifts. And she shared with us a "sister birth bundle" that she had gathered as part of her journey to sisterhood. With the exception of Meg and Dave all of us are sisters and have sisters but the words that her daddy whispered to her were some of the most powerful things shared that day. We made her a beautiful sister warrior necklace and then we ended the circle by tying bracelets around our wrists for her. We celebrated with a footbath and massage and did henna on her belly too! She sat like royalty as we massaged her feet and ate heart shaped pieces of strawberries. She only wishes that it could have lasted longer!

This weekend forever changed my perception of the limits of a relationship. Or more accurately the dreams we have about how we need to limit our relationships. Why can't we give and receive in this way more often? I know that I will now. And I have plans to start a regular "Red Tent" gathering at the change of every season in order to celebrate ourselves and our relationships. It is time for celebration to mean more...

I just can't express deeply enough how changed I feel and how profoundly moved I was by the 5 days that I gave to myself last week to receive the gifts of my friends and family. I have left the alter and decorations from the blessing in my birth space to remind me of the love and energy of those dear to me as I struggle through those gates on my way to the underworld. My home feels, looks and smells different to me now. Mission accomplished!

...a fashionista.

2009-06-13T10:36:00.000-07:00

Last night I was getting ready to go out to a concert with some friends and I had only assembled the top of my outfit. Meg came into our room and told me now all I needed was some skinny jeans.
Me - "But Meg I don't have skinny jeans that will fit me while I'm pregnant"
Meg - "Too bad because that would create such a nice silhouette"
Me - (aghast that my 5 year old knows what a silhouette is) "Really? Well I will have to settle for my yoga pants"
Meg - "That will work ok. Now let's go and create a nice silhouette for me" (marches out of my room to dig in her closet)

When did this happen? I am so proud!

...reflection.

2009-06-11T21:31:00.000-07:00

Wow last weekend was some weekend. I don;t think I have ever been so blissed out! Well that might not be true but I was pretty damn blissed out!
It started with a trip to the airport to greet Cindy with this...

Wow that is some round belly, huh?

I thought I would have time to write about my weekend but I think I need to go to sleep. I wanted to write about it tonight in case I don't get the chance to. I feel that the baby is near... But becasue of this I also need to rest. To gather my resources for the long road ahead. So I will hope that I have another day or so in order to properly reflect on these last few days. In the meantime I will leave you with some photos. I have nothing of my motherblessing yet because my dearest Jamie took those photos. But these are fun.

Meg had a sister blessing on Sunday...

At the end of the ceremonial circle she was painted as a sister warrior.

Then she had a footbath and massage.

Followed by a henna and some heart shaped strawberry slices.

The next evening we did my belly cast.

And we cast Meg's belly button!

All in all it was a pretty exciting weekend for all of us. My home will never be the same and I do intend to write all about that.... But for now I thought these pictures would suffice.

...a blessing.

2009-06-03T21:13:00.000-07:00

One more sleep. Meg reminded me this morning that there was only one more sleep until Cindy arrives. I don't think I can express what it means to me... to us. For me to be nurtured by my handmaiden and for her to feel so honored to do so. I know that we will laugh a lot, cry as much and bask in the joy of my everyday life.

And then on Saturday she and my family have called to gather all of the women in my life that I hold dear. I see them flooding my home with the energy that I will need to sustain me until the day I will meet my baby, through my labour and into my new self as I am born a mother of two. They will also build a solid yet yielding dike for my psyche. The framework I will need to feel safe and secure to flow, gush and maybe even flood a little as I give over to my wild nature, my divine feminine.

I am giddy with the excitement of this weekend of being nurtured and surrounded by the love of people so important to me. People that will witness this journey and care for me as I unfold after this baby's birth. Each of them so special to me in the gifts they bring to my life. Sublime.

...my genius of a husband.

