If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention

I read this on a bumper sticker not so long ago, and it's become my mantra.

Here are a few things that outrage me these days:

Inner pollution
We have slowly, but surely, been poisoning ourselves by using everyday products. From parabens and SLS in our personal care products (see my upcoming article...) to Bisphenol A in plastics, and many, many more. And industries' responses to all the dangers: it's not been proven. There, there, dear consumer, don't worry. Those scientists are just trying to scare you. Well, I for one am starting to make some noise about this, if only to spare my daughters from breast cancer, reproductive problems, and any other number of health risks.

Food not fuel
In the hopes of easing their conscience, car drivers have been turning to ethanol fuel. They are seekind out the fuel that contains corn in order to feel more "green." Canada and US governments are encouraging the production of ethanol fuel. Unfortunately, this has caused a huge jump in the price of corn. Corn, as we all know, is food, and it is a staple in the diet of many people, especially those in Mexico. There, people have staged tortilla protests because the price of their food is now beyond the level that many can afford. All this coincides with global warming, which is causing record high temperatures. The high temps mess with corn production, and fewer and fewer areas in the world can now produce the crop. The high interest in corn by the ethanol producers paired with the lower crop yield are contributing to unaffordable table corn.

The poor shall not inherit the earth
Speaking of global warming, the effects of this, the greatest of all plagues, will be felt most keenly by the poor, reports the Globe and Mail. But what else is new? Those in developing countries will feel the effects of the warming of the globe most, with growing deserts and hotter temps. Their food sources will be meagre; disease will be rampant; water will run out; entire swaths of land will be lost to the sea. Those of us responsible for all this, those of us who drive cars; heat and light our homes with dirty fuels; use more water than is necessary; consume clothing, furniture, telephones, computers, paper, and other "goods" at rates that are unsustainable; we will feel it by having to shell out more money for things like fuel and food. And we will complain. And they will die.

Bonjour les culottes!

The end is nigh... the end of diapers in our house! About a month ago, Solanne started to poo exclusively in the toilet. Don't worry: I'll spare you the details. And we've been experimenting with underwear. Since I'm the one doing most of the potty work with Solanne, she has adopted the French term for underwear, which is "culottes." It's funny because most of what she says is in English, but then she'll throw in a "culottes" out of the blue.

In any case, two weeks ago, I put the culottes on Solanne and whisked her off to the bathroom every half hour or so. At a certain point in the morning, I got to my house-cleaning, including vacuuming. I guess I lost track of time, because Solanne came running into the office where I was cleaning, and she had a bare bum! She promptly told me she had peed, wiped herself, and flushed the toilet. "And I did't talk to you," she said, meaning she hadn't told me ahead of time.

So now she's in culottes most of the time, except for naps and at night and for long trips. She can and does go all by herself. I'm so proud! And our diaper laundry has been cut by a fair margin. I guess not having babies in the house has its advantages...

Yippy yi-yay!

Some of you have been pestering me, wondering why I haven't posted a blog entry in a while. Well, I have a good excuse.

I am happy to tell you all that I will have an article published in a real-life magazine. Published. Yay!

My article, dealing with so-called natural products, harmful ingredients, and new labelling legislation, will be published in an upcoming edition of Briarpatch Magazine.

In the mean time, I hope you're all sufficiently appeased by the three other entries posted here this evening.

My disco girls

Right up front, I have to make a confession: I love disco. It's my secret, guilty pleasure. I owe it to being born in 1977, at disco's apex. Well, I think it was the only year that disco was popular... In any case, I love it. And I will not tolerate being teased about it. Now on with the blog entry.

Once upon a time, "my disco girls" referred to my highschool girl friends. On special occasions we would get dolled up in our disco gear and go out for a night on the town (or in someone's basement). Now "my disco girls" refers to Maïa and Solanne. I am happy to report that they both enjoy dancing to disco music (especially the Bee Gees). This makes me tremendously happy.


