Adopting the pace of nature

Last week I spent seven days with my in-laws at a cottage. To clarify, there were 17 people (including five teenagers and two children) and two dogs with one kitchen and two bathrooms. Sounds like a disaster doesn't it?! Especially considering that every day I'm becoming more like my mother in that I REALLY enjoy my alone time every day.

Before we left, as we matriarchs tried to figure out the logistics of feeding and sleeping this army, I had a mini breakdown about it all. I was envisioning a tiny cabin, a rained out week, two miserable children, and one completely mental me. To be honest, I was dreading this "vacation." As we pulled away from our home on Saturday in our car with no AC, I was in a complete funk. I was sure that I'd have to insult the entire clan by leaving early to retain my sanity.

And then we arrived. While the rain pattered around us, we pulled up to this amazing cottage and I felt my spirits rise.

The great room was huge, baby-friendly, and with wipeable leather furniture. The kitchen was large and industrial, there were two fridges and a huge gas cooker. Our bedroom was bright and spacious with a king sized bed and room for Fliss' play yard and Hayden's Diego bed. It also had a door onto a great balcony - the perfect, quiet alone space I had feared lost! And the path to the water? No steep stairs, no jagged rocks, just pebbles and sand leading to a perfect sandy weed-free beach!

I quickly unpacked our bags and cooler and began to feel myself relax. As the other families arrived, I expected my anxiety to return. And yet, I remained completely chilled. Everyone was so happy to be there, so respectful of each other (yes, even the teenagers), that we all easily came together as one huge family. We cooked together, played together, cleaned together, shared kid-watching duties, fished, gazed at the fire in a huge circle....it was like being at Bronte Creek again, only with my extended family.

I surprised myself with how harmonious I felt with my cottage-mates. Instead of stressing over people eating Fliss' special gluten-free food, I roasted marshmellows and played king of the dock, I drank too much wine and caught the first big fish of the trip. I was too busy having fun to worry.

Adam's family tends to have a mantra of "things will just work out" which usually goes against my mantra of "plan for everything so you're not surprised." This past week, I witnessed and experienced just how relaxing going with the flow can be. Truly, with memories like these:



the only word I can summon for my family vacation is bliss.

Welcome to the world Petra!

This weekend, my sister welcomed a baby girl into the world. Little Petra Olivia defied all baby pools and arrived eight days after her due date. I know it doesn’t sound remarkable as many babies are born past term, but Petra had threatened to come at 34 weeks. Ang was on strict bed rest to prevent her early arrival and we were all expecting baby’s arrival weeks ago.

It just goes to show that babies have their own schedules and their own agendas. Little Petra has shown us that there’s nothing predictable about babies, labour, or childbirth!

She’s gorgeous and looks just like her dad – dark, curly hair, big blue eyes, giant hands and feet! Despite her size, 8lbs, 6ozs., she was a much easier delivery than her brother and Ang only had to push for 15 minutes. (We should all be so lucky!)

I brought Gage to the hospital to see his newborn sister just hours after she arrived. The moment I walked into the room I was overcome by emotion and burst into tears. I’m not sure if it was the tranquil scene or the reminder of what my own future holds, but it was incredibly touching to see those siblings interact for the first time and to see my sister in all her birthing glory. It definitely made me excited for my own impending delivery.

Everyone is home now and doing great. Petra is a nursing champ and hasn’t stopped since she left the womb. She’s a strong one – in will and body (she must get that from her Auntie Lucy).

A Christmas to remember

Well, Christmas is over for another year and I'm back at work after having six days off! I'm currently trying to kick-start my brain with copious amounts of caffeine. To make the transition a little easier, I thought I'd recount our joyous holiday festivities!

We hosted Christmas for my family this year - the first time I've hosted and the first time we've spent Christmas day in big blue. My folks came over on Christmas eve and stayed the night so that we could spend Christmas morning together.

I had thought that my siblings would also join us for breakfast and morning presents (as we all live within ten minutes of each other) but that was not to be. It seems that sometime between when I left home and now, they have both decided they like quiet Christmas mornings at home with only their immediate family unit. I guess because Adam and I lived in Ottawa and came home every Christmas (therefore always spending Christmas morning at one parent's house) we never adopted this quiet Christmas idea. Needless to say I was more than a little disappointed when I heard that my sister wanted to come over after Gage had napped and my brother thought he'd come around lunch time.

Despite the difference in ideas on what Christmas morning should be, it turned out to be magical. The whole city was blanketed in a fresh coat of snow, the sun was shining and inside my big blue house, it was warm and cosy and full of love.

It was actually our dog, not Hayden, who woke us up at 7:30. My mum and I took Hayden downstairs and turned on the lights and music before letting him see the bounty that Santa had left under the tree (just like my folks used to). He was awestruck and quite eager to begin the gift-opening - starting with the biggest shiniest box in the room (which happened to be for mum)! As mum and I brewed tea, we let Hayden unwrap the presents in his stocking to keep him entertained. After stockings were opened, we crept back upstairs to wake up daddy and poppa.

