a better goal

This morning I read this lovely post from Alicia on Milagro Girl. When I first read it I thought it was a valuable sentiment and gave myself a little mental pat on the back because, lately - finally! - I've been making a real effort to establish and voice my own boundaries. Later the girls and I went to the park and met up with friends of ours from church. The two big girls played, our two babies nursed and slept, and the mommies got a good long visit. It was grand.


I always feel like my parenting is really put to the test when other children are around. Sure, taking Peanut out on an errand to the store can be a challenge and certainly puts my parenting on display - particularly if it should happen that she should become a screeching, noodle-legged version of her normally-delightful self while we walk down Bank St. - but when other children are around, and when Peanut is playing with them, I really feel tested. It's a good kind of tested, though: I find myself thinking a little more 'big picture' in such a circumstance, considering not only what is happening in the moment but also about what lesson or example I'm setting for the other children around. 



I want to be Nice Mommy, not Mean Mommy and, some day, it wouldn't be so bad to be Cool Mommy (I've already got Hippie, Dreadlocked Mommy locked up*). But, that said, I don't want to accidentally turn into Doormat Mommy. So today, as Peanut was playing with and near other children, I was thinking about how I was interacting with her and what message it was sending the other children there. Was I showing my daughter respect and in turn demonstrating to those other children that children deserve respect? Was I showing my daughter kindness and consideration and in turn allowing the other children there that adults ought to be kind and considerate? 


Was I demonstrating healthy, respectful boundaries for my daughter and in turn demonstrating those boundaries for the other children there?



As I was watching her play, occasionally calling out to her when necessary to remind her of what the boundaries of kind, respectful and safe behaviour are, it struck me that Alicia's words relate to parenting:

And in it I learned what a boundary was. I’d always thought that it meant a rule, and in my mind rules are meant to be broken. But it’s not a rule, it’s a circle around yourself that brings peace to your heart and world. It’s the knowing what your spirit is capable of.

Traditionally, parenting has been presented as a series of rules. Lots of focus on what children can not do, what they must do. The goal, when it is rarely mentioned, is generally expressed as a desire for children to obey, to follow the rules. 



I think that's a lousy goal.


My goal isn't for my children to obey me, but to do what is right. My goal isn't to raise rule-followers, it is to raise kind and gracious souls. 


My goal isn't to teach them right and wrong but to teach them to discern that themselves.



So I help Peanut learn boundaries. Because it isn't that throwing sand is an inherently evil pastime, it's that the consequence - sand in an eye or mouth - is unkind and disrespectful to her playmate. And so: "Peanut, we don't throw sand...and here's why:..." 


And hopefully, as she learns how to respect her playmates, as she learns the intricacies of friendship, she will also grow to understand where her own boundaries are. Hopefully she will demand respect, now and when she is grown. Hopefully she will grow to understand and know with surety that being a grace-filled and forgiving person does not mean she must simply suffer at the hands of those are not, whether it's from nasty words on the playground when she's 10 years old or nasty words from a partner when she's 30. 



Hopefully she will learn to keep her heart and soul healthy at an earlier age than her mother, willing and able to say, "Here is the space that I need."




*totally unintentional pun, but once I realized what a pun it was I had to keep it. Parent humour, you know. 

6 months old

Bubby is two days into the second half of her first year. She is such a blessing! She is an unbelievably happy and joyful soul. Most days she is simply awash in smiles.


Look at those cheeks! At 17lb she's a strong and healthy little munchkin. And on nothing but Mommy's milk. We're so wonderfully made.


She's definitely getting ready to crawl. She  s l o w l y and invisibly creeps around the floor. We're not sure how she does it, exactly (some heretofore undiscovered form of baby peristalsis?) but she's looking to move, that's certain. She pushes up into upward-facing dog with strong, sure arms. As soon as she gets her knees under here, she'll be off and away.

She is dearly loved. Everywhere we go, someone will comment on how happy she is and how social and interactive. I like to think that all the loving she receives throughout every day has played a role in that. She never goes long without kisses or hugs from someone. Who could resist that little dumpling? Most mornings I wake to Peanut leaning over me, gently stroking Bubby's hand as she sleeps and cooing, "My tister...my tister baby..."

allergen-free soft drinks

There aren't any. Psych! But seriously: take a look at this list and then try to imagine eating, well, anything. Even produce can have corn-based waxes on them to preserve them and make them look nice. Unfortunately, they have the opposite effect on my baby.