Here is Maïa dancing, using the moves I've taught her.



By the way, in case you're wondering what she's wearing... it's her brand new raincoat and spring hat. I bought them today, she's been wearing them all afternoon and evening.


And here is Solanne. The music is in the background, so listen carefully for it. These are her very own moves, which we've dubbed the "Alligator Dance" (check out the moves with her hands: it looks like an alligator's chomping jaws).

The Pink Party

Today is Election Day in Quebec. Last night, Derek was bemoaning the fact that he didn't know who to vote for. The two main parties, the Liberal party and the Parti québécois, do not represent our stances, in one way or another. So I started naming off our other options: le Parti Québec solidaire, the Green Party...

"Party" seems to be one of those words that kids pick up on. But Maïa and Solanne preferred the idea of a Pink Party. I asked them what their platform would be (I had to explain what a platform is). Here are some highlights of their new party:

Everyone would have the right to the following:

cake and ice cream

disco

breakfast

bracelet-making

drawing

play

sleeping well at night

Solanne, on her part, clarified:

pink cake

ice cream & fruit

food

necklaces

crayons

So on this election, let us all take a moment to consider how much of a better place this would be if we only let our kids make some of the decisions.

My first name is Mommy

Solanne has been getting used to the fact that Derek and I have other names besides Daddy and Mommy. She was naming everyone in our family: "Daddy is Derek, I'm Solanne, Maïa is Maïa, and Mommy is..." She had forgotten. Then Maïa tried to remember, but she could only come up with "Katrina," the name of one of her friends. She knew it was wrong, so she asked me, "Momma, what's your second name?"

It sent me into thinking about the radical identity transformation I have gone through since Maïa was born.

Last week I spent two whole days with a friend who has a three-week old baby. She's just beginning to reel from the reality of it. I remember feeling utterly useless and strange and completely out of touch with everyone I knew.

Watching my friend, I realised, for the first time, what I had gone through. I had lost myself. Truly lost Cristina. My roles as friend, daughter, wife were all a distant second to my new role of mother. And I didn't feel like a mom. I didn't think I was acting like a mom. I felt like I was some sort of imposter (I had no idea what I was doing). And at the same time, I felt like I would never again be those other things: wife, friend, daughter, person. I was in a strange identity limbo. I was nothing. It was devastating. For months, it was devastating.

And now, I laugh at the idea that Maïa thinks that my second name is Cristina. She'll likely not know I'm a person until she's into her twenties. But that's okay; I know I'm a person, a wife, a friend, a daugther. It's all okay now.

Things I love about Montreal

in no particular order:

Montrealers/les montréalais

a great, affordable daycare

the fact that there are three used book stores within a fifteen minute walk from my house

there are two mommy-n-me cafés within the same radius

the multicultural aspect

driving for 10 minutes from downtown and still being in downtown

an awesome public transit system

recognizing no one, anywhere

relatively frequent family meals with Ken, Sandie, Gramma, Grampa, Mike, Robin, Jeff, Steve (and Chris, when he's there)

cheap rent

having friends visit for a weekend; it's a totally different dynamic than coffee

innumerable fantastic restaurants

the fact that (almost) everyone has a fashion sense

Akhavan Food Market

the Korean/Japanese food store

the natural products store

the Iraqi grocer

having an awesome sitter who lives next door

knowing there's great music out there to listen to (hey, with two kids, who has the time or the money?)

the urban feel

being surrounded by people who speak French

the sheer amount of snow (do we get more here, or is the city just not very efficient at removing it?)

how friendly people are

NDG park, even though you can hear the traffic on Sherbrooke

the architecture

the Biodome, Botanical Gardens, Insectarium

the recycling program

the cool factor

Things I miss about Ottawa

in no particular order:

my mom

getting together with my girlfriends

the ByTowne Cinemas and All Books, next door

my extended family at Ascension

skating on the Rideau canal

driving for 10 minutes from downtown and being in the country

walking to church

recognizing people I know everywhere I go

relatively frequent family meals with Ken, Sandie, Pat, Julie, Naomi (and Nick, when he's there)

