Beneath the Trellis

**This essay was originally published in 1999 in WholeLife Magazine.**

Every Mother's Day, I wake up and I wait. I spend the entire day waiting, in fact. I go about my morning, gulping hot coffee, chatting with my husband, disciplining my wayward dog. I make the expected and not unpleasant visits to my grandmothers and mother-in-law. I call my friends who have children. I smile and do the things one does on Mother's Day, and all the while I observe myself. I watch from within, and I wait.

It's been nearly six years since my mother died, and I have accepted the fact that Mother's Day will come and go and I won't be torn apart by grief. I won't become a slobbering mess, I won't lash out at my current maternal figures for their crime of simply being alive. I won't drape myself across my mother's grave asking the heavens "WHY?"

Since her death, I've done nothing outwardly to indicate I'm still grieving her loss, and I try to feel ashamed of myself. Aren't good daughters supposed to mourn their mothers for the rest of their lives and on Mother's Day in particular? The more I analyze this idea, the more I've come to realize that grief doesn't necessarily come blasting out like shrapnel. Grief is neither art nor science. Like joy, it cannot be scripted to fit a certain scenario. The best thing - and possibly the worst thing - about grief is that it fades like an ebbing tide.

I've struggled with my worry that I'm never really supposed to recover from the impact of my mother's death. I don't know if grief can ever disappear completely, but I do know that emotional wounds like the death of a parent it can heal cleanly, if you let them. For some people, grief is healed by time or acceptance. In my case, it was healed by something as simple and fleeting as a dream. . . a dream of rebirth that broke death's hold over me before it was ever able to tighten its grip and leave a jagged scar.

Even though my mother and I didn't have an ideal relationship (and we were certainly never "friends"), we loved each other. I harboured a lack of respect for her that co-existed awkwardly beside my awe and fear of her. Her maddeningly unchangeable opinions and penchant for bluntly stating them hurt me repeatedly, yet her unflappable generosity and the genuine concern she showed for her family, friends and students still humble me. Mom was a woman of sophisticated contradictions. When it came to preparing gloriously rich meals, toasting life with the best Russian vodka, or travelling around the world, she participated wholeheartedly. When it came to keeping fit, taking care of herself and her health, she would shrug, sigh and remind me that tomorrow was a new day, which usually meant starting a new diet that would last approximately 48 hours.

When my mother was feeling well, she was a firecracker, bursting with energy and ideas. When she got sick, she disintegrated at an alarming rate into a pale, sad creature who said little but articulated miserable volumes out of her green eyes.

She started feeling ill around October, and I remembering feeling annoyed with her for not taking better care of her health. She drinks too much, I thought. She never exercises. No wonder she feels like shit. My self-righteousness rapidly turned to terror as the disease took hold of her body. The cancer was quick and relentless, like a flame that consumed whatever it touched, as though my mother's insides were made of dry paper. The day I understood my mother was going to die, the moment that a wave of knowing washed over me, I was slumped in a bony hospital chair at her bedside.

It was still in the fairly early stages of her diagnosis, but that night she was struggling to breathe. My mother, the victor of countless battles throughout her life, lying inches away from me, fighting the one war she couldn't hope to win. My mother! Ultimate champion of forceful opinions, the woman my friends feared yet always sought to please, fierce polka dancer, sophisticated entertainer, yahtzee queen, Giorgio perfume addict, graceful gatherer of roadside flowers, beloved teacher, thwarted wife, devoted disciple of laughter and pleasure. . . dying, dying before my eyes.

The truth flooded me and all I had were two selfish thoughts: my mother would never be at my wedding. She would never hold her grandchild. I wasn't even engaged then, nor was I interested in babies, but those were the first devastating thoughts of many. I could hardly tear my eyes away from her all night after that. I began to notice things: how she had grey hair coming in at the roots when I'd never seen her without her hair coloured and coiffed. Her real nails looked pale and wan without their tangerine coloured polish. The lines on her face were etched deeper by pain, lines originally traced by determination and laughter. She looked so small, so powerless in her hospital gown, stripped of her signature dresses and high heels.

