Month: September 2007

RUSHing

I’m *so* excited!

I bought my tickets back in April, but I swear, I have been waiting to see this concert since I was ten years old. Finally, tonight, we’re going to see Rush! With 100-level seats, no less! I’m beside myself with anticipation.

I’ve always loved Rush.

RUSH - Moving PicturesFor my 12th birthday, my folks replaced my little suitcase record player with an actual real stereo – the kind with the smoked plastic box lid, and honest-to-goodness speakers. And they gave me two albums, AC/DC’s Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap (I still remember my mother blanching when she read the lyrics on the liner) and Rush’s Moving Pictures. I’ve long since outgrown my AC/DC phase, but Moving Pictures is still one of my favourite albums of all time.

When I was in high school, my first serious, painful and perhaps even partially requited crush was on a boy named Greg who played the clarinet in my music class. While I remained a band-class geeky good girl, Greg went from clarinet player to headbanger, hanging out in the smoker’s pit and wearing almost exclusively those black concert T-shirts with the white sleeves. Although we were never officially a couple, we were almost inseparable around the time I turned 16, from sharing a locker to spending endless hours loitering in downtown doughnut shops… talking about our mutual favourite band, Rush. Twenty years later, Rush’s Freewill and the 2112 album still evoke the then-delicious smell of cigarette smoke and cold air on his leather jacket as I wore it to class. I blame him for my lifelong affection for bad boys with good hearts… and for deepening my appreciation of Rush’s back catalogue.

All these years later, though I’m no longer charmed by the smell of cigarette smoke on black leather, I still consider Rush one of my five favourite bands of all time. Really, it’s a bit of a surprise that I haven’t seen them before now. Only Paul Simon and Billy Joel remain on my all-time must-see list. (I have eclectic – some might say antiquated – tastes in music!)

When we went to see REM in 2004 (scratching out another favourite on my lifetime concert to-go list), I was extremely disappointed when they played only two or three songs from their back catalogue. I mean, no Shiny Happy People, no Orange Crush, not even Everybody Hurts. So tonight, I’ve got my fingers crossed to hear a few faves. If I hear at least a few of these, I’ll go home happy:

  • Spirit of Radio
  • Freewill
  • Red Barchetta
  • Limelight
  • and my favourite of all, Closer to the Heart.

What’s the equivalent to Rush in your life? First album, most evocative song, must-see but not yet attended concert?

Yay day – the maternity clothes edition

Today is definitely a Yay Day kind of day. First of all, Tristan’s follow-up with Dr House at the children’s hospital went extremely well yesterday. Although Tristan panicked a little bit when he figured out that the doctors were planning on actually removing his ugly little mole, instead of simply poking at it and annoying the snot out of him, he toughed it out in a way that made me proud and a little bit sad at the same time. Five year olds shouldn’t try so hard to be brave, yanno? Anyway, although I was a little freaked out by it, Tristan’s favourite part of the whole experience was seeing the excised mole floating in a small container of some sort of fluid, ready to be sent off for biopsy.

“It’s like a part of my body went swimming without me!” he told me later in the car with obvious delight. I shuddered, but he recounted the story with glee many times throughout the day, so I guess – as usual – the residual trauma is mine and mine alone.

But the extend of my ebullience today arises not from relief in having the dermatalogical stuff taken care of once and for all, but from sheer narcissism. It is, after all, all about me.

For the past couple of days weeks, I’ve been struggling with self-esteem issues. I’ve steadily gained a pound a week throughout this pregnancy, and while that puts me exactly on track for the 40 lbs or so I gained with Tristan and Simon, and I can mentally rationalize the fact that I’m *supposed* to be gaining weight for this, it hasn’t helped me deal with the unhealthy appearance of back fat. (Really, isn’t just the phrase “back fat” evocative enough to make you wince?)

Between the back fat and the weather’s schizophrenic fluctuations this month and the fact that even the mat clothes that I do have seem to be either too big or too small or too hot or too casual, every single day for the last couple of weeks I’ve stood in my closet in the morning and sighed because, even on a day when everything is clean and all possibilities are open to me, I have nothing to wear. And that would get me thinking about all the great maternity clothes that I used to have, and I would feel bitter and pissy in addition to fat and sloppy and generally unattractive.