Sunday Bike Days

green space, lots and lots of green space

watching my friends' kids grow up

pancake supper, Seder supper, Christmas pageant, coffee hour at Ascension

not worrying about what I'm wearing when I leave the house

the Byward Fruit Market, especially Isaac and Miriam, the owners

seeing old friends often instead of next-to-never

Beaver Tails

the fact that there's only one major highway cutting up the city

Canada Day

other Franco-ontarians ("no, I'm not québécoise... really, people do speak French outside Quebec")

knowing how to get to any part of the city from any other part

an excellent school board

the Hammerheads!

Strathcona Park, on the Rideau River

our family doctor

the National Gallery

walking along the Ottawa River, below Parliament Hill, at night

Confederation Park

the fact that I feel at home there

Welcome, baby Eva!

I just found out that my good friend Sandra had her little baby girl on Tuesday. Mom and baby are doing well, I am pleased to know.

I'm tremendously happy that one of my oldest friends can now share the joys (and hardships!) of motherhood with me. Since "matante" Sandra has a baby, I guess my girls now have a new little "cousin"!

Congrats, Sandra, on the arrival of your baby and on the very hard work it has taken to get you both here. You're a hero.

On turning 30

I turned 30 a few weeks ago. And it's been good.

Around the time I turned 28, and was feeling down in the dumps about getting older, I made a decision. I was not going to worry about aging. In fact, I was going to love my thirties. So I started getting ready for the big Three-Oh, by getting excited about it. And it worked.

I won't expound on what I've learned over the course of the decade of my twenties... not now. But I will brag about what great people I have in my life. First and foremost, my best friend and hubby, Derek. My beautiful kids. My best girlfriends from highschool. My wonderful friends from university, work, and beyond... And we all (except the kids and my friends with kids) got together to celebrate my coming of age.

It was a big bash that started out in Wakefield, at my friend Sarah's house. She prepared an Italian meal, specifically from the region my dad was born in: Emilia-Romagna. She should know the cuisine: she spent a year there studying food! And it was delish, as Sarah would say. Check it out here. Present were my highschool girlfriends: Sarah, Katherine, Gen with partner J-F, Louise, and me. Absent was a very pregnant Sandra.

When we had our birthday tiramisù and quickly opened a few cards, we dashed off to Ottawa to meet up with friends at The Collection, a martini bar in Ottawa's Byward market. I was surrounded by friends who were all there to celebrate me, some of whom had travelled a few hours to join in the festivities! I feel incredibly blessed to know them all. Maybe we should do this every year!!

Here's a taste (from Sarah's camera):

My favourite day of the year

When I was a kid, living at home in our bungalow in Ottawa, my very favourite day of the year was the day I would step out, in the spring, and feel the warm spring air on my skin and realise it was warmer outside than it was inside. It usually occurred in late April or early May, and it usually preceded our weird mid-spring heat wave.

I have always loved summer and disliked—to avoid the word hated—winter. I am always cold and I can never seem to warm my hands and feet before May. So the warmth is always a welcome relief. But there's more. The short days and long, long periods of darkness affect me, though not severely, acutely. I have low levels of energy, I get grumpy, I feel lonely. And I have been like that since I can remember. So feeling the heat of the oncoming summer was a promise I wanted to hold, like a security blanket, close to my face and heart.

Now my favourite day of the year comes much earlier. Today was that day. It was that day when the sun touches my face and it feels warm. When the fact that the sun actually heats our planet was not just theoretical in my mind but felt by my body. As I walked to Maïa's daycare, pushing the chariot, I felt the sun and knew. That it was almost time. That the dark days are on their way out. That the earth was tilting, ever so slowly, back toward the sun. That I will one day be able to leave the house within five minutes, without snowsuits and hats and mittens and scarves and boots. That joy was returning.

