19 June 2014

Lately, I've been coming to grips with the events of last year.  The passing of my grandfather, the loss of Cailey.  It's been a rough road.  I miss them both so much.  I think having two losses so close together just magnified the feelings to the point of shut down.  

The only way my mind could function to an extent was by closing off everything and focusing on the most basic of tasks.  Wake up.  Get dressed.  Brush teeth.  Ensure family is fed.  Work.  

The few times I allowed myself to sit and really think about last August, the emotions -- fear, regret, devastating loss -- would rise up and I would have trouble breathing.  My heart would shatter and it would be all I could do to continue.  

I have written so many messages to Bedstefar and Cailey.  My journal is full of them.  Notes, stories, telling them both how I'm feeling.  

Sept 6:
Is it strange I'm writing you on Facebook even though you're gone? I miss you. I love you. I wish you sweet dreams where they all come true. Goodbye, my dear, dear friend

Oct 31:
It's been two months. Is it supposed to be getting easier yet? You'd love Elodie's Hallowe'en costume. Hermoine Granger. Her tie is too long and brushes her knees. I miss you so very much. I wish you could write me back.

Dec 31:
It's your birthday. Happy 93rd!

Apr 11:
So my therapist (oh, gosh, yes...therapy) told me I should write you a letter when I'm feeling upset. I don't feel okay yet. And I feel like a bad friend because I can't remember your life without despairing over your death. Perhaps your memorial will bring closure. I miss you.

I don't remember past losses being so horrid.  Certainly sad.  Certainly painful.  But my life still seemed to continue with some semblance of normal.  Even after being in the room and holding someone's hand and telling them they could go now I was still able to be okay enough to support the one who had lost his mother.

My task at hand right now is opening up small fragments of the smallest emotions and allowing them to work themselves completely out.  This might be while I'm in the tub or laying in bed or on a walk.  I expose my entire being completely to that one teeny, tiny piece of the larger puzzle and drape myself in it.  It becomes me.  

And while I sit there in the darkness or anger or wave of despair I just ride it out.  It might take five minutes.  It might take an hour.  It might take four.  But by the end of it, I'm emotionally drained and that piece is over. 

I don't know how long I'll have to do this.  There are weeks when I feel as though I can tackle a piece a day.  There are weeks when I don't dare venture into that place.  This may be too much metaphor, but you know when you smash a lightbulb?  Not just pop it, but really, really crush the thing?  And you pick up all the bits you can see.  But if you run a damp paper towel over the surface and look at it, you'll still see the sparkling dust?  That's me right now. 

I'm desperately trying to piece it all back together.  And one day I'll get there.  One day I'll be okay with it all.  But until then, there may be weeks when you notice I have no time for anything but myself and my stuff.  And I'm sorry.  Wait for me.

31 December 2013

All my life, I have wanted to be pretty.  Pretty hot, pretty smart, pretty cool, pretty popular, pretty successful, pretty, pretty, pretty.  I have alternately starved myself, painted myself, frozen in too little clothing, dumbed myself down for mass consumption and lost myself to depression in the search for the elusive pretty nod.  And I saw nothing wrong with it.  What's especially sad is these falsifications of myself weren't considered particularly unacceptable by those around me either.  There was, of course, a handful (frontlined by my mother in most cases) who knew I could be "better".

The problem is, for a girl raised on "pretty", better is synonymous.  I just had to be prettier.  I didn't equate better with having a healthier self esteem, social life or relationships.  I saw better as an attainment of status I had failed to achieve. 

Enter my daughter.  Elodie.  Perfect upon arrival, special.  I loved her always, and all ways, but my favourite was when she was calm, watching us with those hazy grey-blue baby eyes.  She had such soft skin and mile long lashes and beautiful rosebud lips that would firmly press together as she contemplated the world around her.  

And the pretty started to flow.  What a pretty baby!  Such a pretty darling!  What a pretty little doll!  Look at how pretty she is!  As if this was affirming that I was a good parent already because I had produced pretty offspring.  

As I became aware of it, so I caught myself doing it, too.  The pretties rolled off my tongue to fall not only on my daughter, but the babies at the store, the daughters of my friends, dropping like shiny cut glass, completely worthless and useless and pretty.  