Not a great way to start every day.

Beloved, bless his understanding heart and huge sense of self-preservation, encouraged me to go shopping. And so I did, but even after giving myself free reign in the mall and dropping the best part of $200 I still ended up with only two pairs of pants, one of which I’m not convinced I like, and two colours of the same sweater. Add ‘disheartened’ to bitter and pissy and fat and sloppy and generally unattractive.

But then yesterday… yesterday! I had dropped Tristan off at home after his appointment and had 30 minutes to kill before I could pick up Beloved. In a flash of inspiration, I thought I’d check out Boomerang Kids, a consignment store in Westboro. Now, I know through previous experience that in the maternity consignment stores, on a good day and with a little luck you might find one or two pieces you like, but peeps, I’m telling you: I hit the motherlode.

I swear, I’ve never seen so many clothes that so suited me outside my own closet. And they FIT! I was nearly weeping by the time I ran out of the changeroom, 15 minutes late to meet Beloved but positively exhilarated by my purchases. Two sweaters for winter, two or three button-down blouses, a cardigan, another couple of tops, and the one thing that I was most bitter about losing before: a pair of denim overalls that both fit over my belly and didn’t ride up ridiculously short in the leg. For $12.99!! The whole deal cost me just under $100 before tax, and suddenly my wardrobe is complete. I honestly don’t think I’ll have to buy another thing, AND I can return the “meh” pants that cost me $59.99 the day before at the maternity store.

Score!!

As if that weren’t enough, when I got home and checked the mail last night, there were PRESENTS! How often do you open the mailbox on a random Wednesday and get presents? There was a belated birthday card from my darling father- and mother-in-law (thanks Dee!) and a package of giant Rocket candies from my sister-in-law (thanks Nat!) and this:

Best Maternity Shirt Ever!!

Is this not The Most Adorable Maternity T-Shirt Ever??? (And, possibly the worst self-portrait ever? Sorry about that!) The t-shirt was designed by my friend, the brilliant and creative mind behind Lee’s Things. You can get yer own adorable maternity t-shirt (it was a tough choice between this one and the ‘baby loves chocolate’ one!), along with some other really clever and cute designs on onsies and bibs and even tote bags, from her cafe-press store.

Let’s review, shall we?

  • Tristan’s mole excised without trauma, and anxiety over the pending appointment absolved.
  • A reinvigorated and rejuvenated wardrobe. CHEAP!
  • PRESENTS! In the mail!!

Yep, it’s a good day here. Now, in the great tradition of Yay Day, tell us what’s making you happy today.

10-pages-in book review: The Ruins

What’s that, you say? A long, long time ago, I used to write book reviews on this blog? Hmmmmm, maybe I remember that, way back in the distant recesses of my brain.

For the most part, I haven’t written a book review here in ages simply because I haven’t read a book worth reviewing. Most of the summer has passed in an enjoyably mind-numbing fashion, reading the likes of James Patterson and other paperback pulpy nothingness. I just finished Kathy Reichs’ Break No Bones, and I was planning to write a review on that one, but I accidentally finished it before I could get a 10-pages-in review written. (I really, really like Kathy Reichs. I can’t stand that TV show, Bones, based on her protagonist, but I do love the books.)

But really, this post is not about the books that I have not reviewed (although, apparently, that is a post in itself) but the book I am currently reading and about to review forthwith and without further ado: Scott Smith’s The Ruins.

The storyline is straightforward. A group of four young Americans (two couples linked in friendship by the females) are on an extended vacation in Mexico. They befriend a single German fellow who sets off in search of his missing brother, and by happenstance more than circumstance, the four plus a fellow Greek tourist who speaks no English (nor Spanish, nor German), accompany the German fellow on a trip out to some local Mayan ruins to search for his brother. And then things quickly begin to go very, very bad.

From the first pages, the book has an unremitting tension that fairly hums through each page. Even before things begin to go badly, there is little doubt that it will. Foreboding haunts the reader from the start, pulling one inexorably onward, and menace coalesces like a fog with each hastily-turned page.