More fun with words

Derek has taken up squash, and so we went raquet shopping over the weekend. As he was testing them all out, he explained to the girls what the raquets were for. Maïa astutely responded, "I want to play sweet potato, Daddy."

When we visit Grandma, who lives on the 11th floor, Solanne knows we have to take the "alligator."

News flash

Solanne is officially out of size 2 clothing and very comfortably into size 3. She's wearing the clothes Maïa wore last year! At this rate, I'll soon have to buy a double wardrobe of a single size... or do laundry twice as often!

I knew she had a growth spurt coming on when she suddenly started taking epic naps (upward of three hours) every day, consistently, for about three weeks. She got back into a normal routine of about 90 minutes of sleep, which seems wickedly short to me now. And suddenly her shirts were all belly-shirts and her pants were capris. I'm a little concerned, now: she's been sleeping over three hours every afternoon for the past three days... she's better not grow again!

Misunderstood lyrics and other malapropisms

One of the best things about having a toddler is watching how she mis-hears and mis-understands the world around her. Since her experience is limited, she can only put what she hears into that small context. Here are some of the cute things Solanne says.

• the ABC song goes like this: a-b-c-d-e-f-geez! ache-i-j-k-all-a-many-pees-q-r-s-t-u-v-w-x-y-z-now i now i ABC's, next time won't you sing with me?


• Baa-baa, black sheep, how you doin'?


• eye-browns (instead of eyebrows)


• she calls the Fisher Price village the Bumble Bee (still not sure why)


• hey! wait until me (instead of what for me)


• my two-head (instead of forehead: if Maïa is four years old and has a forehead, then Sol, who's two, must have a two-head, right?)

Proud moment

Yesterday, Maïa and I were frantically trying to get her little Valentines all done for her friends at daycare. Well, I was frantic, she was just putting on stickers and writing out names, calm as could be. I had written up a list of the kids in her class, and I felt that there was someone missing.

"Katrina isn't on the list!" Maïa shouted. So I added her on, Maïa wrote her name on the Valentine, and we went along our merry way, completing the task. Later that evening, when Maïa was in bed, I heard her shouting. Derek went in to check on her; it's rather unlike her to say anything these days after her head hits the pillow. Derek came back, a smile on his face.

"What was wrong?"

"She said that we forgot Aliza on the list. She wanted to make sure we made a Valentine for her, too."

I couldn't believe how thoughtful she was! She was so concerned that we make a card for everyone in her class that she had to let us know. It came to her as she was falling asleep, and she had to make sure that Aliza wasn't left out. I might note, here, that while Maïa doesn't necessarily dislike this girl, she has never spoken fondly of her... she barely speaks of her at all.

Yet Maïa has this sense of justice, of equity, already at this young age. She didn't want anyone to be left out. When I realised this, my heart just welled up in immense pride. I've felt proud of her countless times before, like when she does big puzzles all on her own, or sounds out words and writes them out, or when she draws her amazing creations. But I've never felt anything like this. This generosity she has in her little soul is something that surpasses what I've taught her (at least directly) and what I expect of her. It goes beyond the academic or the sporty. It's deeper. It's part of her, and it's beautiful.

I'm just proud that this little kid is my daughter.

Virus number 7

victims: Maïa, Solanne, Cristina

symptoms: slight fever at onset, congestion, runny nose (how do those happen at the same time??), slight cough due to mucus, disorientation (wait... I think that's caused by the Sinutab... oh, sweet sleep, I hear you calling..........

creations

Solanne has recently taken an interest in drawing and colouring. Just two days ago, she astonished Derek and me by drawing "inside the lines." I use the term "inside" loosely, but she was trying. And, like Maïa did, she only uses one colour at a time, so by the end of her colouring, you wouldn't know that she's colouring in the lines, but if you've watched attentively, you can see that she has coloured the picture section by section.

Visit our craft site to see a couple of her drawings. They're her first recognizable creations.

