Last night I came home after a particularly long and intense day in the office feeling pretty sorry for myself. It was a thinky kind of day - all day - and I was exhausted both in mind and body. Adam came home about half an hour after Hayden and I had settled.
Adam: How was your day?
Me: Crappy. I feel like I've been scrambling all day. I had to
Adam: Wait a second. Instead of telling me what went wrong, tell me three good things about today.
Me: (thinking) Well...Stacey told me that she really missed talking and joking with me when I'm this busy, the recognition team surprised me with a pizza lunch and I found out one of the girls on my TTC board just got a positive pregnancy test after months and months of trying!
Adam: See! I came in and you looked like a bus had hit you. Now - you're smiling.
Man....I love my brilliant husband.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Friday, January 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
As you wish....
Today marks three years of marriage for my husband and I. It's been three years of big changes, tough decisions and a lot of adjustment. We've gone from being a carefree couple to a dedicated family and homeowners. We've grown from two wild and crazy kids living together for kicks into a partnership that epitomizes trust and support. We've moved cities together, birthed our son together, bought a house together, survived job loss together and through all of this, we've developed an amazing love together.
My husband is not perfect. But I dare say he's pretty close.
When I met him, eight years ago, I had a funny feeling that he was the one. It didn't fit with the warnings that he was a dirty dog and a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy. I had a promise to myself when I was a teenager that I would not make love with more than five guys before I got married. It was a secret way to keep my raging adolescent hormones in check and to weigh the benefit of a night of passion. I felt it was no coincidence when Adam became my fifth.
We had good years and bad through our dating relationship. We even broke up for a few months one year but the fates had other plans for us and brought us back together again. Boy am I ever thankful for that.
Adam is the kind of husband who knows when to quietly hold you and when to offer advice. He understands that a foot rub and takeout can erase lingering grumbles over a bad day at work. Adam knows that romance is the way to my heart and still buys me flowers for no reason at all. He is the one who suggests romantic candlelight and long nights of kissing and caressing. He has a powerful need to protect his family, but he also gives us the room and freedom to make mistakes and to solve those problems on our own. He is generous almost to a fault, giving whatever is needed to those he loves without a second thought. He is a loving father who is firm but silly, gentle and strong. Before anything else, he puts his efforts and love into his relationship with Hayden and I. He makes me feel special and cherished and beautiful and clever and funny.
Adam can fix nearly anything in the house, from building a new door frame to redoing the ancient plumbing in our centrury home. He's probably saved us thousands of dollars by not having to call in the professionals. Adam also does nearly all the housework, including dishes and toilets. He never makes me clean up after I've made dinner and sometimes even does both the meal and the tidy. He helps with laundry (and usually does most of it), grocery shopping, gardening and he does our finances. These are mostly little things, but they're the things that drive most wives crazy. By taking care of all of the daily mundane chores, Adam makes me a better person. He frees me up to do what I love: take care of my family and bundle them up with love.
Babe - when I married you three years ago today, I knew that walking up the aisle to a storybook love song was setting the stage for our lives together. And I think that it's come to fruition. We have conquered the bad guys together, avoided tragedy on our path, built our castle and are now living in the happily ever after.
Thank you for always being my Westley. I will remain forever your Buttercup.
My husband is not perfect. But I dare say he's pretty close.
When I met him, eight years ago, I had a funny feeling that he was the one. It didn't fit with the warnings that he was a dirty dog and a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy. I had a promise to myself when I was a teenager that I would not make love with more than five guys before I got married. It was a secret way to keep my raging adolescent hormones in check and to weigh the benefit of a night of passion. I felt it was no coincidence when Adam became my fifth.
We had good years and bad through our dating relationship. We even broke up for a few months one year but the fates had other plans for us and brought us back together again. Boy am I ever thankful for that.