And those pretties became limits in my mind.  My daughter isn't pretty smart.  She is smart.  She is not pretty funny.  She is funny.  Elodie is not pretty good at making friends.  She is good at making friends.  She is not pretty.  She is.  It was quite a wakeup call.  As someone who had never considered myself sexist or a feminist, I was shocked how unintentionally yet overtly we limit the women in our own society by flinging pretty, pretty, pretty at them over and over.  The word has pervaded until, like the word "um", it is used as a filler and our girls hear it constantly.  And our boys hear it, too, and they in turn grow up limiting our girls' worth, unintentionally, overtly, with two vapid syllables.  

I now make a conscious effort to avoid the word pretty unless I'm referring to an animal or an inanimate object.  My daughter, and indeed all women, are so much more. 

6 December 2013

His name is Aero.  He and we have had a very eventful day. 

I had taken the day off as a means to having a day of relaxation.  That, however, didn't happen.  Elodie stayed home from school, at my insistence, because it's negative 28, but -40 with the wind chill.  Skin freezes on exposure, so screw that.  If I don't want to leave the house, she doesn't have to.

The next big difference (read: NOT RELAXING) came around 11:00.  I was sitting in my bed, petting Arrow, when lo and behold, I feel a "skin tag".  Being a chronic picker--just ask Robbie--I pulled off said "skin tag" only to find a LOUSE in my hand!  I booked an appointment with the vet, washed ALL THE THINGS, and felt very itchy.

Thankfully, lice are pretty species-specific, and there is no concern of the cats or us being infested.  The vet confirmed Aero is a walking louse farm, and prescribed a shampoo and medication for both he and Apollo.  Both were administered, and with luck, our home will be louse free in 14 days. 

Asher is finally warming up to the puppy, which is a relief.  Robbie loves him.  Elodie and I are smitten.  Luna tolerates him, Pan swats him, and Apollo has started playing with him.  

Besides pet drama, our home is moving steadily forward.  Elodie's reading and writing is improving.  Asher develops a stronger will with every passing meal it seems, and Robbie is almost done his master's.  My job is busy, but good.  Our life is content.  

I'm looking forward to Christmas and a wonderful holiday with our family. 

3 December 2013

Today we welcomed a new family member into our home!  As of yet, the puppy is simply known as "puppy" or "hey you", but he is settling in quite nicely.  So far, two accidents in the house, both of the solid variety.  No pee, though, so I think he has the general idea in mind, though lacks the practise.

We are unsure of the breed.  He is obviously a mix, what is lovingly referred to as an "Alberta special", or a mix of husky, shepherd and several others.  This type of breeding tends to take place on the reservations, and many dog rescues centre their efforts on these reservations. 

Sadly, it is only treating the symptoms of a diseased systemic failure.  There is little to no education on proper care of dogs or any pets, and virtually no spaying or neutering, let alone vaccinations.  Packs of wild dogs roam, animals starve to death on a regular basis, and puppies are traded like baseball cards.  

All this means that resources are wrapped up in saving the animals condemned to a neglected existence, leaving nothing to direct at the root cause.  All this to say our dog was rescued off a reserve, whichi s notorious for its poor living conditions for man and beast alike. 

He is extremely sweet.  Quite laid back, and he loves Elodie.  As soon as he is house trained, I think he will be an ideal dog.  He already has learned sit, and we are working on lay down.  I'm so very glad to have found him!

18 November 2013

Where has the time gone?  We last wrote in the summer, when breezes were warm and days were long.  We are now well into the winter season , and the snow is deep and fluffy.  Not so far into it that our days drag for the cold, however.  We are still in the honeymoon phase leading up to Christmas.  After the holidays, we'll be itching for green.  For now, though, it's magical.

We have started decorating the house and prepping for the holidays.  Elodie and I strung a garland across the top of the bay window.  From it, we hung beads and candy canes.  The effect is sweet, if slightly gaudy.  Next on the decor list will be sock snowmen and a wreath for the door.  Elodie also has to set up her Christmas village on the piano. 

I really like the winter holidays.  My mom tries to tell me that I have no business celebrating Christmas, as I am an atheist, to which I usually ask how baby Jesus born in manger in the middle of the desert in March led to pine trees, the winter solstice and the word "Yule".  

Christmas, for us, is a time to enjoy traditions and family and food.  We sing carols, drink too much, tease each other mercilessly and generally have a great time.  My family has always celebrated the holidays on Christmas Eve.  This has been very convenient, as Robbie's family celebrates on Christmas Day.  I'm thankful not to have to give up any of my traditions or any of his.  