Ev'ybody

I always thought that "transitional objects" were toys that children carried around to help them get through toddlerhood (ie, transition from baby to little kid). I learned in a psych class in university that the objects have a more direct and immediate use in children's lives: they help children transition from one activity or space to another. Maïa had Clicky, whom she took everywhere. Solanne has Cat (aka, Vanille) and Baby (aka, Baby Rachel). Their respective friends became very important around the age of 12 to 18 months.

Then, around the time Sol turned 2, she expanded her group of friends. Suddenly, she started carrying around Jacka Monkey and the gorilla; Solanne calls them "the mommy" and "the daddy," respectively. Soon, there were a number of other stuffed animals involved, including a dog and Snowman (they're the regulars). One day, out of the blue, Solanne dubbed the group "ev'ybody." Now, if we're busy playing in the living room and call her into the kitchen for a snack, she first must gather up ev'ybody (it's a full armload for her), bring them to the kitchen, and dump them on the floor. I found this a really odd thing, to expand her cast of characters. And then I remembered Maïa.

Around Christmas two years ago, when Maïa had just turned two, she began asking to bring more friends to bed with her. The group became quickly established. There were five of them, a number we had to remember so we could find them all at bed time: Clicky, Dodo (a receiving blanket), Chick, Snowman (now Sol's regular friend), and Pillow (a little doll pillow that had been mine when I was little). There was no title to the group, however.

I'm not sure if it's just my kids who do this around the age of two; after all, many children don't even have one special friend, let alone a whole group of them. But there must be a reason for it happening around the age of two. For Maïa it lasted about 8 months. By the time we moved here, she was back to having just Clicky with her at bed. For now, "ev'ybody" is going strong at our house. There is one saving grace in all this: at least she doesn't take them all to bed. I don't know if we'd be able to find her in her little bed for all those friends.

Trailers on the run

I promise to write soon, when I have a moment, when I am not editing someone else's writing... I guess I can't complain about having paid work (for once)! A little preview of future entries:

Ev'ybody

Misunderstood lyrics and other malapropisms

School registration

Inspirational song

This is the song that uncle Mike wrote for the wedding. It was performed (by Derek, and sung along by all) instead of having a traditional reading.

"It's Great to Be a Pirate"

It’s great to be a pirate
And live a life of pleasure
We fight with swords and swing from ropes
And hunt for buried treasure.
We make our families walk the plank
Ignore them while they’re pleadin’.
We’ll wear those patches on our eyes
So we don’t have to see ’em.

CHORUS
It’s great, it’s great – To be a married pirate!
It’s great, it’s great – To live in wedded bliss.
It’s great, it’s great – Shackled to our partner.
It’s great, it’s great – A life of strife as man and wife our
Freedom we won’t miss.

Here’s to getting married
Our vows we’ll be a’heedin’
We’ll fight all day, make up all night
Our sleep, we won’t be needin’.
We make our families tow the line
When they will come a-sailin’.
They’ll swab the deck and clean the head
And that’ll send them packin’.

CHORUS

The pirate wedding

The pirate wedding was one of the highlights of our holidays. When Derek and I were approached to help plan this occasion (unbeknownst to the bride and groom!), we were happy to chip in. We had no idea how out of hand it could become!

Derek's aunt Susan (Sandie's sister) has been with Dan for thirteen years, and they finally decided to tie the knot over the holiday season. The timing wasn't great for most of us, but they chose the date because it was the first time in about five years that Susan's daughter, Megan, and Dan's two daugthers would be in town (Toronto) at the same time, before heading back out to their respective corners of the planet. Most of us couldn't make it, and Susan and Dan were very gracious in understanding. It was, after all, a few days before Christmas and four days after Pat and Julie's wedding, and short notice.

But Derek's uncle Mike, Susan and Sandie's brother, felt that we couldn't let the occasion pass by unnoticed. He thought we could host a wedding: more than just a dinner to celebrate, he wanted to have the whole thing done right here in Montreal, before the whole family. Since Susan and Dan sail, a pirate theme was tossed about. I don't think Mike knew what we were going to do with that idea!

