Construction-paper horns.

The bench held her up and without it she would disassemble piece by piece.  Trees flanked the playground, lush, fluttering, teasing her with the arrogance of simple.  Her grip on her purse strap was unrelenting, white.  She didn't notice she even held it.

"Mama!  Look!  Look what I did!"  he called, jubilant, leaves in his hair.  Another boy watched him, wondering if he should attempt the same stunt.  He didn't look convinced.

"That's great, Honey!"  Was that her voice?  Was that the way it sounded to other people?

Two women walked by, pushing strollers, chatting.  "...he didn't seem to get it, but you know how that is."  "Oh my gosh, you don't need to tell me..."  Their babies slept while they sipped their six-dollar coffees.  

"Mama!  Watch!"  He climbed the picnic table again, poised to jump into the pile of leaves.  The other boy's mother had come on the scene and shot her a look while she steered her son away to another part of the playground.  The boy looked back, craned his neck to watch the leap.

"Be careful!"  Did her voice just crack?  

His teacher said he pushed another boy to the ground.  Said he seemed distracted all the time, was uninterested in class.  Taped red construction-paper horns to his forehead and refused to stop talking in what he called his "devil voice."  She hoped the teacher hadn't noticed the nano-second grin that crossed her face.  She wished she had seen the horns.


She watched him as he started throwing the leaves over his head, letting them catch on the light wind.  He tossed them over and over until he had to pile them up again in order to throw them some more.  She was glad he had stopped jumping off the picnic table.  


He didn't believe her and although he had stopped asking, she knew he thought his Dad would be home any day.  She didn't know how to convince him that it just wasn't true.  She wasn't sure she wanted to try.  Why couldn't she live in the same world, where leaves on the wind were wondrous and construction-paper horns transformed you into an entirely different creature?  Where death couldn't touch you because it wasn't invited; wasn't a member of your secret club.


The bench was starting to tilt and she shifted herself and let go of the purse strap to brace herself.  She wondered why it seemed to to take forever to open her hand and why it hurt to splay her fingers as she pressed her palm face-down on the bench.  Her boy called, she looked up, the sky heaved.  He was laughing and she smiled what she hoped looked like a smile, but what felt like a gash, a wound where her smile used to be.

I woke up with the image in my head of a woman clutching her purse as a boy jumped off a picnic table.   The look on her face told me it wasn't just his safety that worried her.  The only words in my head were "the sky heaved".  I caught a glimpse of her story when I sat down to write.

Never washes off.

It's tricky to write about my childhood when I know my Mom reads my blog.  I love you Mom, and I so appreciate all your encouraging words.  But I need you to imagine that you are writing about your own childhood and that your Mom is reading it.  I know, the thought of Grammy using a computer made me giggle too, but stay with me here.  This is my disclaimer to you and only you: you are not allowed to take anything I write about my childhood personally.  I mean it.  This is not the only post I will write about my perspective growing up, so grab a kleenex and get comfy.

I don't consider myself a glass-half-empty type of person.  I always trust that things are going to work out because I've had countless times in my life where I had to give myself over completely to that trust because it was all that was left.  I learned at a very early age that life continues no matter what happens, but in the end it may not look the way you were hoping it would.  

I've mentioned before that I didn't grow up with much.  "Didn't grow up with much" is almost a euphemism.  My Mom raised four kids on her own and we were on welfare for most of that time.  I'll try to give it some perspective...  We rented crappy houses and we never had a car.  If we were getting somewhere, we were taking a bus, bumming a ride, or walking.  I walked a lot and I daydreamed while I walked.  I daydreamed a lot.  We always had a roof over our heads, but sometimes just barely.  I can't imagine how tough it was for my Mom to find a place big enough for five people with the inadequate amount of money she had to work with every month.  And once rent was paid, she had to feed us, and remember, I had three older brothers.  I eat potatoes only a few times a year because frankly, I ate so many potatoes growing up that the last thing I want to eat is a potato.  I'm a vegan now, but when I ate meat I could never understand the appeal of chicken wings.  I would see people downing pounds of wings at a restaurant and shudder.  Chicken wings are cheap.  I ate a lot of chicken wings and drumsticks growing up and I never, ever bought and/or cooked a chicken wing or drumstick once I left home.  Ever.  And food was not thrown out willy-nilly in our house.  Burnt toast was only thrown out if it was charcoal.  The fact that we scraped off the burnt top layer of the toast instead of throwing it away probably explains why I actually really like moderately-burnt toast.  It also probably explains why I like to have five of everything in my pantry and fridge: it makes me feel secure.