Before she'd gotten sick, I'd never kissed my mother's forehead, or climbed into her bed to comfort her. She had always been the one to comfort and nurture. I wouldn't have dreamed of ever doing such things, of attempting to reverse roles she had taken great pains to set firmly in place. The quiet despair of the truth made me change from the one who had always been cared for to the caregiver. In that instant, I lost all fear of my mother, all anxiety about ever having disappointed her with my choices, all worry over whether I'd ever be able to truly please her. None of that mattered. I couldn't cure her, or undo the past, but I could lie beside her and provide what comfort I could in the horrible present.

She lived another few weeks, in and out of consciousness, her poor arms and fingers swollen, her face pinched in an unceasing grimace of pain. I wanted her to die so we could both move on from the horrible place we were both trapped in, but whenever I left the mind-numbing confines of the ICU for the day, I grappled with my greatest fear: she would die, and I would never know where she had gone.

Mom was a self-proclaimed atheist who, for some reason, always sent my sister and I to the Lutheran church across the street to attend Sunday school. I think she just liked having Sunday mornings to herself. To this day, I don't understand why she insisted on us being baptized in our teens (humiliating) and then in later years scorned my embrace of Christianity. Our most pitched battles were always based on my decision to join a non-denominational church and run with a Christian crowd, or my "cult" as she called it. How could this woman go anywhere good in the afterlife after mocking gods of all kinds and mine in particular?

When she finally did die, a few weeks before Mother's Day, I was strong outwardly. I wanted to be stalwart, supportive to my family and mom's many friends and not crumble under anyone's pity. Alone in my bed at night (my crazily high three-quarter bed that Mom had discovered on a triumphant antique excursion), I mourned my mother with a depth of emotion that frightened me. For weeks I wept and writhed and clenched my body in agony. Where was she now? What was she now? I made myself sick at heart thinking about heaven and hell. Christians weep, but they also rejoice when one of their own is "called back to God," or any other euphemism used to describe the death of a believer, but I'd never been taught by my church how to mourn someone who didn't share my beliefs. I was too scared of the answers to ask God any questions.

And then I had a dream. I know, it sounds trite and cliche. It wasn't. Dreaming of the dead is heartbreaking because part of you knows it isn't real, and the other part of you just wants your consciousness to shut up and stay in the dream forever. The dream is still clear to me, even now; all I have to do is shut my eyes and I can see her: my mother, as the person she was before she became my mother, walking with serene purpose through a field of flowing green. Her long red hair is twined through with a wreath of white daisies and she wears a white dress that is open at the throat and flows around her legs like water. She walks toward a trellis covered with more daisies and stoops slightly to pass beneath it, as though uncertain as to whether she'll fit. And then she keeps on walking.

There's nothing exceptional on the other side of the trellis, no mysterious supernatural kingdom, no trumpets or angels. Just more flowing green grass and sunshine. My mother never acknowledged me in the dream, but I woke up the next morning a different person than the woman who had wept herself to sleep the night before.

I've carried this dream quietly with me for almost six years. I didn't want the sense of peace it brought me to fade or be replaced by guilt or any of the other emotions attributed to faithful daughters of departed mothers. I was afraid that by telling the dream, it would make it feel false or dissolve it from my memory. As I prepare to lay down my pen, I realize that the dream is mine, for now and for always.

This Mother's Day, I will wake up and stop waiting.

Some Days

Alarm warbles.

6:45 a.m.

Ugh.

Crawl out of bed. It's early for me. Gotta shower. Gotta get Dylan ready for daycare. Gotta walk Jade to the school bus. Gotta make some freaking coffee.

Jade is cheerful until she's not. Soon there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. She can't find her sock. Where is her sock? Dadddy picked out these socks ESPECIALLY for her. SHE CANNOT FIND HER SOCK. She slumps on the floor and wails.

The sock is beside you, I say. Look.

The wailing stops. She pulls on the sock. I want to crawl under her turquoise and lime flowered duvet and sleep. She merrily hops down the stairs. I follow, less merrily.

