Last weekend, we had the distinct pleasure of not only attending Derek's little brother's wedding, but of being part of the wedding party — we were all part of it: Derek as best man, me as a bride's maid, and Maïa and Solanne as flower girls. Maïa had practiced and talked about the whole thing for weeks, which is an eternity for a four-year-old. Solanne wasn't too sure what was going on, I think.
When we were preparing, I was keeping my expectations low. I figured if at least one of them made it down the aisle without any major catastrophe, I would be satisfied. Well, Solanne never made it down that long aisle, with all those eyes staring at her. But Maïa...
With all due respect to the bride (who looked lovely and radiant), my girl stole the show, at least in my eyes. She went down that aisle in her beautiful little white dress, carrying her little basket full of rose petals. And she carefully lay handfuls on the floor as she went. She obediently sat down with her Nana in the front row and watched the wedding, legs crossed at the knee. And when the time came for the bride and groom to sign the register, on came the music, "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" and out went Maïa in front of the altar, dancing. I guess the beat was too hard to ignore. She danced the whole time, and I laughed and laughed. Who was this little girl with the great sense of rhythm, without inhibitions?
And she kept surprising me. I barely saw her the entire day. Of course, I was busy helping the bride and getting pictures taken, etc, but even when I had some down time, Maïa was busy, working the room. She was showing off her shoes to anyone who would listen. I think each person at the wedding got to see them at least three or four times. She even went up to the dj and shouted out to him to take a look at her cool new footwear.
She sang songs at the microphone to get her Uncle Pat and Matante Julie to kiss; she visited with her cousins, many of whom she only sees once or twice a year; she twirled around and showed the guests her ballet moves. She shone.
The little shy girl I used to know has disappeared and been replaced with this amazingly outgoing and self-confident child. I've watched her grow into this person, of course, yet I sometimes wonder where she came from. And I realise that even as her mother, I do not know her entirely, cannot know her completely. She has parts of her self that are just for her self. It's incredible; my daughter is an independent human being. And I get to continue to discover her, every day.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Milestone: Big girl bed
Well, it's official, I guess. No more babies in our house. Today, Solanne graduated from her crib to a toddler bed.
Maïa and Solanne were never serious climbers and never tried to get out of their crib as babies. But in the past few days, both girls have been clambering to get into Solanne's crib to play. Now Sol can't get in on her own, so Maïa has been boosting her in (read: tossing!). Derek and I were afraid of head injuries, so we decided that it was time for the switch. We removed the side of the crib, and voilà!, in true IKEA fashion, it was a toddler bed.
She slept just fine during her nap; in fact, she slept an epic 3+ hours, so I imagine she feels comfortable with her new sleeping arrangement.
The move from one era to another is always harder on mom.
Maïa and Solanne were never serious climbers and never tried to get out of their crib as babies. But in the past few days, both girls have been clambering to get into Solanne's crib to play. Now Sol can't get in on her own, so Maïa has been boosting her in (read: tossing!). Derek and I were afraid of head injuries, so we decided that it was time for the switch. We removed the side of the crib, and voilà!, in true IKEA fashion, it was a toddler bed.
She slept just fine during her nap; in fact, she slept an epic 3+ hours, so I imagine she feels comfortable with her new sleeping arrangement.
The move from one era to another is always harder on mom.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Virus number 5
Since September and back-to-school/daycare, our family has suffered from and survived four different viruses, and we're currently dealing with Number Five. By some miracle of vitamines and immune systems, we don't all catch every virus, but there is always at least one child and one adult infected. Viruses One through Four didn't worry or bother me much, but Virus Five has me considerably annoyed. The timing is completely wrong: not only is Derek's little brother Pat getting married on Saturday, we're all in the wedding party. I guess the girls can be Rudolphesque flowergirls... it's in keeping with the Christmas theme, right?
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Four entries for the price of one
It's been a good long while, in bloggerworld, since I have posted here. And it's not for a shortage of things to discuss or ruminate over. Au contraire! The truth is, I've been rather busy with a number of projects/activities/responsibilities. And I've written at least half a dozen blog entries... in my head. Here's the abbreviated version of some:
It seems that so many people around here take child care for granted. By around here, I'm saying Montreal, but perhaps Quebec in general. Our daycare is currently in upheaval (long story) and some families have chosen to leave. Some complain of the supplemental $5 per day we have to pay, for a grand total of $12 per day for high-quality child care. Those same families have chosen to put their children in very expensive preschool programs that cost upwards of $500 per month, for half days (if you're counting, that's about four times more than the daycare system). Why is it that we, as humans, are willing to pay through the nose (if our nose is sufficiently filled, that is) for something that is expensive but balk at paying more for something that is already very cheap. It seems the cheaper something is — like child care — the less we think it's worth. Maïa's experience at this daycare has been invaluable, and I can't believe that her educators, who are so competent and loving and resourceful, get paid somewhere around ten bucks an hour. It's robbery.
————
Snow, snow, the beautiful snow. Its arrival this year was a little less dramatic than last year's but exciting nevertheless. Solanne and Maïa stick out their little tongues to catch snowflakes, they put on their snowpants long before it's time to go out, and they squeal with delight to see their little world, which consists of our house, yard, and street, transformed into a magical land right before their eyes. I used to hate to see the snow arrive. Now I love it.
————
I always used to hear parents talk about how much they had learned about themselves since they became parents, and I thought they were likely exaggerating. I mean really, did they not know themselves before? Well, I guess I didn't really know myself because these little girls make me visit and revisit my assumptions almost on a daily basis. One example: I've become militantly francophone. Rather, I've realised that I'm a militant francophone. It breaks my heart when Solanne only speaks English and that her French words, when I insist she use them, they come out with an English accent. Je suis franco-ontarienne! Et mes enfants le seront aussi! The craziest part of it all is that my French isn't all that great. My accent is fine and my vocab is okay, but my speech is littered with Anglicisms, and I'm often enough at a loss for certain French words. And I'm ashamed of myself. And I realise that I wanted my children to be French-speakers. Not bilingual, but uniligually Francophones. That way, their language would be pure and right... not like mine. I've learned that I am caught between two worlds, in a sense: far more comfortable speaking and writing in English, but wanting to distance myself from the English-speaking world.
————
Before I became a parent, I had a lot of opinions on how children should be raised. One of them involved nightlights. I thought that they were a convenient invention by parents who had scared their children with monster stories and then who had to expiate their sins by putting a light in their children's rooms to keep them "safe." I figured that if a newborn can sleep in a dark room, then surely a toddler, who had never been introduced to the idea of a night light, would simply grow accustomed to the dark. And Maïa proved me right. She was never afraid of the dark. We never talked about monsters, and we never made the night seem frightening to her in any way. We kept it all very neutral. And she never needed a night light or for us to keep the door to her room open. Leave it to the second child to prove mom wrong. Solanne has had a completely different experience. About a two months ago, she started hating bedtime. She would fight with us when it was time to put her in her crib and turn out the light. This was strange because at nap time, she was great, and she had always liked bedtime (I know: we're pretty lucky!). But out of the blue, she changed. She would scream, ask for a drink, ask me to hold her hand or to leave the door open, anything to keep me in the room with her. And she would have night terrors, waking up in the middle of the night, screaming, terrified. I finally clued in one night a couple of weeks ago. I put in a night light. And now, we're all getting a whole lot more sleep. Turns out I was wrong. humph.
It seems that so many people around here take child care for granted. By around here, I'm saying Montreal, but perhaps Quebec in general. Our daycare is currently in upheaval (long story) and some families have chosen to leave. Some complain of the supplemental $5 per day we have to pay, for a grand total of $12 per day for high-quality child care. Those same families have chosen to put their children in very expensive preschool programs that cost upwards of $500 per month, for half days (if you're counting, that's about four times more than the daycare system). Why is it that we, as humans, are willing to pay through the nose (if our nose is sufficiently filled, that is) for something that is expensive but balk at paying more for something that is already very cheap. It seems the cheaper something is — like child care — the less we think it's worth. Maïa's experience at this daycare has been invaluable, and I can't believe that her educators, who are so competent and loving and resourceful, get paid somewhere around ten bucks an hour. It's robbery.
————
Snow, snow, the beautiful snow. Its arrival this year was a little less dramatic than last year's but exciting nevertheless. Solanne and Maïa stick out their little tongues to catch snowflakes, they put on their snowpants long before it's time to go out, and they squeal with delight to see their little world, which consists of our house, yard, and street, transformed into a magical land right before their eyes. I used to hate to see the snow arrive. Now I love it.
————
I always used to hear parents talk about how much they had learned about themselves since they became parents, and I thought they were likely exaggerating. I mean really, did they not know themselves before? Well, I guess I didn't really know myself because these little girls make me visit and revisit my assumptions almost on a daily basis. One example: I've become militantly francophone. Rather, I've realised that I'm a militant francophone. It breaks my heart when Solanne only speaks English and that her French words, when I insist she use them, they come out with an English accent. Je suis franco-ontarienne! Et mes enfants le seront aussi! The craziest part of it all is that my French isn't all that great. My accent is fine and my vocab is okay, but my speech is littered with Anglicisms, and I'm often enough at a loss for certain French words. And I'm ashamed of myself. And I realise that I wanted my children to be French-speakers. Not bilingual, but uniligually Francophones. That way, their language would be pure and right... not like mine. I've learned that I am caught between two worlds, in a sense: far more comfortable speaking and writing in English, but wanting to distance myself from the English-speaking world.
————
Before I became a parent, I had a lot of opinions on how children should be raised. One of them involved nightlights. I thought that they were a convenient invention by parents who had scared their children with monster stories and then who had to expiate their sins by putting a light in their children's rooms to keep them "safe." I figured that if a newborn can sleep in a dark room, then surely a toddler, who had never been introduced to the idea of a night light, would simply grow accustomed to the dark. And Maïa proved me right. She was never afraid of the dark. We never talked about monsters, and we never made the night seem frightening to her in any way. We kept it all very neutral. And she never needed a night light or for us to keep the door to her room open. Leave it to the second child to prove mom wrong. Solanne has had a completely different experience. About a two months ago, she started hating bedtime. She would fight with us when it was time to put her in her crib and turn out the light. This was strange because at nap time, she was great, and she had always liked bedtime (I know: we're pretty lucky!). But out of the blue, she changed. She would scream, ask for a drink, ask me to hold her hand or to leave the door open, anything to keep me in the room with her. And she would have night terrors, waking up in the middle of the night, screaming, terrified. I finally clued in one night a couple of weeks ago. I put in a night light. And now, we're all getting a whole lot more sleep. Turns out I was wrong. humph.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Cut from the same cloth
On Thursday, when I went to pick up Maïa from daycare, I got to have a quick chat with Maïa's two teachers. Things are usually a little too insane to be able to have any kind of exchange beyond, "Have a nice evening!" Unless, of course, there is something wrong, in which case, time is made. This wasn't that kind of chat; it was the good kind.
Sandra, Maïa's teacher, told me that Maïa really likes to participate in circle time. This came as a great relief because in September, she apparently wasn't saying a word at circle time. Things have changed: now "participating" may be something of an understatement. When her teachers ask a question, Maïa puts up her hand, and if she isn't called upon immediately, she quickly falls into the "ooo! ooo-ooo-ooo! I know!"-arm-waving-hand-flailing kind of participation.
At this news, I laughed, and I felt my face become red. She's exactly like me (and Derek, too). She's an enthusiastic learner, a show-off, an overachiever. And I'm admitting all this not in the spirit of bragging so much as in the state of being at a loss.
You see, I was an overachiever. I always wanted to be better at school than everyone else. I was in a gifted programme in high school. All my friends were smart (and overachievers, if they let me call them that!). And I used to wonder what I would do if I had a child who had a learning disability or who simply didn't care about school. I knew it would be difficult, but I figured I could learn how to deal with it. I never considered that I would have to learn how to deal with a child who was very much like me. But there it is: I have no idea what to do with her. Should I continue to encourage her, to push her? And I find the same discomfort that I did as a child: I didn't like talking about my grades to anyone. I don't particularly like talking about Maïa's abilities and capacities to the parents of her peers. There's something distinctly foul about it, yet I can't quite describe it.
Funny how as parents we have expectations, nameless, that we put upon our children (sometimes long before they are born). I simply expected my kids to be different from me. And they're not. It's hard watching little people who look so much like you (physically or otherwise) running around out there. Overexposure, I think.
Sandra, Maïa's teacher, told me that Maïa really likes to participate in circle time. This came as a great relief because in September, she apparently wasn't saying a word at circle time. Things have changed: now "participating" may be something of an understatement. When her teachers ask a question, Maïa puts up her hand, and if she isn't called upon immediately, she quickly falls into the "ooo! ooo-ooo-ooo! I know!"-arm-waving-hand-flailing kind of participation.