But! I will not concede defeat that easily. No, sir! I will find something fun to drink other than water (obviously), tea and coffee. Enter the home-made soft drink.

Home-made corn-free soft drink recipe


1tbsp of cane sugar (I used a dark cane sugar) or more to taste.
2tbsp very hot/boiling water
1/2tsp lime juice
1/2tsp lemon juice
1/4tsp orange juice
soda water

Spoon sugar into bottom of a large, sturdy glass (a wide mouth mason jar works beautifully). Pour boiling water in and stir or slosh vigorously to dissolve sugar in the water, then add juices, adjusting to taste. Add soda water to fill glass.

It's not particularly sweet. In truth, it's pretty tart, so if you really want a sweet drink double the sugar, which may require a slight increase in the amount of water to dissolve the sugar. Also, it's not pretty: it looks like swamp water, which is why I opted not to include a picture (which is a lie: I drank it before I thought to snap a pic).

Happy corn-free soft drinking!

turning violently inside my chest

Some time ago, I learned something terrible. A friend of mine, a dear woman who lives a quarter of a world away and who I have never met, lost her baby before he was born. Without explanation, he simply...stopped. I learned this terrible news on Saturday morning. There is nothing to do or say to relieve such pain. It's an unbearable weight, yet she and her family had no choice but to bear it.

Sunday morning I sat in church. Jon had taken Peanut down to her class and I sat holding Bubby in our pew. And I fell apart. I dissolved. Huge, racking sobs shook my body and simply clung to my sleeping baby, warm and vital and so very alive in my arms. I was heartbroken for my friend who would never hold her child this way, never know the swell of his chest against hers as he breathed, never hear him make a sound or see his eyes open.

But more than that, I was heartbreakingly thankful. God has been so gracious to us. We are so blessed. Time and again we have met enormous challenges, tragedies that could easily have utterly ruined us, fearfully bad situations that could easily have been catastrophic, and time and again God has been merciful and providential and protected us. And I don't know why.

I don't know why I get to watch my baby grow and laugh and blow raspberries at her sister and my friend does not. I don't know why not one possession of ours came out of that house with even a whiff of smoke, let alone burned while our neighbours lost absolutely everything. I don't know why, as sick as I was, Bubby and I were totally safe and we had an entirely normal, healthy birth. I don't know why this family doesn't wear the scars of the things we've faced. I don't know why we have persevered so entirely. I don't understand why God has preserved us.

He loves us. He loves all of us. And it makes me ache. I ache through to my very fingertips with the knowledge that I have only begun to comprehend the breadth and length and height and depth of the love of God. That Sunday morning my heart turned violently inside my chest, it was so swollen and overcome with love and the sheer impossibility of entirely grasping just what it means to be loved like this.

She has masses of love. Oceans of grace.

voices

Sitting in my living room, at this moment I hear Peanut's voice laughing and screeching as she chases our dog, singing nonsense songs while she 'cooks' her pretend food in her play kitchen. I hear Bubby, lying on her belly and spinning in pre-crawling circles, cooing and babbling to herself. I hear the clatter of toys and the crunching sounds of our dog eating her breakfast.

Somewhere, under all that happy din, is my voice. It's somewhere buried in my head. It is speaking, or trying, with too many thoughts to even be coherent. It is trying to get out, but most days I simply cannot find it.

Such is the problem with writing while being an at-home parent. Finding the opportunity to construct a coherent thought let alone actually write it down is challenging at best. And it's frustrating, knowing that there are potential posts, articles, goodness knows what else, locked inside, simply waiting for the chance to break free and come to life.

I may need to start having weekly Bridgehead wifi dates with myself in order to get the words out. I adore my girls, but it's important to listen to - and speak with - my own voice, too.

what happened to community?

Have we forgotten how to live in community? Have we forgotten that we are social animals?

Last night I got to hear Rodger Nishioka speak about why young people - particularly young adults - aren't going to church. It isn't a lack of faith or spirituality, but still they don't come. Why? What are we - the established, main-line churches - doing wrong?

In the course of his talk he told a story about one young couple he met while researching this topic in focus groups around the U.S. who actually were members of a Presbyterian church in Iowa. After attending one Sunday morning, they were astonished by the outpouring of care and support from the congregation after the young woman was diagnosed with breast cancer. They had no idea that such community involvement was common. As a result, they are fully integrated, grateful, involved members of that church community.