When I was thirteen, we were evicted when the house we had lived in for a few years was sold, and everything changed.  My oldest brothers Keith and Kevin were old enough to move out on their own, so my Mom didn't need to worry about housing them, but my brother Phil was only sixteen.  My Mom couldn't find anywhere suitable for us.  Phil ended up on his own and I had to move in with my best friend Kate and her family for a few months.  I can't imagine what it was like for my Mom, having to go to Kate's mother and ask her to take me in.  My Mom ended up living in the basement of a family we knew.  She had a room to herself, but she was basically living with this other family.  It was a terrible time for her.  I had fun living with Kate; I got off the easiest.  Phil was just out there, floating around.  Sixteen.

We couldn't stay this way forever and eventually, my Mom rented a room in a depressing motel.  She and I had one big room with a kitchenette and two beds.  I was fourteen, sharing a room with my Mom, and I didn't want anyone to know where we lived.  I lied to a lot of people about it, I never invited anyone over and only my closest friends knew.  Whenever I was walking somewhere, I would look into people's houses and imagine what it would be like to have a house.  Actually, that was something I can always remember doing, from the time I was about six years old.  Walking home after school, daydreaming about having a real house that belonged to us, that we didn't have to rent.  My most common fantasy as a kid was winning some kind of contest where the prize was a tonne of money and buying my family a house.  


The motel was near my high school, but it was also right on a busy highway and going "home" became the last thing I wanted to do.  It was around this time that I started staying out all night and worrying my Mom to death.  I don't think she could really blame me, but I still look back and imagine her waiting up all night, wondering if I was OK, both wanting and dreading the ringing telephone.  During this time, my Mom looked desperately for a better place for us to live, but we just moved to another motel.  This one was in a far better location and it wasn't so dreary, but it was still just the one room.  

I was fourteen, I took my first job bussing tables and my grades went into the toilet.  My Mom started cleaning rooms in the motel and sometimes I helped.  Phil would show up some nights and sleep on the floor because he had nowhere else to go and it was cold out.  The memory of him sleeping on couch cushions on the floor just breaks my heart.  He was seventeen, with no place to call home.  What was that like for him?  And I was the lucky one who had a roof over my head and a pull-out couch to sleep on.  Is it any wonder that this was the time in my life where I started experimenting with cigarettes, alcohol and drugs?  And what could my Mom do about it, with no stable home to offer me?  She was just trying to keep us housed and fed.  That was the challenge every day when she got out of bed.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Things turned around a bit when I was sixteen and the owner of the motel we were living in offered us a suite in a house that he owned.  A real house, for the first time in three years.  I will never forget moving into that house; it was modest and kind of falling apart, but we might as well have been moving into a mansion.  My own room, a proper kitchen, a proper living room.  It was amazing.  But the biggest bonus of all: I didn't have to feel embarrassed to tell people where I lived.  I could have friends over.  By this time, Phil had moved to Kelowna, where he met his wife Liz and started a family.  He never moved back to the coast.  Life regained some normalcy.  I re-focused on school (even though I was now over a year behind - I wouldn't graduate until I was nineteen), and discovered my love of photography, which changed me and in some ways saved my life.  Hours spent in the dark room printing black-and-white photographs was far more appealing than getting high with my friends.  

Seventeen.

Time-lapsed self-portrait when I was nineteen.

So why am I re-hashing all of this now?  Mine was by no means a hard upbringing compared with some of the atrocities and tragedies in the world; I don't walk around thinking that it was.  But I was one of the poorest kids I knew growing up and that left an imprint on me that never washes off.  I'm a success story of the welfare system, although I sometimes wish I had become a doctor or something to really blow the stereotype out of the water.  And because I know a lot of folks who are raising kids in similar financial circumstances, and I know sometimes they must wonder what I'm about when I talk about Peter and me buying a house and owning a car; the things I daydreamed about growing up.  It's important to me that people know that not only can I relate, I can close my eyes and be there.  

