From there to here, from here to there, Funny things are everywhere
Once again this year, I’ve volunteered to help organize and run the Canadian Blog Awards, along with Saskboy and NBCDipper. We’ll be taking nominations starting in the next month or so, but we need a few extra hands to help out with jobs big and small. If you’d like to get involved, drop me an e-mail (danicanada at gmail dot com) or leave a comment here or at the CBA site.
More to follow!
It’s one of those late summer days that we simply did not have enough of earlier this year — warm, hazy, sunshiney and altogether brilliant. So much so that in celebration, I broke out the razor for one more pass at my legs before shorts season is truly behind us for another year. (Surely I’m not the only one who puts away the lawn mower and the razors for about the same hibernation period each year?)
As I was shaving, I was thinking about a recent conversation with a friend. She was talking about being embarrassed to lift her arms up because she hadn’t recently shaved her armpits, and I reflected at the time how that really wouldn’t bother me. Hairy armpits aren’t one of my vanities. However, it’s a rare day that I’ll leave the house without showering first.
Similarly, I remember growing up that my mother always stopped at the front hall mirror before going out to apply fresh lipstick. My lipsticks last for far longer than is likely healthy because I use them so rarely. In fact, I can count on two hands the number of times since I’ve been staying home with Lucas that I’ve even bothered with makeup. On a day-to-day basis, makeup is not one of my vanities. I will, however, gladly fork over $75 for a haircut every six weeks or so.
I’ve never bought expensive shampoo or hair products – the drug store stuff is fine for me – but I do indulge a bit of extra cash for a good moisturizer for my skin.
I’m not much on fashion and the latest trends, but I am a label junkie. There are brands that I love and will go back to again and again. Jones New York, Eddie Bauer, Roots, Gap. And I dress the kids with far more care most days than I put into my own outfits. Heck, everything I wear is likely to be covered in spit-up splotches half way through the day anyway. Until I’m back into my old favourites and my old sizes (closer by the day, now down 11 lbs!) and Lucas is past this annoying spit-up phase, I’ll dress the kids up like dolls. Who needs girls to play dress-up?
What are your vanities, and what could you not care much less about?
On Sunday morning, we were driving to meet friends for breakfast and I caught a snippet of a show they were doing about making your own baby food. The guest, whose name I didn’t catch, said something to the effect of “with the state of food safety the way it is, you just can’t trust even baby food makers to be vigilant, so you should make your own instead.”
This rankled me. More maternal guilt, that’s just what we need. And where do we get the ingredients to make our home-made baby food? From the supermarket, of course. The same supermarkets which have recently had e-coli scares with such wholesome foods as tomatoes and spinach. Making your own baby food is a great choice if you have the time and the inclination. You can control the ingredients and, sometimes more importantly, the texture. But it’s certainly not the only choice and I honestly don’t think it’s a lot safer than the commercial options.
Which reminded me that I don’t think I’ve ever told you the story about the first time I made baby food for Tristan, because I too thought it was the best choice from a nutritional and economic standpoint.
I bought a book of baby food recipes for $26, and decided to start with something simple: carrots. Organic carrots, of course. In fact, organic baby carrots, because they were for a baby. I bought two bags, which at the time set me back about seven dollars. I also bought a steamer pot from Ikea for $40. (I still have that pot, and it’s one of my favourites, FWIW.) I prepared one of the bags of carrots by scrubbing them and cutting the ends off. I steamed them within an inch of their lives, for maybe six hours. Okay, I exaggerate, but it was surely close to half an hour of steaming.
I put the carrots in the blender with a tablespoon or so of the reserved water, just as the cookbook recommended, and turned on the blender. The carrot mash was sticking to the sides of the blender a bit, so I used my also newly acquired wooden spoon (I really didn’t do a lot of cooking in those days) to scrape it down a bit. Without turning off the blades. And promptly filled my freshly made organic baby carrots with a healthy dose of splinters.