At this news, I laughed, and I felt my face become red. She's exactly like me (and Derek, too). She's an enthusiastic learner, a show-off, an overachiever. And I'm admitting all this not in the spirit of bragging so much as in the state of being at a loss.
You see, I was an overachiever. I always wanted to be better at school than everyone else. I was in a gifted programme in high school. All my friends were smart (and overachievers, if they let me call them that!). And I used to wonder what I would do if I had a child who had a learning disability or who simply didn't care about school. I knew it would be difficult, but I figured I could learn how to deal with it. I never considered that I would have to learn how to deal with a child who was very much like me. But there it is: I have no idea what to do with her. Should I continue to encourage her, to push her? And I find the same discomfort that I did as a child: I didn't like talking about my grades to anyone. I don't particularly like talking about Maïa's abilities and capacities to the parents of her peers. There's something distinctly foul about it, yet I can't quite describe it.
Funny how as parents we have expectations, nameless, that we put upon our children (sometimes long before they are born). I simply expected my kids to be different from me. And they're not. It's hard watching little people who look so much like you (physically or otherwise) running around out there. Overexposure, I think.
Monday, November 13, 2006
More bragging
Sunday evening, while we were busy getting supper ready, Maïa was playing with her magna-doodle-type toy. There are pictures of My Little Pony all over it, which is an attractive feature to our little equine-lover. In any case, she called out to us from the livingroom, saying, I thought, that she had drawn a pony. I was interested, so I asked her to show me her picture. She said, "It's not a picture!" When she finally came to show me what she had created, I was floored: she had written pony. Okay, not exactly pony, but she did write PonE, which I think is pretty impressive. After all, the letter E makes an "ee" sound, right?
And this morning she did more sounding out on her own and writing. She's the best!
And this morning she did more sounding out on her own and writing. She's the best!
Monday, November 06, 2006
This is the part of the blog where I get to brag about my kids
...because I don't really use this blog to brag about my kids. Sometimes, I even complain. I try to keep the gushing to a minimum, since I know that my kids are so awesome, and I know that if I go on about them people with children of their own will start to be jealous and wish that my kids were theirs. I would hate to cause coveting in my friends. And those who don't have children of their own may be caused never to have any because they know their future children could never live up to the magnificence of mine.
Alas, you will all have to get over it. Here goes:
Maïa:
-can count up to one hundred. On her own. No prompting
-knows the words to over 30 songs, many in French
-can make her own ponytails
-does amazing pirouettes
-is starting to read words
-understands some Italian
-has the best freckles on her nose
-knows when violins or pianos are playing when listening to classical music
-reads stories to her little sister
-is well behaved when Solanne is crazy
-asks to brush her teeth
-never protests at bedtime
-loves broccoli
-says "I love you" out of the blue
-dresses independently; even refuses help
-has great fashion sense
-has been faithful to Clicky
-draws some wicked-kickass pictures; better than most kids her age
-colours inside the lines but has a definite opinion on what colours go where
-is the prettiest little girl I've ever seen
Solanne:
-can count up to 12
-can dress Polly Pocket, including her 5mm shoes
-can catch, throw, and kick a ball very well
-speaks very clearly in complex sentences
-sings in tune
-says "I'm sad" or "Mommy fâchée" at the appropriate times
-randomly hugs and kisses her big sister
-loves almost any kind of fruit
-can do four-piece puzzles completely independently
-holds a pencil correctly
-knows most of her letters
-knows many colours (especially pink)
-likes to help do the dishes
-reminds us to clean up at bedtime, by singing the "Clean up!" song
-loves to brush her teeth
-knows when it's her turn and when it's not — generally
-is the cutest little toddler around
Alas, you will all have to get over it. Here goes:
Maïa:
-can count up to one hundred. On her own. No prompting
-knows the words to over 30 songs, many in French
-can make her own ponytails
-does amazing pirouettes
-is starting to read words
-understands some Italian
-has the best freckles on her nose
-knows when violins or pianos are playing when listening to classical music
-reads stories to her little sister
-is well behaved when Solanne is crazy
-asks to brush her teeth
-never protests at bedtime
-loves broccoli
-says "I love you" out of the blue
-dresses independently; even refuses help
-has great fashion sense
-has been faithful to Clicky
-draws some wicked-kickass pictures; better than most kids her age
-colours inside the lines but has a definite opinion on what colours go where
-is the prettiest little girl I've ever seen
Solanne:
-can count up to 12
-can dress Polly Pocket, including her 5mm shoes
-can catch, throw, and kick a ball very well
-speaks very clearly in complex sentences
-sings in tune
-says "I'm sad" or "Mommy fâchée" at the appropriate times
-randomly hugs and kisses her big sister
-loves almost any kind of fruit
-can do four-piece puzzles completely independently
-holds a pencil correctly
-knows most of her letters
-knows many colours (especially pink)
-likes to help do the dishes
-reminds us to clean up at bedtime, by singing the "Clean up!" song
-loves to brush her teeth
-knows when it's her turn and when it's not — generally
-is the cutest little toddler around
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Surfing the web
Check our our new links section to the right: Friends & Family. I hope that this section will grow as I receive permission from other friends and family to create a link to their blogs or websites. If you are among this number and I haven't contacted you yet, send me an email to tell me you want me to link to you!! I might have forgotten or I may not know that your blogging or have a website... in which case, shame on you!
Hallowe'en
Four days ago, I got my kids all gussied up and ready for Hallowe'en; I did it excitedly and happily, with the memories of last year still warming me. Last year was the first Hallowe'en that I recall ever enjoying. No kidding. I never really like Hallowe'en when I was a kid. I could never come up with a cool costume. I didn't have any siblings or neighbourhood friends to trick or treat with. I've never liked candy. Hallowe'en just never fit me the way it seemed to slip so easily onto my friends.
So it was with great surprise that I so enjoyed the holiday last year. Maïa was decked out in her elephant costume and Sol in her dragon pyjamas, and we headed out into the cold, with the idea that we'd go to a handful of houses and come back home. Maïa was so into the whole process — and who wouldn't be? strangers giving you goodies? cool! We went up two and a half (long) blocks and tnt'ed the way back, too.
And the whole time, there were kids everywhere, running up and down the sidewalks in all manner of costumes. Parents lagging behind, some alone, some in small groups, chatting with each other. Everyone smiling at each other and commenting on how cute our kids were. We got to meet our neighbours and say hello, happy Hallowe'en. They opened their doors to us, pouring out the warm glow of their home beyond the door, pouring out their generosity in the form of mini candy bars and tiny bags of chips and smiles and laughter.
This Hallowe'en morning, when I was bringing Maïa to daycare with Solanne in toe, people walking down the busy sidewalk, who would normally just step aside and not make eye-contact, looked at my girls in their costumes and smiled. Some commented. And when we arrived at the daycare, I was excited to see what each child was wearing, and I chatted with parents and we rolled our eyes together as we noted all the girls in princess costumes and all the boys in super hero attire.
I began to realise, for the first time, how important shared rituals and holidays are. This little holiday, where we get our children dressed up in their favourite costumes, brings us all together. Suddenly, instead of rushing out of the daycare, we parents take a few minutes to chat, and we perceive our similarities (oh, she changed her mind about the costume at the last minute, too!) instead of our obvious differences. Strangers take the time to smile, to stop, to talk. Their memories of their own Hallowe'ens past or of their own children similarly dressed that day, draw them nearer to us, even for a moment.
So it was with great surprise that I so enjoyed the holiday last year. Maïa was decked out in her elephant costume and Sol in her dragon pyjamas, and we headed out into the cold, with the idea that we'd go to a handful of houses and come back home. Maïa was so into the whole process — and who wouldn't be? strangers giving you goodies? cool! We went up two and a half (long) blocks and tnt'ed the way back, too.
And the whole time, there were kids everywhere, running up and down the sidewalks in all manner of costumes. Parents lagging behind, some alone, some in small groups, chatting with each other. Everyone smiling at each other and commenting on how cute our kids were. We got to meet our neighbours and say hello, happy Hallowe'en. They opened their doors to us, pouring out the warm glow of their home beyond the door, pouring out their generosity in the form of mini candy bars and tiny bags of chips and smiles and laughter.
This Hallowe'en morning, when I was bringing Maïa to daycare with Solanne in toe, people walking down the busy sidewalk, who would normally just step aside and not make eye-contact, looked at my girls in their costumes and smiled. Some commented. And when we arrived at the daycare, I was excited to see what each child was wearing, and I chatted with parents and we rolled our eyes together as we noted all the girls in princess costumes and all the boys in super hero attire.
I began to realise, for the first time, how important shared rituals and holidays are. This little holiday, where we get our children dressed up in their favourite costumes, brings us all together. Suddenly, instead of rushing out of the daycare, we parents take a few minutes to chat, and we perceive our similarities (oh, she changed her mind about the costume at the last minute, too!) instead of our obvious differences. Strangers take the time to smile, to stop, to talk. Their memories of their own Hallowe'ens past or of their own children similarly dressed that day, draw them nearer to us, even for a moment.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Maïa's birth story
Maïa's birthday is coming up in six days, not that she's counting. And I've been thinking a lot about her birth. Last year, I wrote Solanne's birth story, and some readers expressed an interest in Maïa's story. So here it is.
At the end of October that year, I came down with some sort of flu. It was awful. It was bad enough being eight-and-a-bit months pregnant, but being stuffed up and feverish was really gross. Then, on the night of October 30th, my fever was getting to me, and I was hoping it would break. I had a difficult night's sleep. At 2 am on Halloween morning, I was lying awake in bed, with the covers off, thinking, I should move the duvet away from between my legs; imagine if my water broke! So I moved it, and a moment later, you guessed it, my water broke. I ran to the bathroom. I knew this was it. I called out to Derek. He walked over to the bathroom, groggily, and asked me what was wrong. I said, I think it's time. That sure woke him up! His eyes flew open in utter shock and disbelief. Really? Now?
If it had been up to him, we would have been on the road to the hospital. But I calmed him down and told him that we should page Lily, our midwife. So we did. And since I wasn't having any contractions yet, I was told to try to go back to sleep, it could be a long few hours (or days!) ahead. So we headed back to bed. I slept a little, but mostly I was excited... and nervous. It seemed pretty early, at 37 weeks. And here I thought the baby would be late, so I had another third of the semester to teach at the university. Luckily, it was just one class.
In the morning, Derek headed over to my office (a block away from our home) to post a note saying I couldn't make my office hours. One of my midwives came by to check in on me. It was actually her birthday! She said Halloween is a great time to have a birthday. I secretly hoped that our little one would wait til the next day.
While there were still no contractions, I busied myself with the rest of the marking I had to do. I planned out the rest of my classes and sent my schedule to my TA, who would be teaching the next four classes. We made a few phone calls to settle everything up and also to tell our friends and family that soon it would be time. Still no contractions. Then, at around 2 pm, they began. Looking back, they were difficult from the onset, and they just got worse. I couldn't walk through them; I could just lie on our bed and breathe. The contractions weren't close enough together to warrant going to the hospital or calling the midwife yet again. So we tried getting me into the bath. We were in an old house, so the bath was one of those old ones on feet; it was narrow and very deep. Bad idea. It was hard to get me in, and once I was in, I hated it, so I had to get back out...
Then around 8 pm, I couldn't take it anymore, so we called my mom and she came by to drive us to the hospital. She would be in the waiting room the entire time, knitting away. She finished a little sweater that night!
Lily had prepared the room for us: the jacuzzi was filled with hot water, the room was quiet and darkened. There were no nurses checking in on me or asking me questions. Just Lily keeping an eye on things. She understood instinctively, without my telling her, that I did not want anyone touching me or talking to me. I just wanted to know that she was there and that Derek was there. Lily would come by every now and then to take my pressure and temp (because I had been running a fever). At one point, one of her veteran colleagues came by for a consult. Everything looked good...
But all I remember was the pain. It was such an intense experience that I think I was slightly hallucinating. I recall these images in my head of a blue metal box, which represented my contractions. It would expand with each pain, and then grow smaller. But through each contraction, it grew slightly larger. Soon (hours later??), it transformed into Mr Brockelhurst, from Jane Eyre. It was big and imposing and frightening. I told Derek about it, and I thought that he must consider me insane. But he didn't say so; he just gently cheered me through each contraction, letting me deal with the pain the way I knew best. He didn't touch me, but he let me put my hand on his. He didn't talk when he knew I didn't want him to. We were so in synch.
I had wanted to try labour without any pain medication, but when at around 2 am (I think) I was told that I was at 3 cm — still. I looked over at Derek, and I knew he wouldn't think any less or more of me, no matter the decision I made. So I decided to go with the epidural. There was no anestheseologist on the floor at the time, so he had to be paged. We waited about 45 minutes. By the time he was on the way, Lily checked again, and I was miraculously at 9 cm. I knew I could do this. So I called it off. I don't know how much time elapsed, but it seemed pretty quick when I felt my body constrict. Lily came by and asked me if I felt like pushing. I realised that's what I had been doing. So she checked me again, to make sure I was fully dialated so as not to hurt myself, and that's when all hell broke loose.