Dylan needs a new diaper; Jade needs juice. I need coffee. I change Dylan's diaper and pour Jade's juice. I make Jade's lunch. I drink two sips of coffee. Now it is snowsuit and backpack and where-are-your-mitts-child time.

Jade and I walk to meet the bus. The winter morning is sparkly clean. Our breath puffs as we stroll down the lane way, hand in hand. The sun rises behind us, unhurried. Dylan watches from the upstairs window, knocking and waving. He is not wearing pants.

Jade leaps on snowy crags, tells me they are mountains. Gifts the snow plow has left. The bus pulls up. I give the bus driver a chocolate bar. I was so late last Friday. That's not necessary, she says, but smiles and takes the chocolate. I hope I'm not THAT MOTHER. I hope she likes Jade. I hope Dylan doesn't drive her crazy in September.

I walk back to the house, sunrise on my face. Finches rush into the sky at my approach. In the back porch, Dylan peeps at me through the mail slot. Pudgy fingers poke out and wave. Hi Mumma. I waiting for you.

Where are your pants? I ask. Where is your diaper? My diaper is gone. His eyes are the colour of the lake in autumn. He runs away and jumps into the beanbag. Toopy and Binoo are on. I will wrestle with him later.

I check the time and sit down at the kitchen table. Flip open the laptop. Click through my email. I pour fresh coffee, close my eyes and let the aroma drift into my brain. Dylan climbs up on my lap. Demands his favourite show. He pats my face with his hand. I smell poo.

Were you playing with your bum? Tell me you weren't playing with your bum. He attempts escape. I grab his hand, lead him to the sink. He screams and flops around like a fish on a hook. I wash his hands with difficulty. He flails. Water is everywhere. I want to go back to bed.

I get a diaper. I find pants. Dylan runs away, squealing. I chase him, cajole, joke, beg, then finally, threaten. No TV, I say. Corner, I say. He relents, sobbing. Snot and tears, little chest heaving. I don't want pants, Mumma.

It's a Nina day, I say. We have to go to daycare. Daddy will pick you up. NO! He wants to go to the grocery store. He wants to go to the post office. He wants to go to Grandma's. Not today, I say through clenched teeth. My mother used to talk like that when she was mad. I squish my son into pants and socks, give up on the shirt. Fine, I say. Wear dirty pyjamas. Dirty pyjamas, he agrees and crawls into my lap, thumb in mouth, mollified. For the moment.

Get your hat, I say. I turn off the TV. I close the laptop. Dylan goes purple with rage. TV! I WANT TV! No TV, I say. Get. Your. Hat. NOW. More clenched teeth. I am going to throw something. I need more coffee. He gets his hat. He puts on his boots. He sobs. He needs his mitts. Mitts Mumma! My blue mitts are GONE! I find the mitts shoved behind the door. He needs his blankies. Where are your blankies, honey? Where are they? My blankies are gone. I check upstairs. I check the bathroom, the bedrooms. The blankies are in the tent, downstairs. I drape them over his little head. He pulls them off and beams. You found my blankies, Mumma! You found them!

I help him with his coat. I grab keys, sunglasses, purse, snow pants. We head for the car. My phone. My phone is upstairs. Dammit. I buckle my son in the car and backtrack. Damn phone. I get back in the car; start the engine. I have a doctor's appointment later. Do I have money for parking? Do I have a toonie? I check my purse; nickels and pennies. One quarter. Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT! Back upstairs. I take change from Jade's piggybank. This is not bad parenting. She has stolen most of the money from me.

Back in the car, roaring down the driveway. Off we go, I say. Like a herd of turtles, says Dylan. Like a herd of turtles, I agree. Turtles who need more coffee.

Hurray hurray, it's V-DAY!!!!!!

Say what you want, Valentine's Day is a happy little holiday in my books. I can't wait till the kids fall asleep so I can creep downstairs to make the kitchen table especially special. We've managed to decorate almost every room in the house so far, but I want to surprise Jade and Dylan with silly heart plates, my special red juice glasses that Jade not-so-secretly covets and heart-shaped pancakes in the morning. I blame my mother for spoiling us rotten with Valentine treats every year; even if you don't have kids or a significant other, there's gotta be SOMEONE in your school or work or life that's worthy of a little extra love on the 14th.