So I dumped that batch in the trash and washed out the blender and the blades and started all over again with the other bag of carrots. Wash, cut, boil the snot out of them. Put them in the blender. Forget to put the lid on the blender before I hit the “puree” button. Bits of wet carrot splatter everywere, and I mean everywhere. Weeks later, I was finding carrot bits under the microwave and on the underside of the range fan.
In the end, I got about four servings of carrots out of the whole thing. Net cost per serving, excluding the cookbook and the fancy new pot, was $1.75 or so, compared to 67 cents for the jars at the grocery store. You do the math.
Poor Beloved. Not bad enough I have no shame in blogging about my life, but now I’m blogging about his most personal bits. Good thing we’ve got a lot of family freebies out of blog over the years to compensate for my appalling lack of respect for his private parts.
He’s going today for his first consult with the vasectomy doctor. Could it be any more ironic? Seven years ago when I was pregnant with Tristan, the poor man went under the knife to have his bits repaired (he had a varicocele, which is basically a varicose vein in the scrotum, and it can cause pain and infertility) and three boys later he’s going back under the knife (well, laser) to turn off the faucet. From infertile to abundantly fertile and back to infertile in one decade.
I’m extremely grateful that he’s willing to undergo this procedure so I don’t have to undergo the much more invasive and risky tubal ligation, and birth control pills are not an option for me as they make me horribly sick.
There’s no doubt (well, very little doubt) (no, really, no doubt) (almost 99.9% doubt-free) that we’re done with this baby-making thing, and yet I still can’t help but feel sad and a little bit anxious about taking such irrevocable action. We just couldn’t afford the daycare or the education of four kids, and our house is already bursting at the seams with love and stinky running shoes. And if we won the lottery tomorrow? Tough call. My first thought is that I’d consider it again, but then I’m 39 now and the last pregnancy was hard on me. Not sure how well I’d handle another, let alone the possibility of losing another one. And the idea of going back to “trying” again? Ugh. That’s one chapter of my life I’m quite happy to leave behind, thank you.
It’s been such a huge relief knowing that Lucas is the last baby. I’ve been savouring each stage, each moment, each milestone, knowing that we won’t go down this road again. And I’ve been ditching my baby and maternity stuff like a madwoman. So really, we’re done. It’s taken me two paragraphs to reconvince myself after the finality of seeing it all in print in front of me, but really, we’re done.
You know what really gobsmacked me, though? When Beloved went to our GP and asked for the referral to Dr Zap (they cauterize the vas deferens. Eep.) she asked him if he had discussed the idea of the vasectomy with me and if I was in agreement.
Can you believe it? Can you imagine the hue and cry if a woman needed a man’s approval or agreement (tacit or otherwise) to get her tubes tied or an abortion? Now, I absolutely agree that a husband and wife should be in complete agreement when such drastic action is taken, but this just seems wrong to me. They’re his bits, and much as I claim ownership over the rest of him, in the end it’s his choice to end his fertile years — short and blissful though they have been.
And on a not-quite-completely unrelated topic, I must tip my bloggy hat to Kate, who has come up with what I think is by far the most pithy and succinct commentary on Sarah Palin, a saga I have been watching with amazed disbelief: “Why is it that women should be trusted with the Vice Presidency, but not with their own reproductive decisions?”
This year, I’m guessing that even though we picked more apples than ever before (see previous years here and here) we might actually eat all the apples we picked!
(It’s funny to look back to the old post from 2005 and see a Simon who’s barely out of babyhood on our first apple-picking expedition. Blog really is an online baby book!)
The baby has a new game. It’s called “soother, soother, who’s got the soother” and involves him waking up every 20 minutes to an hour all night, whimpering because he can’t find his soother. I give it to him, he rolls over and goes back to sleep, I’m up for 20 more minutes grumbling. Lather, rinse, repeat. We played that from midnight to four in the morning, give or take, then Lucas decided to serenade the house. For an hour. Not crying, not even fussing, just hollering to enjoy the sound of it echoing through the darkened but no-longer-sleeping house.
I finally nursed him around 5:15, just to stuff something in his mouth to keep him quiet, and he promptly fell back asleep.
I did not.