Uh, Cristina, you might want to wait. Let's try not pushing.
Not pushing? She showed me how to breathe through a contraction without pushing. Derek breathed with me. His eyes kept me focused.
I'm not sure what she said then, but I know she ran out of the room to get someone. A resident came in with an ultrasound machine. She introduced herself and quickly examined me. She's breech! That's all I remember.
And then people, people, people. Each one doing something different. Lights on. Noise everywhere. A nurse took Derek away from me to get him changed. Another nurse introduced herself and stood by my side, prepping me. When a contraction came, I forgot how to breathe, so I started pushing. I didn't know this before, but it seems that the need to push in such a situation is not something one can control. The body does it on its own; one can help it along, but there's little to do to stop it. So when the nurse was upset with me for pushing, I started to cry. I couldn't stop, and I told her so. She eased up a bit, and told me that I could hurt myself if I didn't stop. Like that helped... but she did breathe with me, which did help.
More noise. Lights. Machines. Being wheeled out. Into the even-brighter hall. Into the O.R. More noise and lights and machines and people. My midwife was suddenly by my side. But I kept checking the door for Derek. What was taking him so long?? It seemed that the door opened dozens of times, but it was never him.
And then they rolled me over to put in the spinal. I remember the doctor telling me it would hurt, but I don't remember the pain of it. All I remember is the sweet bliss of quiet. My body was suddenly still. I could finally make sense of it all. The pain was gone. Poof.
I was suddenly cracking jokes and able to enjoy the fact that my little baby would soon, finally!, be in my arms. And then Derek appeared. (It turns out that he had changed into his lovely green outfit in record time, but they wouldn't let him in.) He was wearing a surgical mask and cap; all I could see were his gorgeous eyes, and I knew we could get through this.
They put up a sheet at chest level so I couldn't see anything (thank God!). And there was some very serious tugging going on. Our little one was stuck in there, bum first. They got her out and exclaimed, it's a girl!
What joy. Finally. She was here. I heard her cry, and then I cried to hear it. They wrapped her up and gave her to Derek. I would have to wait a while to hold my baby. The spinal had made me numb from the neck down. And, to boot, they were going to have to take her to the special care unit. She had an eye infection that would need antibiotics; nothing serious, but it had to be taken care of. So off they went, the pediatrician and new Daddy, with my baby.
The whole experience is a bitter sweet one, and one that took me a while to work through. I had so wanted, and very much expected, to have a "normal" delivery. And I was almost there when I had to have this emergency c-section. And I couldn't hold my baby right away. And she wasn't completely well. And the special care unit was a very long corridor away from my room. And they gave her a bottle to drink when I wanted to breastfeed exclusively. And my maternity ward nurse got mad at me when I stayed with my daughter for an hour because, in her words, it would make my recovery take longer. My recovery be damned: my baby needed me so she could get better. She was so tiny, and so alone, in that little bassinet with that IV in her tiny little hand. And the little block taped to her hand so that she wouldn't bend it and take the IV out. And the heart monitor.
In retrospect, we got through it because we had to, but I realise now that it was a very upsetting series of events. Don't get me wrong; I am thankful everyday that I had to opportunity to delivery my baby in a safe, clean, modern hospital. That my baby is alive. That I am alive. But I think that the whole thing made my first few weeks and months as a mother more difficult than they were with Solanne, and not just because I was a first-time mother. A woman's experience of birth, even if it involves emergency measures, should be more positive. And she should be followed up my a counsellor, someone to talk through the events. And she shouldn't be yelled at by her nurse. And she (or her partner!) should not be bullied into bottle-feeding because the baby is hungry (when in fact, she isn't).
In the end, I have come out of this experience a much stronger person. I think it was the most physically and emotionally trying time in my life, bar none. And now I can talk to others about it and be an advocate, in my own little way, for new parents. But best of all, and this isn't meant to sound trite or easy, I have my Maïa.
Happy Birthday, in advance, Maïa.
At the end of October that year, I came down with some sort of flu. It was awful. It was bad enough being eight-and-a-bit months pregnant, but being stuffed up and feverish was really gross. Then, on the night of October 30th, my fever was getting to me, and I was hoping it would break. I had a difficult night's sleep. At 2 am on Halloween morning, I was lying awake in bed, with the covers off, thinking, I should move the duvet away from between my legs; imagine if my water broke! So I moved it, and a moment later, you guessed it, my water broke. I ran to the bathroom. I knew this was it. I called out to Derek. He walked over to the bathroom, groggily, and asked me what was wrong. I said, I think it's time. That sure woke him up! His eyes flew open in utter shock and disbelief. Really? Now?
If it had been up to him, we would have been on the road to the hospital. But I calmed him down and told him that we should page Lily, our midwife. So we did. And since I wasn't having any contractions yet, I was told to try to go back to sleep, it could be a long few hours (or days!) ahead. So we headed back to bed. I slept a little, but mostly I was excited... and nervous. It seemed pretty early, at 37 weeks. And here I thought the baby would be late, so I had another third of the semester to teach at the university. Luckily, it was just one class.
In the morning, Derek headed over to my office (a block away from our home) to post a note saying I couldn't make my office hours. One of my midwives came by to check in on me. It was actually her birthday! She said Halloween is a great time to have a birthday. I secretly hoped that our little one would wait til the next day.
While there were still no contractions, I busied myself with the rest of the marking I had to do. I planned out the rest of my classes and sent my schedule to my TA, who would be teaching the next four classes. We made a few phone calls to settle everything up and also to tell our friends and family that soon it would be time. Still no contractions. Then, at around 2 pm, they began. Looking back, they were difficult from the onset, and they just got worse. I couldn't walk through them; I could just lie on our bed and breathe. The contractions weren't close enough together to warrant going to the hospital or calling the midwife yet again. So we tried getting me into the bath. We were in an old house, so the bath was one of those old ones on feet; it was narrow and very deep. Bad idea. It was hard to get me in, and once I was in, I hated it, so I had to get back out...
Then around 8 pm, I couldn't take it anymore, so we called my mom and she came by to drive us to the hospital. She would be in the waiting room the entire time, knitting away. She finished a little sweater that night!
Lily had prepared the room for us: the jacuzzi was filled with hot water, the room was quiet and darkened. There were no nurses checking in on me or asking me questions. Just Lily keeping an eye on things. She understood instinctively, without my telling her, that I did not want anyone touching me or talking to me. I just wanted to know that she was there and that Derek was there. Lily would come by every now and then to take my pressure and temp (because I had been running a fever). At one point, one of her veteran colleagues came by for a consult. Everything looked good...
But all I remember was the pain. It was such an intense experience that I think I was slightly hallucinating. I recall these images in my head of a blue metal box, which represented my contractions. It would expand with each pain, and then grow smaller. But through each contraction, it grew slightly larger. Soon (hours later??), it transformed into Mr Brockelhurst, from Jane Eyre. It was big and imposing and frightening. I told Derek about it, and I thought that he must consider me insane. But he didn't say so; he just gently cheered me through each contraction, letting me deal with the pain the way I knew best. He didn't touch me, but he let me put my hand on his. He didn't talk when he knew I didn't want him to. We were so in synch.
I had wanted to try labour without any pain medication, but when at around 2 am (I think) I was told that I was at 3 cm — still. I looked over at Derek, and I knew he wouldn't think any less or more of me, no matter the decision I made. So I decided to go with the epidural. There was no anestheseologist on the floor at the time, so he had to be paged. We waited about 45 minutes. By the time he was on the way, Lily checked again, and I was miraculously at 9 cm. I knew I could do this. So I called it off. I don't know how much time elapsed, but it seemed pretty quick when I felt my body constrict. Lily came by and asked me if I felt like pushing. I realised that's what I had been doing. So she checked me again, to make sure I was fully dialated so as not to hurt myself, and that's when all hell broke loose.
Uh, Cristina, you might want to wait. Let's try not pushing.
Not pushing? She showed me how to breathe through a contraction without pushing. Derek breathed with me. His eyes kept me focused.
I'm not sure what she said then, but I know she ran out of the room to get someone. A resident came in with an ultrasound machine. She introduced herself and quickly examined me. She's breech! That's all I remember.
And then people, people, people. Each one doing something different. Lights on. Noise everywhere. A nurse took Derek away from me to get him changed. Another nurse introduced herself and stood by my side, prepping me. When a contraction came, I forgot how to breathe, so I started pushing. I didn't know this before, but it seems that the need to push in such a situation is not something one can control. The body does it on its own; one can help it along, but there's little to do to stop it. So when the nurse was upset with me for pushing, I started to cry. I couldn't stop, and I told her so. She eased up a bit, and told me that I could hurt myself if I didn't stop. Like that helped... but she did breathe with me, which did help.
More noise. Lights. Machines. Being wheeled out. Into the even-brighter hall. Into the O.R. More noise and lights and machines and people. My midwife was suddenly by my side. But I kept checking the door for Derek. What was taking him so long?? It seemed that the door opened dozens of times, but it was never him.
And then they rolled me over to put in the spinal. I remember the doctor telling me it would hurt, but I don't remember the pain of it. All I remember is the sweet bliss of quiet. My body was suddenly still. I could finally make sense of it all. The pain was gone. Poof.
I was suddenly cracking jokes and able to enjoy the fact that my little baby would soon, finally!, be in my arms. And then Derek appeared. (It turns out that he had changed into his lovely green outfit in record time, but they wouldn't let him in.) He was wearing a surgical mask and cap; all I could see were his gorgeous eyes, and I knew we could get through this.
They put up a sheet at chest level so I couldn't see anything (thank God!). And there was some very serious tugging going on. Our little one was stuck in there, bum first. They got her out and exclaimed, it's a girl!
What joy. Finally. She was here. I heard her cry, and then I cried to hear it. They wrapped her up and gave her to Derek. I would have to wait a while to hold my baby. The spinal had made me numb from the neck down. And, to boot, they were going to have to take her to the special care unit. She had an eye infection that would need antibiotics; nothing serious, but it had to be taken care of. So off they went, the pediatrician and new Daddy, with my baby.
The whole experience is a bitter sweet one, and one that took me a while to work through. I had so wanted, and very much expected, to have a "normal" delivery. And I was almost there when I had to have this emergency c-section. And I couldn't hold my baby right away. And she wasn't completely well. And the special care unit was a very long corridor away from my room. And they gave her a bottle to drink when I wanted to breastfeed exclusively. And my maternity ward nurse got mad at me when I stayed with my daughter for an hour because, in her words, it would make my recovery take longer. My recovery be damned: my baby needed me so she could get better. She was so tiny, and so alone, in that little bassinet with that IV in her tiny little hand. And the little block taped to her hand so that she wouldn't bend it and take the IV out. And the heart monitor.
In retrospect, we got through it because we had to, but I realise now that it was a very upsetting series of events. Don't get me wrong; I am thankful everyday that I had to opportunity to delivery my baby in a safe, clean, modern hospital. That my baby is alive. That I am alive. But I think that the whole thing made my first few weeks and months as a mother more difficult than they were with Solanne, and not just because I was a first-time mother. A woman's experience of birth, even if it involves emergency measures, should be more positive. And she should be followed up my a counsellor, someone to talk through the events. And she shouldn't be yelled at by her nurse. And she (or her partner!) should not be bullied into bottle-feeding because the baby is hungry (when in fact, she isn't).
In the end, I have come out of this experience a much stronger person. I think it was the most physically and emotionally trying time in my life, bar none. And now I can talk to others about it and be an advocate, in my own little way, for new parents. But best of all, and this isn't meant to sound trite or easy, I have my Maïa.
Happy Birthday, in advance, Maïa.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Arts and crafts
Visit our newly minted arts and crafts page. I'll be posting mostly Maïa's creations as she brings them home or makes them. I'll be getting Sol's stuff up there, too. She's starting to make "O's"! How exciting! (well, they're more like wobbly spirals, but still!) I'll also be posting what I've been up to and also what Derek has created. You might be surprised...
Stay tuned! And if you forget to add it to your Favorites, don't fret: there's a link in the right-hand sidebar called "stuff we've made." Click on it to get to our art.
Stay tuned! And if you forget to add it to your Favorites, don't fret: there's a link in the right-hand sidebar called "stuff we've made." Click on it to get to our art.
Keeping a straight face
Sometimes kids have behaviours that must, unquestionably, be corrected. I try to keep to the rule that whatever doesn't hurt them or others is fair enough game. But "hurt" can be interpreted in a number of manners. So when Maïa began to use her markers on more than just paper products, I realised that her artistic endeavours, however ernest, had to be curtailed. She was writing on tables, on hands, on toys — all at daycare, no less. Thanks to the folks at Crayola, it was easy enough to clean up the mess with water and paper towels, but with every incident, the teachers were becoming more annoyed and less understanding.