Here's an old post, which made me giggle a bit. As my dear old Babushka used to say, Happy Valenschtines!

Siren Song

Sometimes (usually in the middle of the night after my son has crawled into my bed and is snoring two centimetres away from my ear), I think about all the freedom I had before I became a parent. I remember the glorious mornings of sleeping in, the nights full of pillow talk with D; going for motorbike rides or spur-of-the-moment ski trips; salsa dancing at the club till the wee hours; eating wine and popcorn for supper and to hell with dishes. And random naps. Oh, how I miss random naps. It's pretty wild to think about how much life has changed in nine short years.

As I made the kids' beds this morning, bleary-eyed from yet another night of broken sleep, I surveyed the happy wreckage of their room. I uncovered a layer of toy tractors under my son Dylan's comforter, and fought to find my daughter's pillows beneath a landslide of stuffed animals. A princess crown, a pair of flippers, sixteen stray blocks and a kaleidoscope were stuffed under Dylan's bed. Under Jade's I found her precious pink piñata from her birthday party last May and three pairs of crumpled pyjamas. Sitting on the edge of my daughter's bed to untangle the inside-out arms and legs from her PJs, it struck me just how empty my life would be without her and her brother in it. Which, considering I never wanted children for most of my adult life, is saying something.

In my experience, life with two kids under the age of five vacillates wildly between predictable routine and utter chaos. Most days, it's all about the cuddles and giggles and teachable moments. And then there are the days I want to run screaming down the lane and beg the first motorist to please give me a ride to ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE. I don't know if that's typical for most parents, but it's my normal. My kids are bright, hilarious, challenging, willful creatures who teach me every day how to be a mum, in good times and in bad.

I'm lucky, because thanks to school and day care and Grandma Lowry, I get lots of me-time every week to do the typical hausfrau stuff and write a bit, which preserves my sometimes tenuous hold on sanity. I'm aware that this is not typical, as most parents don't get the type of breaks from parenting that I do, let alone the opportunity to take a two-week break to an exotic locale sans children.

A few ladies from my Mom's Group got together last night for supper at the local Chinese place. We were celebrating an early Chinese New Year (aka making up an excuse to get out of the house and drink wine), and our conversation bubbled and swirled around a whirlpool of topics, punctuated with splashes of laughter. The stream of talk came to rest, briefly, on the subject of my younger sister, Tanzi. She's teaching at an international school in Bali for the next year, living in a glorious house with marble floors and a pool, learning to drive a motorbike and having supper at the beach every night. It's not all paradise, but it's a lot more exotic an experience than life in the Bruce is for any of us Moms.

"You should totally go!" one friend said, eyebrows raised.

"Of course you should!" chimed in another. "What a perfect opportunity to travel!"

"Well, I couldn't really take the kids," I began.

"Duh, of course not," said the first friend. "Go by yourself! They have an awesome Grandma to take care of them, they'll be fine." (Clearly, my mother-in-law's reputation is well-known.)

"But I'd have to go at least two weeks," I explained. "It's a 24 hour trip just to get there. I couldn't leave the kids for two weeks."

"Oh, yes you could," they assured me. One girl stabbed her finger on the page of the magazine another Mom had brought featuring our Chinese horoscopes, which we'd been reading aloud to each other. "Look, it says right here in your horoscope: 'World Travel.' You have to go!"

There are lots of people who travel with their kids to other countries outside of North America. Several of the women in my Mom's group have done it. I see photos on Facebook of parents in amazing locations with their kids and marvel at the sheer courage and fortitude it takes to pack and load up children, sit with them for hours on a plane, then have adventures together without the comfort of home and familiarity of routine. I applaud folks who do it - I think travel is magical for adults and kids alike. And I applaud equally loudly for the parents who leave their kids in someone else's capable hands and go on a vacation unencumbered by diapers and strollers. For a few days, maybe a week, it would be heaven.

But two weeks? Overseas?