Hayden was just an amazing child on Christmas morning. Quite unlike the whirlwind of paper and impatience I expected, he acted as Santa's helper and delivered presents to everyone, helping them open one gift in turn. He oooed and ahhed appropriately whether it was a jar of pickled onions or a pretty necklace! After we had opened our presents, we set about making Christmas breakfast: scrambled eggs, back bacon (or Canadian bacon as some of you know it), sauteed mushrooms and toast. We were just finishing up our vittles when Ang, Dan and Gage arrived.

We went through another round of presents with the boys before Ang and Dan headed home to let Gage nap and Ben and Lisa arrived with baby Ella. We had hors d'oeuvres for lunch and mum and I kept a close eye on the turkey. Soon after, Hayden and poppa went down for a nap and we had some quiet time in the afternoon, putting together presents, drinking wine and chatting.

The big feast was scheduled to be served around 6:00. Mum and I worked together to bring it all to the table on time and steaming hot! It was delicious and I was amazed at how flawlessly mum and I manged to juggle the various dishes. The boys (meaning the husbands) all got into the wine at dinner and kept us all entertained through the meal and dishes with their antics.

I know that initially, Adam was worried that it wouldn't feel like Christmas without the chaos that his family brings to the occasion. Lucky for him, our house was just as crazy and lively as any Goddard celebration. With this third generation of family now brilliantly aware of the holiday, the magic of Christmas really touched our house this year. I was swept up all day in love and laughter, fun and togetherness. Though I didn't sit down for more than 15 minutes all day, I didn't feel tired or rushed. It just really felt the way Christmas should: a beautiful, exhuberent celebration of family and affection.

What Christmas is all about

This is Hayden hugging his Great Grandfather at the "G" family Christmas party.

Makes my heart warm to know that he will have a relationship not just with both sets of grandparents, but also two sets of great grandparents! He is one lucky little love.

Brothers by love

Last night my nephew, Gage, melted my heart. He and Hayden have been best buddies since we moved to the area last spring. They act more like brothers than cousins.

They've been together in daycare since they were a year old. Recently, Gage was moved up to the preschool room while Hayden stayed behind in the toddler class. It didn't seem to affect either of them too much. Or so I thought until they saw each other in the hall last night....

Hayden: Gaje! Hi Gaje! How you doin?

Big, long hugs ensue and Hayden puts his arm around Gage as they walk to his cubby.

Gage: Hi Haynen. *pause* Haynen, I weally miss you. No one hugs me any more.

*sob*

You're all going to hate me for saying this out loud, but I'm almost done my Christmas shopping! I can't tell you how satisfying it is to know that I can avoid the December mall mayhem entirely this year. In fact - I've skipped malls altogether in my 2008 shopping. As I settle into my "Ma Ingalls" phase, I'm making many gifts and trying to buy the others from small businesses (like our local Mennonite market). It feels good to support the little guys and to have pride in giving my own creations.

Adam has told me I am absolutely not allowed to decorate before December 1. I think I'm going to work on him to start decorating this coming weekend. I'd like a full 30 days of Christmas spirit in our big old house before Santa arrives! I just can't wait to pick out a tree and have that beautiful pine smell waft through my house. To bring out all the gorgeous decorations people have given me over the years. To set aside a whole day just to get my Christmas baking done - this year with my little sous chef in tow!

I'm already getting excited about Christmas with Hayden. He's two now and is starting to understand the magic of the season. He stares slack-jawed at snow falling, laughs uproariously when I "ho-ho-ho" like Santa, and points and yells "pity yites!" when he sees any sign of Christmas lights in the neighbourhood.

I think this year, I'll bring him to a Christmas service and have him help me to donate gifts or food to the needy so he knows the reason behind the holiday as well.

I'm also eager to share our family traditions with him...

When we were small, every year we would read two books on Christmas Eve: Twas the Night Before Christmas and Santa Mouse. We were often allowed to open one present on Christmas eve. Every year we would wait with baited breath as mum and dad selected a special present for this early opening. I remember every year I would wish and wish that the present chosen for me would be a special toy I'd asked Santa for. Funny enough, every year it was pajamas, but I never lost that hope!

In our house, we didn't have stockings, we had Santa sacks. We would carefully hang them on the end of our bed about two weeks before Christmas. I remember checking that sack every morning to make sure Santa hadn't messed up his calendar and left me an early present. And I know my siblings did the same. I remember sneaking into their rooms (or in my sister's case, we slept in the same room so it was a simple step away) and I'd put random things in there like a can of soup or a ball of dirty socks. It never failed to send me into hysterics when they'd awake, discover a bulge in their sack and then tear into it to see what Santa had left!

But on Christmas eve, as we slumbered in our beds, Santa would carefully fill up those sacks with small gifts (all individually wrapped). Many times, I would wake in the wee hours of the morning and sneak with my sack and my sister in tow into my brother's room and we would quietly squeal as we unwrapped our Santa sack booty. Then we'd tiptoe back to our room (if we didn't wake up my parents in the process) and I'd sleep with my Santa sack wrapped in my arms until the sun came up.