One particular episode left us utterly speechless. And not in the this-is-so-terrible-I-can't-even-speak-now manner. Rather, in the this-is-too-funny-to-try-to-comment manner. I could try to describe it, but a picture is worth a thousand words, as they say:
Within moments, at least five other girls in the class were similarly adorned. It's hard to discipline your kid when she's so creative and she's the ring leader...
One particular episode left us utterly speechless. And not in the this-is-so-terrible-I-can't-even-speak-now manner. Rather, in the this-is-too-funny-to-try-to-comment manner. I could try to describe it, but a picture is worth a thousand words, as they say:
Within moments, at least five other girls in the class were similarly adorned. It's hard to discipline your kid when she's so creative and she's the ring leader...
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Maïa's Baz Lurhman moment
In her very best deadpan voice, sounding very much like "Everybody's Free," Maïa said:
Some sweaters have buttons;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have zippers;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have velcro;
Some sweaters do not.
Thanks for the deep insight Maïa. Sometimes the simplest truths escape us in the hubbub of everyday life.
Some sweaters have buttons;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have zippers;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have velcro;
Some sweaters do not.
Thanks for the deep insight Maïa. Sometimes the simplest truths escape us in the hubbub of everyday life.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Our SUV
No, we haven't replaced our trusty old Civic. The SUV I'm talking about is our handy-dandy Chariot. It has taken us many a place over the course of the 18 months we have had it. When we had Solanne, all we had was an old tandem stroller that wouldn't turn (it was approximately 27 feet long). Given that it could accomodate an infant, it served its purpose for the first few months of Solanne's life. But I was tired of trying to maneuver the Monster.
We also wanted a bike trailer, so after much research, we opted for a trailer that converts to a double stroller.
I tell anyone who will listen that this Chariot of ours is the best baby/child-related buy we have ever made. Bar none. Yes, it was rather pricey. But I know it won't break down on us the way our Evenflo stroller did in the middle of its second winter. We're pretty hard on our strollers. We rarely take the car when we can walk, and that includes in the middle of winter on snowy and icey sidewalks and streets. We wanted something that would take us "off-road," that would take the stress of our Ottawa-Montreal weather, and that would be comfy for our kids. I've never been let down.
Last weekend was a gloriously warm and sunny one. Not quite Indian summer weather, but close enough to satisfy this summer lover. We packed up the kids, the Chariot, a picnic lunch, and we headed out to the Arboretum. This is why we have our SUV.
In true Montreal fashion, the signs and the map didn't match up...
Monday, October 09, 2006
Another anniversary
It's been nearly one year since I began this blog.
When Maïa was about a year old, I had created a website; I had learned html code, a good friend of mine offered to host my site for free, and I thought it would be fun for others keep up with our family via the web. I had had the habit of sending out mass emails every few months to update everyone on our lives, and I found that a bit invasive (though I like receiving such emails from others). I figured it would be more fun if there was a place everyone could go to voluntarily. But soon, it fell out of use for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it takes time to write up all that code! And I was pregnant and not feeling so energetic...
When we left our hometown of Ottawa, almost 15 months ago now, I felt disconnected from everyone. I imagined that our friends and family there would want to know what our girls were doing and how they were growing. A website was too much effort, but a blog would be easy, accessible, and free.
Originally, the blog was to be a parking lot for anecdotes about my girls — a kind of arms-length approach to reporting news on our family. The first entry was even in the third person. I felt uncomfortable, like I was writing about the stray cats I see wandering around our neighbourhood. I feel a little more connected to my children than that. So I found my first-person voice.
And quickly, the blog evolved into a kind of sounding board for my experiences as a mother, my life of parenting two little girls. The foreign-ness of it. The deep intimacy of it. The blog has become more about me and less about them. And, I hope, it resonates with other parents out there. Like Susan who wrote that her little Samantha does similar things, and hey, how do you deal with that? And I hope that it helps my friends out there who are still free (uh, I mean childless!) to understand me better or even to get a glimpse into that weird club of Parents. And I hope that in the process I can amuse a few or cause some to reflect on their own experiences as children of parents...
Whether you've been with me since day one or are joining me today, thanks for stopping in.
Cristina
When Maïa was about a year old, I had created a website; I had learned html code, a good friend of mine offered to host my site for free, and I thought it would be fun for others keep up with our family via the web. I had had the habit of sending out mass emails every few months to update everyone on our lives, and I found that a bit invasive (though I like receiving such emails from others). I figured it would be more fun if there was a place everyone could go to voluntarily. But soon, it fell out of use for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it takes time to write up all that code! And I was pregnant and not feeling so energetic...
When we left our hometown of Ottawa, almost 15 months ago now, I felt disconnected from everyone. I imagined that our friends and family there would want to know what our girls were doing and how they were growing. A website was too much effort, but a blog would be easy, accessible, and free.
Originally, the blog was to be a parking lot for anecdotes about my girls — a kind of arms-length approach to reporting news on our family. The first entry was even in the third person. I felt uncomfortable, like I was writing about the stray cats I see wandering around our neighbourhood. I feel a little more connected to my children than that. So I found my first-person voice.
And quickly, the blog evolved into a kind of sounding board for my experiences as a mother, my life of parenting two little girls. The foreign-ness of it. The deep intimacy of it. The blog has become more about me and less about them. And, I hope, it resonates with other parents out there. Like Susan who wrote that her little Samantha does similar things, and hey, how do you deal with that? And I hope that it helps my friends out there who are still free (uh, I mean childless!) to understand me better or even to get a glimpse into that weird club of Parents. And I hope that in the process I can amuse a few or cause some to reflect on their own experiences as children of parents...
Whether you've been with me since day one or are joining me today, thanks for stopping in.
Cristina
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A comment on comments
Dear reader,
I have noticed as of late that you have not been posting any comments. And I know that you're out there, reading this blog. And often enough, I know that you think, That's funny, or, That's stupid, or, There's a silly typo here, or, Hey, that happened to my kid and my story is better... Whatever you're thinking, I would like to hear it.
You see, dear reader, I feel like I'm writing into the ether. Some of you might be shy because you think your comments are dumb. To you I say (in my best teacher voice), There are no stupid comments, only stupid readers who don't comment. Or you might be thinking that you don't know me personally and so you shouldn't post. To you I say, I comment on strangers' blogs and they seem to enjoy it, and I know that I would enjoy hearing from you, too, anonymous reader. Or you might be thinking that you're the only one who comments. And to you I say, I know!! Try to get the others to comment too!
And dear reader, I am talking to YOU. Not to the other reader, but to you. To brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law and cousins and cousins-in-law, parents (in-laws and natural), aunts and uncles, dear friends, near friends, new friends, far friends, husband, former colleagues, friends-of-friends, random readers who have stumbled across my blog...
Why? I have a few reasons in mind: one, so that I know that you're actually out there. Two, to get feedback on my writing. Three, to create a kind of virtual community. Four, 'cause I like you guys. Five, it's fun.
So do it. Now. To this very entry. Try this on as an idea: write a comment explaining why you don't usually comment on this blog. Ha. I dare ya.
I have noticed as of late that you have not been posting any comments. And I know that you're out there, reading this blog. And often enough, I know that you think, That's funny, or, That's stupid, or, There's a silly typo here, or, Hey, that happened to my kid and my story is better... Whatever you're thinking, I would like to hear it.
You see, dear reader, I feel like I'm writing into the ether. Some of you might be shy because you think your comments are dumb. To you I say (in my best teacher voice), There are no stupid comments, only stupid readers who don't comment. Or you might be thinking that you don't know me personally and so you shouldn't post. To you I say, I comment on strangers' blogs and they seem to enjoy it, and I know that I would enjoy hearing from you, too, anonymous reader. Or you might be thinking that you're the only one who comments. And to you I say, I know!! Try to get the others to comment too!
And dear reader, I am talking to YOU. Not to the other reader, but to you. To brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law and cousins and cousins-in-law, parents (in-laws and natural), aunts and uncles, dear friends, near friends, new friends, far friends, husband, former colleagues, friends-of-friends, random readers who have stumbled across my blog...
Why? I have a few reasons in mind: one, so that I know that you're actually out there. Two, to get feedback on my writing. Three, to create a kind of virtual community. Four, 'cause I like you guys. Five, it's fun.
So do it. Now. To this very entry. Try this on as an idea: write a comment explaining why you don't usually comment on this blog. Ha. I dare ya.
The running game
Ever since Solanne could interact with anyone, I have always thought, Gee, how it must suck to be the little sister. You know, the little sister always has to do what the big sister says — at best, the little sister can say no, but she will fear retribution because the big sister will then just ignore her. The big sister gets to make up the games; the little sister usually follows and never gets to make any of it up. The big sister usually gets first pick because she's on the ball; the little sister gets seconds. The big sister decides when it's time to be done a game; the little sister just has to live with the fact that it's done.
In our house, there is one particular game that gets played a lot. Maïa invented it and she calls it the Running Game. Here's some background to the game:
Maïa is partial to Cinderella. Okay, she's obsessed. She has read the Disney version that used to be mine and seen the Disney movie. She knows the differences between the two (turns out, in one version, the prince picks up the slipper and in another, it's the grand duke). She loves to wear any dress that falls below her knees, and it's a special bonus if it's actually blue, because it reminds her of Cinderella's ballgown. She falls into some sort of religious ecstasy when we read the book and turn to the page where the fairy-godmother transforms Cinderella's dress into a gown.
--
Sidebar: Derek and I were quite diligent in keeping our home princess-free. We never watched the Disney movies or talked about princesses etc, all for reasons too complicated to discuss here. Anyhow, after less than a month in daycare, when she had just turned three, the princesses came into our lives for good (and evil?).
--
We have dress-up clothes (none of that overpriced-Disney-fall-apart-after-three-uses stuff; real cast-offs from long ago). There is one yellow mini dress that my mother used to wear some time in the seventies that now makes a lovely ball gown for a preschooler. Maïa loves it, and she calls it her Cinderella dress. And she has these pink corduroy slippers that she has always called her glass slippers. Of course, they get paired with the yellow dress (which is, by the way, according to Maïa, a blue dress).
Maïa is the princess, and Solanne is the prince. Whether or not she actually knows this is still a mystery to us, but she wants to play with Maïa, so she follows the instructions as best she can. Solanne doesn't require a costume for this game, but Maïa usually vocalises the fact that Solanne is wearing a suit. Anyhow, over the course of a morning a few weeks ago, Maïa developed this very sophisticated scenario. It begins in the kitchen, which is at the back of the house. She starts to run toward the front of the house (there is a long hallway that goes from front to back, and it's over 50 feet long). Before she's out of the kitchen, she loses one of her slippers. She does this without slowing down; it's an incredibly complicated move that she has perfected. Solanne is then instructed to "Get the slipper!" Solanne swoops in and grabs the slipper as Maïa makes her escape to the office (at the front of the house). Solanne is expected to follow and then place the slipper on Maïa's foot. Then they run back to the kitchen and start over again.
Maïa never tires of the game, and at first, neither did Solanne. But she's starting to tell Maïa that she's tired of the game, or, gasp, doesn't even want to play in the first place. And then I see that it's not so easy being the big sister. You design these intricate and amazingly fun games to play with your little sister, and she just ditches you so she can play peek out of the livingroom closet. Who wants to play those baby games when you can have magic and royalty?
In our house, there is one particular game that gets played a lot. Maïa invented it and she calls it the Running Game. Here's some background to the game:
Maïa is partial to Cinderella. Okay, she's obsessed. She has read the Disney version that used to be mine and seen the Disney movie. She knows the differences between the two (turns out, in one version, the prince picks up the slipper and in another, it's the grand duke). She loves to wear any dress that falls below her knees, and it's a special bonus if it's actually blue, because it reminds her of Cinderella's ballgown. She falls into some sort of religious ecstasy when we read the book and turn to the page where the fairy-godmother transforms Cinderella's dress into a gown.
--
Sidebar: Derek and I were quite diligent in keeping our home princess-free. We never watched the Disney movies or talked about princesses etc, all for reasons too complicated to discuss here. Anyhow, after less than a month in daycare, when she had just turned three, the princesses came into our lives for good (and evil?).
--
We have dress-up clothes (none of that overpriced-Disney-fall-apart-after-three-uses stuff; real cast-offs from long ago). There is one yellow mini dress that my mother used to wear some time in the seventies that now makes a lovely ball gown for a preschooler. Maïa loves it, and she calls it her Cinderella dress. And she has these pink corduroy slippers that she has always called her glass slippers. Of course, they get paired with the yellow dress (which is, by the way, according to Maïa, a blue dress).