What struck me was, really, the sadness of it. Have we become so entirely nuclearized that we have forgotten to pass on to the next generation (not even really the next generation: the young couple Nishioka mentioned were only about 6 years younger than me) that this is how community functions? More fundamentally, have we neglected to tell people that we are social creatures who, by and large, crave and need community in order to be fully functional, joyful people?

On wet-nursing and unconditional love

Earlier this week, I met a baby who, at five days old, had lost two pounds.


And I nursed him.


His mother had an unexpected caesarean section and her milk production was delayed, which isn't particularly uncommon following surgical birth. But her baby proceeded to lose two pounds. Though she nursed and they were making every effort, she and her husband watched their little boy shrink. So her midwife put out the call: this baby needs milk. And my own doula and friend sent me word: a baby needs milk. She also said, "mama would also be open to cross-nursing." A few phone calls to arrange a time, and I went. With my one tiny bottle of stashed milk and my own two breasts, I went to meet some total strangers.


I wondered what it would be like to nurse someone else's child. The first time I nursed my own child it felt a little strange, such a new and singular experience: would it feel odd when the child was not my own, when I'd only met the family moments earlier? I wondered if I would feel a sense of betrayal to my own little nursling, at home with her sister and father, to be sharing my breast with another child, to be giving another child the milk originally destined for her. I wondered if the mother, who had undergone a difficult birth and was now struggling to breastfeed, would feel resentment or rejection at having me, a total stranger, nurse her child. I am certain that I would have felt so.


There are no Emily Post instructions on the correct etiquette for visiting someone's home for the first time with the intention of breastfeeding their newborn. I went, met Father and Mother, introduced myself, congratulated them on their baby, gave them the one bottle of expressed milk I had, then asked, "Do you want me to nurse him?" 
"Sure," Mother said, "that would be great." So we sat together, she and I. She handed me her tiny treasure and I bared a breast.

****

People talk about unconditional love. The Church talks about it a lot. Parents talk about it, too. There's even a particular strain of parenting theory named for it. When we talk about loving unconditionally we generally mean that our love is not contingent on the actions of the person who is loved. But it can mean something else, and should. It means that whoever you are, I will love you. My love for you is not contingent on my relationship with you. It simply doesn't matter.

One of my many acts of mothering love for my children is nursing them. Through that simple act they are comforted, reassured, nurtured and nourished. They know love. To nurse another's child is also an act of love, but differently so. In taking that little boy in my arms and nursing him, I told him he was loved. I told him that he was loved unconditionally not only by his parents - who love him for the mere fact of his existence - but by me as well, also for the mere fact of his existence. And that loving would extend as far as it needed to, even to feeding him from my own body.

Nursing him didn't feel strange. It was simple: here was a hungry child who needed milk and I provided it. I was struck by how entirely commonplace it felt in that moment. Afterward, as I reflected on my encounter with this family, I felt sure that this is, without question, what we are meant to do. Later, when I was home again with my own nursling, I looked at her as she glowed and grinned up at me and felt nearly proud of her. Unbeknownst to her, she had shared something of hers which was precious and dear. I don't know how the mother felt about watching me nurse her new and only child. It seemed too intrusive to ask. I imagine it was at least a little strange for her, to watch her son share an intimate moment with another woman, some other child's mother. Because nursing is wonderfully, beautifully intimate. But so is love. And it's meant to be shared. Like breastmilk.

****

There is something particularly delightful about nursing a newborn. Their lives are so consumed by consumption that newborns are very avid feeders, focussed and determined. This little boy, fists clenched against his cheeks, eyes closed in rapt attention to the task, mouth wide, proceeded to give a perfect example of precisely how a baby should nurse. Surely, he and his mother are destined for a happy and successful nursing relationship. Gulping and pausing, pausing and gulping, he drank until he was full and could not be cajoled into taking more. Entirely milk-drunk, he subsided into his mother's arms, smiling in his sleep. Sated.


"Thank you," she said.


"Thank you," I replied.

faux-chos

Remember this? At the time I was wheat, dairy, soy and egg-free. Now we've added corn to see if we can't get Bubby's rash to finally clear up. Here's a head's up: in North America corn is. in. everything. It's madness.

