Wordless Wednesday - Who had beans?

The Fear

Is it just me, or is the school playground not the equivalent of a war zone? The possibilities for major injury just ABOUND.

As spring has sprung, the kids are all about the climbing walls, poles, monkey bars, ladders, slides ... and all I see in my head are metal bars *CLANG*, chains - *CLANG*, the ground far below- *THUD*, wood chips and sand in the eyes- SPLINTER/SCRATCH/OUCH!!!.

And the warriors, as soon as they're let out of the cage known as school, are just FLYING all over the place. Flying monkeys resembling a hurricane with my little girl channeling Dorothy at the epicenter.

Things were fine last year when she was three. She didn't venture far from me, content to sit in the swing and try the see saw if there was another toddler around to play with. Or just push the sand around with her shovel.

Those days are over. This year, she's out to play with the big boys.

"Be careful, little G, this is making Mommy very nervous. Make sure you take your time crossing those bars, and concentrate when those kids are climbing around you!"

"But Mommy, I am being careful. I'm a BIG girl, I know what I'm doing!!"

"I know you do, sweetie, but it's making Mommy a bit of a wreck, watching you."

"So Mommy, DON'T WATCH ME!"

Clever little thing. I'm already scared.

Nine

For one so small, you seem so strong
My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm
This bond between us, can't be broken
I will be here, don't you cry

Cause you'll be in my heart
Yes, you'll be in my heart
From this day on, now and forever more...

(Phil Collins)

Mommy and baby fitness warmup.This was our favourite part of the workout.

You loved it as I lifted you high in the air to the swelling "you'll be in my heart"... as high as I could manage hoisting your little Buddha weight. And then lowering your giggling body as close to my chest as I could get you for a tight snuggle.

Nine years ago today, my world was changed. You brought it to a whole new level. Happy is not big enough a word to describe it.

You brought me motherhood.

We knew you were a special baby, a wonderful child.



And you're growing into such an exceptional young man.

There's a huge part of me that wants to keep you this young, lovable boy.

But there's an even bigger part of me that cannot wait to see you soar to unbelievable heights.

Knowing full well that you'll always, always come back to me for that tight snuggle.

Happy Birthday sweet child of mine.

Bitch, moan, wail

I was officially discharged from physio last week! Yay, knee is pretty much good to go, Bodyjam here we come (well, in a bit)...

Yesterday, thinking about going to the gym, helping the kids get their backpacks on ...

SPAZ- MATTACK!!!!

What the HELL was that?

PAIN.

Oh my frickin' crap, my back is out.

Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

Can't I catch a break?

Or at least a margarita or a mojito at 8 AM for all my troubles.

(Serves me right for even thinking about the gym. And for carrying that 500 pound shredder into the house on my own. And where the heck did I hide that Robaxacet, anyway?)

I'll be fine *sob*, really I will *sob*...

Playing with the cool kids

(After too many beers and mojito mixes on a Friday night...)

"So do you think we're cool?"

"What do you mean cool? As opposed to being geeks? "I freakin' love Celine Dion*" type geeks?"

"Yeah, like that. I mean, Grant and Sophie, I think they're cool. They've got great taste in music."

" They do like a lot of what we like. What is this, high school? And who's to say that we're not geeks anyway, who just happen to like cool music?"

"Yeah. We should have a party and play the 80's music trivia game that I played at my departmental get-together. I slaughtered everyone. We ARE geeks."

"We should do that. And you watch, I'll wipe you. I mean I'll swipe your ...I mean wipe your ... wait, scratch that ... KICK your ...ASS. You know what I mean."

(And that, folks, is how drunk, exhausted and geeky middle-aged parents of young children who live in the 'burbs talk. While wishing that they had the energy to be doing something fun as opposed to sinking further into their "coma couch" trying to keep their eyes open for the 11 o'clock news...)

*****

This time, I'm not a geek. Temporarily, anyway. The 'other' me is playing with the cool folks.