2009-06-01T17:26:00.000-07:00

Lately Dave and I have been struggling to find time to spend together. He is in the throws of the final weeks of his work for the year, he has been sick and I have been hitting the sack at the same time as Meg every night. We barely have time to discuss the very basics of our daily lives. Last Thursday evening I regrettably had to miss Yoga to go to our one and only prenatal class. It was just a little "preparing for your homebirth" session with our midwife. But I left that class feeling like we had been away for a weekend retreat! The 15 minute ride home in the car was bliss and I can't tell you why. It just was.

Last night we lay in bed together and talked about this whole"baby" thing. We are having a baby... Holy crap. I have got past that phase of "what the hell were we thinking" but I haven't completely gone beyond my anxiety about how this one singular event will change our family forever. Right now I am loving our Meg, even when she is whining and not cooperating. She is spectacularly cool right now and the way that she nurtures me is heart-swelling. I just worry about what direction things will turn in when our family grows by one. What I hadn't considered was something that Dave pointed out to me. Meg is who she is today because of this change in our lives. We have no idea who she would be if she wasn't growing into the role of big sister. She has become nurturing to me as a result of my needing it. She has matured in the last 8 months as a result of our circumstances. I am falling more deeply in love with her because we are both feeling the need to securely tether those heartstrings before we know their strength could be tested.

Isn't my husband a genius?

...an R.S.V.P.

2009-05-25T22:13:00.000-07:00

When Dave and I were planning our wedding 15 years ago we sent invitations to a lot of people we knew would not attend. We were planning an outdoor, white tent, casual reception to celebrate our marriage that had begun in January of that year at a very intimate ceremony. It would take place at my parents acreage in Canada, while the vast majority of David's friends and family were in Scotland. He had only decided to stay here a few months prior when I swept him off his feet...but that's another story. In response to our invitation most of the guests from Scotland went out and bought RSVP cards to mail back to us. One special person in particular sent us a card to express her dismay at not being able to attend.

Winnie Huggins lived across the street from David in Aberdeen. She had been there as long as they had lived on Craigton Road (since David was three). She was a spinster and didn't have family living near. So David and his parents did what they could to help her out. Fetching groceries, taking her to appointments and David's job was to fill her coal bucket from the bin outside. She wasn't a demure and sweet old lady. She had feist. When David told me about her I knew she would be a kindred spirit. Cranky, spirited, mischievous and with a touch of soft and gooey on the inside. She had a string of cats, all named Fluffy and all as cranky as her! She lived in a large old house on a piece of land that was owned by the city council and when they approached her to give notice of eviction so that they could build a seniors residence she fought them tooth and nail. In the end they agreed to build her a new residence on the property and consider her under their care. She suffered from diabetes and had a lot of trouble with her legs. She'd had multiple surgeries and treatments but healing was slow or non existent and she was unable to get around very well. Dave went over to check on her one afternoon and she didn't answer the door. Of course it was locked and he was forced to break in a window to make sure she was ok. She had fallen and as procedure dictated he notified her caregivers who in turn called an ambulance. When they arrived she was quite dismayed with all of the hubbub. Not only did she insist that the paramedics get the hell off her property but they should have David arrested for breaking into her home. I couldn't wait to meet her.

Her RSVP to our wedding invitation read "It would give me great pleasure to see you both thoroughly engaged in matrimony" but naturally she would have to decline. Those words "thoroughly engaged in matrimony" became emblazoned in my memory. I was completely smitten by this woman and the depth in which she could describe our union. She seemed truly delighted that David had found matrimonially bliss. In fact there was almost a cheekiness to her response. As if she was taunting us. I loved it! Winnie passed away two years later, only months before my first trip to Scotland. I never got to meet her.

6 years ago we were anticipating the birth of our daughter. We didn't know she would be a "she" so we had lists of names to consider of both gender. On our list of girl names we included Winnie. It had been on the list for years to be truthful. In the end we settled on Meg (the name of another dear old friend in Scotland). We had tried to work Winnie into the name but somehow it just didn't fit. We have a new list of names (of both genders) as we await the arrival of this baby. I have revisited many of the names we considered 6 years ago. And when thinking about Winnie I was reminded of that RSVP. "...thoroughly engaged in matrimony..." It made me think about this ritual of marriage. This need to be honoured and seen as you make the tranformative journey from bride to wife, from groom to husnband. To have all of the people that have helped to shape you come together to bare witness to this shift in your life's path. As if not having them there would leave them behind in your old life and not give them the frame of reference to journey forth with you and your spouse as you forge ahead in partnership. As a society our reverence for this ritual has wained. I wish we honoured it more "thoroughly" on a soul level.