Maïa is the princess, and Solanne is the prince. Whether or not she actually knows this is still a mystery to us, but she wants to play with Maïa, so she follows the instructions as best she can. Solanne doesn't require a costume for this game, but Maïa usually vocalises the fact that Solanne is wearing a suit. Anyhow, over the course of a morning a few weeks ago, Maïa developed this very sophisticated scenario. It begins in the kitchen, which is at the back of the house. She starts to run toward the front of the house (there is a long hallway that goes from front to back, and it's over 50 feet long). Before she's out of the kitchen, she loses one of her slippers. She does this without slowing down; it's an incredibly complicated move that she has perfected. Solanne is then instructed to "Get the slipper!" Solanne swoops in and grabs the slipper as Maïa makes her escape to the office (at the front of the house). Solanne is expected to follow and then place the slipper on Maïa's foot. Then they run back to the kitchen and start over again.
Maïa never tires of the game, and at first, neither did Solanne. But she's starting to tell Maïa that she's tired of the game, or, gasp, doesn't even want to play in the first place. And then I see that it's not so easy being the big sister. You design these intricate and amazingly fun games to play with your little sister, and she just ditches you so she can play peek out of the livingroom closet. Who wants to play those baby games when you can have magic and royalty?
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Anniversary
On a sometime rainy, sometime beautiful day five years and one day ago, Derek and I were married. We celebrated our fifth anniversary last night by leaving the kids with their Nana at Great-Gramma and Great-Grampa's house. Thanks to the three of them for taking on a sleepover with a toddler and a preschooler (and Momma forgot to pack the suce!).
In French, the word anniversaire is used both for birthdays and anniversaries. I rather like the connotation that anniversaries are the same as (or at least very similar to) birthdays: on that Thanksgiving weekend five years ago, something new was born. I hadn't really understood what it was or that it was being born or even how fragile the entity was. But I knew that something of great magnitude was happening. I guess that's why we threw that big party.
With a lot of work and a good measure of fun, Derek and I have nurtured the "us" that was born that day. We made these fantastic promises to see each other through all kinds of tragedies and celebrations. Little did we know what we would have in store in the first (and short) five years. Two children, two bouts of depression, grad school, two moves (one to a new city), a near-death experience for one of our parents and the subsequent long recovery, at least ten different jobs between the two of us, Mexico, Egypt, Cuba, Nova Scotia, saying hello to new friends and slowly letting go of some old ones, learning-learning-learning in ways we hadn't even conceived possible, laughing, crying, sighing. And here we are, five years in, and I can safely say that I am completely head-over-heels in love with my husband and best friend. I'll also easily admit that I haven't necessarily been in love with him every day in the past five years — though I have loved him every day — but over the course of the summer and with some effort to make time for just the two of us I have had the opportunity to fall in love all over again.
Ah, the faces of innocence. Beautiful.
In French, the word anniversaire is used both for birthdays and anniversaries. I rather like the connotation that anniversaries are the same as (or at least very similar to) birthdays: on that Thanksgiving weekend five years ago, something new was born. I hadn't really understood what it was or that it was being born or even how fragile the entity was. But I knew that something of great magnitude was happening. I guess that's why we threw that big party.
With a lot of work and a good measure of fun, Derek and I have nurtured the "us" that was born that day. We made these fantastic promises to see each other through all kinds of tragedies and celebrations. Little did we know what we would have in store in the first (and short) five years. Two children, two bouts of depression, grad school, two moves (one to a new city), a near-death experience for one of our parents and the subsequent long recovery, at least ten different jobs between the two of us, Mexico, Egypt, Cuba, Nova Scotia, saying hello to new friends and slowly letting go of some old ones, learning-learning-learning in ways we hadn't even conceived possible, laughing, crying, sighing. And here we are, five years in, and I can safely say that I am completely head-over-heels in love with my husband and best friend. I'll also easily admit that I haven't necessarily been in love with him every day in the past five years — though I have loved him every day — but over the course of the summer and with some effort to make time for just the two of us I have had the opportunity to fall in love all over again.
Ah, the faces of innocence. Beautiful.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
More Maïa swimming adventures
Well, I can certainly say that Maïa is not the fastest swimmer in her group. She is not the most agile. She is, however, the most graceful — most times. She just seems to float along gently, either holding onto the noodle or her instructor. Her little legs flutter about in a motion that reminds me of the movement of a seahorse's fins. I remember being in that aquarium in New Orleans with Derek, when I was three months pregnant with Maïa, and being utterly fascinated by the tiny creatures whose fins looked thinner than onion-leaf paper and fluttered slowly and elegantly. And somehow those little fins managed to propel them about. That's what Maïa's little legs look like in the water from my vantage point in the mezzanine overlooking our local Y pool.
Man, is she ever cute.
Man, is she ever cute.
Monday, September 25, 2006
In retrospect...
Life with children is so often in-the-moment that it is hard to get some perspective on it all. I imagine it's because the children themselves live so much in the here and now. Their pasts seem to be so obscure to them, and their futures are utterly unimaginable, past suppertime.
Living in the moment can be a great blessing. Especially for someone like me, someone who constantly obsesses about what's going to happen next, what our plans are for next week, next month, next century... if we live that long ('cause you never know, you know). I have a zillion maps in my head, all charting out our paths, with different courses, all depending on what happens next...
So living now is good for me. Only, I end up falling into another trap. When Maïa screams at her sister or hits her, I (vaguely) imagine her doing it forever, as though as a thirty-year-old she would lash out in such a way. I often find it impossible to take a moment and think that perhaps things will change. That perhaps we will, at some point, not have a nearly-four-year-old and a nearly-two-year-old. That in fact, we will one day have a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old... and tons of other combinations that I won't bore you with. Indeed, one day, if we keep on reminding her that it's not okay to do X, she will know it (whether or not she continues to do it is another matter altogether). I am learning, however. So I try to see the funny things...
Derek and I went out for dinner at some friends' place. We had our regular sitter come over and look after the girls. It was the first time that she was responsible for putting both children to bed all on her own. We thought it would be all right...
When we got home, our fifteen-year-old sitter Megan told us about Maïa convincing her that we let her sleep with Solanne in her crib. There was much moving around (and jumping, I assume) in the little crib. Finally, after trying to settle them both into the crib without success, Megan took Maïa out. There was another story about bringing certain toys to bed (none are allowed save Clicky). And another story about taking a suce (she hasn't had one since she was 18 months). And another about a drink of water from a cup, which had to be left by her bedside in case she needed it because she was coughing and Mummy and Daddy always give her water when she's coughing because it makes the tickle go away... And, in the light of day, there were the toys and books strewn about the floor of the bedroom, the lost suce, the spilled water, the messed up crib, and the very, very, very tired children. I was not happy.
Yet in retrospect, it's pretty funny. I have to chuckle when I think of it. A little perspective goes a long way.
Living in the moment can be a great blessing. Especially for someone like me, someone who constantly obsesses about what's going to happen next, what our plans are for next week, next month, next century... if we live that long ('cause you never know, you know). I have a zillion maps in my head, all charting out our paths, with different courses, all depending on what happens next...
So living now is good for me. Only, I end up falling into another trap. When Maïa screams at her sister or hits her, I (vaguely) imagine her doing it forever, as though as a thirty-year-old she would lash out in such a way. I often find it impossible to take a moment and think that perhaps things will change. That perhaps we will, at some point, not have a nearly-four-year-old and a nearly-two-year-old. That in fact, we will one day have a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old... and tons of other combinations that I won't bore you with. Indeed, one day, if we keep on reminding her that it's not okay to do X, she will know it (whether or not she continues to do it is another matter altogether). I am learning, however. So I try to see the funny things...
Derek and I went out for dinner at some friends' place. We had our regular sitter come over and look after the girls. It was the first time that she was responsible for putting both children to bed all on her own. We thought it would be all right...
When we got home, our fifteen-year-old sitter Megan told us about Maïa convincing her that we let her sleep with Solanne in her crib. There was much moving around (and jumping, I assume) in the little crib. Finally, after trying to settle them both into the crib without success, Megan took Maïa out. There was another story about bringing certain toys to bed (none are allowed save Clicky). And another story about taking a suce (she hasn't had one since she was 18 months). And another about a drink of water from a cup, which had to be left by her bedside in case she needed it because she was coughing and Mummy and Daddy always give her water when she's coughing because it makes the tickle go away... And, in the light of day, there were the toys and books strewn about the floor of the bedroom, the lost suce, the spilled water, the messed up crib, and the very, very, very tired children. I was not happy.
Yet in retrospect, it's pretty funny. I have to chuckle when I think of it. A little perspective goes a long way.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Once upon a rainy Labour Day
This is how we spent our last day before back-to-school and back-to-daycare and back-to-work:
painting
movie time
lunch break: home-made sushi and miso "shoop"
some reading
talking to Grandma
and a little pre-bedtime tickling
...even Ta and Clicky get in on the tickling action
painting
movie time
lunch break: home-made sushi and miso "shoop"
some reading
talking to Grandma
and a little pre-bedtime tickling
...even Ta and Clicky get in on the tickling action
Just because it's funny...
Solanne is well into language-acquisition: she's been making short sentences for about a month and a half now, she repeats almost everything we say, and she is interested in new sounds. But there are still glitches in the system: she hasn't got all the consonents and vowel sounds down, yet. So things come out a little strangely.
Yesterday, Derek was reading to the girls; it was a book about foxes. Well, Sol's "au" sound (which is required to say fox) is a little off and sounds more like "uh," and she doesn't always manage to say the final "s" in every word... With a little deduction, you can understand why I laughed every time she said it. Derek warned me that I would have to stop, otherwise she would keep saying it. And I guess it's only funny a couple of times, and then it gets old and perhaps misunderstood when you go out.
Which brings me to another story. When Maïa was about the same age, she, too, had some difficulty with some words. Frog often came out without an "r" and with the "o" sounding more like an "a." "L"s were difficult, so clock was also amusing. But within context, most people didn't think twice about what our child was saying... until, that is one day when we were happily shopping in the housewares section at the Bay. Maïa got very excited when she saw something novel, and she liked to let us know, at the loudest decibel she could. So the frog clock was... well, a little embarrassing.
Yesterday, Derek was reading to the girls; it was a book about foxes. Well, Sol's "au" sound (which is required to say fox) is a little off and sounds more like "uh," and she doesn't always manage to say the final "s" in every word... With a little deduction, you can understand why I laughed every time she said it. Derek warned me that I would have to stop, otherwise she would keep saying it. And I guess it's only funny a couple of times, and then it gets old and perhaps misunderstood when you go out.
Which brings me to another story. When Maïa was about the same age, she, too, had some difficulty with some words. Frog often came out without an "r" and with the "o" sounding more like an "a." "L"s were difficult, so clock was also amusing. But within context, most people didn't think twice about what our child was saying... until, that is one day when we were happily shopping in the housewares section at the Bay. Maïa got very excited when she saw something novel, and she liked to let us know, at the loudest decibel she could. So the frog clock was... well, a little embarrassing.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
These eyes
To me, these eyes are magic. I look into them and see so much beauty. But more than what I see in them is the magic that I get to see through them everyday. To a child who is happy, the world is new, it is surprising, and it is magic. Here are a few things that Solanne has taught me to see:
The tiny dust motes that float around in the sunlight that streams in through the window look like stars.
A violin is a small guitar.
Baby Cookie Monster looks like Baby Elmo (even if he's blue).
There are flowers, birds, and cats everywhere in our neighbourhood.
There are a surprising number of O's and A's in the world.
"Blue" is not so much a colour as a feeling; if there's something that makes her feel happy, it's blue.
I am beautiful.
The sky is something we can touch, if only someone big enough would hold us up.
We have a cat in our floor.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Solannese
Just in case you run into Solanne without her handy interpreters (Derek, Maïa, and me), here are a few key words and phrases you will hear her say but might not understand:
o' dee: I'll do it
papopo-yê: s'il-te-plaît lait (please, milk)
wee bo: read the book
upee do: stairs (up and down)
papo: poussette (stroller)
wa-too-fee-fo-fie-si: one, two, three, four, five, six
wa hay: wash hands
co eye: close eyes
opee eye: open eyes
go beebee: gros bébé (big baby)
a wa'see: I want to see
pie: please
kink'oo: thank you
messy: merci
soussee: sourcils (eyebrows)
yooyoo: lulus (pigtails)
awee: put it away
sussa: suce (pacifier)
cha: chien (dog)
ta: cat
bu': bird
ow sye: outside
i' sye: inside
cou cou: cours, cours (run, run)
bico: bicycle
kiki: Clickey
dayee: daddy
gayee: grandma
gago: grampa
o' dee: I'll do it
papopo-yê: s'il-te-plaît lait (please, milk)
wee bo: read the book
upee do: stairs (up and down)
papo: poussette (stroller)
wa-too-fee-fo-fie-si: one, two, three, four, five, six
wa hay: wash hands
co eye: close eyes
opee eye: open eyes
go beebee: gros bébé (big baby)
a wa'see: I want to see
pie: please
kink'oo: thank you
messy: merci
soussee: sourcils (eyebrows)
yooyoo: lulus (pigtails)
awee: put it away
sussa: suce (pacifier)
cha: chien (dog)
ta: cat
bu': bird
ow sye: outside
i' sye: inside
cou cou: cours, cours (run, run)
bico: bicycle
kiki: Clickey
dayee: daddy
gayee: grandma
gago: grampa
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Milestone: pipi
Today, Solanne asked to go potty and she actually produced some pipi! For the past month or so, she has been interested in the potty again — well, she's been interested in the toilet (perhaps the potty is below her). It all started when she began walking around outdoors in a bathing suit, sans diaper. She would notice when she wet herself. Soon enough, she would proudly announce, "pipi!" before she actually wet. She even started noticing with her diaper on.