Adam is the kind of husband who knows when to quietly hold you and when to offer advice. He understands that a foot rub and takeout can erase lingering grumbles over a bad day at work. Adam knows that romance is the way to my heart and still buys me flowers for no reason at all. He is the one who suggests romantic candlelight and long nights of kissing and caressing. He has a powerful need to protect his family, but he also gives us the room and freedom to make mistakes and to solve those problems on our own. He is generous almost to a fault, giving whatever is needed to those he loves without a second thought. He is a loving father who is firm but silly, gentle and strong. Before anything else, he puts his efforts and love into his relationship with Hayden and I. He makes me feel special and cherished and beautiful and clever and funny.
Adam can fix nearly anything in the house, from building a new door frame to redoing the ancient plumbing in our centrury home. He's probably saved us thousands of dollars by not having to call in the professionals. Adam also does nearly all the housework, including dishes and toilets. He never makes me clean up after I've made dinner and sometimes even does both the meal and the tidy. He helps with laundry (and usually does most of it), grocery shopping, gardening and he does our finances. These are mostly little things, but they're the things that drive most wives crazy. By taking care of all of the daily mundane chores, Adam makes me a better person. He frees me up to do what I love: take care of my family and bundle them up with love.
Babe - when I married you three years ago today, I knew that walking up the aisle to a storybook love song was setting the stage for our lives together. And I think that it's come to fruition. We have conquered the bad guys together, avoided tragedy on our path, built our castle and are now living in the happily ever after.
Thank you for always being my Westley. I will remain forever your Buttercup.
Monday, July 7, 2008
*CRACK* .....did you hear that?
Lately my body hasn't been working up to par. I've been plagued with various illnesses from strep and scarlet fever to stomach bugs and headaches. I went to my doctor last week to try and get to the bottom of why my immune system seems AWOL. I brought a list of symptoms with me, as I figured any one could be the key to unlocking the mystery.
My doctor did some blood work (which came back fine) and then sat back thoughtfully and listened to my grocery list of ill health. When I was finished, her first question was whether my family had a history of mental illness. I was sort of taken aback as none of my symptoms were mental, they were all physical. I quickly dismissed her idea that I may be depressed or over-stressed. I mean, I have a very supportive husband, an equally supportive extended family, a pretty perfect life...what the heck would I be depressed or stressed about. But now, a week later, I'm thinking back on her diagnosis and wondering if she might have touched on a truth.
As you know, I have a huge aversion to admitting that I can't cope with things or that my problems are anything more than trivial. I can always find someone out there who has a much bigger burden than I have and who (outwardly) is coping fantastically, so I clam up. Afraid to admit that I'm having trouble dealing with much smaller issues. And yet, something in me seems to be cracking. There's a fissure behind the pressure and I think a large part of it is self induced. This effort to maintain a perfect exterior to the world is actually causing more harm than good.
I am stressed. In the past two years, we have had a baby, moved 500kms, changed jobs (Adam many times), lived through some pretty major infections, bought a house, started a business, and struggled to pay the bills. And the whole time all of this was going on, I kept my brave face on. I told everyone that we were fine. That it was just another hump and we'd push through. And yet, when I look back, our road of life looks like the car-eating potholed roads of Costa Rica. There were so many times we were balanced on the edge of one of those huge holes and somehow we teetered past. Often by the skin of our teeth. But I didn't talk about it. I didn't admit to anyone that we were struggling. I was too proud. And with Adam chugging along beside me, often picking up my slack, I felt that if I caved, I would bring him down with me.
Now that we're on the other side of the storm (I hope), the weight of it all is catching up with me. It's not easy being a working mum. And it's definitely not easy being a working mum who kept a stiff upper lip through some major life transitions. I think it's time I cut myself some slack. Let myself admit that I'm tired and drained. This is a tough gig, a 24-7 job. And anyone who can do it without breaking a sweat is probably wearing the same perfect mum mask I've been lugging around.
So I heed this call: Imperfect mothers of the world unite. Let's air this dirty laundry and admit that it's a grueling, filthy, stressful, never ending job to be a mother. That our hours stink and the list of duties grows daily. That every time we master the skills we need, a new one is required. That there are many days that our minds and bodies are pushed to the breaking point. That sometimes despite our best efforts, we can't fix the situation at hand. That the most important job on the planet, that of raising the next generation, is unpaid and under-valued. That we race to the ends of the earth and attempt to overcome insurmountable obstacles for those we brought forth into the world. And that we wouldn't have it any other way.