My first ever guest post, at the home of the cool and beautiful JustMiss.

Check it out.

(*And I know that Miss does love the occasional Celine tune; but trust me, she's still beyond kool.)

Brothers and Sisters

This is what I see every morning after I push them out the door ...


This is what I hear from the moms whenever I pick up the girlie from kindergarten ...

"Your boy, he is so protective of your daughter."

"He doesn't let her out of his sight, he's always got an arm around her or he's holding onto her hand as she gets off the bus."

"It's amazing. She gives him a big hug at the door and he does not leave until he sees that she's inside safely with the rest of her class."

My rugrats. They know each other's weak spots and they bug each other mercilessly every chance they get.

But there's some unwritten rule there, a bond that only they know, as only siblings can "get".

He lets her hang out with him and his friends, and he only occasionally complains to me, asking for space. She'll invade his playdates and seek attention from his friends. He doesn't mind overly much. He's almost 9, and she is just 4. I think it's safe to assume that most 9 year olds would shudder at the thought of their pipsqueak younger sister getting into their territory.

Even when we get into the house, occasionally, the big brother will stop and help his little sister take off her shoes. I tell him that she's old enough to do that on her own and he responds with, "Oh, it's okay Mom. I'm here anyway, I may as well give her a hand."

What did she do to deserve this? The girlie, I must admit, has hit the sibling jackpot.

*****

My mother comes home tomorrow. She's been away for almost a month visiting with her brothers. A visit to Hong Kong that she had been hoping to take with my Dad.

Mom's been busy. Shopping, taking a few side tours to Indonesia, eating out, more shopping. No cooking, no cleaning, no laundry... and visiting friends and old classmates who she hadn't seen in over 40 years. She even picked up some extra luggage to fill with the goodies she's purchased for her beloved grandkids.

Both her brothers there have been wonderful to her. They've even given her shopping funds, too much for her to use up so she'll have extra to come home with. I think she's at the place she needs to be right now, in the company of her family. She's often talked wistfully about her big brothers, the one just older than her in particular. Such wonderful memories she has of of them watching out for her while growing up. Her brothers are now taking very good care of their little sister. In her words, she is being treated like a queen.

I've always said that little G is so much like her grandmother.

And luckily for her, the little princess, it looks like she'll also share this with Poh-Poh.

The love of a big brother, that will undoubtedly last a lifetime.

Weekly Winners: I knew you were coming so we...

Guess what we got from a friend this week...guess what Mommy always wanted as a kid...

Patting it just so

Ready to roll ... but in through the out door (we`ll figure it out ...)

Pink-a-licious

Uh, yum?

Exhausted ... what did Mommy put in the mix anyway?

Thanks for visiting! Don't forget to visit the home of Weekly Winners, chez Lotus.

Mother's talk

As anyone who's ever had a kid (and anyone who's ever been a kid) knows, a parent has to wear several hats at once, often more than one on any given day.

Cook, chauffeur, dishwasher, nurse, cheerleader, coach, hairstylist, psychotherapist, massage therapist, personal shopper... the list goes on.

I've got a bit of hathead today.

It's been a bit of a rough week in this household.

The boy got hit with a 24 hour stomach bug. He doesn't get sick too often, we are lucky that way. But he'd also managed to clang his head with the steel garage door on his way in an hour before bedtime. Great timing. So I was concerned that his nausea may have been associated with a concussion. Do we keep him awake? Do we let him sleep?

In the end, I decided to sleep next to him on the sleeping bag (oh, boy, there go the bones). He likened it to a sleepover. He seemed fine, but was having bad dreams and then a very verbal stomach. Thank goodness he doesn't share his Mom's emetophobia. He managed to get whatever it was out of his system, every 3 hours. He was back on his feet, and after a day resting, all is well again.

Yesterday's saga was not as fun. I don't know if I've shared this, but my daughter HATES anything fruits and vegetables and fibre related. Yes, this is a concern. She's already had one really bad bout of constipation and we had to take her to her pediatrician for that. (I'm sure she's gonna love me for this story one day.)