The Ruins, like Smith’s previous book A Simple Plan (later made into a movie, which I never did get around to seeing, starring Billy Bob Thorton and Bill Paxton) is in essence a book about how very ordinary people deal with very extreme circumstances. Smith uses the circumstances of the novel, which are extreme but far from inconceivable, as a lens to explore a concentrated version of basic human behaviour and interaction. I’m half way through the book, and though each of the characters has been roughly sketched out – one is more heroic, one more self-absorbed, one a whiner and one silently stoic – I haven’t yet seen a lot of character development. And yet, because each of these characters is Everyman, I understand each of their unique motivators on a personal level. I can’t imagine that’s an easy feat to pull off, as a writer!

I can’t actually say a lot more about this book without starting to give away some of the plot, and I really don’t want to do that. Suffice to say that if you, like me, have strange phobias about weeds and common garden plants, you might want to read this one in the daylight hours. Half way through this book, I’m quite glad I can probably ignore what’s left of my garden for the rest of the season, and deal with the weedy interlopers and aggressive perennials come springtime. By then I should have forgotten the parts of this book that made my toes curl like the tendrils of so much creeping ivy.

This book is a wonderfully suspensful novel that I suspect may trip over to the realm of genuine horror by the time I work my way through it.

Snack trauma

Although Simon’s new preschool isn’t a co-operative, the parents are asked to contribute a snack on a rotating basis. Given that there are 16 kids, and the kids go three days a week, our turn in the rotation comes up every five weeks or so.

Now, I should confess here that I already suffer snack trauma from dealing with just Tristan’s snack. At this time last year, I was happily packing him simple snacks like a baggie with some ritz cracker sandwiches and juice or a little dish of grapes and some water. I was always cognizant of the choices I was making, thinking myself quite the good mother for not simply throwing in a Twix bar and a can of pop.

One day near Christmas, I volunteered for a day in Tristan’s JK class and was gobsmacked to see what some of the other children hauled out of their backpacks for snacktime. We’re talking multi-course snacks here, with various containers and utensils. These kids were eating better for snack than what I usually managed to scrape together for a family meal.

Not that I managed to improve the quality, nor even the quantity, of Tristan’s packed snack after that. I just felt like a bad mother every time I sent him off to school and tried not to make eye contact with the other parents on the playground, knowing they were whispering behind the portable and pointing out me, “that mother, the one who thinks sending an apple – whole, and uncut, even! – constitutes packing a snack” with snickered derision.

And now, it’s not bad enough that I have to come up with a snack for 16 preschoolers, but we happen to be first in the rotation due to the fact that I was stubborn five and a half years ago and insisted on hypenating the boys with my “D” surname, instead of just being content to accept Beloved’s perfectly good “R” surname and a later turn in the rotation. Hmph. I figured that might come back to bite me in the ass some day, but neither so soon nor so viciously.

So anyway, I spent many days hours minutes perusing the Interwebs and considering everything from elaborate fruit-block renditions of the pyramids to mini-muffins baked into the shape of famous Canadian authors. I pictured myself standing in my kitchen, wrapped in a pristine white apron, humming church hymns while lovingly preparing a snack that met all four food groups, boosted brain power and would teach them the alphabet in French. Then I remembered I don’t own any aprons, let alone a pristine white one, and that was the end of that fantasy.

In the end, the pressure was too much for me. I capitulated to the dark side. For a few dark moments, I considered simply sending along the 6 lbs bag of Reese Pieces we got from our excursion to the Hershey Factory last weekend, but finally settled for a tray of pre-cut mixed fruit that I snagged from the deli counter at Loblaws, and a box of animal crackers. Well, they were organic animal crackers, at least. You know, to show how much I care.

A love letter to my daughter, who will never be

To my darling daughter, who will never be:

It may seem odd to begin a letter with a farewell, and perhaps even moreso a farewell to someone who never was, someone who never will be. But I needed to find a way to say goodbye to you, my daughter, because even though we never had the chance to say hello, you’ve always been a part of me. You’ve been with me – the idea of you – my whole life. As far back as I can remember, I expected you. I spent my life preparing for the act of mothering you. I carried the potential of you, my daughter, close to my heart, and in quiet moments I have loved to savour the imagining of you. But now, through the vagaries of fate and nature, it seems you are simply not to be.