Anyway, there are some obvious, common sources of corn that this totally eliminates. Until now, I had been sort of desperately clinging to the fact that while I couldn't eat bread (sigh) or cheese (whimper) or cake (sob) I could, at least, have corn chips and Coke. Yeah, yeah, I know, cola is death blah blah blah. I ran out of vices so I cut myself some slack. Today, though, I really wanted nachos and a Coke. You know, dairy-free, wheat-free, corn-free nachos and Coke. Made of what, exactly? Made of this:







And you know what? It's awesome. My inspiration was this recipe from my friend Alyson. Here is approximately what I did:

1/2 can black beans, rinsed
1 clove garlic
2 tsp onion powder
1/ 2tsp cumin (I freaking love cumin)
2 tsp chili powder
1/4 cup vegetable stock
2 tbsp rice flour

Throw everything in a food processor and blitz until smooth. Spread on an oiled, foil-covered cookie sheet to about the diameter of a dinner plate, or 1/4-1/2 inch thick. Top with Daiya Shreds ( I used cheddar flavour because it was all we had, but pepperjack or mozzarella would make more sense) and bake at about 340*F until the edges look dry and the shreds are all melted, maybe 20-30 minutes. Serve by topping with salsa, shredded lettuce, more salsa and cashew cream. Drink a Blue Sky Cola alongside to complete the feeling of guilty indulgence.

edited 10/15/11: I have just discovered that while Blue Sky is HFCS free, the caramel colour and citric acid in it are manufactured using...corn! And the Daiya Shreds? More citric acid from...corn! ARGH! Well, we'll keep trying. It was still delicious, though.

An autumn afternoon at the arboretum

A friend recently posted a photo on Facebook of the green, vibrant campus of a Florida university. "When I see pictures of Florida," I commented, "I think, 'I live in Ottawa because...?'" Summer is decidedly over, here. Some days, though, remind me why we enjoy life here.

We took an outing yesterday afternoon. An honest-to-goodness, physically active and educational outing. Ottawa has an urban farm, the Central Experimental Farm, and it includes a sizeable arboretum. It's 26 hectares, which is about 64 acres making it around 1/13th the size of New York's Central Park, but it's large enough to be quiet and calm and get a good stretch of the legs.

Autumn in Ottawa being what it is, it was a gorgeous afternoon. The fall foliage was colourful but still mostly in the tree-tops, but the unseasonably warm weather made it a perfect day for running around outside.

We watched mallards on Dow's Lake.






We walked. We ran. We followed some dogs around. We climbed on large rocks.





We enjoyed the sunshine.
Bubby was there, too, of course.

Before we left, she needed a nurse. 

I asked Peanut where we should sit. "Which tree should we sit under?" I asked her. 
"Under the yellow tree." Hickory it was.

I love this city. And I love my girls.

sometimes it's all pretend

I read a lot of so-called mommyblogs. I gravitate toward the ones that are positive, optimistic. Peaceful. I yearn to feel like that every day, to revel and celebrate every moment with my children, with my husband, with myself. To live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, as Thoreau so beautifully put it. So, in turn, I try to write posts that do precisely that with pictures that reflect just how lovely this life - our life - can be.








But.


Sometimes it's all pretend. Or at least the attitude is. Sometimes the optimism is missing. Sometimes the inspiration falls short. Sometimes, instead, I just crave a good long break. Like a week. Alone. Or several very big, bountiful glasses of wine. Or a good scream. Sometimes my day loses it's shine and all I seem to see is dusty surfaces, grimy tables, a crumb-covered floor in desperate need of a good sweep and mop and two children who need a lot out of me. Sometimes I just. feel. spent.


So sometimes I'm just pretending. And the pretending gets me to the end of another day, and while I feel like I'm clinging white-knuckled to my sanity, something unexpected happens. Peanut brings Bubby a toy, apropos of nothing. Bubby glows at her sister. She smiles at me. Peanut rushes up to me, throws her arms around me and murmurs, "Lovee you," and then goes back to playing. The sun shines through the window in a way and at an angle that marks that we have entered a new season, a season of scarves and sweaters and hot drinks and Peanut's first trips to football games with Daddy and the comfort of crawling into a warm bed on a cold night.








And then, without even realizing it has happened, it isn't pretend. It's real, and we've lived a warm, glowing day, one that shimmers in my memory, ever so briefly, not because it was particularly notable but just because it was good. Because I accepted it for what it was and what it brought.


What has your day brought you?

100 word birth stories

The ever-thoughtful and thought-provoking Bluebirdmama recently put out a call for birth stories in 100 words or less. Since my own birth stories are decidedly un-short, I welcomed the challenge. Here are the girls' stories:


Glynis

Wake at 5am. OMG I’m peeing my bed! No control.
5:30am cramping. OMG and I’m constipated, too?! 

Nope…disbelief.

Call the midwife. “Not even 36 weeks! Not good,” but I know: we’re fine.
Labouring around the house, shower, resting, working.