The next rite of passage for most couples after marriage is the journey to becoming parents. This incredible time of tranformation, unfolding and growth is now most often marked by medical-like notations in a baby book and a baby shower to play silly games and place wagers on the sex and weight of the new arrival. Most times leaving the father completely out of the picture. I am craving something different. I am wanting to connect with everyone that has seen me unfold as a mother over the last 6 years. I am hungry to have people dear to me bare witness to me as I am "thoruoghly engaged" in gestation. I want all of the people I love to admire my ripening body and see that at 36 I have found the youth and innocence of a maiden once again. I want to connect to this energy and ensure that I bring these people forward with me as I journey onwards from here.

...a gemini.

2009-05-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

At yoga this week we had a discussion about our babies astrological signs and how that may affect the way we are feeling or behaving as we gestate these babies. I had not really considered what sign this baby was likely to be. I had only really thought about the fact that this baby had only a chance of being a cancer. I am a cancer, Meg is a cancer and I love the qualities of this sign. Of course I do... I am one. I feel like water courses through my veins sometimes. Although I love to get away and seek adventure, I equally love to come home. And Meg and I fit together so perfectly in this way. Our hearts are in our home and family. I know Meg in a way that I had not considered before and perhaps that is part of why I felt in such deep connection with her while she grew in my belly. In fact as I was nearing the end of my 42nd week of pregnancy and the changing of the astrological signs I feared I may have a Leo and it worried me. I don't know why but I felt that baby needed to be a cancer. Strangely I don't even think about astrology all that much normally.

This baby could not have been conceived any closer in date to when we conceived Meg. But this time I am just as likely to have a Gemini as I am a cancer. Our solstice baby could be born on either side of the cusp. My gut has been telling me all along that this baby is more likely to be early and I have come to terms with the fact that I will may not have another cancer to add to my brood. That is where I stopped thinking about it. Until Thursday night... When my yogini asked us what signs our babies would be I was not even sure what came before cancer. We figured it to be Gemini and it was like a lightbulb went off in my head. Now it all made sense. It was clear why I had felt so many conflicting things in any given moment, such duality... the feeling that I want things to hurry up and slow down all at once... maybe even why it felt like this baby had eight limbs. I have been gestating twins! Even from the start of my pregnancy I had a small nagging thought that I was carrying twins. I had no idea that this was what that all meant. And now I am eager to see what this will mean as we get to know this Gemini baby and see how this piece of our family puzzle will fit.

Now I feel even more certain that this baby will not wait for the solstice to arrive. It just all seems to make so much sense that I can't imagine it will go any other way. It sounds in some ways like I have some sort of hope or agenda for this babies time to join our family. But I really don't. Without looking at a calendar I am feeling myself shifting into that birthing zone. Knowing that soon I will be in that window of anticipation when any day holds the potential to be my baby's birthday. That one day I will wake to the last day with this view from here. And each of those days holds such wonder and psyche building energy. Just when will I come to that edge, close my eyes, hold my nose and leap...

...a lemonade stand.

2009-05-15T19:47:00.000-07:00

Last week Dave watched this video and decided to share it with Meg.

http://www.theburiedlife.com/index3.php

They talked about what it meant and dave asked her what she would like to do... Would it be an adventure, a journey... It could be anything. She seemed delighted at the idea of doing whatever she wanted. Animated with the possibilities. First she said she would like to take a long car ride "back to that river that we went to with Nanny and threw rocks in". We played hookie one day this fall and went on an ambling drive West past Genesee. There is a beautiful spot down by the river where we spent an hour or so. Nanny showed Meg how to skip rocks and we just let the day pass. It was blissful.