A few other signs that she is ready have manifested themselves: she has started wanting to dress herself (she wants to do everything herself), she wants to sit on the toilet, and she knows when she has a dirty bum. I think we may be on the road to a diaper-free era in our household. I know it's a slow road, but it's the beginning...
To those non-parents out there reading this entry, my interest in potty training or potty learning, as is more politically correct, may seem to be bordering on obsessive. There are milestones in our children's lives that as parents we celebrate more than others. Some folks are more touched by their children's first steps or their first teeth. Others may look forward to first words or the first taste of "solid" foods. But most of us, I believe, look forward to the end of diapers. No more stinky bums, no more expenses (either of the disposibles or of the cost of hot water and detergent to wash cotton nappies), no more diaper rash, no more giant bag of diapers, cloths/wipes, creams, and hand sanitizer to carry around. Ah, the freedom.
A few other signs that she is ready have manifested themselves: she has started wanting to dress herself (she wants to do everything herself), she wants to sit on the toilet, and she knows when she has a dirty bum. I think we may be on the road to a diaper-free era in our household. I know it's a slow road, but it's the beginning...
To those non-parents out there reading this entry, my interest in potty training or potty learning, as is more politically correct, may seem to be bordering on obsessive. There are milestones in our children's lives that as parents we celebrate more than others. Some folks are more touched by their children's first steps or their first teeth. Others may look forward to first words or the first taste of "solid" foods. But most of us, I believe, look forward to the end of diapers. No more stinky bums, no more expenses (either of the disposibles or of the cost of hot water and detergent to wash cotton nappies), no more diaper rash, no more giant bag of diapers, cloths/wipes, creams, and hand sanitizer to carry around. Ah, the freedom.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Random things they do...
Nana and Grampa live in the country, so there are a lot of flies around and a few manage to get into the house. Nana hunts them down with her fly-swatter. Solanne is very interested in such activity, and after staying at her grandparents' house for nearly two weeks, she has become the official "fly-spotter" of the family: "Nana!!! fie! fie! Nana-fie!!"
———
Maïa: Do you smell that smell that is happening?
———
Both of them run around Nana and Grampa's huge back yard, playing with the cats. The bolla-bats (remember those??) have become a toy called "cat-ball" and the skipping ropes are also great cat toys. The kitties keep the children busy, on average, at least one or two hours per day.
———
The two of them have been known to empty the kiddie pool with their water cans: they often head in the area of Nana's vines, which has never looked so well loved.
———
Aunty Naomi has given them some plastic beads she obtained from a pride parade she ran into in NYC. The beads have been divied up between them, and both girls enjoy stuffing their respective hauls into their respective rain boots.
———
Solanne now refers to herself as "Sa."
———
Solanne has already begun using such personal pronouns as "me" and "mine" and "my." I guess being a second child will bring that about more quickly...
———
Maïa: Do you smell that smell that is happening?
———
Both of them run around Nana and Grampa's huge back yard, playing with the cats. The bolla-bats (remember those??) have become a toy called "cat-ball" and the skipping ropes are also great cat toys. The kitties keep the children busy, on average, at least one or two hours per day.
———
The two of them have been known to empty the kiddie pool with their water cans: they often head in the area of Nana's vines, which has never looked so well loved.
———
Aunty Naomi has given them some plastic beads she obtained from a pride parade she ran into in NYC. The beads have been divied up between them, and both girls enjoy stuffing their respective hauls into their respective rain boots.
———
Solanne now refers to herself as "Sa."
———
Solanne has already begun using such personal pronouns as "me" and "mine" and "my." I guess being a second child will bring that about more quickly...
Maïa's theology
Maïa is a very thoughtful little girl who does a lot of wondering. Intermittently, she becomes interested in God, in heaven, and in the great universe. We're working through who God is and what happens when one dies — not the easiest of topics for anyone to grapple with. Here are some snatches of conversations we've had over the past couple of months:
Maïa: God is not a he or a she. God is it.
Derek: Well, Maïa, it's true that God isn't a he or a she, but we call God he and sometimes even she.
Maïa: No. God is IT.
———
Maïa: When I die, I will become a skull in heaven.
———
Derek: That's a cemetery, Maïa. That's where we put the bodies of people when they die.
Maïa: That's heaven, Daddy.
Maïa: God is not a he or a she. God is it.
Derek: Well, Maïa, it's true that God isn't a he or a she, but we call God he and sometimes even she.
Maïa: No. God is IT.
———
Maïa: When I die, I will become a skull in heaven.
———
Derek: That's a cemetery, Maïa. That's where we put the bodies of people when they die.
Maïa: That's heaven, Daddy.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
You know your kid's a vegetarian when...
We were all sitting around a nice big family dinner: Nana, Grampa, great-aunt Rosemary, great-uncle Mike, cousins Chris and Paul, uncle Nick, aunt Naomi, matante Julie, and the four of us. It was mixed grill night. Maïa looked over at the sausages sitting directly in front of her. I guess she had never seen them up close. She looked up at me from across the table and asked:
"What are those?"
"They're sausages."
"It's not poo, right?"
I swear: you can't make this stuff up!
"What are those?"
"They're sausages."
"It's not poo, right?"
I swear: you can't make this stuff up!
Monday, July 17, 2006
Sometimes Momma's gotta take a break...
Two weeks ago now, I set off on my own for a mommy-vacation. I was pretty much drained, psychologically and emotionally. Derek had been in and out of town for six weeks because he was working in Ottawa. I handled it much better than I thought I would, but by the end of it, I was tired. Spending three evenings a week just with the kids was, apparently, exhausting.
So for the first time since Maïa was born, I left the kids for more than one night (and that night was in November because I had meetings in Ottawa). I am learning to ask for what I need. PPD taught me that much. It's a hard lesson, though. I think most moms don't ask for the time off that they need, mostly because we feel guilty. Guilty that it means that we don't like our role as mother. Guilty that someone else has to step up and do the duties for a little while. Guilty that we can't handle it like our moms seem to have done so well. Guilty that other moms seem to be handling it so well.
But I ditched the guilt (guiltily) and set off. I wanted to be bored. I wanted to miss my kids. I wanted... a little change.
I went to Ottawa to stay with my mom for five days, sans enfants. I visited the Emily Carr exhibit with my mom at the National Gallery. I had dinner with an old university friend. I went to the beach, alone, and actually read a book, without stopping every 40 seconds. I went shopping for clothes and didn't have to think about where the closest bathroom was in case of emergency or that it was nearing nap time or that someone was going to get bored and that we would have to leave before I tried anything on. I even got a little bored, just enough. And I missed my girls. I had time to miss them.
The biggest treat of the week, though, was getting together with my girlfriends from high school. There's a group of six of us, but two of the group were in Europe at the time (this is actually a common occurrence among the group: someone can't make the get-together because she's on another continent...). So four of us got together and decided to do a sleep-over, "old school." We watched movies, ate too much, did facials and pedicures, and talked until 4am. The last time I did this with them was literally ten years ago... girls, let's not wait another ten years to do this, okay?
So for the first time since Maïa was born, I left the kids for more than one night (and that night was in November because I had meetings in Ottawa). I am learning to ask for what I need. PPD taught me that much. It's a hard lesson, though. I think most moms don't ask for the time off that they need, mostly because we feel guilty. Guilty that it means that we don't like our role as mother. Guilty that someone else has to step up and do the duties for a little while. Guilty that we can't handle it like our moms seem to have done so well. Guilty that other moms seem to be handling it so well.
But I ditched the guilt (guiltily) and set off. I wanted to be bored. I wanted to miss my kids. I wanted... a little change.
I went to Ottawa to stay with my mom for five days, sans enfants. I visited the Emily Carr exhibit with my mom at the National Gallery. I had dinner with an old university friend. I went to the beach, alone, and actually read a book, without stopping every 40 seconds. I went shopping for clothes and didn't have to think about where the closest bathroom was in case of emergency or that it was nearing nap time or that someone was going to get bored and that we would have to leave before I tried anything on. I even got a little bored, just enough. And I missed my girls. I had time to miss them.
The biggest treat of the week, though, was getting together with my girlfriends from high school. There's a group of six of us, but two of the group were in Europe at the time (this is actually a common occurrence among the group: someone can't make the get-together because she's on another continent...). So four of us got together and decided to do a sleep-over, "old school." We watched movies, ate too much, did facials and pedicures, and talked until 4am. The last time I did this with them was literally ten years ago... girls, let's not wait another ten years to do this, okay?
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Today
Solanne scoured the Neighbourhood Yellow Pages (it looks like a mini-version of the real thing). She managed to find a picture of a cat.
While listening to Bob Marley's "Get up, Stand up," Maïa said, "That's a song about the man."
I learned that bringing only a sand pail to the park and forgetting the shovels isn't so bad after all. In fact, it may very well be more fun to fill the thing up with tiny fistfuls of sand.
Solanne walked the whole way back home from the park (it's normally a ten minute walk; it turned out much longer).
Maïa slow danced with Solanne because she saw Derek and me doing it.
Solanne worked on her puzzles — mostly the one with the cat (a four-piece puzzle). When she does her puzzles, I point to the place where the next piece should go, and she says, "ici!"
Derek and I made Sangria for the second night in a row, and the second time in our lives.
We used a wine called "Bianchi" that my friend Louise brought back from Argentina.
We finalised our plans to go camping with our friends, the "four Tops" this weekend.
Solanne slept her standard two hours in the afternoon, from noon to fourteen hundred hours, local time.
I knitted all of three rows of a current project (it's a biggy).
I talked to my mom who's in Alberta visiting with her sister.
I talked to a good friend of mine who is expecting a baby; we're keeping her in our prayers and sending her good vibes.
I talked to another good friend of mine who is doing me yet another favour, out of the goodness of his heart.
I felt incredibly blessed to be living this life.
While listening to Bob Marley's "Get up, Stand up," Maïa said, "That's a song about the man."
I learned that bringing only a sand pail to the park and forgetting the shovels isn't so bad after all. In fact, it may very well be more fun to fill the thing up with tiny fistfuls of sand.
Solanne walked the whole way back home from the park (it's normally a ten minute walk; it turned out much longer).
Maïa slow danced with Solanne because she saw Derek and me doing it.
Solanne worked on her puzzles — mostly the one with the cat (a four-piece puzzle). When she does her puzzles, I point to the place where the next piece should go, and she says, "ici!"
Derek and I made Sangria for the second night in a row, and the second time in our lives.
We used a wine called "Bianchi" that my friend Louise brought back from Argentina.
We finalised our plans to go camping with our friends, the "four Tops" this weekend.
Solanne slept her standard two hours in the afternoon, from noon to fourteen hundred hours, local time.
I knitted all of three rows of a current project (it's a biggy).
I talked to my mom who's in Alberta visiting with her sister.
I talked to a good friend of mine who is expecting a baby; we're keeping her in our prayers and sending her good vibes.
I talked to another good friend of mine who is doing me yet another favour, out of the goodness of his heart.
I felt incredibly blessed to be living this life.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Mementos
Maïa has this terrible habit of picking up things she finds on the ground. Our driveway/parking area is an especially interesting foraging ground for her; it's gravel, so you never know what kind of treasure you might find just by kicking up a pebble or two. She has so far found cigarette butts (care of our downstairs neighbour), rusted washers (look! it's a ring!), bits of red brick, a piece of glass, an oily bit of a car engine, a spring, various and sundry pieces of garbage, and, of course, gravel.
Beyond just picking them up, Maïa holds onto her treasures as though they were, well, treasures. She is reluctant to let them go or put them down, never mind not picking them up in the first place. Yesterday, when I went to fetch her from daycare, her teacher gave her something. I asked Maïa to show it to me: it was a little red plastic "pitoune" that looked like a piece from the game Battle Ship (remember that??). She told me that she had found it on their walk earlier in the day. After much coaxing, I got her to give it to me. Mostly I was worried that Solanne would get her hands on it on the ride home in the stroller and put it in her mouth.
So I explained to Maïa, for the fourty-third time this week, that we don't pick things up from the ground. They're dirty. They're dangerous. They're simply yucky. She seemed to understand. She said, "okay." And that was that. Until we got to the park, and I took her out of the stroller. The first thing she did was to pick up a bit of broken toy that was on the ground. I swear, she had walked about three steps before doing it! I asked her to put it down, and she did, quite nicely without a fuss, but still...