This is what we do.

Midwife arrives: time to go NOW.
Doula, midwife, husband, me in the room, laughing between contractions. So excited:

I’m going to meet my baby!!

1:40pm: Now pushing on my feet, on my knees, on the bed. Happening quickly. Everyone hollering, “Slow down!” Oops: burning and pop! Relief. Head, now body. She’s here.

Love.







Scarlet

7pm:  hint of contractions. Slowly, things beginning. Powerful.
Body working, mind excited, sure: another early baby.
Cuddling Glynis. Belly henna. Laughing.

Then: not good. It’s all wrong.
Terrible stomach pain. Calling the midwife.
Kneeling on the floor. Praying. Pleading.

“This is not how I die.”

1am: call doula, call Mom, wake Glynis. No homebirth: rush to hospital.
Midwife waiting. Bloodwork. Monitors: baby is fine, body still working hard.

Severe pre-eclampsia and HELLP.

Break waters.
Acupressure.  Swaying... s w a y i n g …

So sick. But strong.

I AM going to do this.

6:45am...7am...

Sleep. Bear down. Sleep. Then p u s h …

…through fear, tissue.

7:13am

 Lift…

“You're real!"

today

Today I have

* a big girl keen to make friends at the library
* a daughter so excited by books we stayed an extra half hour after Storytime to read more books
* a growing baby who sat by herself for two minutes before flopping to the side

* a Big Sister who delights in her baby
* a Little Sister who rolled over by herself for the first time

And I have

* friends who share my passions
* a strong vote of confidence from our minister, whom I respect and admire

A good day.

the things we do, part II

You likely haven't noticed from the pictures I've posted, but Bubby has a pink face. Or more accurately, circles of pink around her eyes. And all over her scalp. And she's had some hives on there, too. It's not something a parent likes to see on her baby. After a little deliberation - including several days of thinking we were cursed with a sunlight allergy - I concluded it was likely a food sensitivity. So for the past 6 weeks I've been gradually eliminating foods from my diet. First wheat, then dairy, then eggs and now soy and, thankfully, we're now seeing a real improvement: it would seem soy is a major offender. Ever tried to eliminate all soy from your diet while living in North America? Yep, it's an eye-opener.

So I'm eating differently now. Some dishes are right out - like, say, a delicious tofu stir fry in a tamari-based sauce and virtually every prepared food out there - while others just need a little adapting. This evening, as I watched Peanut happily munching away on some oven-baked chicken fingers I realized that I really wanted some, too. But bread crumbs, wheat flour, butter, milk and egg wash are all out, so cleverness was called for.







Some crushed gluten-free cereal - corn flakes and puffed rice - a little buckwheat and arrowroot flours and some various seasonings and we were in business. But how to make it stick without eggs or milk? Honey-water! 2tbsp of warm water and at least 1tbsp of honey well mixed together, toss the chicken pieces in the solution and then into the crumb mixture. Bake on an oiled pan at 375*F, turning once.

They were delicious. Even if they hadn't been, though, this is what we do, isn't it? As I told my mother a few weeks ago, I don't care if my own health ends up suffering: I'll gladly sacrifice my own health on the altar of my child's well-being. So far my dietary restrictions haven't had a deleterious effect on my health, just occasionally on my mood and hopefully, with enough inventiveness, that won't be the case too often either.

the things we do

What do you do when you need to carry your baby six blocks? You wrap her up.




And what do you when your toddler pulls up lame a block into the walk? Well, you wrap her up, too.

This was the best photo I could get of our little five block tandem-wearing adventure. Sadly, it doesn't do justice to the insanity of the situation. A 5'2" woman wearing more than one third her body weight, with three year old feet dangling around her knees and a four month old head bobbing around near her chin, carting a shoulder bag full of cloth diapers and a tote bag with a plastic potty is a truly ridiculous sight.

The things we do for our kids, eh?

the urban family

We live downtown. I mean, right downtown. And we love it. Part of what we love about it is our proximity to all the little happenings in the city. Evenings notwithstanding, our city streets are lively and active and there are things to see and do on almost any given day or week.

This past weekend the Glebe held a little street event. So we decided to head down for a little urban family fun.

The best part of the event in the Glebe was not the activities planned for small children but a skateboarding competition. Peanut, you see, adores skateboarding. She sees it pretty routinely in a local park and thinks it is just awesome. So we checked it out.






She loved it. Also, there were balloons.



Bubby was less interested in the skateboarding and focussed more on licking the wrap I was wearing her in and just generally being adorable.