For this particular episode, I was a little more prepared. The poor thing was sitting on the toilet, her face so red, tears streaming down her cheeks as she told me it hurt and she wanted it OUT! "Is it going to be stuck forever?"

It was breaking my heart.

I'll spare you the details, but fixing it involved suppositories.

Yes, a parent's job is never done. Jill-of-all-trades, master of none.

So down she sat again, a bit happier knowing that Mommy had done something and that she would be productive at some point. With her princess book on her lap, she smiled.

"You're like a doctor! I love you mommy!"

"I love you too monkey."

"I love you because you make my poo come out and go away"

So apparently I am a master of one.

You can write "shit disturber" on my next hat.

Anniversary of the Great Egg Hunt

Today is an interesting anniversary of sorts. Not a typical 5 year milestone that one would mark as "special" on the calendar. Although from my perspective it was quite memorable. In actual fact, unforgettable.

April 15, 2004 was Ovum Retrieval Day.

I remember it almost as if it were yesterday.

*****

After five unsuccessful tries at IUI over the course of over a year, our first scheduled IVF cycle began late March 2004. By the time O/R day came, I had already subjected myself to a couple of weeks of Lupron and Puregon injections, and subjected others around me to my raging hormonal tendencies. And as we tried not to have our life stand still because of our attempts for baby #2, many of these shots were taken at social functions. I would just excuse myself and go to the bathroom, dial up the pen to appropriate level of FSH prescribed for the day based on the daily blood results ... and *BAM* shoot myself in the thigh. Let's just say I carried around a big purse.

I was lucky, though, for one of our closest friends told me that I didn't have the "IVF face". The puffy fertility drug visage that apparently some women can sport as a result of the cocktails pumped into already tired bodies - bypassed me. So although I was churning on the inside, the outside world didn't have a clue.

*****

The morning of the O/R was of course fraught with all manner of logistical issues. I had booked a day off, but still needed to bring the boy to daycare. The problem was that we had to be at the clinic before the daycare was open. The plan was to get to the clinic in time for my prep, then the man had to do what he had to do, and then he would take our little guy to daycare. After which he'd come back to the clinic to pick me up and bring me home to rest. And no one would be the wiser.

Except one little wise man. After I was prepped and ready in my gown, Daddy had to go provide his sample in the -ahem- special room. As he got up to leave, the boy asked, "Daddy, where are you going?"

Both of us frazzled with the situation, we had to do some really quick thinking on our feet. So we came up with "Oh, Daddy is going to have a check-up just like Mommy is today'. The boy seemed content with that. What a relief.

While Ian went to do his thing, my little guy stayed with me. It was exciting but nerve-wracking at the same time. It was also very helpful having my boy with me, my little man who would be turning 4 years old in a matter of days. A great distraction. Did you know that the average 4 year old asks about 457 questions a day? Including...

"Hi Daddy, how was your check up? Are you okay?" as the man came back upstairs with his paper bag.

"Yup, everything's just fine. All is good with Daddy."

Snort.

He handed the nurse the bag for processing and off the boys went. Daddy and our boy also left.

And I was taken into the O/R room, feeling very bloated and nervous, but happy that there were multiple follicles. After trading pleasantries with the doctors, I lay back as they started with the ultrasound, and gave me something to relax. I faded out of consciousness. The day had finally come.

*****

I woke up a bit groggy in the recovery room. I was sore, feeling like someone had ventured into my reproductive plumbing, scrounged around and hoovered up some hidden treasures.

Oh yeah, somebody just had.

But I knew exactly where I was and what had happened. As I sipped on the apple juice they provided to me while I waited for Ian to pick me up, I asked the nurse how everything had gone.

I guess the Easter bunny had left some good egg karma that year.

They retrieved a dozen eggs. From my closer-to-40-than-35 year old body. A perfect dozen.