It’s a wonder of the human heart that it can be filled with boundless joy at the idea of a son, and yet haunted by regretful longing on losing the idea of a daughter.

I am sad to have lost the opportunity to know you. I feel an empty hollow in the place I’ve always reserved for you. After a lifetime of expecting you, I’m struggling to let go of the idea of you, and with that, the idea of us as mother and daughter. Having felt you so keenly in my life, have expected you so fully, the reality of life without you still perplexes me slightly. “What do you mean I’ll never have a daughter?” It’s like trying to imagine a world without the colour red. Red has always been there; red belongs in the colour scheme of life.

I like to imagine that you would have been like me, but better. The best of me and of your father distilled, and improved upon by that which would have been uniquely you. You would have been precocious, and willful, and you would have kept your doting brothers wrapped around your little finger. You would have grown into a strong and capable woman, and you would have become, with the passage of the years, my friend as well as my daughter. We would have shared things that only a mother and daughter can share, and I would have treasured our unique relationship as much as I treasure the relationship I have with my own mother – a relationship I could only hope to replicate, as it would be impossible to improve upon it.

It may seem to be a little strange to say goodbye to someone who never existed; who never will exist. But to me, you were as real as the sunrise, as real as the stars that shine at night. I can’t touch those things either, but that hasn’t stopped me from believing in them. But now, after a lifetime of anticipating you, I relinquish you to the stars and banish the idea of you to the speculation of long, dark nights. What might have been, what will not be. In the darkest of those nights, I think of three lost souls, three babies miscarried, and even poor Frostie, and I wonder. I wonder if you were there, if you tried to arrive, if there was some great ironic twist of biology that prevented me from gestating a girl. I’ll never know.

While I may have spent my life expecting a girl, I’ve been delighted by the inherent joy of mothering my boys. My boys; those odd and adorable creatures whom I love beyond reason. I truly had no idea how wonderful it is to be the mother of boys. And though I can’t imagine life without them, the arrival of each boy somehow only deepened my certainty in your eventual arrival.

But now, finally, it’s time to say goodbye to you, my daughter, as I embrace with my whole heart the idea of spending my life being the princess, the diva, the queen among my coterie of men. I’ll miss you, my girl. I’ll miss holding a place for you in my life, and I’ll miss what might have been. I’ll have to adjust my sense of self, too, my sense of how my life will unfold from here. But my heart is full, and I have more blessings in my life than I ever dared hope for.

Goodbye, my beautiful daughter.

The 20 week update – half way there!

How ’bout that? As of today, I’m officially half-way through this pregnancy. (Although I do tend to agree with a friend of mine who observes that the last month is the longest half of a pregnancy.)

My belly is quite unsubtle now, enough so that neighbours and casual acquaintances at work are bold enough to ask if I’m expecting. Seriously, people – unless a woman is actively delivering a child, you should never, ever assume enough to ask her directly to her face if she’s pregnant!

It’s kind of cute how the boys have noticed my expanding belly, even though they don’t know the reason for it. They both like to sidle up in a hug and rest their cheeks against my belly while giving it loving pats. I guess they’re just happy that mom is growing an extra pillow for them to cuddle!

Initially, I was going to hold off until much later to tell them about the player to be named later – maybe around Christmas or something like that. After all, we’re talking about boys who can’t wait until lunchtime on a given day, and Tuesday often seems a lifetime away… how can I ask them to conceptualize and anticipate something that will arrive in February? (Then again, they do a fine job making Christmas lists in March, so maybe I’m underestimating them!)

And we certainly haven’t been shy about talking up babies with them, nor in talking about the baby in front of them. Tristan is reasonably perceptive, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t figured this out on some level already.

What do you think? Is it better to tell them early and share the experience for a few months, or save them the anticipation (and, let’s be honest – anxiety) of several months of build-up? When did you tell older siblings about a pending new arrival?

Facing the ugly eco-truth

Yesterday, I alluded to the several pounds of carbon emissions I contributed to the atmosphere (I’m guessing) by driving all over hell’s half acre and back, and how we’re really going to have to capitulate to suburban living in the next few months by buying a second car.