Around 6:15, I got Beloved up. As he was showering, I fell into a fitful sleep. At around 6:45, a cacophony not unlike the sound of 150 recycling boxes full of wine bottles jarred me awake. The neighbours one door over are getting a new roof today, and it was the sound of a dumpster being installed in their driveway. Joy.
Beloved goes to work, I get the boys ready for school. Garbage leaks mysterious sticky substance all over the kitchen floor as I change the bag. Syrup gets knocked over and spills onto the table. Dog tracks what can only be her own poop she has stepped in across the floor. The baby is miserable, won’t let me put him down but complains when I pick him up. Doesn’t even enjoy his breakfast, which he usually loves. I manage a four minute shower, and he howls throughout it. I pull on a fresh shirt, pick him up, and he spits up all over me.
Get all three boys in coats because it is one degree above freezing this morning (no, really!) and out the door, only a couple of minutes late for the bell.
Get back to the house with Lucas, give him a bottle and bring him upstairs for a desperately needed nap. Rock him and wrestle with him for 30 minutes as he resists sleep to the point of tears. (His, not mine.) Remain remarkably calm despite growing headache from clenched jaws. Baby has been asleep just long enough for me to consider putting him in his cradle when goddamn roofers start throwing what sounds like anvils from top of roof into empty metal dumpster. You can imagine the noise. I jump, baby jumps and cries… and we start all over again with the wrestling and the rocking.
Finally get baby to sleep, creep downstairs, microwave cold cup of coffee because in the fray I’ve managed only one cup so far… and there is no milk.
Whimper.
Edited to add: nap lasted 18 minutes. Long enough to write this post, pee and empty five plates from the dishwasher.
Whimper.
(Sorry, this post would have been up two days ago, but I keep getting sucked into Twitter. I can either blog or play on Facebook or follow Twitter, but have yet mastered the art of staying current on all three. Laundry is also optional.)
Found a few new food faves lately, and thought I’d share.
At Marla’s recommendation (no, really, it’s worth reading, we’ll wait here until you get back), I went out this weekend and bought some “Freenut” butter. Oh, sweet peanutty goodness, was it ever delicious!! It was a little more expensive than regular peanut butter, but about the same price as the organic stuff I’ve been buying since I heard peanuts are one of the most heavily pesticided foods. Less than $5 a jar, anyway. And did I mention delicious? No, really! I was eating it right out of the jar, and it makes a superb afternoon snack when you dip freshly picked apple slices in it. (Apple picking post to follow.) It’s made from soy nuts instead of peanuts, but I honestly don’t think I could tell the difference. And it’s healthier, too. Best of all, Tristan loves it. Marla, I bow down before your awesomeness.
Speaking of soy, I tried something else new this week. Have you heard of edamame? Also, YUM! They’re baby soy beans, kind of like snow peas but you don’t eat the pod (I learned after I tried to eat the first three and did a quick google to find out whether it was supposed to have the texture of twigs as I masticated it.) Fresh and nutty, and you eat them with a sprinkle of my favourite indulgence: coarse salt. They count as a protein in my Plan B diet.
And speaking of protein, I found an interesting new way to eat tuna this week, too. I’m a fan of the occasional tuna-fish sandwich, especially very cold and mixed liberally with mayo and finely chopped onions. Since I tend to save my breads and cereals for breads for breakfast and dinner, I’ve dropped the tuna sandwich from my lunch rotation. I know tuna is a reasonably healthy protein choice, but it’s just way too fishy to eat without that slathery mayo goodness, IMHO. Then I discovered spicy Thai chili tuna from CloverLeaf. The spice covers up the fishiness, and I ate the whole can (two servings of protein, only 140 calories) and some leftover grilled peppers and zucchini (free!) for a really delicious lunch.
And speaking of Plan B, I’ve now officially lost 10 lbs in 28 days! Yay me! Half way to my goal in the first month. Not bad, eh?