Good times.

a common era

**I left this as a comment today on our church blog where members of the congregation reflect on that Sunday's worship service.**


At the end of August, a friend posted on Facebook asking for people's reflections on how the world has changed in the past ten years. As I thought about it over the next days, and after reading another link that he posted, I was struck by the contrasts that we've seen since then: moments of hatred and violence thrown into sharp relief by expressions of love and grace. Those instances of love and grace, those moments of universality and commonality are how I choose to define these days. That view doesn't exclude the hatred and violence nor ignore it, but I refuse to believe that these Years of Our Lord will be defined by evil.

During the minister's sermon he noted that academic institutions are moving toward less Eurocentric names for the two primary eras of history, using the term "Common Era" instead of Anno Domini. What occurred to me as he spoke about this was that using this new term for our current age does not deny or ignore the Good News.

This is a common era, one in which all belong to the universal brotherhood of a world of salvation. These are the days in which salvation is at hand for every person should they so choose and accept it. As Paul writes, there is now neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female. We are made one in Christ, the Christ who breaks all barriers, even the barriers we ourselves have built which separate us from God.

And now here we are in a post-9/11 world and while some choose to see only division, we have seen people come together. We have seen the love and grace of Jesus Christ extended from Muslim to Christian and back again.

This is a common era, and I thank God for it.

expectation

I always thought that the use of the term "expecting" for pregnancy was odd. What are we "expecting"? Expecting a child to be born? Well, obviously. Expecting there to be a child? But the child is already in there: he or she just needs to come out. And just as the child is there, the woman carrying that child is already a mother, already loves like a mother, already worries like a mother, and the father does likewise. Shouldn't these "expecting" parents instead simply be "waiting"?

But there's another side to the word "expecting". It isn't a guarantee. Nothing is certain: nothing.

Midwifery clients in Ontario are generally given copies of the contents of their files after their post-partum care concludes. The top sheet of paper is the primary sheet of the chart with things like the mother's health history and dates relevant to the pregnancy. At the bottom of the sheet is a list of topics to be discussed at the monthly appointments. As the pregnancy progresses, one by one that list of topics is completed and checked off. When I was expecting Bubby, my midwife and I were talking during one of our appointments. I was struggling with hypertension and she was worried that I would be terribly upset if my health demanded that we abandon our planned home birth for a hospital birth. She wanted to talk about my expectations. As we talked, I told her,

"To be quite honest with you, I don't even entirely expect to get a baby at the end of this. I'm keenly aware that sometimes you just...don't." 

And in that room, while Peanut coloured at a little table under a big, happy green leaf, with glorious sunshine beaming in the window, bathing the room, we talked about stillbirth. We talked about neonatal death. We talked about mothers we've known, both in person and online, who have lost babies not early in a pregnancy but late, so late that it is unfathomable, so late that a happy outcome seemed a sure thing. We talked about mothers who have held their baby after a normal birth, awash in the glow of everything going right, who days or even just hours later held that baby as that tiny life slipped from this world.

And we wept. We wept for those mothers and fathers who had something so very precious so fleetingly. We wept as we smiled while talking about the immeasurable value of a photograph of a father holding his child, precious and perfect and entirely still in his arms. The eternal gift of a moment, of just one moment, and the image of that moment frozen, cherished forever.

There is no line-item for stillbirth and death on that page in my chart. It isn't one of the mandatory topics of discussion. But we must talk about this. We cannot live blindly, ignoring the very truth and reality that mortality is universal: it does not only belong to the old. It walks hand-in-hand with birth. The great fragility of life is part of what throws life's beauty into such relief to be celebrated.We do a great disservice to families when we speak as though everything were certain.  We needn't dwell on such terrible pain, but likewise we must acknowledge its possibility.

It's a pain I do not know and have not the gall to suppose that I can imagine. While I was expecting Peanut I felt great surety when I reached 32 weeks. "Now I am safe," I thought. "Now I can be certain that everything will be fine." But with Bubby I was not so naive. Better do I now know that nothing is certain. Nothing is safe. As I laboured with Peanut I was never concerned for her safety, so sure was I that everything would always be fine. But as I laboured with Bubby, aware that my own body was failing, I had occasion to wonder after her health. Was she safe? Was she well? What would happen? Birth is as safe as life gets...and life can be painfully uncertain.