Without a career ladder to climb, or even a regular job to clock into, my main focus when the kids are home is being Mummy. And I like it. On the days when I'm not writing (or trying to write) or volunteering at the school or being a hausfrau, and my children are at home, I don't try to pay the bills or blog or do anything that requires a lot of my attention. Those days are theirs, and as much as possible, they have my undivided attention to play, read, build, paint, bake, bathe, have dance parties, frolic in the snow, whatever. As much as my 25 year old self would recoil in horror, I often feel that I'm at my best when I'm with Jady and Dyl. I'm getting pretty good at this mothering thing, most of the time, even when I'm doing the not-so-fun stuff like wiping bums and getting barfed on at 3 a.m. It's more of an art than a science, and hey, I was an Arts major!

Right now, I don't need two weeks off, which is ironic because there's been plenty of eye-rolling on my part when D tells me he can't afford to take time off work on a certain day or week. But now I get it. Bali would be cool; I just can't afford to take the two weeks off from my kids' lives right now. Their crazy little siren songs are too strong.

Don't Mess with the Dress

I went for a flying visit to the city yesterday to have dinner with some old, dear friends and to get my glasses fixed. I also had another, less pleasurable item on my agenda: I needed new clothes.

Many of my friends up here complain that there’s nowhere to shop in Kincardine, especially for clothes. I’ve found that between Southampton and Goderich there are plenty of boutiques, some lovely consignment shops and even a few mainstream stores. “But there aren’t any malls,” my friends moan. To which I quietly respond, “Thank the Lord.” Because I really, really hate malls.

I’ve never been much for owning the latest fashion trend, although I often notice and admire folks who wear their clothes with flair. I think clothes should be functional and fun, and serve as an expression of your personality. The problem is that my fashion personality of late could best be described as indifferent. Or, as my sister so eloquently puts it: “Meh.”

I like to wear clothes that make me happy, like a colourful dress that hugs my body and makes D’s eyebrows go up like Groucho Marx’s, or jeans that are so comfortable I forget I’m wearing them. This summer, most of my clothes just make me shrug. My jeans are torn and frayed, or else they sag and make me look like I’m wearing a full diaper. My tee shirts are stained, stretched, moth-eaten or all three and my favourite skirts are older than my marriage certificate. I have beautiful closets, and nasty clothes.

Since I’m done being pregnant, over my career crises, and my other health issues are fairly under control, I’m hoping my wildly fluctuating body shape will settle down where it’s currently at, give or take a few pounds. Last year’s happy Buddha pot-belly is gone, D keeps asking me whether I have any pants that don’t have torn cuffs, and I’m getting a bit tired of searching for shirts that haven’t been used as a moth picnic. But what really made me realize a shopping trip was in order was a conversation I had with Jade before I left for the city.

“Hmmm, which top should I wear with this skirt?” I mused aloud as I surveyed the tumbled mess of half-folded shirts in my closet. I’d chosen a longish cotton pencil skirt emblazoned with a dragon-phoenix-y thing; it was a hand-me-down from my more fashionable sister. D hates that skirt because it hides my legs. I love it because it's comfortable and good for days when I didn’t feel like shaving my legs.

I reached into the closet and selected a garnet-coloured tee shirt that sort of matched the feathers in the phoenix-dragon’s wings. The v-neck was stretched and the colour was faded, but it was the best I could do. “There, this will look nice.”

Jade, who was standing beside me, crossed her arms. “No, it won’t.”

“But...it matches my skirt?” I said, taken aback that my four-year-old daughter had an opinion about what I wore.

“No, Mumma,” said Jade. “I will choose you something else. That one is yuckky.”

As I watched my child rummage through my motley collection of shirts, it occurred to me that I shouldn’t be taking advice from someone who thought wearing pink pyjamas every day for a week was the height of fashion sense. Then it hit me; my daughter noticed what I wore, knew I wasn’t all that happy wearing it, and that made some kind of difference to her. Which got me thinking about how I’d been dressing lately: sloppily, without much thought to whether my clothes were neat or clean (the one clothing rule I enforce with both my kids), or whether I felt good in them. I’d forgotten an important fact: little kids notice everything. As a parent, I was a living, breathing model of adulthood, from the way I brushed my teeth to the way I handled a phone call from the “this will just take a moment of your time” telemarketing company. As trivial as it seemed, the clothes I wore and the way I felt when I wore them was all part of the model.