(To be continued).

Moobage?

Little G has been growing into a very girlie girl lately, and she was watching me with interest as I got dressed the other morning.

I had stopped by La Senza a little while ago and brought home a couple of pretty bras as pick-me-ups for spring. Little G picked out the orange and pink polka-dotted number with the pretty frills for me to wear. (The more frills the merrier when you're a sporting the equivalent of terrain of the Prairies as your boobage).

"Mommy, why do you wear a bra?", she asked.

"Well, because Mommy doesn't want to walk around just, well, hanging as it doesn't look so neat and tidy. It looks and feels better under my tops and T-shirts when I wear a bra."

Whew, was that a good answer?

Not that I have much to hang about. In actual fact I didn't want to admit that it was part of my optical illusion to make it look like I have something up there. I don't want to get into that whole body image discussion with her just yet. Hopefully the lack o' rack that her mom inherited will bypass her generation.

"Oh. Well then why doesn't Daddy wear a bra?"

Oh boy.

Next she'll be suggesting a mirdle.

Weekly Winners: Portrait of a blogger as a diarist

In starting this 31DBBB exercise, in between the daily "I should be doing something more productive" brain twits, I've been thinking about what this blog is, what I want to do with it, and why I started it in the first place.

I started it because of my kids. This is something tangible, my virtual bottle of memories.

Eureka moment.

We had a lovely Easter dinner at my SIL's and my other SIL shared with us something so wonderful and amazing. Her father, who had passed 10 years ago, had actually kept a series of diaries. He wrote every single day from day one of his marriage to the day of his death. And now his children have his diaries, to look back at their own lives as seen through their Dad's eyes. Incredible.

And these are my kids through my eyes.

"Look Mommy, I'm so tall now" (me: *sob*)

Meet my doe-eyed personal trainer...

Okay, are we working or playing?

Cool bandit

Easter chickee has a drink

Too much Easter alcohol ;)

Egg dipping, or "Mom forces us to be crafty"

Like my egg?

Easter brights

HAPPY EASTER!

Thanks for stopping by. Don't forget to visit the home of Weekly Winners, chez Lotus.

Touched by a sweet angel

This morning I took my little girl to her preschool dance lesson, and watched as she pranced around, arms waving, her little feet tip-toeing with nine other pixies in pink.

My boy (with his cool toque turned the side just so, and his new scarf wrapped around his neck in a haphazard fashion that is now en vogue with the young set), sat in front of me, proudly watching his sister with me.

And I felt so blessed.

Because earlier this week, I learned that a family lost their precious little girl too, too soon. The Spohrs will not have this with their daughter.

I have watched in amazement as the blogosphere and the twitter community has responded to this tragic story.

I don't know the Spohrs and only last week started following Heather on twitter. But my heart is so saddened and it goes out to them.

Things have gone a little purple around here in honour of Maddie. Because it's the least I can do.

Please consider making a donation in her name at March of Dimes, or helping out her parents here:

Back to black

Along with other things recently, this blog has suffered somewhat. So I decided (and hopefully I won't regret) to do something about it. I joined Problogger's 31 days to build a better blog (31DBBB).

I've already missed some of the first assignments, including the following:
1/ SWOT analysis... on my blog? This is old school biz school. But I suppose I should take a stab at it, being a verified old skooler and all.
2/ Develop an "elevator pitch" for my blog. Marketing 101 again, I suppose. I think it will certainly come in handy at BlogHer '09, though. If people take pity and chat with me in the bar food line, I'll have something more interesting to throw at them. One would hope.

Both those items are now homework.

I'm rolling the next couple of assignments into one. Today we are putting together a list post and practicing promotion. I'm also going to give you some useful advice based on experience. Recent experience, trying to go back to my original *cough* hair colour.

So here we go ...

Ten things that you NEED to know before you colour your own hair.