I am struck today by the absolute appropriateness of the term "expecting". When one is pregnant one expects to have a child to hold and kiss and love and nurse and raise into being a strong and beautiful person. But we do not know. We make the best choices that we can, we best our odds for success and health and happiness...and the rest we give up to God.





Because we cannot know for certain. We have only the expectation of joy. 

examination

I have a handful of posts drafted, saved and unfinished that are waiting to be posted, but until I have time to do that, I wanted to share something new that I'm doing. I've recently become the Ottawa Breastfeeding Examiner. I write articles related to breastfeeding with an eye to local news. So if you are local and see or hear something you think should be given attention, let me know and I'll get on it!

perfect

I am alone with Bubby in the living room. Jon, having read Peanut to sleep in the bedroom has fallen asleep himself. When I'm alone with Bubby I indulge in telling her all the silly, tender things I might normally only think. As I looked at her as I held her in my arms this evening, I was struck by her realness. Her perfectness. She's here.

And I lifted her up and kissed her scrumptious round cheeks and said,

"I grew you. Did you know? I grew you...and now here you are."





I never cease to be amazed by the absolute perfection of my children. I'm sure every mother feels this way.





 I am both empowered and utterly, totally humbled by the mere fact of their existence.

reminders

I struggle with remembering to do what I ought or to have the best frame of mind. I need constant reminding. I'm trying to think of ways to keep myself focussed and this is one idea I've implemented: short passages of scripture chalked on the wall. We've had 1 Corinthians 13 already, and now we've moved on to 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18.

owning a day

I'm making an effort to own each day.  All last week, Jon was been home on vacation and we spent the whole week together. There was a dinner at the pub up the street, a ride on the Ottawa River in a motor boat, visits with some grandparents, trips to the park, and lots of daytime walks followed by naps with Daddy. It wasn't perfect, of course: few things ever are. There was some frustration while we were picking out new glasses for me on Friday and there are almost daily moments of intense three-ness. But in the midst of any frustration or tantrums or meltdowns, there is goodness. There is love.

There is beautiful simplicity in a typical morning.







We don't need to seek out beauty in our lives: it's always there, even in very bad circumstances, and it is glorious and wonderful. We simply need to open our eyes to it and allow life to be what it is.

a day at the park

Daddy's vacation means some alone-time with Mommy in the middle of a weekday afternoon.



"Where are we going, Mommy?"
Up...
...up...
...almost there...
...and she's off and running!



Small child, tall buildings.


The ride home

dreaming our dreams

I am uncomfortable voicing dreams. I'm also uncomfortable voicing prayers. There is something so deeply personal, so intimate about sharing them. I don't know precisely why I feel this way, but I sincerely doubt that I am in the minority: we - at least we in North America - aren't exactly encouraged to bare our souls and share our deepest, tenderest feelings. And dreams and prayers really are tender. They are one of our most sensitive, most vulnerable places in our heart. I always feel that I risk mockery or embarrassment if I'm voicing my dreams. But dreaming is important and prayer is an integral part of my life. Maybe it's some quirk of my personality, maybe it's the way I was raised: growing up in the Presbyterian church, a practice where prayer is generally conducted silently, seated, heads bowed and eyes closed, expressing intimate thoughts and concerns wasn't generally done. Whatever the reason, I need to get over this.

Last week, as I was thinking about this season of change I seem to be in and about where it may take me, I came to an unfortunate and almost shameful realization: I was even uncomfortable voicing my dreams and ambitions and prayers to my own husband. How can we move forward together as a family, though, if we aren't sharing our dreams with one another? My reflection really came to a head after reading this post on Saturday. I was particularly struck by this section:

Just a few days ago while on a walk I realized something. We live in a home in the Pacific Northwest, tucked away in the trees, a block away from a bay where we canoe and kayak… and every morning, we take Cedar to the side of the house to pick raspberries for breakfast.“Honey!” I said…“It really happened for us. We are living that dream.” Of course there were a few jokes tossed around because Boho Boy cannot whisper a word without humor interlaced.  Like its raspberries instead of blackberries and Washington instead of British Columbia…but it is so close, non?  It gives us chills.  The power of speaking our dreams out loud.  The power of manifesting.  The power of vision boards.  The power of prayer.  The power of meditation.  All of it.  Just gives me chills.  And I am living proof that the dream may not turn out exactly how we envisioned (I am not talking raspberries here, but adoption rather than conception) but if we stay close to our desires.  If we whisper them or shout them or write them down or release them…if we BELIEVE them…we find ourselves one day looking around and realizing we are in it.