This whole compulsion of hers to pick things up seemed incomprehensible to me. But today, on my walk with Solanne, I got to thinking about it. And it doesn't seem so strange after all. When Maïa picks something up, she's not particularly curious about the object; she just holds onto it or puts it in her pocket. It seems more like a need to collect things. But not just for the sake of collecting them; rather, for the sake of feeling them, of having them. It's like those random items that she picks up along the way affirm to her that she is in the world, that there are things around her, that she was there. It's a way of remembering where she was (even if it was just moments ago), of connecting her to that place. For our memories and our experiences are so ethereal. We can make things up if we forget. But a thing, an object, ties us to reality, it reminds us of the feel of the ground at that place, of the smell of the air, of the shadow we cast upon the place where we once stood. It reminds us that we ourselves are real.
Maïa lives only in her body right now: that's the reality of a preschooler. Yet her body seems somewhat detached from her, out of her control at times, just as her moods are just beyond her reach most times. She is still discovering its solidity, its firmness. The world beyond her own body must seem ever more confusing and apart and wonderous. To pick up bits of it, even the tiniest and inconsequential bits of it, must be so affirming: yes, I'm here. Yes, this whole wide world is here, too. Wow. Lucky for me! Maybe I'll just carry around this neat little ring for a while to remind me.
Beyond just picking them up, Maïa holds onto her treasures as though they were, well, treasures. She is reluctant to let them go or put them down, never mind not picking them up in the first place. Yesterday, when I went to fetch her from daycare, her teacher gave her something. I asked Maïa to show it to me: it was a little red plastic "pitoune" that looked like a piece from the game Battle Ship (remember that??). She told me that she had found it on their walk earlier in the day. After much coaxing, I got her to give it to me. Mostly I was worried that Solanne would get her hands on it on the ride home in the stroller and put it in her mouth.
So I explained to Maïa, for the fourty-third time this week, that we don't pick things up from the ground. They're dirty. They're dangerous. They're simply yucky. She seemed to understand. She said, "okay." And that was that. Until we got to the park, and I took her out of the stroller. The first thing she did was to pick up a bit of broken toy that was on the ground. I swear, she had walked about three steps before doing it! I asked her to put it down, and she did, quite nicely without a fuss, but still...
This whole compulsion of hers to pick things up seemed incomprehensible to me. But today, on my walk with Solanne, I got to thinking about it. And it doesn't seem so strange after all. When Maïa picks something up, she's not particularly curious about the object; she just holds onto it or puts it in her pocket. It seems more like a need to collect things. But not just for the sake of collecting them; rather, for the sake of feeling them, of having them. It's like those random items that she picks up along the way affirm to her that she is in the world, that there are things around her, that she was there. It's a way of remembering where she was (even if it was just moments ago), of connecting her to that place. For our memories and our experiences are so ethereal. We can make things up if we forget. But a thing, an object, ties us to reality, it reminds us of the feel of the ground at that place, of the smell of the air, of the shadow we cast upon the place where we once stood. It reminds us that we ourselves are real.
Maïa lives only in her body right now: that's the reality of a preschooler. Yet her body seems somewhat detached from her, out of her control at times, just as her moods are just beyond her reach most times. She is still discovering its solidity, its firmness. The world beyond her own body must seem ever more confusing and apart and wonderous. To pick up bits of it, even the tiniest and inconsequential bits of it, must be so affirming: yes, I'm here. Yes, this whole wide world is here, too. Wow. Lucky for me! Maybe I'll just carry around this neat little ring for a while to remind me.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The terrible one-and-a-halfs
I've never really believed in the terrible twos. I know a lot of parents who found that parenting through the twos to be very difficult and annoying at best. But I have discussed this many parents of kids over the age of three and caregivers who have taken care of their share of toddlers, and there is a camp of us who agree that, hands down, parenting through the second half of the "one's" is far more challenging.
In our family, by the age of 12 months, our kids have had the rudimentary tools to communicate their immediate needs to us. Unfortunately, by age 18 months or so, their needs become far more complex than what a sign can convey, yet verbal language has yet to catch up with the thought process. With Solanne, besides not being able to express what she wants, she knows that she can't express herself very well. So when a situation arises where we actually do understand what she wants but we won't give it to her, she thinks we're missing something so she tries harder and gets madder. And, to top it all off, at this point, her ability to reason is very limited, so when we explain something, she looks at us like we're idiots (perhaps we are??).
Here's a glimpse into Solanne's complicated thought process (and why we don't always understand her): last week, Solanne was in the swing ("si'") at the park and I was pushing her ("pu!"). She started to get annoyed, so I thought she wanted down. But she clearly indicated that she still wanted to be pushed. So I kept pushing. More whining. I asked if she wanted to get down (what other option is there??). No, she wanted me to push her. Well, before she freaked out to much, she finally managed to get out this phrase: "maman pu deu ma'", which translates to "Mummy, push me with both hands!" Don't get me started on how weird a request that is from a twenty-month-old child, but I was happy to oblige her! Unfortunately, she doesn't have all of the vocabulary to make all of her complex requests known, so she often loses it. And when she loses it, she goes all the way. I can't wait 'til she's two so she can tell me what in the world is going on in her little head!
Today, we had no fewer than four total melt-downs. And today was a good day, actually, because there was no whining in between. Just a happy little Solanne intermittendly frustrated by the world. The meltdowns were over the following: not getting a second kiwi because there wasn't one to be had in the house; not being allowed to leave through the front even though she clearly prefered that door (today) and already had her sandals on at the front door; apparently over a book (though that one was fuzzy for me); and fourth that seemed totally random to me. Each lasted a minimum of ten minutes. The kiwi one lasted 20 minutes.
And so, at the end of one of the tantrums, with her hair all sweaty and curly, she looked so sweet... and I was reminded of a rhyme my mother used to tell me:
There once was a girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very, very good;
When she was bad,
She was horrid.
In our family, by the age of 12 months, our kids have had the rudimentary tools to communicate their immediate needs to us. Unfortunately, by age 18 months or so, their needs become far more complex than what a sign can convey, yet verbal language has yet to catch up with the thought process. With Solanne, besides not being able to express what she wants, she knows that she can't express herself very well. So when a situation arises where we actually do understand what she wants but we won't give it to her, she thinks we're missing something so she tries harder and gets madder. And, to top it all off, at this point, her ability to reason is very limited, so when we explain something, she looks at us like we're idiots (perhaps we are??).
Here's a glimpse into Solanne's complicated thought process (and why we don't always understand her): last week, Solanne was in the swing ("si'") at the park and I was pushing her ("pu!"). She started to get annoyed, so I thought she wanted down. But she clearly indicated that she still wanted to be pushed. So I kept pushing. More whining. I asked if she wanted to get down (what other option is there??). No, she wanted me to push her. Well, before she freaked out to much, she finally managed to get out this phrase: "maman pu deu ma'", which translates to "Mummy, push me with both hands!" Don't get me started on how weird a request that is from a twenty-month-old child, but I was happy to oblige her! Unfortunately, she doesn't have all of the vocabulary to make all of her complex requests known, so she often loses it. And when she loses it, she goes all the way. I can't wait 'til she's two so she can tell me what in the world is going on in her little head!
Today, we had no fewer than four total melt-downs. And today was a good day, actually, because there was no whining in between. Just a happy little Solanne intermittendly frustrated by the world. The meltdowns were over the following: not getting a second kiwi because there wasn't one to be had in the house; not being allowed to leave through the front even though she clearly prefered that door (today) and already had her sandals on at the front door; apparently over a book (though that one was fuzzy for me); and fourth that seemed totally random to me. Each lasted a minimum of ten minutes. The kiwi one lasted 20 minutes.
And so, at the end of one of the tantrums, with her hair all sweaty and curly, she looked so sweet... and I was reminded of a rhyme my mother used to tell me:
There once was a girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very, very good;
When she was bad,
She was horrid.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Family portrait
Maïa drew this portrait of our family this morning after breakfast. She loves to draw, and her favourite subjects are her family. About a year ago, she used to draw what Derek calls "her Easter Island people" who were basically long, rectangular faces with strait mouths. Two eyes. No hair. I can't believe how far she's come along in her style! (though I do miss those little primitive faces)
At first, I couldn't make out who was whom. But I quickly deciphered which two were Maïa and me and which two were Derek and Solanne: check out the hair. Maïa has been into segregating our family along hair length for the past week or two, so my spot at the table is now next to hers while Derek sits by Solanne. The two with the short hair, obviously, are Derek and Solanne. Now, all the girls in the picture are wearing dresses (note: dresses are long rectangles while shirts are short rectangles). So, obviously, Solanne is on the far right, while Derek is the second from the left. Missing, however, is his beard, which is strange since Maïa usually draws it. Also of note, Maïa used to draw Solanne's hair by making tiny little dots around Solanne's head ("that's Solanne's tiny tiny tiny hair"). Anyhow, I figured out those two but I couldn't decide which one I was, so I asked. Apparently, I'm the second from the right, and Maïa is on the left. I think, if I had really tried, I could have figured it out given that I'm the one with the largest head in the drawing. I'm always the one with the largest head. I don't know that Maïa has ever really noticed that this is the case, or if she does it on purpose, but it just seems to be the way things work for her. And, for my smart-alec friends out there, I choose to believe that it's because I figure largely in her life that I have such a large head in her drawings, and it's not due to any other factor, thank you.
So there we are, our little family of four, according to Maïa.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The slow movement of life
Things have been rolling along at a steady but rather boring pace around here, hence the lack of "news" on this blog. Solanne is finally beginning to say words and phrases of her own. Maïa is getting over her dress phase and can be convinced, once in a while, to wear shorts or even long pants. It depends on the day, however.
It's the start of a long weekend here in Québec (the Saint-Jean Baptiste Day is on Saturday), and Solanne and Derek and down and out with a fever and sniffly noses. Maïa already had it — with vomitting thrown into the mix. It passed quickly, so I expect (and hope!) that Derek and Solanne will be better by the end of the weekend.
In any case, we have a whole other long weekend next week (Canada Day!) to look forward to. As long as I don't get sick...
It's the start of a long weekend here in Québec (the Saint-Jean Baptiste Day is on Saturday), and Solanne and Derek and down and out with a fever and sniffly noses. Maïa already had it — with vomitting thrown into the mix. It passed quickly, so I expect (and hope!) that Derek and Solanne will be better by the end of the weekend.
In any case, we have a whole other long weekend next week (Canada Day!) to look forward to. As long as I don't get sick...
Monday, June 12, 2006
The paths before us
I think all parents have a difficult time not branding or labelling their children in one way or another. I think it's our way of getting to know our children: "She's a really active kid; she never sits down. When she's playing, she just squats down so that she's ready to go. She'll be a sporty type, I think." That's just one example of many that I have caught myself saying. And it's not a bad thing to describe our children, but I think that we can easily move from describing our children's behaviour to prescribing it. And I don't want to put my children in boxes; I want them each to feel that they can try anything they want and not to be limited by what I expect they should do or be.
And, when I think of it, it seems rather ridiculous even to try to describe what or who they are at the tender ages of three and 19 months. After all, what habits will Derek or I pick up in the next decade, say, that will one day be "so Derek" or "so Cristina"? Just last week, Derek declared that he realised that he really likes to take care of plants and that he's looking forward to having a back yard to garden in. Perhaps one day, a grown up Maïa will say to one her friends, "I can't help you with your garden, but you should call up my dad: he knows everything about gardening." But he didn't discover that love until he was in his late twenties. Or Derek's dad, who loves to cook and who is famous for his elaborate family meals. He only started to cook when he was in his mid- to late-thirties.
If all these potential interests, still undiscovered, exist in our adult selves, how can I expect even to guess at my children's futures? And that's what is so exciting: that they could truly be anything. A teacher, an ophthomologist, a painter, a pharmaceutical expert, an economist, a CEO, a cleaner, a telemarketer, a magician, a lawyer, a theologian, a sports psychologist, a programmer, or even a ghost-buster. Whatever. It's all out there, waiting to be discovered. I hope that I'll allow my mind to be free enough to allow all those possibilities and so many more to be available and open to my girls. Heck, I don't even know what I'm going to do when I grow up...
And, when I think of it, it seems rather ridiculous even to try to describe what or who they are at the tender ages of three and 19 months. After all, what habits will Derek or I pick up in the next decade, say, that will one day be "so Derek" or "so Cristina"? Just last week, Derek declared that he realised that he really likes to take care of plants and that he's looking forward to having a back yard to garden in. Perhaps one day, a grown up Maïa will say to one her friends, "I can't help you with your garden, but you should call up my dad: he knows everything about gardening." But he didn't discover that love until he was in his late twenties. Or Derek's dad, who loves to cook and who is famous for his elaborate family meals. He only started to cook when he was in his mid- to late-thirties.