She liked this idea and wanted to explore some more. Dave then suggested that she could do something new. Something she had never done before. "A lemonade stand" It was that simple and that fabulous all at once. I never had a lemonade stand. Dave never had a lemonade stand. He pointed out that it had been in the video they watched and then there was no stopping her flood of planning and brainstorming. We started that night to try out homemade lemonade recipes and we will work to perfect them while we wait for the weather to cooperate so that our lemonade stand will be an oasis in our little neighbourhood and the customers will flock to have their thirst quenched.

What do you want to do before you die?

...a friend.

2009-05-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

I am blessed. I am surrounded by so many amazing women. My family is comprised of some of the most phenomenal women I know and is born of an amazing feminine legacy. I am very proud of this. I feel deeply attached to my ancestral lineage and know that these women that machteted their way through life ahead of me have allowed me to adorn that path with my own grace and beauty, love and compassion. They have made it easy for me. And as a result I have been able to culture some pretty incredible friendships. And even some pretty incredible acquaintances. The type of people that you know well enough to hug when you greet each other and would feel comfortable to cry with but don't fall into the category of people you call or get together with regularly. What a blessed life I have. I have friends that span the globe and that endure the distance and time between us. If this is a way to measure my wealth I am very rich indeed!

Now more than at any other time I feel compelled to soak in this sea of feminine energy. I want to lay my head back in the water and float on the waves of this soulful sea. I have been drifting this way for months now and it is clearly evident in my inability to focus, attend to the needs of others and generally see a task through to it's end. I am scatterbrained and it makes me smile a little to know that this is the energy that will serve me as my path unfolds towards my birth. The divine feminine. The flowing, oozing, soft, yet powerful qualities that I will need to traverse this portion of my journey are seeping into every part of my life. I was reminded to accept this energy with grace by one of my dearest friends. She knows me in a way so unique I can not put it into words. She is a person I never knew I was missing in my life until she was a part of it.... and now I have no idea how I ever felt complete without our relationship. We have not seen each other for almost a year now and I am aching to see her while I am in this place of fullness and standing, a bit anxiously on the edge of a whole new sense of being. Yesterday she booked a flight to be here for my Mother Blessing in a few weeks. I am overjoyed. This feels like the thing I need to complete the final steps of my preparation before I make my solo journey into the underworld. She will help me to don my medha, she is my handmaiden. Together we will gather my robes, breast plate, lapis necklace and gold bracelets. She will help me dress, comb my hair, apply my make up and wash my feet to honour the journey ahead. Then she will bid me farewell as a maiden-mother of one. Never to return....

...a shift in the energy around here.

2009-05-11T20:04:00.000-07:00

Flailing a little here.... that 5 year old I was smitten with a couple of weeks ago is short on sleep and now her adoration feels like cling film. I now feel a bit like I have given in one too many times to her neediness and now it has become a problem. Ah, the doubt creeps in. Am I building independence by allowing her the chance to feel safe or am I building dependence by not allowing her to work things out for herself? Why is this question coming up now? There is a shift in energy around here. A little anxiety, a little panic and a lot of exhaustion and frustration are eating away at our foundation at the moment. I wish I could freeze my gestation and allow some time to pass. Allow our lives to settle in to our summer routine and get our feet under us a bit before it all changes once again. And in a few days I will feel different again.

...a mother.

2009-05-10T11:19:00.000-07:00

This is the woman I am thankful for on this day.

...something that is urgent-ish.

2009-05-04T10:48:00.000-07:00

Last week my midwife scared me. Normally not a sentence one utters. Midwives are not generally very scary people or people that raise undo concern. I love my midwife and I am quite certain that her induction of panic in me was completely unintentional. I have been watching the days tick by with painstaking sluggishness over the last 7 months. In some ways I have been wishing this time away. Hoping for the end to come into clear sight before I lost my mind with the feeling of being unwell all the time. But now the days seem to be slipping from my grasp at an alarming rate. So last week when my midwife reminded me that I was very nearly 33 weeks and wow, next visit I would be approaching the 5 week countdown... I kinda freaked out. So now I have been fitting as many appointments as possible into my weeks, trying to sort out as much as I can at work and making a list of the must-have-done things around the house. Thank goodness my energy level is up but now with any prolonged activity my belly is one big contraction ball. Oy! I think I will be hopelessly unprepared when this baby arrives but I gave over to the idea of unpreparedness over 5 years ago when we welcomed the first small soul into our lives.