Naps are wasted on the young.

Sonja, five-days old.

Naps are wasted on the young.  Really.  Trying to convince your child to nap just seems so counter-intuitive.  Don't they realize?? Mid-day sleep is some of the sweetest sleep there is!  I would nap everyday if I could, even if I were already getting a full night of sleep (which I'm not, I assure you).

Haven, ten-days old.

I took the opportunity to nap as much as possible when Sonja was a baby, and I usually just laid down beside her and slept while she did.  Those naps were the absolute best naps I have ever had in my life.  I have actually used the thought of those naps when I've had trouble getting to sleep at night.  It always works; the memory of Sonja's sweet-baby scent, the warmth of her snuggle, stealing time away from the day to do something that has nothing to do with housework... It doesn't get much better.

Sonja, six-months old, in the car seat.

And then something happened.  Sonja didn't want to nap anymore, so neither could I.  When it happened, Sonja was mad because I wanted her to sleep, and I was really mad, because I wanted my nap.  There were a couple times where I honestly felt like I was going to have a temper tantrum.  It was a hard time for sure and no one was happy.  Eventually the napping routine worked itself out, but I got away from napping and got into taking that time to get things done and to just have some time alone.  Down time is golden time, no matter how you slice it.

Haven, five-months old, in the car seat.

Things are different the second time around.  When Haven was born, I didn't have the same luxuries I had with Sonja; I couldn't just check out for an hour or two to have a nap, because I had a toddler.  They often napped at the same time and there were a few precious days when I did take the time to nap, but more often I found myself getting caught up on housework and using the down time to do little things for myself.  It was a trade off, but it worked for me at the time.

Sonja, seven-and-a-half-months old.

I don't know if it's the weather or if my crappy night-sleeping is just catching up with me (probably both), but I find myself starting to nod off lately in the middle if the day and I daydream about having a nap.  And today was the day.  I haven't run in a week and Peter offered to watch Haven while Sonja slept so that I could go.  I really wanted to go for that run... but I was exhausted and sleepy.  So instead, Peter took Haven out with him to run some errands and I climbed into bed for an hour-and-a-half nap.  Absolute heaven.  

Haven, seven-and-a-half-months old, with snow falling on her while she sleeps.

Oh nap, how I have missed you, my friend.

The Big Man in the Red Suit.

The plan was to go downtown to have some sushi and then watch the Santa Claus parade.  Sonja was stoked, to put it mildly.  It had nothing to do with sushi.


We were all ready to go: coats on, diaper bag packed, tummies rumbling.  Haven was not impressed with the whole idea and voiced her objections quite soundly.  We decided to take both our vehicles so that if Haven needed to go home, I could make a quick exit.  Good idea, since by the time we arrived downtown, Haven was asleep and I knew there would be no sushi and parade for me.  Not a big deal.  Peter missed out on trick-or treating because Haven had to go home, so it was a chance for Sonja and Peter to have some great Daddy-Daughter time.  


But I wish I could have seen Sonja's little face when Santa finally arrived at the end of the parade.  She came home, practically burst through the door in excitement, and proclaimed that Santa had waved to her.  She also said that reindeer live in the woods and that they are now very tired and are probably home having a bath.  


Sonja's interest in Santa began last year when we took this book out of the library:

We renewed it three times and I was singing "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" well into January, even though Sonja would tell me that "Santa gone home now."  She loved the book so much that I bought it for her this year, which means that we have been reading/singing it for the last few weeks.


What started out as in interest in Santa has bloomed into an almost obsessive barrage of questions, asked in quick-fire succession: "What's Santa doing?"  "Where's Santa going?"  (Sonja is always very concerned about what people and things are doing and where they may be going.  She asks me all the time what cars, trucks, snow, people, trees, dogs, anything at all are doing and where they are going.)  "Does Santa have a house?"  "Is Santa's house red?"  "Does Santa have a sleigh?"  "Is Santa magic?"  "Does Santa land on the roof?"  "And he never falls off?"  "Do Santa's reindeer fly?"  "Santa comes from the North Poll?"  "And he's very busy?"  ...well, you get the idea.