While gifts from our relatives were put under the tree as they arrived, all presents from mum, dad and Santa were saved and appeared magically sometime on the eve of Christmas after we'd gone to bed. On Christmas morning, the hallway to the living room would be gated off. Mum and dad would go in before us to turn on the tree, play soft Christmas music and get the camera ready. Then with great flourish, the gate would be removed and we would scramble to be the first to see our gift-laden tree. It never failed to amaze us. Even in years when times were tough, there always seemed to be a mountain of beautifully wrapped presents. And mum and dad always carefully counted to make sure we had exactly the same amount of presents to open. We were allowed to look at the presents, but not open them until everyone had eaten breakfast. Every year, dad would announce that he was going to make himself a big egg and bacon breakfast and we would protest and extol the delicious benefits of a quick bowl of cereal! (As we got older (and slightly more patient) breakfast became a big part of our Christmas morning. We would all sit to enjoy a bounty of scrambled eggs, back bacon, sauteed mushrooms, toast and tea.)

Christmas dinner was always a big turkey with all the trimmings. We were each assigned to eat a single Brussel spout. It was a race every year to be the first to sit down and carefully slide that gravy covered Brussel under the table to feed to the dog. She'd only eat one, so you had to be the first! We always had Christmas crackers as well. You know, these things:

Before anyone ate, we'd pop the crackers and don the paper hats within while we told each other the lame jokes and tried to figure out the crazy, tiny toys. (We still do this every year!)

All of these simple memories are what made Christmas special for me. While I can't remember most of the presents I received as a child, I do remember the magic, the anticipation, the smiles and laughter of my family, the togetherness, and the little touches that my parents worked so hard to recreate every year. Thanks mum and dad - you showed me the meaning of Christmas. And now 30 years later, I'm sharing them with my son.

The Poppas

I think that Hayden is an incredibly lucky little boy. Not only does he have two loving, emotionally stable parents, he also has four grandparents and four great-grandparents. Everyone lives within an hour's drive from us (save for one set of great grandparents in BC) and they are all involved in his life. Everyone is still married and in relatively good health. That seems like a prize-worthy thing in these times.

My parents and Adam's folks both adore Hayden and take every opportunity they can to see him. (I sometimes think of my mum as a panther, crouched and silently waiting to pounce on an opportunity to visit.) They smother him in love and are much more lenient then they were when Adam and I were growing up - these are a grandparent's unspoken spoiling right according to my father-in-law.

In response to this love, Hayden refers to all four grandparents as the poppas. There is no differentiating between genders, families or the fact that they have all chosen different grandparent names (Gran and Poppa for my folks and Gram and Grampa for Adam's). He can say these words, but when he sees any of them or makes reference to them, they are Poppa. I think it's hilarious and quite telling that he considers them all with the same attachment by using this standard moniker.

I'm so pleased that Hayden will grow up feeling the love of family around him. I have to admit that when I was a young girl, I envied the relationship my peers had with their grandparents. Baking cookies, learning how to knit and sew, figuring out how to thread a wiggly worm on to a hook, these were the things you learned from your grandparents. My maternal grandparents lived in England and I met them only a handful of times in my life (my paternal grandparents passed away before I was born). My grandfather passed away when I was a teen and I never felt that I knew him. When I turned 21, my mum took me to England to celebrate. I was able to meet my Gran and connect with her as an adult. It was a bittersweet time as I realized that the two of us would have been fast friends but never had the chance. We laughed so much together and the three of us (my mum, my Gran and I) seemed to be cut from the same cloth. When she passed away a few years ago, I mourned her loss not just for the person she was, but also for who she represented: my only living grandparent and the only one I ever had a real relationship with.

Part of the reason we moved from Ottawa after Hayden was born addressed this loss. By picking up roots and replanting them closer to our families, Hayden would have a whole other generation to draw experience, knowledge and love from. He would know his grandparents - all of them. And they would know him and be able to play an active role in his life. This move was the gift of family. I can only hope that one day Hayden looks back on his life and realizes what a precious gift that is.

Sugar and spice

One week ago today, my beautiful niece made her dramatic arrival into the world. My little brother and his wife endured 12 hours of labour and three intense hours of pushing before this little girl was guided into the world with some giant salad tongs.

Seeing my brother become a daddy was such a wonderfully bizarre experience: Watching him support and encourage his wife through labour with loving devotion; seeing the utter relief and the explosion of stress releasing tears once the baby arrived safely. It's a side of him that I rarely get to see but it's one that makes me love him on a whole new realm whenever I get a peek.

I've been to visit the new family twice since they went from a couple to a trio. The absolute ease that they seem to be handling new parenthood has blown me away. My own first week of motherhood seemed to be filled with endless tears (both mine and Hayden's) and so many fumblings and unknowns. In contrast, my brother and sister-in-law have fallen into an easy rhythm and silently take over from each other when needed.

I see in my brother a whole new respect for his wife. He talks about her with undiluted pride and praises her openly for everything from managing a long labour to successfully nursing and balancing the various needs of a newborn. I think for many couples, having a baby for the first time can sometimes be a dividing experience. As you try to figure out your role in your child's life you can often struggle to determine your place in the world as a parent, spouse, housekeeper, milking cow and the child of your own parents. It's a confusing and overwhelming time to say the least. But these two have certainly surprised me by taking that discovery journey together, hand in hand.