(I did this, not only as my salute to frugality in honour of our recessionary times, but also because the last salon colour I got lasted about 4 days before grays started peeking out, and I don't have another two hours and $70 to waste again any time soon.)

1/ Pre-prep work: Do the allergy test. Just don't put it in a conspicuous spot where people will wonder if that's a honkin' new mole or you're just happy to see them.

2/ Prep work: Read the instructions from beginning to end, BEFORE you start. That way you won't miss the part about framing your face with face cream so you can clean off the " scream" effect more easily later.

3/ What to wear: Borrow an old shirt from the man. Just don't forget that there's a reason he wanted to chuck it, as it is HUGE and that drips that you don't wipe away immediately will end up giving you "dirt-neck". Ewww...

4/ Surround Sound: During the rinse cycle, don't have the TV on "Tyra" while they are discussing Facebook and Twitter addictions. Or at least turn the volume down so you don't know what you're missin' or what you should be dissin'. (Tyra? WTH?)

5/ The Area: Clear the decks. Give yourself ample room for splash and remove all possible targets within a 6 foot radius. And it's not a moshpit, so try to keep your head as still as possible when you're slathering. I forgot about my last foray into Jackson Pollock-ville.

6/ Pre-pre-prep work: Cut your hair to one inch length.

7/ How long? Regarding those "10 minutes to go" kits? Realize that 10 minutes only refers to the time that the colour should sit in the hair. But there's a dilemma. Do you time from the start, or when you've completed the whole head... because by the time you finish it could be closer to 20-30 minutes.

And then you're totally emo.

Make it easy on yourself. See #6.

8/Survival tip A: Keep the gloves on, or if possible, upgrade to longer elbow length versions. Black rivulets of hair dye cannot pass for cool henna tattoos. Cannot.

9/Survival tip B: If you wear specs like I do, put aluminum foil on the arms. You're not baking them, but they do actually save them from wrecking during the development time.

10/ Survival tip C: But don't wear your glasses while you're actually putting the colour in your tresses because it's difficult to work around the foil. And therein lies the problem, particularly if you're blind as a bat like I am. Just cross your fingers and be thankful that you can't see the back or the top of your head.

So that's the list!

And now, I will tweet this.

Mission accomplished. Next mission, a decent haircut.

Whaddya think?




(The boy thinks it looks awkward, as in "good black, in a totally emo kind of way, Mom". A good thing?)

Picking up sticks

I had a physiotherapy appointment this morning, to strengthen the knee that collapsed during the biggest nightmare of my life. There's nothing quite like having your body fail you while watching your father slip away.

I finally got organized, and let's face it, woke myself out of this slumpy fog that I've plopped myself into the last three months. Wishing and hoping that it would get better on its own was not exactly working.

The good news is that the ligaments are intact and there's no permanent damage. Bodyjam is NOT forever out of my grasp - whew! And the ladies at the clinic didn't think I looked like I was in my 40s (although I think it's fairly easy to look young when you're in the company of 60-70 year olds.) It's better to look good than to feel good, right? I wish, as I don't think I'm doing so hot in either department these days.

The bad news is that I have lost muscle in that leg. And apparently I also have flat feet (a friend told me this wasn't uncommon after pregnancy. Who knew, I thought my shoe size grew because my feet were getting fatter). After this morning's session, it's also apparent that I've lost a lot of respiratory strength. Five minutes on bike, five minutes of lunges, five minutes of balance board and five minutes of jumping on a mini trampoline (albeit, on one leg) equals a whole lot of huffing and puffing that just about KILLED me.

So I've made up my mind. Pre-the period of drama known as winter 2008, my regular routine included exercise. I went to the gym at least three times a week. I didn't realize how much I needed the normalcy of this routine to keep me going and to keep me emotionally stable. To keep it going for my kids, for my family, for my husband, but most importantly for me.