As Jade handed me a sheer orange top with an image of Ganesh surrounded by twinkly rhinestones in the middle, I thought about my own mother and her flair for fashion, as comfortable in silk dresses and high heels as she was in the terrycloth tank tops she wore in the garden. I didn’t need to prance around in yellow silk, but maybe I needed clothes that made me feel good about myself to keep my “roughing it” outfits in balance.

Lots of people I know adore shopping. My mother was the master of it, and my sister Tanzi and friend Ruth are the same. They have an incredible instinct for finding outfits that are the right size, colour and style, usually on sale. Even D, on his rare annual shopping expeditions, can pick out half a dozen shirts and pants that look great on him in less than an hour. Me? Not so much. I don’t mind window shopping, but honestly, I’d rather clean eaves troughs in the rain than try on clothes. The trip to the city was a golden opportunity to right my fashion wrongs, though, and I figured the mall, as much as I loathed it, would be the quickest and most painless way to get myself a few summer outfits to help look more like a confident, funky mama than a bag-lady.

Right.

There are days when I really feel my age. Like when Dylan runs away from me and I nearly have a coronary trying to catch him. Or when I walk into a store at the mall filled equally with thud-thud electronic music and pretty teenagers clad in white shorty-shorts. Then I feel every millisecond of my forty-three years.

As I took my fourth step into the store, I had three immediate thoughts:
1) Why is everything so short?
2) Why is everything so cheap?
3) What the hell am I doing here?

I should have turned around and found a different store, one with fewer teens and more down-tempo music. Instead, I ground my teeth together, grabbed a random sampling of synthetic stuff off the “Now 3$!” and “2 for 10!” racks and corralled a bored-looking clerk. I told her I wasn’t sure what size I was so I’d taken two of everything to try. She chewed her gum, flicked her eyes over my body and shrugged.

“Prob’ly a medium,” she said with another shrug and nodded at me to follow her as she scuffed her bejewelled ballet flats across the store to the change rooms.

After trying on my third absurdly short sundress, having had to squeeze my way out of my tiny change room to the communal mirror each time, I gave up. The clothes just weren’t me. In fact, the whole store just wasn’t me. I felt, more than ever, like a sloppy, un-funky, old-bag-lady mom and fled the store.

In vain I searched the mall for stores with styles that might speak to me, that girl who used wear fun dresses to work, the woman who used to get tarted up to go out dancing, this country mama who wanted something pretty but functional, casual but flattering, feminine but tough enough to withstand sticky embraces and blueberry pancake missiles. It didn’t take long to figure out that whatever I needed, I was definitely not going to find at the freaking mall.

Hot, flustered, angry at the stores, the clothes and myself, I got into my car and started driving. I went past the beautiful wooded trails where I used to walk on my lunch hours, past the old building where I’d spent seventeen years of my working life, past my favourite sushi restaurant. Suddenly I was downtown Waterloo, near Young Street. And that girl who used to know how to dress whispered “Turn left, TURN LEFT!” so I did, and found myself in front of Unique Boutique, a clothing store my sister and I had discovered a decade ago when we’d both lived in the city.

The shop is owned by a warm, lovely woman named Gosia. She’s the type of person who wears her clothes so effortlessly that you feel as though they’re simply part of her. Her store is full of outfits and shoes and jewelry that are one-of-a-kind, colourful and, well, unique. I hadn't been there in years, but Gosia remembered me and asked about my sister, too. She listened carefully as I stammered through my sad mall story, the fact that I had two kids and was a completely different size than I'd been last year. She nodded, thought for a minute, and then began to fly around her store, gathering dresses and blouses she thought would suit me and my lifestyle. I’ve never had such fun trying on clothes; I’ve never felt so well attended in a store before. It was the best hour of shopping I’ve ever had in my life. I even stuffed the garnet shirt and phoenix skirt into my purse and wore a new black dress and long beaded necklace right out of the store.