If all these potential interests, still undiscovered, exist in our adult selves, how can I expect even to guess at my children's futures? And that's what is so exciting: that they could truly be anything. A teacher, an ophthomologist, a painter, a pharmaceutical expert, an economist, a CEO, a cleaner, a telemarketer, a magician, a lawyer, a theologian, a sports psychologist, a programmer, or even a ghost-buster. Whatever. It's all out there, waiting to be discovered. I hope that I'll allow my mind to be free enough to allow all those possibilities and so many more to be available and open to my girls. Heck, I don't even know what I'm going to do when I grow up...
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Offer of employment
Hours: 12-hour shifts, interspersed with 12-hour on-call shifts. 7 days per week. Shifts may be variable; however, they are not flexible and are not changeable by the employee.
Breaks: No official breaks are offered. The employee may take quick bathroom and lunch breaks as needed; however, the employee continues to be on the job and must foresake said break as required by the employer.
Holidays: No regular holidays are offered. The employee is expected to work all statutory holidays with no compensation (see Salary section).
Vacation: Vacation days may only be taken on condition that a suitable replacement be found. The employee is responsible for finding the replacement and may have to pay said replacement out-of-pocket, unless a volunteer replacement may be found. However, the employee will remain on-call throughout the vacation, on an emergency basis.
Salary: None. In fact, you will be expected to pay the employer out-of-pocket for the entirety of the employment period. The employer will demand funds for housing, clothing, food, entertainment, education, and vacations.
Benefits: None.
Training: None. No courses or training exist for this employment. There are a number of training manuals available. However, they are often contradictory. Use at your own risk.
Grievance process: None. Grievances may be privately voiced to other employees; however, the employer shall never hear of such grievances. All grievances are to be carried to the grave.
Harrassment in the workplace: Harrassment is to be expected and tolerated. Verbal abuse is common; some physical abuse, including sleep deprivation, is common in the first few years of the employment period. Note: The employer is officially exempt from adhering to the United Nations Convention against Torture.
Union: Unions are forbidden.
Pension: None.
Retirement: None. Generally, the official employment period lasts approximately 20 to 30 years, with multiple employers demanding time, often overlapping. However, the employment period will be extended as the employers themselves become employees and ask for your assistance (for their own relief; see Vacation section).
All those interested are asked to pair up and foresake all means of birth control or visit their local adoption agency. No interviews necessary: anyone crazy enough to want the employment described above deserves what she or he gets. Best of luck.
Breaks: No official breaks are offered. The employee may take quick bathroom and lunch breaks as needed; however, the employee continues to be on the job and must foresake said break as required by the employer.
Holidays: No regular holidays are offered. The employee is expected to work all statutory holidays with no compensation (see Salary section).
Vacation: Vacation days may only be taken on condition that a suitable replacement be found. The employee is responsible for finding the replacement and may have to pay said replacement out-of-pocket, unless a volunteer replacement may be found. However, the employee will remain on-call throughout the vacation, on an emergency basis.
Salary: None. In fact, you will be expected to pay the employer out-of-pocket for the entirety of the employment period. The employer will demand funds for housing, clothing, food, entertainment, education, and vacations.
Benefits: None.
Training: None. No courses or training exist for this employment. There are a number of training manuals available. However, they are often contradictory. Use at your own risk.
Grievance process: None. Grievances may be privately voiced to other employees; however, the employer shall never hear of such grievances. All grievances are to be carried to the grave.
Harrassment in the workplace: Harrassment is to be expected and tolerated. Verbal abuse is common; some physical abuse, including sleep deprivation, is common in the first few years of the employment period. Note: The employer is officially exempt from adhering to the United Nations Convention against Torture.
Union: Unions are forbidden.
Pension: None.
Retirement: None. Generally, the official employment period lasts approximately 20 to 30 years, with multiple employers demanding time, often overlapping. However, the employment period will be extended as the employers themselves become employees and ask for your assistance (for their own relief; see Vacation section).
All those interested are asked to pair up and foresake all means of birth control or visit their local adoption agency. No interviews necessary: anyone crazy enough to want the employment described above deserves what she or he gets. Best of luck.
Graduation
Today, with little ceremony — none really — Maïa graduated from the beginner swimming class. She has moved on from Bobbers onto Floaters. Hurray! After our initial dismal start, I didn't really consider that she would be moving on, but she has done wonderfully well. She loves swimming now; she can't wait to go swimming in Nana and Grampa's pool this weekend.
I credit her instructor, a young man named J-F, with her success. He was a swimming instructor for Maïa's class back when she attended the YMCA preschool; the little class headed down the hall for swimming lessons every Thursday afternoon. He recognised her right away, and he even remembered her name. She took to him immediately and was always excited about going to see J-F. His cool factor is evident in his note on her Progress Card:
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Hair: redux
On the days when I feel that Solanne is going to be a little more trying than usual, I do this to her. It's pretty hard to get mad at an anime character.
Sewing
Well, knitting season is over for now... I finished a green coat with matching hat for Maïa, which has actually come in handy in the past few weeks. But with summer fast approaching, I thought I'd try my hand at sewing. I have this fantastic machine that my mom got me, and it's been waiting for bigger projects than hemming pants and curtains.
So I got started on some little summer dresses for the girls (Maïa especially, whom I'm often hard-pressed to convince to wear anything but a dress). Luckily, dresses are pretty quick to whip up, once one gets the hang of pattern language — I swear, it's a whole other dialect of English. The fabrics at the store are so scrumptuous that I had a hard time choosing; I picked the most vibrant colours I could find. And at less than a metre per dress, it is an entirely affordable option. So here are my first tries:
I completed this one just last night. It took me one short evening of cutting two of these and another short evening of stitching up this one (the other will be pink with a bottom frill). Maïa wanted to wear this one today; luckily, the weather was clement enough to allow it! The fabric is a cotton. The dress itself is a simple slip-dress with ties at the shoulders: no pesky zippers or buttons. A breeze.
The other dresses that Maïa is holding are two that I made three weeks ago. It took one evening of cutting and one very long evening of sewing both dresses. At one point, I felt like I was working in a factory, only without the expertise. Luckily, my mom was staying with us, and she gave me some great tips and lots of help. This being my first project, I wasn't sure what I was doing! The fabric is a seer-sucker (no ironing!). The dress is A-line with a one-button enclosure at the back of the neck. I added the bottom trim to finish it off.
Some of the cool stitch work that my machine can do.
So I got started on some little summer dresses for the girls (Maïa especially, whom I'm often hard-pressed to convince to wear anything but a dress). Luckily, dresses are pretty quick to whip up, once one gets the hang of pattern language — I swear, it's a whole other dialect of English. The fabrics at the store are so scrumptuous that I had a hard time choosing; I picked the most vibrant colours I could find. And at less than a metre per dress, it is an entirely affordable option. So here are my first tries:
I completed this one just last night. It took me one short evening of cutting two of these and another short evening of stitching up this one (the other will be pink with a bottom frill). Maïa wanted to wear this one today; luckily, the weather was clement enough to allow it! The fabric is a cotton. The dress itself is a simple slip-dress with ties at the shoulders: no pesky zippers or buttons. A breeze.
The other dresses that Maïa is holding are two that I made three weeks ago. It took one evening of cutting and one very long evening of sewing both dresses. At one point, I felt like I was working in a factory, only without the expertise. Luckily, my mom was staying with us, and she gave me some great tips and lots of help. This being my first project, I wasn't sure what I was doing! The fabric is a seer-sucker (no ironing!). The dress is A-line with a one-button enclosure at the back of the neck. I added the bottom trim to finish it off.
Some of the cool stitch work that my machine can do.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Rant
I have a beef with those parents out there who take their contagious children out to public places. I mean sniffly, coughing, feverish, vomitting, or diarrhea-suffering. I acknowledge that on occasion, we parents leave the house with what seems a perfectly healthy child only to have that child vomit or spike a fever at whatever outting. I give those parents immunity from my criticism. I also give immunity to those parents taking their slightly sick kids on errands that must be run, or a sniffly kid to daycare when there is no other option (most daycares don't have rules against sniffly or coughing children coming to daycare). I even forgive the parents who take snotty kids to the park (a parent's gotta get out some time!).
My beef lies with those parents who take their snotty, coughing, feverish kids to those venues where there will certainly be other kids, namely playgroups, church nurseries, swimming lessons, library circle times, or any other enclosed area where a number of small children will be playing with, and placing into their mouths, common toys. It is not necessary to bring our children to those places: we do have the option of staying home, or taking a walk, or going to a place where the child won't be sharing toys or close space with other children. There is no question that at least one other child will catch whatever is going around. And that child, it seems, is usually mine. And I'm getting quite tired of it. When I bring my children to the nursery at church, I just assume they'll be in a safe environment. But then there's the lurking kid with the runny nose. I might as well just have Solanne lick the child because the effect is the same: she's gonna get sick.
And sick she got. Runny nose and two miserable nights of sleep (up every half hour on one night!). All because that kid's parents had to come to church and they just had to bring their kid to the nursery instead of keeping him with them. Why? I just don't understand it.
So this is the sign I would like to post in all children's indoor play areas:
IF YOUR CHILD HAS A RUNNY NOSE, PERSISTENT COUGH, OR HAS HAD A FEVER/VOMITTING/DIARRHEA IN THE PAST 24 HOURS, PLEASE CONSIDER THE HEALTH OF OTHER CHILDREN AND THEIR FAMILIES. DO NOT BRING YOUR CHILD WITHIN THIS SPACE.
THANK YOU
Keep your little germ factories home!!
My beef lies with those parents who take their snotty, coughing, feverish kids to those venues where there will certainly be other kids, namely playgroups, church nurseries, swimming lessons, library circle times, or any other enclosed area where a number of small children will be playing with, and placing into their mouths, common toys. It is not necessary to bring our children to those places: we do have the option of staying home, or taking a walk, or going to a place where the child won't be sharing toys or close space with other children. There is no question that at least one other child will catch whatever is going around. And that child, it seems, is usually mine. And I'm getting quite tired of it. When I bring my children to the nursery at church, I just assume they'll be in a safe environment. But then there's the lurking kid with the runny nose. I might as well just have Solanne lick the child because the effect is the same: she's gonna get sick.
And sick she got. Runny nose and two miserable nights of sleep (up every half hour on one night!). All because that kid's parents had to come to church and they just had to bring their kid to the nursery instead of keeping him with them. Why? I just don't understand it.
So this is the sign I would like to post in all children's indoor play areas:
IF YOUR CHILD HAS A RUNNY NOSE, PERSISTENT COUGH, OR HAS HAD A FEVER/VOMITTING/DIARRHEA IN THE PAST 24 HOURS, PLEASE CONSIDER THE HEALTH OF OTHER CHILDREN AND THEIR FAMILIES. DO NOT BRING YOUR CHILD WITHIN THIS SPACE.
THANK YOU
Keep your little germ factories home!!
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
News Release
Clicky Sky has been found safe
MONTREAL, May 17, 2006 -- The beloved friend of Maïa, the tiny horse named Clicky, has been found safe, if a little rumpled and flattened. The horse had last been seen in Maïa's arms on May 14 at the church the family attends. It was unclear, however, if the horse had made it home. It was also unclear whether the horse had run away or if he had been kidnapped.
A witness confirmed, late yesterday evening, that Clicky was in the family household on the afternoon of May 14. The witness, Katie, is a good friend of the family. The sighting confirmed that Clicky was within the family home. Although a thorough search had already been conducted by investigators, the search-and-rescue team was called in as the situation had become dire.
A rescuer found the tiny horse behind a couch cushion. Having believed that the space was too small for the horse to hide within, it had been overlooked in the initial tearing apart of the house.
MONTREAL, May 17, 2006 -- The beloved friend of Maïa, the tiny horse named Clicky, has been found safe, if a little rumpled and flattened. The horse had last been seen in Maïa's arms on May 14 at the church the family attends. It was unclear, however, if the horse had made it home. It was also unclear whether the horse had run away or if he had been kidnapped.
A witness confirmed, late yesterday evening, that Clicky was in the family household on the afternoon of May 14. The witness, Katie, is a good friend of the family. The sighting confirmed that Clicky was within the family home. Although a thorough search had already been conducted by investigators, the search-and-rescue team was called in as the situation had become dire.
A rescuer found the tiny horse behind a couch cushion. Having believed that the space was too small for the horse to hide within, it had been overlooked in the initial tearing apart of the house.
Monday, May 15, 2006
MISSING
Name: Clicky, a.k.a. Clickster, Clicking Clickeroo, (tongue clicking)
Date of disappearance: May 14, 2006 (His second disappearance in seven days)
Last seen: in Maïa's arms some time after church, approximately 1 pm local time
Description: brown and white horse, skinny, wobbly, matted mane
Distinguishing features: cataracts, frayed tag
Return to: Maïa
Thursday, May 11, 2006
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