I have been lamenting that I have "done nothing" for this baby. I have not spent a lot of time reflecting romantically on the miracle of life. I have not sought out soulful prenatal preparation, even though it is something that I offer to parents and highly recommend. I have not been to the chiropractor weekly and the massage therapist monthly to nurture my growing and shifting body. I have not made any physical preparation to my home to accommodate for our change in lifestyle. I haven't even begun to prepare my homebirth supplies or got a hold of a car seat. I wasn't feeling terribly guilty about any of this either but slightly apologetic. Now I have come to believe that this is the way that this baby is supposed to arrive. I have stopped doing what I think "should" be done in this time of gestating a new life for my family. Instead my lack of "focus" is allowing me to attend to what ever is coming through to me at any given time. I think this is why I have had no resistance to my changing and overwhelmingly beautiful relationship with my first born over the last few months. I may have missed this incredible time in our lives if I had been fully immersed in my pregnancy and preparations for birth. Perhaps this is the soulful preparation I needed to ignite my mother spirit once again...

...a lullaby.

2009-05-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

Sho Heen
Artist - Kate Rusby

Sleep my friend now I'll watch o'er you
The moon is here and the stars adore you
Close your eyes and you'll sleep just fine
Said my guardian angel once upon a time

Chorus
Sho Heen Sho lo, lu la lo, lu la lo
Sho Heen Sho lo, lu la lo, lu la lo

Why has my angel gone from me
The moon I fear and the stars fall on me
I won't close my eyes 'till the morning light
Oh bring on the sun I cannot rest tonight
Sleep my friend oh I'll watch o'er you
The moon is here and the stars adore you
Close your eyes and sleep tonight
Oh my blessed angel, here again, goodnight

...something that sounds like a lullaby.

2009-04-30T21:09:00.000-07:00

As I was laying on my yoga mat during the relaxation of my prenatal yoga class last Thursday evening my mind was racing. Hardly the point of that relaxation time, I know... I have been working in birth for over 6 years now and I really thought I understood what parents wanted. My work has lead me down a path I had not anticipated would become such a rich part of my life. I see birth as a rite of passage, a transformational journey to the depths of our souls in order to find out who we really are (or aren't). A shedding of one's maiden self in order to take up service as a mother. I know that what women need to prepare for this is not a class describing the stages of labour or a show and tell of all the potential medical equipment one might see in the labour and delivery room. I have discovered that what they truly hunger for is someone to bare witness to them as they discover for themselves what their path will be, from where they have come and to hold space for them as they realize that where they are headed is vastly unknown and uncharted territory. It is a path that involves moments of fear, panic and holy terror along with the more recognized and freely spoken about excitement, joy and anticipation.

5 years ago I read a book by Michel Odent (and later heard him speak in person). He spoke about the needs of a woman in her preparation for birth and it all seemed a bit too simple. In fact he distills a lot of things down to the lowest common denominator. He is a fascinating man. But after reading his books and hearing him speak I couldn't believe that there wasn't more to his belief that all women needed for prenatal preparation was to sing lullabies. Once a week an older woman in the community where he worked in France would play lullabies on the piano and all the pregnant women would gather to sing. They did not take "classes". This was all they did...

Surely they hungered for more than that. How would they know what to do? How would they be able to make decisions about their care? I was already a doula that believed that parents did not have to be obstetrical experts to have a baby but I couldn't let go of our Western thirst for more, more, more information. The last five years have changed my mind about this on so many levels. I have mentored and supported many parents and they all say the same thing. They love lullabies... or painting, or dancing, or storytelling. Intellectually I had new understanding for this lullaby theory.