It was easy for me to slip into the cloud of self-pity. Whenever people ask me how I've been (at appointments, with people I hadn't run into in a while), my standard issue, "Oh, actually everything has sucked, I've had two gall bladder attacks, I wrecked my knee, my Dad was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer and died 10 weeks ago"... was making people feel decidedly uncomfortable and wondering why they had asked me in the first place. I must stop doing that.

I'm tired of being tired. After spending an evening with a difficult to watch, but infinitely inspirational DVD last night, I have no excuses for NOT getting back into life. Really getting back into life.

Not being able to get in the car or go up the stairs without fear of an uncomfortable twinge in my knee? Try waking up three weeks after a massive stroke and only being able to move ONE EYELID!! And then having the tenacity to use an ingenious method of communication developed by your therapist, to communicate and then dictate your memoirs, one letter at a time, and live to see it published only days before your death.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (Le scaphandre et le papillon). See it.

My sticks scattered this past winter. I need to pick them up. Be grateful for what I have, for what I am capable of, for the NOW.

And with the help of my daughter and the rest of the family, we might even build a better picture for tomorrow.

Visiting the motherhood in 80 clicks

The whole time we were going through our infertility struggles, I remember sitting down at various points wondering what it was that drove me to want children so, so badly. It seemed almost obsessive, my drive to become a mother. Bringing me to the brink of insanity, sometimes, the frustration of it all. But I never found a good answer.

I was never one of those 'aw, coochie-coo' ing type of people growing up. Babies were cute, but I didn't necessarily need to have them in my arms. Admiring from afar was fine. Babysitting was a means to an end for me; I'm sure I corrupted many a youngster in my care with bad TV or inappropriate musical fare.

I suppose I'm a lot like my mother in that respect. While she loved and still loves each and every one of her own children and grandchildren, she's just pragmatic about all the rest. A labour and delivery nurse and trained midwife, she could lull a crying baby in half a second, but babies and kids were just part of work. Or in her words, just a lot of work.

Now that I've been a mom for almost NINE years (how in the world did THAT happen?), I can't say that my progeny will not be corrupted with bad reality TV or questionable selections from my iPod. Being a mom is not all about running through the fields and playing hide and seek amongst freshly laundered sheets, singing happy songs during circle time ... there are both good times and bad. But I wouldn't trade it for a second. Not a one.

So in celebration of all things good in the motherhood, I've decided to join the travelling caravan of blogging moms around the world, launched at Her Bad Mother. I share herewith, five things that I love about being a mother :

1/ I love that when I stroke my daughter's face, in awe of her white as snow, soft skin, her doe- eyes turn to me, she throws her little arms around my neck and she whispers "I love you mama" in my ear.

2/ I love that for every moment like this (and this is only 7 seconds, folks, I had to endure 10 minutes of contrived drama):


there are about five more like this:


3/ I love the squeals of wonder when they wake up Christmas morning to see that cookies left for Santa have been devoured and the stockings are stuffed with new little goodies.

4/ I love our good night kisses, the heart-felt "I love you too. See you in the morning"s. And how they usually pass out within three minutes.

5/ I love the Sunday morning snuggle in our king sized bed. We are sleepy, we are fuzzy, we are cozy. We are loved.

I sometimes wish that I could just stop time and capture these wonderful childhood moments in a bottle. That there were some way to savour them time and time again. I know things will change, the children will grow. I only hope that they will always know that the love that their mother holds for them knows no bounds.

*****

And now for the tour... I ask you to visit some other Canadian blogging moms: a new mom, blogging pal C of Random Thoughts & Musings at Manitoulin Island, and newer blogging friends at The Petite Gourmand and Blog like no one is reading.

A couple of moms from the US: Donna at Spuddy Buddy and Domestic Goddess in Training at Love, Laughs and Lice

And a couple of moms from overseas: Etc, Etc, Etc, the lovely Debbie from Japan and tiff and her beautiful family in Australia.

Enjoy.

MBC technorati list

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Wordless Wednesday - Lock's broken

(they teach you important things in kindergarten ... who knew?)