This year, to counteract the sadness of the past months, I'm going all out for celebrations.  I've already started baking, planning advent calendars and elf shoe gifts (thank you, Scandinavia, for giving us kids 24 mornings of wonder).  Our shopping for the kids is almost done.  I still need to wrap it all, though.  

The knitting has begun on my sweet niece's stocking.  Our house is orderly enough that the big clean before the holidays won't take long. 

I'm looking forward to a magical Christmas with my family, snuggled in pyjamas, drinking cocoa, watching the kids discover the surprises left by the big guy in red on Christmas morning.  Now to deal with life until then. 

14 Sept 2013

Tomorrow is Asher's first birthday party. It's unreal to think that in a few short days, he will be one! He is such a funny, sweet, sensitive child. He cries if people are too loud. He loves his sister more than any person on this earth. He likes feeding himself with a fork.

His favorite toys are things with wheels, and he blows raspberries while pushing them. He adores women; the older, the better, and will smile his fantastic, slow smile at them in stores or at the park.

Ash is my rainbow baby, conceived after 3.5 years of trying when I had practically given up on having a second child. The heartbreak of hoping and then being crushed every month was extremely wrenching. When he was conceived, I felt sure that something would happen that would end this dream as well, since I felt like I've been thwarted at every turn.

Infertility is a strange beast. You feel so alone throughout your journey, and I personally felt like such a failure. This is what my body was made to do, so why wasn't it just doing it already?! My daughter was going to be all alone when we died. My brother doesn't think he wants kids, and Robbie's brother is childless in his mid-30s, so for all we knew, she would have no biological cousins.

I say biological because Robbie is blessed with a very fertile set of stepsiblings, and so we have 11 nieces and nephews on that side. But I digress. There was an underlying fear that if something happened (gods forbid) to Elodie that I would have no reason to continue with living. I think that's a fairly normal fear. At least, I have friends who have confirmed that it was also a fear of theirs.

When Asher was born, his little form somehow pulled Robbie, Elodie and I closer. He became this point around which our family pivots, and I think all of our lives are more enriched and fulfilled just by being touched by him.

Seeing Asher and Elodie form a bond that is so doting and loving melts my heart into a puddle. Watching how Robbie loves and cares for his son makes me so sure I married the right man. And most of all, being Ashers mommy, allowing him to wrap me around his middle finger, and allowing myself to let down my walls and feel all the love I have for him coursing through my body is so overwhelming and raw. Part of me still feels awe that he's here, that he's ours. I still pinch myself and wonder if it's real.

First birthday party madness ensues tomorrow. It will probably be my last first birthday, so I will have to revel in the very firstness of it all.

12 Sept 2013

Today was one of those days that failed to conform to any assumption you may make about its progress. It started with a hiccup. A baby who woke at 5:00 AM and refused to return to his bed for 50 minutes, which happens to be 10 minutes prior to my alarm. Said alarm was pushed to 6:30, and then further pushed to 7:00.

Work was a file that was complicated, finicky, and therefore far more time-consuming than my files usually are. My work day, which usually runs from 6:00 AM to 10:00 AM ran instead from 7:00 to 2:30 PM. It was further hindered by a baby who, being so out of sorts, failed to take his normal 9:30 to 12:00 nap.  Instead, he didn't nap until 1:30, and awoke at 2:45. Which means he slept precisely three hours less today than he normally does.

Because I was working to a deadline, I didn't eat anything but snacks and coffee (snacks mostly consisting of gummy candy) until almost 3 o'clock. This meant when dinner rolled around, I wasn't hungry, so Robbie heated left over spaghetti and meat sauce for himself, and a can of beans for Elodie.

Asher's teeth are bothering him. I think number eight just turned my usually darling napper and decent sleeper into a rebellious, angry, distracted, clingy baby who fears the crib like it is some gaping maw prepared to swallow him whole and eat off his toes.

I nursed him to sleep, something I rarely do anymore, at 7:30. He woke up almost exactly at 8:15, which happens to be just as we had sent his sister to bed, just as we were preparing for peace. I had sat down to proof Robbie's paper. Robbie was folding laundry. It's been half an hour. What began as a day with hiccups is ending the same way, it seems.