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.

11 Sept 2013

It's just dawned on me that I've been writing all the dates as August, but it's actually September.  See, I'm not perfect.  Ahem.

Today marks the 12th anniversary of 9/11, a day which I will always remember.  I was in grade 12, and we were sitting in class when the entire school was pulled into various places to watch the unfolding events.  More than any other image in my mind from that day -- groups huddled around televisions in the library, the endless loops on the TV of the first tower raining down on itself in a shower of smoke and devastation, my teachers talking in hushed voices with creased brows -- I remember the falling man. 

I don't know why that image has stuck in my mind so stubbornly.  I would love to forget him, with his suit jacket (grey) billowing around him, spread eagled as he fell face down toward the ground.  I've wondered so much about him in the convening years.  How old was he?  Did he have kids?  Did his family recognize him as his image was broadcast to billions?  Perhaps they saw his tie (I think it was blue) flapping next to him and realized that this was their loved one.  

Our culture is so hopped up on violence that broadcasting images like the falling man or watching videos of tsunami victims being swallowed by the wall of water they're desperately trying to outrun seems entirely unreal.  It's just another special effect, complete with bangs and crying and handheld cameras.  And we watch without looking away.  Our access to horrible moments of pain and loss is never censored.  

I got into a minor disagreement on Twitter this summer over media being denied access into High River on the day hundreds of people returned after the flooding in Southern Alberta tore open their homes.  The media person felt that it was their duty to broadcast the reactions of these folks returning to chaos and broken lives and memories swept away.  It was "good journalism".  My question was and remains, what purpose does it serve?  We know people are devastated.  We know there are tales of sadness and horror at the states of their homes.  We know people have lost everything.  What does a direct line into that suffering and sadness do, for them or us?

There are times when I am worried about raising children in an era where, like no other, privacy is a rare commodity.  Ironic perhaps, considering I'm sharing these private musings on a very public forum; but these are thoughts of my own that I choose to share. 

The falling man, to me, is a representation of the rape of the most private moments.  What should have been private, the final moments before a person's death, was shown to all.  Please take a moment to think of all that was lost that day, and remember those taken in the tragedy.

**Of note: the falling man does not refer to the picture, which is referred to as the same, but to a man who was filmed falling.  

10 Sept 2013

Yesterday my dad called.  He had spoken to Cailey's stepdad, Rob.  I guess they had a small family-only funeral service, and will later be having an invite-only memorial.  I will be invited.

Sometimes it doesn't seem real, that her life is just over.  That she is no longer in mine.  Being an atheist, I don't believe in reincarnation or an afterlife.  That's hard in times like these, but by the same token, I'm not nearly as afraid of death now than before I accepted my eventual demise.  I believe religion is largely based in fear of death, and by accepting death for what it truly is, one can begin to live the best life possible.  

Still, there has already been a few times today when I find my airway tightening at the thought of dying.  I miss my friend.  

I think my biggest fear, however, is losing one of my own children.  The natural progression is to lose grandparents and parents.  Losing contemporaries is also normal later in life.  But to lose a child...just the thought sends my pulse racing.  What would I do?  How would I continue?

A friend of mine is marking the one year anniversary of her daughter's death today.  Her life was short, but brilliant, shiny and inspiring.  The shortest lives do seem  affect us, as humans, more.  By the same token, I am a firm believer that it is not about how long a person lives, but how they live it. 

Perhaps short lives seem more shiny because they don't experience enough monotony to dull.  Perhaps we remark on how tragic short lives are because we rely on the younger among us to remind us what it means to see wonder in everything around us.

9 Sept 2013

The complete monotony of my days begs me to write today out.  Because one day I hope to have grandchildren treasure these words, I may as well scribble even mundane details.  Who knows what they may find interesting. 

Asher is almost one, but not yet sleeping through the night.  He was up twice last night, and while being immersed in this stage is frustrating, I know that one day, I will miss his warm body seeking comfort and reassurance in mine; his greedy mouth searching for food at my breast; his tiny hands draping haphazardly toward Robbie.  He is a charming baby, and his charm doesn't turn off upon falling asleep. 

Even in his sleep, he is seeking us out, demanding touch from both his parents.  Sometimes this means he'll crawl toward Robbie and lay his head against Robbie's arm while maintaining our connection by virtue of his feet.  Sometimes he merely fusses until reflexively Robbie and i are both patting him.  However he does it, it is a gesture of love that touches every ounce of me. 

Elodie and I had put her hair in rag curls Sunday night as a trial run for picture day on Tuesday.  We took them out this morning, and she looked just like a mini flapper girl.  Sometimes I get glimpses of how she will look as an adult.  How I ever grew such a looker, I'll never know.

Elodie and Robbie headed out for their respective days, and Ash and I began ours.  Ash went down for his nap at about 10:00, and I had a bath then laid down for a nap of my own.  We woke up at 11:45 and had lunch.  Robbie joined us at 12:30, and returned to work at 1:00.  By that time, I was feeling like a coffee was in order.  Asher played on the living room floor, and I played on the iPad.  

At 2:00, I put Ash down for a nap, but completely forgot that I had to leave to get Elodie at 2:30.  Luckily, Robbie called to remind me.  Poor baby only got 15 minutes of sleep before I put him in his stroller.  

We walked down to Elodie's school to pick her up.  The aphids are horrendous lately.  'Tis the season, I guess.  After getting Elodie and heading home, we watched Rise of the Guardians together. 

Robbie came home about 5:00, and I made dinner -- soft tacos.  Elodie is of the opinion that any Tex Mex is called a burrito.  At 7:30, after Robbie had done the dishes, we went to Menshi's for ice cream.  We met my parents there.  Only Elodie and Asher had ice cream, although I helped Asher.  I'm very generous. 

Once home, Robbie started school work, Elodie jumped in the shower, and I got Asher ready for bed.  Then I ragged Elodie's hair again, sent her to bed and made her lunch before heading to bed myself.  

An average day.  Exciting, no?

8 Sept 2013

So.  Here we go, starting yet another journal in a long line of journals incomplete.  This time, I again declare, this time I will write diligently and honestly.  And then I remember honesty is subjective at best, and decide diligence is sufficient.

My grandfather died on August 24.  He was 92, and his last journal entry was about the death of his brother.  "Time goes on, and we go with it," he wrote in his slowly-deteriorating hand.  But it's nice to have those words written by him, to know his palm grazed a page; his mind composing phrases; that we have a record of his time on this earth.

The same can be said about my friend Cailey Renaud, who passed on August 30 at the age of 27 after battling breast cancer for over two-and-a-half years.  Her blog is a beautiful, tangible way to remember how fervently she lived her abbreviated life.  The videos make me smile.  I can hear her and remember the comfortable way our friendship bumped along without a single argument or hiccup or fall out.  Instead, the whole thing is one good memory, and her words dredge it up and surround me. 

She said to me once, "Life is short, no matter how long you live."  How very poignant for me, facing the death of two people I loved irreplaceably within a week of, but 65 years apart from, each other.

And so under those pretexts, I, Kayla--mother, wife, woman, sometimes adult, usually ridiculous--place pen to paper (and later fingers to keyboard) with resolve.

Life is short, no matter how long you live.
Time goes on, and we go with it. 

I write.