I'm not sure if she knows it yet, but little Ella Rose is one lucky little girl. Congratulations Lisa and Ben. She's beautiful. And you've both taken a huge but confident step in the long road of life.

Six words

In the shower this morning, I had an epiphany about why I am who I am. It stems from a moment when I was just on the cusp of the precarious childhood-adolescent line, maybe 12 tops. I was arguing with my mother about the unfairness of life and how if only she had done this differently and done that differently, I could be a genius and my artistic talents would be masterful. I was ranting and launching pointed accusations about the perceived failures of my upbringing. I remember my mother staying very still and quiet through it all. When I was done and looked to her for justification of my imperfect life, she gently shook her head and with slightly misty eyes said six words that have never left me.

We did the best we could.

I’m not sure that she knew just what an impact that phrase had on me. Through these simple words, I suddenly became aware that my parents were not mythical beings who had all the answers and resources I ever dreamed of. They didn’t make choices based on whether to torture me or hold me back or deprive me, they made them out of love and need. They were just humans. Humans who were doing the best they could with what they had. It’s weird, but it changed my entire outlook on life.

For me, the teenage years were an egocentric time; One where you were supposed to live without any concern of how your actions had an impact on others. In that horribly judgemental and materialistic age, it was all about us and our lives. Every thing that happened to those around us should only be important because of how it could impact our lives. Screw your parents, they were only there to f*ck you over and make your life unbearable.

I saw this attitude in many of my peers and was often pulled to adopt the same mentality. But I couldn’t. Because I’d seen the other side. I knew…

They did the best they could.

I think this was the secret of how I avoided those horrible, selfish, over-dramatic teen years. No, I wasn’t an angel and yes, I gave my parents their fair share of heartache and panic. But overall I was a good kid who, deep-down, always kept my family’s best interests at heart. Like most of my cohorts, I came from a good, loving family. But unlike most of them, I didn’t blame my parents for my shortfalls or see them as the ones who ruined my life. (And don’t get me wrong, these were not unusually horrible kids. They were just the quintessential teenagers.)

A lot of kids never have this “Ah ha” moment. And the sad thing is, you can’t force this knowledge on your kids. You can’t make them see that your very point in living and being is to make their lives as wondrous and fulfilling as humanly possible. That you bust your ass every day at a job you hate so that they can go to art classes and drama camp, play soccer, have a safe home and clean clothes. Children can’t see it. We need to keep this information from them to keep them innocent through their childhood. And then in the blink of an eye, they’re surly and self-centred and don’t want to see it.

But I did. Thanks to my mum and her six words and her perfect timing. I saw it. And I never forgot it. And now that I’m a mum, I know that in about ten years I’ll be desperately looking for that brief window of opportunity so that I can let Hayden in on this nugget of knowledge. Wishing and praying that I find that perfect moment for his “Ah ha” revelation and that he too becomes a better person for it.

Thanks mum.

This and that: 1st Edition

Life is too crazy lately for my regular rambling, so I thought I'd update everyone in a quick bullety form.

• Thank you to everyone for their well wishes for my dad. He's recovering really well and got a good health check from the doctors earlier this week. It really was the best care scenario: his heart attack was big enough that it made both the doctors and my dad stand up and take notice, but not so much that it caused irreparable damage. Hopefully now that his arteries are all clear again, he'll be around for a long while to come!
• I got my first comment on this blog from someone who isn't a family member or good friend. I was filled with this wonderful feeling of connection and also a slight panic as I realized that my words are out there for anyone to read. It's a weird combination. I'm proud that people who don't know me find my musings interesting enough to read. And somehow it's easier to post to people I don't know and don't have to answer to. Lord knows Mama Mugs lets me know if I've stepped over any lines - and it goes way past a mere comment on here!
• We've finally finished our vegetable garden! It may have taken us two months to get it made, but now the fence is up, the soil is tilled and mixed with compost and I even have some veggies planted. All that we have left is to plant the celery and a few odd veggies...and I have to work at keeping everything alive. That's the real challenge!
• Hayden has become what we now call "Horrible Hayden." It seems that along with all the other milestones, he's entering the terrible two stage early. He has his daddy's quick temper. When you piss him off (which isn't hard to do) he will either throw himself to the floor and flail around while screaming like a banshee or with a very determined look, he'll wind up and smack you. This happens at least five times a day. Thank goodness he's so darn cute and has long periods of tender loveliness or I'd go crazy.
• My nephew turned two last weekend. That kid is going to be a rocket scientist. At two years old, he's talking in full sentences, making jokes and solving problems. He can sing the alphabet song and count to ten. I don't know what my sister feeds him, but I'll bet it's some sort of mental steroid. How else does a kid get that smart so young?!
• For said birthday, I made my little Gagers a little something special. I wrote and illustrated a book about his adventures with his dog and then made the t-shirt and cape that plays into the story. I was pretty darn proud of myself. Except when I tried to put the iron-on letter on the shirt and screwed up twice and then had to buy another shirt and a whole new pack of transfer sheets and start all over again. Argh.
• Storms here suck! I'm so used to the mild pitter-patter rain storms we'd have in Ottawa. Now I'm in southern Ontario where every time a drop of rain falls, they issue a tornado warning.
• I love spray-on sunscreen! I bought some of that continuous spray stuff and don't think I'll ever go back to the sloppy goo of regular sunscreen. This stuff is so fast to apply that even Horrible Hayden doesn't have time to complain before I'm done. Plus I can get the weird crevices easily (like when he ventures stark naked into the yard...don't want his little member getting sunburned!).