Derek and I planned out the ceremony, casting my father-in-law, Ken, as the officiant: a crusty old pirate captain. Ken is somewhat of a ham, so he was very excited when he got the script. He even added some of his own touches. We were inspired and helped along a little by the Talk Like a Pirate website. Everyone in the family got into the spirit of things. Some made the pirate hats we were all required to wear.

.

Uncle Mike and his wife, aunt Robin, hosted at their home (and Robin made a feast). Sandie and Ken helped with the costumes. And everyone was game to sing along and play their parts.

The ceremony opened with Mike playing a wedding march. (Keep in mind that Susan and Dan only knew they were going to have a celebration in their honour: they didn't know about the ceremony). Dan was ushered out by Megan who forced him forward with a plastic sword (to create a pirate version of a shotgun wedding).

Susan came down the stairs, and headed for the "altar."

Ken played up his role as Cap'n "Scurvy Bilge Rat" Ken.

The rest was rather like any other wedding, only done up in pirate-speak and with a great deal of laughter. We sang "It's Great to Be a Pirate" and then listened to the bride and groom's vows. Throughout, we called Dan all names but his own, such as Dick, Don, Doug, Dale, and Donovan. (We have only known him for thirteen years, after all.)

After the ceremony, Susan and Dan opened up their wedding survival kit (including ear plugs, sleeping masks, various how-to guides, jumbo condoms, band-aids, and Centrum Silver vitamins). The gifts were followed by the first dance. Then we devoured the delicious supper as well as the wedding cake, made by Gramma.

Dan's vows

I, Dick Osbold, take you, Susan Payette, to be my buxom sea lassie, my partner in life, and my one true love. I vow to be yours, in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow. I will love you when our decks are full of treasure, and when the rats have eaten the last crumb from our hold. I will cherish you even if you swell up with scurvy, or if your skin peels off in the scorching sun. I promise to stay by your side through renovations, redecorations, and multiple flagellations—even if it kills me. I vow never to get angry with you, even though you spend most of your time in far-off cities with strapping young football players instead of with me. In other words, I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for you and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, to allow you into my flight simulator whenever you want, and to stay with you, for all eternity.

Susan's vows

I, Susan Payette, take you, Don Osterwald, to be my gnarly ocean barnacle, my partner at sea, and my one true love. I will cherish our union and love you more each day than I did the day before. I vow to stay with you, through storms and high seas, though our mast might break, or salt water leak into our bed. I promise never to make you swab the deck unless you deserve it, and to let you clean out the head whenever you want to. Through it all, I will love you, honor you, and obey you when it suits my needs—and do my own thing whenever I feel like it. I won’t get angry that you have two Tauruses and only one of me, and I swear never to flush the toilet while you are in the shower. Doug, I will trust you and respect you, laugh with you and cry with you, loving you faithfully through good times and bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together. I give you my hand, my heart, my liver, my gall bladder, my left eye, and my love, from this day forward, for as long as we both shall live.

"Gangplank to Heaven"

Here are the lyrics to Susan and Dan's first dance. Composed by Derek, to the tune of "Stairway to Heaven"

There’s a lady named Sue,
Who found her love true,
Now she’s walking the gangplank to heaven.
When she gets to its end,
Well you know she’ll find Dan,
And they’ll sail off together, hand in hand.

Oooh, oooh, and they’re walking the gangplank to heaven.
There’s a sign on the head,
It says "Flush, or you’re dead,"
Cause you know sometimes he leaves the seat up.
And she’ll say, "Swab the deck,
Or I’ll give you heck!"
And at times Dan will feel kind of beat up.

And it keeps me thinking,
How they keep from sinking.

There’s a feeling they’ll get,
When they’re both soaking wet,
In a storm off the coast of Saint Catharines.
And Dan will complain,
They should just take a plane,
At least planes have some half-normal bathrooms.