So you can see why I would have liked to see her reaction when she finally saw the Big Man in the Red Suit.  Luckily there will be another Santa Claus parade in Esquimalt in early December, so hopefully I will be able to snap some photos as well.


Christmas 2008:

Christmas 2009:

As for Haven and me, we came home, I gave her a bath, then we had a little dance party until her proper bedtime.  Haven loves to be held while I dance (and sing) to very loud, funky and/or upbeat music.  Tonight's selections included Paul Simon's "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" and Haven's favourite (and mine), Nikka Costa's "Everyone Got Their Something".  I dare you to play them loud and not dance.  You're welcome.

Pride and love.

I forgot to ask my brother Philip to walk me down the aisle.  I meant to, I planned to, but I never got around to calling him up and asking him.  Can you say "self-absorbed"?  


We were days, mere hours away from the big day, Phil and his family had made the long drive from Medicine Hat, Alberta to Victoria and I still had not asked him to walk me down the aisle.  I think in my head it was a done deal; there was no one else whom I would ever ask to do it.  But the question had not left my lips, and Phil (and his wife Liz) had to approach me and bring it up.  How silly!  I was mortified, but of course so pleased that it had been on his mind and that he was hoping I would ask.  One of the few moments of my life where I truly wish I had a do-over.

He was amazing.  He put my hand on his arm, covered my hand with his, and didn't let go the entire time we walked.  I could feel his pride and how much he loves me and I was so touched by the moment we shared.  My big brother.  

This is one of my favourite wedding photos: Phil leaning in to give me a kiss.  If you look in the background, you can see my sister-in-law, Liz and my nephew Keith.  Liz is so sweet, the look on her face says it all.  She knew how much it meant to Phil to walk me down the aisle.


Phil and I are three years apart in age and when we were really young, we usually had to share a bedroom.  He was always a good big brother, but we definitely fought and he definitely took pleasure in tormenting me as we grew up.  I know that I annoyed him as much as he annoyed me and sometimes I wondered if we would ever be friends.  


When Phil was nineteen, Liz gave birth to Keith and I don't think anyone in our family thought that their relationship would last.  I've never been so happy to be wrong, because not only did they stay together, they had my sweet niece Emily eight years after Keith was born.  And a few years ago, they (finally) tied the knot.  I know as well as anyone that relationships are never perfect and they always take work, but I so admire Phil and Liz.  They are one of those "great" couples.

 

  Holding my nephew Keith when he was just a babe.  I was seventeen.

Hard to believe he's nineteen now.  In a blink of an eye,
I will be saying that about my own kids...

I love to make Phil laugh and I do it as much as I possibly can.  He has a great giggle and a wicked sense of humour.  The easiest way I know to make him laugh is to make fun of and laugh at myself; always a hit and easy to do.  Phil is one of the most loyal, genuine and caring people I know.  He is also the biggest softie, and he possesses one of my favourite traits in a man: he is able and unashamed to cry.  My respect for him is more than I am adequately able to describe.  


Of course I wish that Phil and his family lived closer.  I want my kids to know them and I want to be able to see them at holidays and birthdays.  And saying "I love you" is always so much better when you can say it in person...

My beautiful niece Emily, who made an adorable flower girl.

Another fave.

When Sonja was born in February 2008, Phil surprised
me by coming out to visit.  What a guy.

Remnants.

I think this is it for snow for awhile.  It snowed overnight and through the morning, but it's getting steadily warmer and I think by tomorrow, the snow will be all but gone.  In fact, as I write this I can hear the cars driving past our house in the wet, slushy remnants.  So in honour of the first snow that Sonja has been old enough to really experience and enjoy, here are some photos of our walk this morning.

I know these may look like the same photos over and over, but when I look at them, I hear Sonja's voice.  I wish you could hear the running commentary: "Let's make a snowman, Mama!" "How you make a snowman, Mama?" "Snow is COLD, Mama."  "Let's RUN!"  "Jett!  Run, Jett, run!"  "What's the snow doing, Mama?"  "Where all that snow come from, Mama?"  "Snow goes crunch!"  "Is there snow on the trees, Mama?"  "That snow's way up there on that tree, Mama?"  "Jett!  Come out of the bushes, buddy, let's run!"