Last Thursday it sank into my soul... I was laying on that yoga mat and feeling deep in my bones that the first 30 weeks of my second pregnancy had been missing exactly this. A group of maidens gathering to fill themselves with the spirit of a community that was pulsing at the same rhythm as them. And better yet to be lead or held in the bosom of the already initiated. My yogini is special. I met her when I was 5 weeks pregnant with Meg. She was a part of every week of that pregnancy and I lived for those evenings. I had forgotten how sacred they felt. The sharing that happens in her circles is honest and even raw sometimes. Some of the women I met in her classes are still in my life, one of them is one of my dearest friends.

I am struggling to fully translate into text what has settled in my bones about all of this. I might have been able to explain it better before last week because it was stuck in my intellect. It has sifted its way through to a soul knowing where words hold no power. Maybe I could sing it for you....

...something that feels like love.

2009-04-21T13:42:00.000-07:00

The last few days I have found myself falling in love. The first little flutters of love are so sweet and exciting. And this has been a long time coming. Since I found out I was pregnant I have questioned our decision to do this whole thing again. With 6 years past since we were immersed in this world of indigestion and leg cramps leading to sleepless nights, boobs and poop, we were in the clear. We have a nice little groove going as a family of three. We struggle to find time for our adult relationships and squabble over parenting choices (among other things), but we have a happy family. Our daughter has grown into the coolest 5 year old on earth. All of the ups and downs of the first five years are finally paying off in the richness of this blossoming mother-daughter relationship. I crave to be around her and yet she doesn't NEED me in the way she used to. We just are. It is perfection. And now I have leapt. One of the only leaps in life you can't return from unchanged or intact. And we are now only two months away from our solstice baby. You would think that I would be growing more and more anxious about this fact but I am surprised at how things have changed...

This sweet little soul is finally making its way into my heart. I have to admit I am not the kind of person that goes gaga over babies. Maybe it is a result of my birth work and my love of mothers and fathers and their journeys into parenthood. I don't always hold the babies whose births I have just witnessed. Weird? Is this part of my ambivalence to this baby? Has it just taken this long for it's soul to settle in? Maybe I have been too preoccupied by my own struggle with pregnancy and just getting through each day. Or maybe as I suspect I have been doubtful all along that this was the right choice for our family. And now over the last few days I have begun to feel the first flutterings of falling in love. Baby is now moving in ways that feel so.... baby-like. I feel it's little foot push against my belly and when I push back it yields against my hand. It's like a game. Like we are discovering each other. In a way that dates and numbers don't tell you I can feel how close it is. Soon I will know it's little face.

Love Part II

Ironically another love has grown that I will soon lose to the emergence of this baby... I love a woman's pregnant body. I actually really love women's bodies to be honest. So round and soft ... almost as if you can see the fullness of life that they are able to bear. But that pregnant shape, it just looks so juicy! Like ripe fruit. It beats all other body shapes hands down. And I know I am not the only one that feels this way. The compulsion of other women to look at a blooming belly is obvious. Try and stop yourself. Having said all this I have never been in love with my pregnant body. In the year before conceiving Meg I lost 100 pounds. And although I felt great and looked fabulous with my clothes on... that extra hundred pounds had left it's lasting signs on my body. I was angry with myself for ever allowing that to happen. No amount of exercise would tighten the now loose and empty skin. I imagined that my full and pregnant body would once again fill out that belly which then lay deflated at my hips. I was so disappointed that it never did. That I would not be the hot mama in the bikini top and floppy sun hat in our families home movies. Instead I had this misshapen belly that never quite burst out with the ripeness of a watermelon.

This time I have slowly been won over by my body. Gradually I have watched my fullness force me to give into the reality of what was going on inside of me. And in the last week or so I have fallen head over heels in love with my big round belly. I choose clothes that cling to my shape and leave no doubt that I am heavy with this child. The baby doll style maternity clothes have found their way to the bottom of my dresser drawer in favour of shirts that I bought off the rack in the "regular" department. My belly precedes me wherever I go and yes, people are compelled to look at my ripe body.