I don’t want a second car. Aside from the fact that I’m reluctant to take on the cost of buying and maintaining and insuring a second car, I’ve always been a pleased with our reduced eco-footprint as a single-car family. I’m happy to content with tolerant of commuting to work by bus.

Now, not only are we looking at a second car, but we need seating for five, and room in the back seat for three car seats. I’m holding out hope for the Mazda 5, but am thinking we’ll have to capitulate to a (whimper) mini-van. Talk about joining the dark side! At least, I suppose, it’s not an SUV. Or a Hummer.

So anyway, I’m writing all of this while I’m thinking about the BlogHer Act Canada September Challenge, which asks us to consider the various ways we can reduce the disposable packaging in our lives.

I know, I know. You’re thinking, “What the hell? She’s supposed to be writing about how we can reduce our eco-footprint, and she’s talking about how she’s planning to DOUBLE hers.” The point is, I need to compensate. If we’re going the way of the two-car family (the minivan-and-car family, David Suzuki forgive us) then we’re damn well going to have to find some other way to contribute.

So I took this Eco-Footprint quiz to give myself a baseline, and to maybe see where I could make some improvements.

The Eco-Footprint calculator measures the amount of natural resources an individual consumes in a given year. The “average” Canadian consumes the equivalent of 8.8 global hectares per person per year. According to the quiz, I’m consuming 7.8 hectares per year… but on average the world has just 1.8 hectares of natural resources per person. I’m doing a little bet better than the average Canadian, but barely.

The kicker? “If everyone lived like you, we would need 4.3 planets.”

Ouch. And that’s BEFORE the second car.

The quiz also showed me that while I am doing (relatively) well in transportation and shelter, I really need to improve in the categories of “food” and “goods and services.”

And lookit that, here we are back on topic. What better way to start than to look for ways to reduce excess waste from consumer packaging.

Here’s what I am going to work on. They’re small changes, but I’m only going to commit to what I’m sure I can manage, and go from there.

First, I’m going to get a thermal mug and carry it with me. Inconvenient, yes, especially for the person who always forgets to wash it out at the end of the day. But I’ll save 25 to 40 paper cups a month – that’s a good start.

Second, I’m going to be more diligent about using my reusable shopping bags. I actually LOVE those new ones from Loblaws… you can fit more in them, they stand up in the back of the car better so the apples don’t roll all over the place, and you can fit way more stuff in them. I’m not bad at remembering them for the big weekly grocery trip, but I have to remember to bring one with me for smaller excursions, too. Hoping to eliminate 50 plastic bags a month.

Third, less Ziploc baggies. Oh, how I love Ziploc baggies for everything from sending snacks to school to wrapping up the leftover grated cheese for storage. I have to break this unhealthy relationship with Ziploc baggies. Can I make due on a single box for an entire year? I’ll try!

Fourth, less juice boxes and water bottles. So convenient, but so wasteful. I’ve been lazy about juice boxes for Tristan’s snack lately; time to shake it off and start reusing the rubbermaid straw bottles again.

Fifth and finally – way less takeout lunches. This will be good not only from an eco-perspective, with less styrofoam and other disposable packaging, but from a financial and even dietary perspective. This may require a strategic investment in some decent tupperware-type serving containers. Any recommendations?

It’s not much, I know, but it is a start. If you want more ideas, check out the original BlogHers Act Canada challenge post. Through this Sunday, you can even write your own post and play along on the challenge!

Dr House at the Children’s Hospital

Yesterday, I put 157 kms on the car: 50 kms round trip dropping Beloved off at work and going back home to pick up Tristan; 25 kms round trip to CHEO (the Children’s Hospital) for an appointment; then I dropped off Tristan at school, dropped off Simon for his first day of nursery school (!), picked Simon up an hour later, picked Tristan up, and drove another 50 kms round trip to fetch Beloved.

Seriously? We need a second car.

***

The appointment at CHEO was kind of funny. I’d finally gotten around to asking Tristan’s ped about a spot that he’s had at the crown of his head back at his well-baby five year appointment in the spring, and the ped suggested a pediatric dermatologist take a look at it. It was actually a pinpoint scab that I noticed the day Tristan was born, and the nurse tried to tell me it was likely where “the probe” broke the skin, despite my insistence that there was no probe (I may have been in the throes of labour, but I was still paying pretty close attention to what came and went between my legs!) Over the years, it has become a hairless raised blistery bit about the size of a blueberry, and although I’m not overly worried about it, I figured we should get it checked out. Over the summer, he also developed a rather ugly black mole on his leg that we also wanted to have checked.