I can't wait until it snows again.

Sleepy Bear.

Meet Sleepy Bear.  Sleepy Bear is very small, about the size of my hand.  She has tiny little eyes that you can hardly see through her tousled fur and tiny little ears on the sides of her head that make her look like a baby bear cub.  Sleepy Bear was given to us by our good friends Ginny and Paul when Haven was born back in April.  Of course, Haven was a newborn and had no interest in little bears, so Sleepy Bear quickly took her place among Sonja's many toys and ended up buried in a toy bin.  She would make an occasional appearance when Sonja would bring every single one of her plush toys out of the bin and scatter them across the house, but besides that, Sleepy Bear was kind of lost in the crowd.


When I smartened up as a Mom with two kids and little time, I realized I couldn't fall into the old habits that had perpetuated and exacerbated Sonja's bad sleeping habits and so I started Haven on the dreaded Sleep Training.  I had never sleep-trained Sonja because frankly, I was scared to.  I know now that I didn't give Sonja enough credit; I didn't think she could learn to fall asleep on her own.  Thus began a year-and-a-half of Sonja in our bed, me sleeping on a tiny mattress in Sonja's room, then Peter sleeping on the same horrible, tiny mattress in Sonja's room, all to help her fall asleep and stay asleep.  She always needed to be touching us, usually running her fingers over an arm, so we'd sleep on the mattress on the floor with an arm in her bed.  Yikes.  Sonja sleeps just fine now, but still uses a soother at naptime and bedtime.  I knew I did not want to go through all of this again, so I sucked it up and trusted that Haven could learn to fall asleep with my help (my help usually involves letting her work things out on her own and not running to her the minute she makes the slightest sound).


I also knew that I didn't want Haven to be as reliant on a soother as Sonja had become, and the book I was reading suggested eliminating the soother and giving Baby something in its place: a blanket, a plush toy, whatever.  It was bedtime, Haven was crying, I had taken away her soother, Peter was working, Sonja was running around doing her pre-bedtime energy blitz, I was stressed beyond belief that my baby was crying and I needed something, anything to give her to distract her.  I dumped out Sonja's toy bin, knowing that she would protest giving any of her toys to the baby.  Sonja vetoed a couple choices and I was starting to lose my cool, then she suddenly turned her attention away for a moment.  I spotted and grabbed little Sleepy Bear and left the room without Sonja noticing.


Every time I put Haven to bed awake to fall asleep on her own, I gave her Sleepy Bear.  I wasn't sure if Haven would love the bear or end up hating the bear.  Sleepy Bear is always left in Haven's bed; she is not a regular toy and is reserved strictly for bedtime.  One day when we were playing, I took Sleepy Bear out of the bed and gave her to Haven to see her reaction.  Haven squealed with happiness and grabbed the bear and I knew that she loved her Sleepy Bear.  Thank goodness.  Now when I put Haven to bed, she eagerly grabs Sleepy Bear and starts chewing on her nose.  I sometimes hear her jabbering away to her precious little bear as she goes to sleep.  


Oh, how I love you Sleepy Bear.  I owe you big time.

Enough snow.

Peter is away and the girls and I have stayed close to home since it snowed the other day.  It's been nice to keep things low-key, but I think we're all ready to get out of the house and see some friends.  I'm thinking tomorrow we will go to Strong Start and get back into our normal routines.  


There wasn't enough snow in the park behind our house to make a snowman or even a decent snow angel, but there was enough snow for Sonja to eat.

It was the first time I've said "don't eat the yellow snow" as a parent.  Feels like a milestone has been reached.


The sun was bright and the glare off the snow was blinding.  Both girls had fun, but I'm sensing more and more each day how frustrated Haven is that she is not mobile yet.  I have the feeling that once she figures out how to move independently, I'm going to get even busier in a big way.  Although it will be fun to have outdoor pictures of Haven where she isn't in the Baby Bjorn carrier.

With that in mind, I've decided to post some pics of Haven where she is not strapped to my body.   In keeping with the whole winter theme of late, I figured these photos of Haven in my toque were fitting.

A low-key post for a low-key day...