Last weekend we put up a mirror in the front entry of our house. It has always been something I wanted. To check my hair on the way out the door or make sure there was nothing in my teeth before I went out in public. At long last I have a big, huge, beautiful mirror to greet me as I walk in my door. A gift from my aunt for our wedding 15 years ago. Made of wood reclaimed from a barn and an old school house I believe. It now has the perfect home. On Tuesday I walked in the door from my daily walk to drop Meg off at school and was greeted by the reflection of the most beautiful pregnant woman I had ever seen. Certainly not love at first sight... but nonetheless quite a sudden revelation.

So now the bittersweet irony settles in. I have finally found myself falling for two things at the same time. Two things that can't really co-exist. Or do they? Right up until I re-read those words I thought this was true. But how can I not be in love with this vessel and it's contents at the same time. Perfect! So for the next two moons I will drink deeply from this well of love. I know I will have many moons of love to follow as I get to know my newborn but this love is like no other. Maybe these next two months will allow me the opportunity to show Meg that there is more two having babies than puking and pain!

...something that is ending.

2009-04-15T21:12:00.000-07:00

I have been going at full speed ahead or full stop lately. The schedules of my family have collided into a break neck speed over the last few months and then we were slammed with sickness. Nursing myself and my daughter through the flu for over a week had us hibernating. All of this has led to a disconnect from my friends and family. Some I have not seen for months (and I think have given up on me) and others tolerate my sporadic attention and apologies for my lack of time. Today I took a short break to talk with a dear friend on the phone and I realized that this gap in my social structure has had a larger affect than I realized. This chatter with friends, shallow or deep, is my way to self discovery. I have, in fact, been moving through my life without much reflection. At a time when reflection, discovery and transformation should be a daily practice. Gestating a new life should have me thinking about change, growth and fear. But I have thought of little else but the mundane juggling of my daily routine... So this talk today allowed me a chance to reflect. She offered that perhaps I needed to find some time for myself. Some time to focus on me and my journey to the motherhood of this baby. Permission for myself to be selfish. But without hesitation I disagreed with her observation. I suddenly realized that what I wanted was permission to completely lose myself in my relationship with my first born. I know on an intellectual level that my heart will grow and my bosom will swell to accommodate my love for two children but for now I can only see that my relationship with my daughter will be irreversibly changed forever on the day that we welcome this next one into our lives. It brings a lump to my throat as I write about it. I don't know this new baby yet. But I am completely smitten by my daughter. Our mutual adoration seems to have grown to overflowing lately and I am worried about this increased attachment on one level but drinking it up on another.

Over the last few weeks we have finally focused some of our attention on moving Meg into her own room in our new(ish) house. We moved here in June and with all the change in our lives we felt that having her sleep close to us was best for all of us. Her mattress has been on the floor next to our bed until only a few days ago. I am reluctantly encouraging her to carve her own space in our home. To feel cozy and comfortable in some place other than our bedroom. We painted, bought a new natural latex mattress and are working on refinishing my childhood bed for her to call her own. She spent the first few nights in her own room with her cousins sleeping over. A novelty for her and it went quite well. The last two nights I slept with her all night on her old crib mattress next to her new one. 30 weeks pregnant with a pinched nerve in one hip and a belly that keeps me on a rotisserie all night. And I somehow can't see myself giving it up. I am just not ready for this to end yet...

...something that is awkward.

2009-04-14T15:57:00.001-07:00

How does someone start a blog? Is there any point to giving context for the 36 years that brought me to this point? Or does it make more sense to start off with a journal entry as if I have started from here? Or do I explain why I am doing this or who I am? I have no idea where to start...

I have always been terrible at journalling. I want to write. I feel compelled to document my life but I start every entry with "it has been so long and so much has changed... " I spend all of my time catching myself up instead of writing about where I am at. Lately I have found myself awake at night for hours sometimes (the hormones of pregnancy at play) and I am composing emails or journalling in my head and wishing I was documenting this journey for myself, my daughter, my next baby and maybe even for others to read and relate to. So now I set out on this exploration of the blog. Maybe it will work for me.

Ugh this still feels like an awkward first date and the beginning of something uncertain...