And that, my friends, is how I finally ended up with the delightful sundress I’m floating around in today, a wild concoction of peacock green with red and purple paisley spots with spaghetti straps and a deep V-neck that flatters my boyish chest. It’s just short enough to make D smile, and it’s cool and stretchy enough for me wear while I dive after the kids. Like the other stuff I bought, it wasn’t on sale, but I can tell it will last me more than a few summers.

Jade took one look at me after I’d put the dress on this morning, fingered the soft material and said, “Ooooh, Mumma, this feels so beautiful and cosy.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Five things about...A Mother of a Day

What do you think of when you realize that Mother's Day is around the corner? Sloppy but well-intentioned breakfasts in bed, home-made cards festooned with sparkles and stickers, bear hugs and giggles? Visits to someone's home, apartment, nursing home or hospital bed? A quiet drive to the cemetery? Or maybe a card in the mail, a phone call, or a passing pang of guilt for cards unsent and phones left untouched?

Mother's Day has been kinda weird for me ever since my mother died back in 1992. And it's gotten progressively weirder since I lost babies of my own, then had two healthy children. I honestly don't know what to do with myself when that hallowed Sunday in May rolls around. Do I allow myself to be pampered and showered with extra attention, or do I wring my hands and grieve what might have been? Do I celebrate the contented mothers in my life or reach out to those for whom the day is pure torture? I don't know that there's a right answer to that question. So I did a bit of both.

1) Hot Coffee
After a good night's sleep (a rarity at Someday due to my son's penchant for nocturnal roaming), I enjoyed an uncharacteristically mellow morning with the kids while D did chores for his mother. We'd had a crazy day on Saturday with a combined birthday party for Jade and her cousin, so it was a relief to wake up and realize I had nothing to do. I set Dylan up with his breakfast in front of his favourite video, then invited Jade to watch her latest internet fascination - Teletubbies - seriously - on my laptop in bed with me. This meant I could drink my coffee and Baileys while it was still hot, people....still hot! If you have neither pets nor kids, you might not appreciate the enormity of this achievement. But trust me, it's big. I read my book - Cheryl Strayed's incredible memoir, Wild - cuddled with Jady and listened with one ear to Dylan whoop it up downstairs a la Team Umizoomi. It was peaceful. It was pleasant. It was perfect.

And then D got home, the kids went ballistic and my coffee cup was empty. Still, it was an hour and a half of bliss. Wayyyy better than breakfast in bed or a macaroni card.

2) Holy Crepes!
After he'd shattered the peace by having an impromptu wrestling match with Dylan on our bed, D reminded me that I'd offered to go to the farm and make breakfast for his mother. Crap. So I crawled out of bed, whipped up some crepe batter, grabbed a pint of berries from the fridge and herded the kids into the car.

We were so late that I'd missed seeing my sister-in-law and nieces, who'd left for a different family gathering - oops. My mother-in-law had already set the table and concocted a gorgeous fruit tray, so I wasted no time getting the crepes going. I have my mother's old crepe pan and it never fails me. Bro-in-law Paul cooked eggs and peameal bacon, the kids ran around, Grandma whipped some cream to replace the stuff I'd forgotten at home and D made the toast.

It was a raucous, crowded, splattery half-hour and I felt weirdly relaxed, even in the midst of all the breakfast chaos. I think I must have made thirty crepes; we slathered them with Nutella, whipped cream and fruit and ate until we couldn't eat any more. I think my mom would have been pleased to see me carrying on her tradition; my grandmothers would have been proud of how many I snarfed back.

3) Sharing the Burden
The day before Mother's Day, I got on the phone to my favourite flower shop in Waterloo and placed a last-minute order. I'd meant to do it the week before; I guess the party details erased this task from my mental list. When the clerk asked me what I wanted to put on the card, I opened my mouth to tell her, but no words came out. Instead, I choked on a sudden suffocating wave of tears. I finally managed to say, "My friend lost her daughter last month," before the wave drowned my voice again.