Matters of the heart

On Saturday, my father was admitted to the hospital after having a heart attack. When my mum called me to let me know, I was strangely not surprised. It wasn't as if I was expecting the news, but I have feared this call for quite some time. Dad is certainly not the picture of good health, although he has made great strides in improving his lifestyle over recent years.

I'm happy to share that he has been diagnosed and treated with two stents to relieve the blockages in his arteries. No open heart surgery or lifetime supply of medication, thank god. He is recovering well and is now resting at home with my mum as his nurse.

Like a cheap metaphor, I find that whenever I get these calls of illness or accident, I view life a little differently. You don't know what you have until you lose it, right? I've always been more than open about my love for my family and I live a relatively healthy life, so I'm not tempted to drastically change how I live. It's my husband I obsess about...

Adam treats his body the same way that most young men do - with reckless abandon. He smokes a pack a day and indulges in more than his fair share of wine at the end of a long day. Given his crazy schedule, he doesn't get much of an opportunity to exercise. (And he definitely doesn't share my enthusiasm for walking.) He never wears sunscreen and has battered his bones and muscles over the years with hard labour jobs.

Mentally, Adam is a high stress kind of man. He internalizes a lot of things and takes life pretty personally. Although he lives in the moment with his body, his mind jogs ahead of time, constantly dreaming of new ideas and wishing for the day when our struggles are finally behind us. He wants to be the 50's dad who went to work and brought home enough bacon to pay the bills and allow his trophy wife to stay home and raise babies (which just happens to be my dream). Adam keeps me hopeful about our perfect future through his fantasies. But my realist side sometimes doubts that he'll ever see that rosy time...

I worry that someday I'll be the one calling our children to deliver the news that their father is in the hospital. Or worse, I'll come home some afternoon to find him expired.

He is my other half in the most literal of ways. He understands and loves me like no other has. Through his tenderness, love and thoughtful nature, his essence is tattooed on my soul. How does one ever recover if their soul marker is taken away? I don't think I would. I think I would dry up and fold into myself like a leaf in autumn.

I tried to tell Adam all of this last night, but instead it somehow came out as a hideous nag about his smoking and drinking habits. It seemed that I couldn't put into words the fear and anxiety behind the matter. I couldn't express that I never want Hayden to worry about losing his father the same way that I do. That I'm not the unwavering rock my mother has become; staying strong for everyone and keeping us from seeing her pain or trepidation. Instead we argued and I pointed out his faults like barbs. But bless his heart, he somehow saw through my verbal assault. Although my intentions and dread remained unspoken, this morning he wrapped me in his arms and promised to live a healthier life. He had pushed through my angry insults and found the cowering child silently hiding within. I suppose words are just noise when you live in someones soul.

Happy mother's day!

Happy mother's day everyone! I hope that your weekend was as fabulous as mine. For me, this felt like the best mother's day yet. My first one was last year and we had moved from Ottawa to Cambridge only weeks before. Our lives were so disheveled that I don't remember much of it aside from a gorgeous hand print Adam helped Hayden to make. This year, Hayden's school helped him to make two beautiful cards and a little pot of ivy. And daddy helped him to make another gorgeous card on Sunday morning.

On Saturday my in-laws came over and brought us their old pool and gazebo. My mother in law and I went to the grocery store before lunch. She's a wanderer. Every time I'd turn around she was gone. I don't know how many times I'd be in the middle of a story only to find out that I was talking to myself. It was sort of like shopping with Hayden but less panicky.

After the in-laws left we went and found some plants for the front yard. For under $100 we bought a lilac bush, two trays of chicks and hens, some forget me not seeds (my favourite flower), two blueberry bushes (Hayden eats them like candy), and a nice hanging basket. Back at home, Hayden and I transported rocks from the backyard while Adam dug up the sorry looking grass and made me a garden. Hayden absolutely hated the wheelbarrow rides! Every time I'd plunk him in (I didn't have much choice with him being a runner), he'd scream like a banshee! Anyhow, back to the story. We lined our new front garden with the big, round stones that seem to pop up everywhere. It looks very neat and natural. (photos to come) Oh and while we're on gardening - my ferns (that my lovely neighbour gave us) are starting to sprout under our big maple tree. I think our front yard is going to look spectacular! Seems I have a green thumb after all!

On mother's day morning, I woke Hayden up at 8:00. I know, I know, I'm crazy to wake a sleeping baby, but I wanted to spend my special day with my little heartsong. We had a yummy pancake and bacon breakfast courtesy of daddy. Then he gave me my mother's day present: a DVD of Hayden's birth! Hayden is a year and a half old and I've never seen it! I could never find the right tape and if I ever did, I couldn't find the cords to attach the camera to the TV. Now I can easily watch it over and over again. It was such a wonderful gift and I found myself biting back tears watching the doctor place him on my chest for the first time. He was so tiny and floppy and perfect. And oh his little cry. It made my ovaries (briefly) ache for another one!