We’re puttering around the house getting ready for the appointment, and Tristan is loagy, hiding under a blanket and reluctant to get his shoes on. I finally feel his skin, and am not sure whether he feels flush because of the blanket or because of something else. Sure enough, I finally get him up and moving and realize he’s got that distinctive glassy-eyed look that spells fever. I debate for a few minutes, think of the five-month wait for this appointment and the work stuff I cancelled to stay home, and make the executive decision to tylenol him up and head out anyway.

We wait for more than a half an hour at the CHEO clinic, and though he’s subdued, he’s also fidgety and not terribly warm. He’s off, but not dealthy sick.

Finally, we get called in. A moment later, a very young woman (or maybe I’m just very old now) comes in with his chart and introduces herself as the resident, and asks me if it’s okay if more than one doctor does the examination this morning. I’m thinking she means her and the senior doc, so I’m fine with that.

She takes the case history, leaves, and a few minutes later comes back with not one, not two, but three other people, and Dr House, the Pediatric Version begins. There’s one obviously senior doc, and three very young (they still had student cards!) associates. He lays out the scenario and solicits their best guesses as to the diagnosis. Meanwhile, each of them paws through Tristan’s hair to prod his scalp, and then pokes and squeezes the mole on his leg.

Remember, Tristan is not feeling well in the first place. And, I don’t think he even knew about the spot on his head. He is tolerant of the attention, but barely.

The doctor and his acolytes bandy about some very scary terms and some long Latin names. The perky blond with freckles suggests one thing, and the senior doc tells her, “No no, that usually presents as red, lace-like adhesions.” The lanky brunette with the eyelashes suggests the spot on his leg might be a residual foreign object imbedded under the skin, and blushes furiously when the senior doctor shoots me an inclusive look and says, “Don’t you think the mother might have noticed a trauma severe enough to embed something in her child’s leg?”

Just when I think we’re done, the senior doctor asks if we mind if the next group comes in. I blink silently, my brain still trying furiously to file away the various diagnoses for later consultation with Dr Google, and in the end nod faintly. It’s hard not to laugh when FOUR MORE student doctors file in and begin to poke, prod and generally irritate the snot out of poor Tristan.

Finally, we get a confirmed diagnosis. The spot on his head was likely a simple absence of skin that formed in utero, and the bump itself is just a cosmetic scar that may or may not resolve itself. Removing it would introduce the possibility of worse scarring, so we agree to leave it alone and I am silently grateful that at least Tristan is taller than all his classmates and so at least it won’t be terribly noticable if we keep his hair longish. The spot on his leg is a Spitz Nevus, which Dr Google tells me is a benign tumour that is often misdiagnosed as a melanoma. Melanoma and tumour are the only two words I’ve grasped all morning, and I am happy about neither, although the “benign” keeps me from truly panicking. The doctor suggests we remove it as a precautionary measure, and sets us up with an appointment next Wednesday. While my brain grapples with the implication of the speed with which he wants it removed (this must be more serious than his gentle manner is letting on, cries the hypochondriac in me) the more logical part of my brain protests aloud the date. “Does it have to be Wednesday? It’s truly the worst day of the week for us.” Sure enough, this doctor only visits CHEO on Wednesday mornings.

Another Wednesday, another day of missed work, another 150 kms of driving. But at least I got to watch a live version of Dr House’s pleasant alter-ego. That counts for something, right?

The big PR roll-up for September

I get a lot of e-mail. A LOT! But that’s okay, I like it. I’m just not terrifically good at keeping up with it all. But if someone has taken the time to write to me, I often feel obligated to answer them, or at least share the information they want me to share. I mean, even if it’s not of interest to me, who am I to say it’s not of interest to you.

So here, in one huge deluge from my in-box, are snippets from some of the offers and advisories I’ve received in the last six weeks or so. There’s a tonne of them, though, so I’ve tucked them below the fold.

Continue reading “The big PR roll-up for September”