It’s mid-morning, and the September sun shines cheerfully through the large window of the master bedroom. I’m sitting in a rocking chair in the soft light, dappled by the small-leafed tree in the front yard. I rock gently back and forth, one leg pulled up with heel tucked on the edge of the chair, Lucas cradled in my arms. I pull him close, tucking him under my chin, and the downy blond fuzz that is his hair tickles my cheek. He is already drowsy, and I can feel sleep seeping into him, filling him up, easing his breathing and mine into slow, deep breaths.
The house is perfectly still, blissfully silent around me. The big boys are off at school and Beloved at work. The day stretches ahead of us filled with quotidian minutiae, but for this brief moment time is suspended and it’s just Lucas and me in this cocoon of morning bliss. Blue sky, yellow fluttering sunshine, green leaves, blue sheer curtain, green grass, warm honey brown pine cradle and rocking chair. Even the cars passing by outside sound like waves crashing on the seashore.
Lucas is asleep, but I keep rocking, gently patting, breathing deeply of his dusty, milky baby smell. It’s a perfect moment in a happy life. This is the meaning of life.
Second week of school, and I’m no longer welcome in the school yard. Well, not just me. In fact, no parents are welcome in the school yard. But, I have decided to take it personally.
I can see why the school has asked parents to drop their kids off at the school yard fence instead of walking them to the back door, as we have been doing. They have no idea who is a parent and who is not, and their first priority has to be keeping the kids safe. It’s only a couple-50 meters difference, and the school yard is supervised the last quarter-hour before the bell rings.
I still hate it. And worse, Tristan hates it. He said it makes him sad, which breaks my heart. He liked it when we hung around with him, waiting for the bell to ring. Now we kiss him off in a crush of kids bottlenecking through the gate instead of near the door where he queues up. Myself, I liked the time before and after school where I could scope out the other kids and their parents, and maybe even strike up a conversation with the familiar faces. It’s been nice being able to get to know the kids in his class and some of their parents over the last couple of months.
The funny thing is that in not traversing that final couple of meters across the school yard, we’ve cut a significant amount of our morning walk. If I’m only going to be escorting him to and from the school yard fence, I’m seriously wondering whether it’s worth doing at all. In other words, I’m wondering if at six he’s old enough to walk to and from school on his own.
What do you think? I’m torn on this one. Myself, I walked back and forth from the time I was four years old, and it was twice or three times the distance that Tristan has to walk. (And it was uphill both ways, in 10 feet of snow, and I had to park my dinosaur at the stable around the corner.) I don’t fear for his safety in any way, and I find that in general, Tristan’s a smart and responsible kid. I’m more than half-way inclined to let him try it.
But. But, but, but. It’s always the niggling little voice of worry that does me in. What if? What if something happened, what if he got lost (he can actually see the house for the entire walk and knows the neighbourhood like the back of his hand), what if something even more awful happened?
I’d be inclined to let him try it in the mornings (why do mornings seem less threatening, less full of potential mischief?) but I have to walk Simon over there anyway. It only really makes sense to let him walk home by himself after school. I’m sure he’d be fine, absolutely positive. But.
There are other options. I see tonnes of kids wandering by the house each morning and afternoon on their own treks to school, so I could try to find an older kid to escort him home in the afternoons. And I love the idea of the “walking school bus” so if I were feeling really keen, I could even try to organize something like this.
What do you think? How old is old enough to walk to or from school by yourself?
We’re at the dinner table, and Granny and Papa Lou are visiting for supper. Tristan is talking to Simon about Madam I’ll-not-out-her-on-Blog, his French teacher of the past two years who will now be Simon’s French teacher.
Tristan: “Oh, you’ll love Madam. She’s so nice.”
Simon: “Yes, I can’t wait to be in Madam’s class.”
Papa Lou: “Knock, knock.”
Tristan: “Who’s there?”
Papa Lou: “Madam.”
Simon: “Madam who?”
Papa Lou: “Ma-dam foot’s caught in the door, open it up!”
Cringe (and subdued snicker) from me. Death-dagger glance at Papa Lou from Granny. Uproarious laughter from Tristan, Simon and Beloved.
And you know they’ll be bringing THAT one to school on Monday morning.