Adam ended my wonderful mother's day with a sushi dinner. My absolute favourite food that I don't get to indulge in very often. I've finally found a great sushi joint too. We've been trying different restaurants around town and stumbled upon a tiny little place called California Sushi. Normally I'm wary of unknown sushi joints, but we bit the bullet and went for it. The sushi was the best I've had since I left Ottawa, it was cheap, the service was friendly and fast, and they even wrote a mother's day message on my take-away box! A great way to end the day.

So to all of you mamas out there - Happy Mother's Day! I hope that your children and husbands were as thoughtful and spoiling as mine.

The fireworks of love

The story of how Adam and I met and fell in love is filled with fireworks. He is one of the rare men left in the world that understands that the way to a woman’s heart is through romance.

When I finished college, at the tender age of 23, I decided I need to take a break from writing. My two-year journalism degree left me feeling creatively empty. I serendipitously took a job as a waitress in a new restaurant in town, Café Francesco, to restock both my financial and creative banks. This café employed only two cooks and two waitresses to run the show (along with a very colourful owner who tried his hand at both of these things when the mood suited him). My partner in waitressing drudgery was a striking young woman named Virginia. She was still in high school and earning some money for college, where she wanted to become a nurse.

Virginia and I became fast friends. We relied on each other every day to juggle the many demands of a small operation. When business was slow, we divided our tips equally to balance out the good and crappy tippers. When business was overflowing, we passed off making salads and bussing tables to keep the flow smooth for the customers. (Now bear with me – Virginia plays an important part of the romantic tale.)

Every morning, a member of Virginia’s large family (4 kids) would drive her to work and drop her off. On one particular morning, her brother followed her into the café to sample our delicious but expensive coffee. He was dressed in grass-stained jeans, a dilapidated hat, a ripped and stained shirt and his face was bristling with a weekend beard. He sheepishly ordered a coffee from me and was back out the door without so much as a glance (though he did leave a dollar tip on a $2 coffee). I noted his gorgeous blue eyes and buff build but soon got busy with the demands of opening for the day.

About two hours later, a clean-shaven, impeccably dressed, drop-dead handsome man entered the café. He ordered a coffee and we exchanged some flirty banter before work got in the way. He left with a smile and a wave and I immediately reported the incident to Virginia. I had no idea who he was – which was rare in our small town where everyone knows everyone. She assured me that she would keep a look-out for this hottie.

Later that afternoon, the café phone rang and Virginia answered. I could tell by her tone that it was someone in her family calling. With an exasperated voice, she bantered back and forth on the phone for a few minutes before hanging up. With a smirk, she turned to me. “I know who he is,” she proclaimed. Then added almost disgustedly, “It’s my brother.” I was happy to know the identity of the mystery man and also pleased to know I had an inside scoop as to who he was. Before I could ask her anything, Virginia placed a hand on my shoulder and assured me “I told him you weren’t interested.”

Now at this point I was flabbergasted. She knew I thought he was attractive, why would she kibosh this potential summer fling? Granted, I had just come out of a rather serious three-year relationship where I was badly burned. Perhaps she didn’t want her brother to be my “rebound romance.” Virginia didn’t wait long to explain, “I know you just broke up with someone and you’re vulnerable. My brother is a complete dog. He’s a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of jerk. He’s had so many girlfriends over the past year that I can’t keep count. And he never keep them around for long.”

Perfect! I thought. All I want is a bit of loving to boost my self-esteem. The last thing I was looking for was any semblance of a relationship. This “jerk dog” sounded like just the kind of medicine I was looking for to help to mend my wounds. Virginia was truly hesitant and must have told me a dozen stories of why I should avoid her brother at all costs. Despite her arguments, she relented and revealed that he was calling to find my number as he wanted to take me out that night. Virginia insisted that we double-date so she could keep her rogue brother in line.

Adam picked me up in a dusty, stick-shift sedan later that night. He came in and met my parents (a rule in our house – even for a co-worker’s brethren) and surprisingly, made my mother all blushy and giggly with his banter (this is a woman who can see cow-flop from a mile away and treated most of my potential dates like they had just escaped from prison). He opened my car door for me and was a gentleman right from the start. Given that I knew about his “jerk-dog” history, I kept an ounce of scepticism about this chivalrous behaviour. We stopped for gas and while he was paying, I took a moment to look around his car for clues to his personality. I found no rogue panties from past conquests – check. Found no porno mags peeking out from under the seat – check. And hmmmm....what's this book left on the back seat – A JOURNAL. Now hold the phone Alexander – this boy writes for pleasure?! We may have something here. Being a writer myself, I was caught off guard by this random find. The scepticism took a step back.