And it keeps me thinking,
How do they keep from sinking?

If there’s a rustle in your ship’s hold,
Don’t be alarmed now,
It’s prob’ly Susie renova-ting.
Just make sure she don’t knock the walls down,
Because you’ll both drown,
You’ll feel your ship slowly sinking…

And as they sail the lake so cold,
They’ll swab the decks and clean the hold,
And scrape the barnacles and mold,
Until they look all grey and old,
But still their smiles will shine like gold,

And if we listen very hard,
We’ll hear them hauling on the yards,
They’ll need a drink to get them through,
So here’s a toast to Dan and Sue…

Cause they’re walking the gangplank to heaven.

What I did on my Christmas vacation, or how I went mad in 21 days

Our Christmas "vacation" was perhaps the most hectic on record for us, which is no mean feat considering we have been known to have four Christmases in the space of two-and-a-half days. Here are some highlights (photos to come when I have time to format everything):

Dec 13: leave for Ottawa; meet Derek's mentor after a talk he has given

Dec 14: visit with my Mom, which is where we are staying; finish final adjustments on the flower girl dresses

Dec 15: rehearsal & dinner for Patrick and Julie's wedding

Dec 16: Pat & Julie's wedding; drink, eat little, take off shoes, dance

Dec 17: visit with Derek's extended family; drive back to Montreal in time to greet Matt, and old friend who's been in Korea for the past two years; visit

Dec 18: say good-bye to Matt; go to pilates class; run to daycare to set up the stage and room for Christmas concert; run home to shower; run back to daycare for a very adorable concert

Dec 19: recover

Dec 20-21: write script for Pirate Wedding; write lyrics for "Gangplank to Heaven" (actually Derek wrote that part); prepare lyric sheets and wedding programs

Dec 22: meet up with my good friend Catherine and her partner, Simon, in the Old Port (Catherine's been living in Australia for the past four years); go to Mike & Robin's for Susan & Dan's Pirate Wedding (more on this in its own entry)

Dec 23: The Great Payette Christmas Gathering, which is an annual event during which all of Derek's mother's family gets together to eat and exchange gifts... and visit, too; Derek's brother Nick and his partner, Naomi, stay over, and we chat...

Dec 24: gift exchange; Christmas dinner at our place, with our parents and Nick and Naomi

Dec 25: more presents; we go to church (right, that's what this is all about...)

Dec 26: my Mom and I go to the movies

Dec 27: my Mom leaves; laundry

Dec 28-Jan 2: we visit with Derek's parents (and brothers and their partners, at various intervals)

Jan 2: drive back to Montreal in time to visit with Sarah (who has been in Italy for the past year and a half) and Gen (who lives here, but whom I see far too seldom); I discover all-you-can-eat sushi

Jan 3: Derek is back to school, and Maïa is back to daycare

Shockingly, after all this activity, I feel quite rested and happy.

By the bye, today is Derek's birthday. Happy 29th, Babe.

All in one breath

The good and the terribly bad swirl around together today, in my heart, in those around me, in those I love. It's been a rough couple of days in my soul. And for the first time in a long time, I find myself praying, out of the blue, for grace, healing, freedom. For those I know need it so desperately. And for those I don't even know.

And in the midst of the horrible pressing down on my heart, of the tears of frustration and sorrow about to spill any second, I can only laugh. Because of my girls. Because for us, right now anyway, life is unbelievably, hopelessly and hopefully beautiful. We are blessed, in the simplest sense: we have each other, wholly. So I hold onto them, Derek, Maïa, and Solanne, literally, and I pray. Prayers of thanksgiving and prayers of desolation. All in one breath.

Is that my kid?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

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

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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...

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

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.

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.

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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?).

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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?

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.

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.

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.

Hold on

Tonight, we — Derek and I and all of Montreal — hold onto our children a little tighter.

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

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.