So that afternoon as we took our annual Scottish pilgrimage (careful with the volume if you click that link) I took advantage of our drive - and the girls' quiet contentedness - to begin the conversation. It's definitely a conversation that needs to be ongoing. Goals change, dreams alter and our prayers and desire reflect where we are in our lives and what we are living. Some would argue that The Recruiter and I should have had long, deep, detailed conversations about all our dreams and goals before getting married, but ultimately, we just wanted to be married to each other, regardless of anything else. In the time since we were engaged and first married, my own ambitions have changed dramatically at least four times. My priorities have shifted as well, becoming more and more focussed on living a life of faith.  Whatever I might have said back at the age of 23 is far from what I'm dreaming and praying about today.

It isn't enough to have one chat about dreams: it has to be a continuing dialogue in order for it to be reflective. Talking about our dreams hardly accomplishes them, but the immediate effect of just voicing those dreams, speaking our prayers, is truly tangible. I feel like our family is stronger today than possibly ever before - and we were doing pretty well, I like to think! It felt so wonderful to speak those visions to each other, to wonder out loud about what we might accomplish or what we might become.

So we're going to be dreaming together, openly. Whether we ultimately realize those dreams, whether our goals change entirely, what is important is the looking forward, working towards something. Speaking our dreams is our first step toward living more intentionally, more thoughtfully, with purpose.

puzzling it out

I've got a lot going on in my head right now. I'm in an interesting season, I think, one full of re-evaluation. I'm puzzling out myself, my life, our life as a family, my faith, my place in the world, my place in the church...it's a lot, and it's heavy, and on any given day I usually have about a minute and a half to actually be still and be quiet and just think. I'm finding myself standing at the sink in the bathroom, lost in my thoughts, while I'm supposed to be getting ready for bed.

I want to see this as a season of new possibilities and a healthy re-imagining, but mostly I'm finding it intimidating. We're not routinely encouraged to wipe the slate clean and start from scratch. I think, though, that that may be what I need to do. I may just need to radically re-imagine myself. And it's freaking me out!

back up

There is a moral to this post and it is this: back up your harddrive.

A week ago Sunday, The Recruiter tried to turn on the laptop but instead got error messages: "operating system not found"; "cable disconnected". Curious...and rather concerning. Just over a week went by before we were able to get my brother-in-law over to see if he could sort out the trouble. After some trial and error and the insertion of various discs, he deduced the problem: our harddrive is dead.

Our harddrive with every picture of Peanut on it.  Our harddrive with every picture of Bubby on it. Our harddrive with hours of downloaded music on it. Inaccessible, possibly permanently.

We're currently operating without a harddrive using a boot disc my BIL left with us so at least we're able to access the internet until we hook ourselves up with a new and functional harddrive. We're trying to stay hopeful that a recovery service can retrieve the files on the drive, but I'm trying to be realistic. They may find nothing. After I accidentally destroyed our last laptop, and then again after the fire, The Recruiter and I talked about getting a back up system started but failed to do so. I am absolutely sick at the thought of what we may have lost as a result of our forgetfulness.

So there won't be any new photos on the blog until we have a harddrive again and can load images from the camera. You'll just have to trust that the girls remain adorable.

Now go back up all your files!

friday evening, flaked out

A little dread-love and my very sleepy baby.

asparagus season

It's the beginning of farmer's market season in Ottawa, so we took a little family walk to the Byward Market last Friday to get some locally grown veggies. We got rhubarb and made these muffins - delicious! - and three big bundles of asparagus. Some of the spears went into savoury onion and asparagus muffins, and the rest were eaten alongside some mahi mahi.

Summer Asparagus Salad

2 bundles fresh asparagus, washed and trimmed
1tsp dijon mustard
2tsp orange juice
1 clove garlic, pressed (or 1/2tsp garlic powder if you are incredibly lazy, as I was)
2tsp brown sugar or honey
EVOO
dash of salt
large bowl of ice water

1. Place mustard, orange juice, garlic and sugar or honey in a small bowl and whisk together. Slowly drizzle in EVOO, whisking constantly until the dressing has entirely emulsified and become thicker and slightly creamy. Taste. Add salt if necessary.
2. In a medium pot of boiling water, blanche asparagus for approximately 2 minutes. Immediately plunge asparagus into bowl of ice water.
3. With asparagus still cooling, plate rest of meal. Place cooled asparagus on plate and spoon dressing over top.

I didn't think to take a picture, so here's a picture of Bubby from yesterday afternoon:



Aparagus?? ASPARAGUS??!!