Adam returned and we soon picked up Virginia and her beau. We drove to Toronto, and I have to admit that Adam’s rather aggressive driving (which hasn’t changed by the way) had me white-knuckled the whole way there. We parked about a block from Ontario Place and sat on a patch of grass to watch the Benson and Hedges Fireworks Display. It was breathtaking. We could just hear the music and had an amazing view of the sky. At some point during the night, Adam took my hand in his and I noticed how strong and large his hands were.

When the show was over, we piled back in the car and drove back home. Adam dropped off Virginia and Darren and we continued towards my house. He asked if I’d like to go and get a drink somewhere but I declined. When we pulled in my driveway, we sat for a few minutes chatting. I could tell he was sizing me up for a kiss, so I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek (and I couldn’t help but notice just how wonderful he smelled and how smooth his skin was). I said goodbye and left him without having even taken a base. Mama didn’t raise no fool and I knew that to truly hook that fish, you had to leave them wanting more.

It worked. We went out the next night and two nights after that. On our third date, we returned to my house and sat on our back swing until the morning birds started to chirp. We talked about life, love and our wildest dreams and desires. I was snuggled closely to him for warmth and to breathe in his scent. As the sky began to lighten, we exchanged our very first kiss. It was a toe-curling, novel-inspiring, electrifying kiss that lasted forever and yet, not long enough. He was gentle and firm, holding my head tenderly in his hands like the leading man in a chick flick. It was the second time in our short romance that I saw fireworks.

The rest, they say, is history. But it’s my history. The pages of our love story are filled with these tender moments and tear-jerking crises that make us who we are today. From many Valentine’s days, birthdays and everydays filled with thoughtful gestures that would make Harlequin quiver, to the day he proposed in the most perfect and lovely way, Adam has made my life one fit for a fairytale. Indeed our wedding day was exactly that. But that, my kiddies, is a story for another day.

Motherhood uncensored

I stayed in the hospital for two days after Hayden was born. He had a cone-on-cone head from the vacuum and his face was pretty bruised, but he was perfect and he was mine. I learned how to change a newborn diaper (things like using the hospital-supplied facecloths for getting the tar off his bum instead of expensive wipes), how to nurse him (although for the first day all he wanted to do was lick my nipple) and how to distinguish his cry from the other dozen babies in the ward. I slept best when he was in my arms – which would become the norm. We had many visitors and I healed quickly and almost painlessly from the tearing.

The day we brought him home, it was drizzling and cool, but it was all sunshine to me. My mum was waiting at home for us and my husband surprised me by finishing Hayden’s nursery. He had spelled his name out with wooden letters and put some pictures from those first few days in the hospital in frames. It was a wonderful, thoughtful gesture and sent me into a flurry of tears.

My mum was our saving grace during those first few days. She fed us and helped us clean and took care of the thousands of details that go out the window when you’re new parents. She helped to keep me sane as my hormones adjusted and taught me all those things that you can only learn from your mother. When she left, I bawled at the thought of having to be a mum without my mum there to guide me. And being the great mum that she is, she told me that I was already a great mother and I’d be fine. And if ever I wasn’t, she was only a phone call away.

Hayden was not the easy-going baby you see in commercials or in the carefully edited Baby Story shows. He cried often and needed to be held constantly. After some research, we determined he was what the experts called “High Needs.” Dr. Sears had phenomenal information on how to help these sensitive babies to adjust to the world outside of the womb. Lots of love, lots of contact and responding to their cries as often and as quickly as you could.

One of my girlfriends bought me a sling as a gift and it is quite possibly the thing that transformed my relationship withHayden and his relationship with the rest of the world. With the sling, Hayden got that close comfort he truly needed and I got the necessities done (like brushing my teeth and eating)! I became quite adept at doing just about anything with a baby strapped to my chest.

About three weeks after I brought Hayden home, I began to break out in boil-like lesions all over my thighs. It started with one and within a week I had a dozen of these painful b@stards. After a trip to the doctors and a subsequent trip to the ER, I was diagnosed with MRSA: a highly contagious and drug-resistant infection that comes from the hospital. Somehow I had been infected when I gave birth to Hayden. I had to wear a portable IV drip for a week to get the massive doses of antibiotics into my body. It was truly awful. On top of tending to a wonderful but high-need baby, I now had tubes coming out of my arm, very painful open sores on my legs and I had to go back to the hospital with my newborn (who was nursing almost every hour) every few days to get the lines checked and blood work done. Every day the VON would come to change my dressings and change the IV bag. Really, it was a very stressful time. I look back now and wonder how I managed to get through it all. I think I was just numb. Numb and also blessed with a very caring and supportive husband.

Adam did everything for me and for the house after Hayden was born. He cooked, he cleaned, he did laundry, he gave me pedicures, he did the banking and the shopping, everything. All he asked me to do was to take care of Hayden. Adam gave me license to just love that little baby all day, every day. I spent every waking minute just tending to his needs and not worrying about anything else. It was wondrous.

Hayden and I slept together after a few weeks of failed cradle attempts. With him safely nestled in the crock of my arm, we could both fall into a secure dreamland. My poor husband had to learn not to throw his arms around in his sleep, as per his usual routine. While it only garnered me a painful knock on the head, his giant arms could do a lot of damage to a newborn. For this reason, I also slept in one position all night, keeping Hayden safely away from Mr. Flaily.