My doctor did some blood work (which came back fine) and then sat back thoughtfully and listened to my grocery list of ill health. When I was finished, her first question was whether my family had a history of mental illness. I was sort of taken aback as none of my symptoms were mental, they were all physical. I quickly dismissed her idea that I may be depressed or over-stressed. I mean, I have a very supportive husband, an equally supportive extended family, a pretty perfect life...what the heck would I be depressed or stressed about. But now, a week later, I'm thinking back on her diagnosis and wondering if she might have touched on a truth.
As you know, I have a huge aversion to admitting that I can't cope with things or that my problems are anything more than trivial. I can always find someone out there who has a much bigger burden than I have and who (outwardly) is coping fantastically, so I clam up. Afraid to admit that I'm having trouble dealing with much smaller issues. And yet, something in me seems to be cracking. There's a fissure behind the pressure and I think a large part of it is self induced. This effort to maintain a perfect exterior to the world is actually causing more harm than good.
I am stressed. In the past two years, we have had a baby, moved 500kms, changed jobs (Adam many times), lived through some pretty major infections, bought a house, started a business, and struggled to pay the bills. And the whole time all of this was going on, I kept my brave face on. I told everyone that we were fine. That it was just another hump and we'd push through. And yet, when I look back, our road of life looks like the car-eating potholed roads of Costa Rica. There were so many times we were balanced on the edge of one of those huge holes and somehow we teetered past. Often by the skin of our teeth. But I didn't talk about it. I didn't admit to anyone that we were struggling. I was too proud. And with Adam chugging along beside me, often picking up my slack, I felt that if I caved, I would bring him down with me.
Now that we're on the other side of the storm (I hope), the weight of it all is catching up with me. It's not easy being a working mum. And it's definitely not easy being a working mum who kept a stiff upper lip through some major life transitions. I think it's time I cut myself some slack. Let myself admit that I'm tired and drained. This is a tough gig, a 24-7 job. And anyone who can do it without breaking a sweat is probably wearing the same perfect mum mask I've been lugging around.
So I heed this call: Imperfect mothers of the world unite. Let's air this dirty laundry and admit that it's a grueling, filthy, stressful, never ending job to be a mother. That our hours stink and the list of duties grows daily. That every time we master the skills we need, a new one is required. That there are many days that our minds and bodies are pushed to the breaking point. That sometimes despite our best efforts, we can't fix the situation at hand. That the most important job on the planet, that of raising the next generation, is unpaid and under-valued. That we race to the ends of the earth and attempt to overcome insurmountable obstacles for those we brought forth into the world. And that we wouldn't have it any other way.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Drive-by bullets
- In developing our vegetable garden, we dug up an old family pet. (Note: this was not our pet, but one left behind by previous owners!) So gross. The smell was indescribable. Sorry to fluffy for disturbing your resting place. And to his owners - bury your animals more than a foot in the ground please! And not in the middle of the yard!
- We are burning out. Adam is working insane hours to keep up with the number of clients, I am trying to lead three major projects at work and we're both trying to tidy up and renovate our house and garden with every spare minute. Too much. Note to self: Must have more down time.
- I love our neighbours. They've been so helpful and friendly. This weekend we learned that the neighbours who abut our driveway are going to put in a small retaining wall along the edge to finish it! Wonderful! One less bill to worry about.
- Little boys love to get dirty almost as much as they love getting clean. Hayden has gone from having 3 baths a week to having one every night. Partially out of need, partially out of desire!
- I have the weirdest dreams. So real, so bizarre, so random. I could make a whole post on the rantings of my unconscious mind.
- I love my husband. Last night, despite the fact that we were both exhausted and dirty, he convinced me to have a very romantic evening. At first I was reluctant, but now I'm really glad that we went through with it. Those little moments really help to reconnect you and remind you of why we do all this!
Monday, March 24, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
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 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.
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