But I have to admit that sleeping with Hayden was one of my favourite things. Listening to his tiny, quick breathing, smelling that baby scent and feeling his warmth against me fulfilled my every hope of what motherhood would be. He lay ever so still when he was in my arms. Together we would sleep for hours on end until his belly told him it was time to eat. By the time he was a few months old, he was sleeping for up to five hours straight a night (though this wouldn’t last). Co-sleeping, as the experts call it, was one of my favourite parts of being a mum. Until he was a year old, we cuddled all night and I breathed in his fresh baby smell as I drifted to sleep.

The grand entrance

He came into this world on a cool and rainy day, two weeks before his due date. The night before his arrival, I excitedly timed mild contractions as I came to the realization that unlike previous experiences – this was the REAL THING! I waddled into the living room around midnight to alert my husband that I was having regular contractions and he may want to get some sleep. I went back to bed and tried to sleep myself, which was nearly impossible as the thought of actually becoming a mum dawned on me. Around 3am I woke again as the contractions strengthened and found Adam’s side of the bed was still empty. Again I penguin walked to the living room and told him to get the hell off of the computer and come to bed. I punctuated this order with the thought that this would be the last time he slept for a couple of days so he’d better take advantage of it. I then took my own advice and fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning I was thrilled to find that I was still having contractions. I ate a big plate of leftover Chinese food for breakfast and picked through my hospital bag to make sure I had everything. Around noon, we called everyone to let them know that labour was in progress and we’d soon be heading to the hospital. By about 2:00, my contractions were strong enough that I had to breathe through them so we packed up and drove to the Queensway Carleton. Once we arrived, we found out that with every contraction, the baby’s heart rate would drop dramatically. Even though I was only a centimetre dilated (WHAT? Only ONE centimetre after 12 hours of labour?!?!), they admitted me so that they could keep an eye on the baby.

We called my mum as soon as we were admitted. And God bless that woman: despite the fact that she had been up all night with my nephew the night before while my sister moved, she hopped in a car to drive for five hours to be by my side.

The next six hours were absolutely brutal. My progress was so slow that sometimes I thought it was going in reverse. The pain was so intense that I was losing my mind. I recall flopping around that hospital bed, moaning and wailing and not caring that my ass was exposed to anyone who walked by. My husband kept himself entertained by playing solitaire and occasionally asking me if I was okay (Note: this is not a question to ask a woman in full labour.). For whatever reason (nerves, fear, who knows), Adam was not a very successful labour coach. Thank goodness I had the forethought to ask my mum to be there too!

After the longest quarter day of my life, the nurse announced I was three centimetres dilated and could have an epidural if I wanted. Seemed like a dumb question to me. YES! The difference after that wondrous medical intervention was like night and day. While it took me six hours to move the first three centimetres, after the epidural, I expanded to seven centimetres after only an hour. I had to call my hubby and tell him to hurry back as my nurse assured me that I’d be ready to push in no time (he was off letting the dog out while my mum kept me company).

In the next hour I went another two and a half centimetres till I was nine and a half. My nurse was practically giddy as there were six of us admitted to give birth and I was progressing the fastest. This observation must have been a jinx as things just stopped at this point. Hour after hour, she would check me and report no progress. She would then evilly tell me of another woman down the hall who was pushing. One by one, those other preggo’s beat me to the punch until I was the last one left. All I could hear as I waited were tiny cries as they delivered their precious cargo into the world.

Finally my nurse had had enough and told me to try and push past this little lip. We easily managed to bypass the last of my cervix and I spent the next two hours staring in a mirror at what must have been someone else’s disfigured private parts. No matter how red my face got or how hard I squeezed that little gaffer, he refused to budge. The doctor came in after two hours to assess the situation.

She casually asked me how I was feeling and felt around my belly and vajiji while we chatted. She then looked at the baby’s heart rate print out and her face went stony. She turned to the nurse and asked for a Paed RU (or Paediatric Resuscitation Unit – how I know this, I can only guess that it was my constant TLC watching). She calmly explained to me that we needed to get the baby out now and she was going to employ a vacuum. If it didn’t work, they would have to do an emergency C-Section. I had a momentary thought of “Oh great, now my belly and my vajiji will look like a war zone” before coming to my senses to think that whatever it took to keep this baby alive is what I would do. A flurry of staff and equipment piled into the room as they attached the vacuum to the baby’s head. With the doctor and nurses encouraging me, I pushed with all my might and sent healing, surviving vibes to my baby. As they wrenched on the vacuum with what seemed like excessive force, my baby was pulled and pushed into the world after only two contractions.

I was terrified that the baby would be purple and lifeless. But as they cut the cord and took him to the warming table, I saw that he was pink and he gave a tiny little cry. My husband, who was supposed to announce the sex, was speechless. The doctor waited a beat before warmly smiling at me and telling me I had a beautiful son. They placed him gently on my chest, he was red and whimpering and blinking madly at the bright lights. My mum, my husband and I all had tears running down our faces as we gazed for the first time at this tiny perfect being who grew inside of me for ten months. We named him then and there – Hayden William.