The clerk paused for a moment. "Well, what about something like, 'Thinking of you?' Or, 'With warm thoughts at this difficult time?'"

I swallowed the tears and shook my head, not that she could see it. "No," I croaked, as a mixture of anger and helplessness bloomed in my chest. "No, no, NO."

I heard the clerk let out a small sigh on the other end of the phone. I knew I was placing a last-minute order on an insanely busy day for her store. I knew I'd begged her to tack it on to the last delivery time, but mother of pearl, didn't she GET IT? Shouldn't she know that there's nothing you CAN say on Mother's Day in the space of a tiny florist's card to someone who has lost a child? I clenched my teeth to bite back the urge to yell this at her.

"Just write, 'With love from the Lowrys,'” I finally said. It was banal, but true. All I could send them was our love. And a lot of frigging chocolate.

I sent my love to relatives and coworkers who have lost mothers and mothers-in-law; neighbours whose mothers are hopelessly ill; friends who have lost sisters, aunts, children. Mother's Day is no picnic for a lot of moms, no matter how many macaroni cards or pedicure gift certificates they get. It's not much fun for many guys either. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do except offer to share the burden of pain and grief and disappointment, so they know they aren’t carrying it alone.


4) The Hike
Every year on Mother's Day, I slip away for a few hours and take a long walk on my own. I used to go to the beach, but this year I tackled the Kincardine Trails.

The kids and I often do short treks through what they call “The Muddy Woods,” near the Penetangore River, but until recently, I had no idea that the trails can lead you for hours through woods and field, over bridges and up steep ravines, behind subdivisions and arenas. It’s blissfully silent, perfect for days where you want to think of everything, or nothing.

When you hike by yourself, your mind is free to wander, and your attention sharpens. There’s no conversation to distract you from the little details: a plunging kingfisher, the way the river talks to itself, a carpet of trilliums, the tiny perfection of a robin’s eggshell, the smell of snow in the air. (Yes, it snowed on Mother’s Day - apparently Mother Nature had PMS.)

I expected to feel sad, and cry a little. I usually do, thinking of the people I’ve lost and the mother I’ve become. This time I didn’t. Instead, I felt wistful. Like, what would life be like if Rose had lived? Or my mother had recovered from her cancer? Or my friend’s daughter had been born healthy? Fantasies ran unchecked through my brain as I panted for breath and stomped my way over bridges and up steep, muddy hills.

When I got to a small gap in the trees where the river rushed by, I stooped and picked up a handful of stones. I threw one into the river for each person I was missing: Bun. Rose. Baba and Nana. My mother. My friend’s daughter. It was a simple act, just a few splashes and ripples that disappeared as quickly as they’d been created. Then I had to laugh a bit, because wasn’t that life? We make our mark, but eventually our presence fades and we become part of something bigger. The stones are still there, even if you can’t see them. Maybe knowing they’re there is enough for now.

5) This Girl is on Fire
D’s family doesn’t really celebrate occasions like my family does. Birthdays come and go with a card and a cake - unless it’s for a grandchild, in which case the party lasts for several days. But Mother's Day, Father's Day, etc. are sort of shrugged at. So I don’t get too upset if I don't get a card from D or the kids. I prefer to spend the day in quiet contemplation, truth be told. Having a loving husband who tells me I’m a good mom almost daily and being able to enjoy the company of two healthy kids is gift enough.

This year, D astounded me with a spa gift certificate to a place I'd been raving about to my sister recently. I was so sure he wouldn’t get me anything that I went out and bought something for myself: an outdoor fire pit thingy! Oops.

So now I get to pamper myself at a fancy spa, AND enjoy a cosy fire any time I want. I think the kids are old enough to discover the sticky joys of roasted marshmallows and spider dogs, the spark and crackle of a bonfire and the way it feels to fall asleep in your mother's lap outside under the stars. I think that's all I really wanted for Mother's Day anyway.

Anatomy of a Jonah Morning

5:45 a.m.
(THUMP! Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump)

5:46 a.m.
A small missile in the shape of a toddler lands directly on my abdomen.

Me: OOOF!
Dylan: Hiya Mammy, whadaryou dooooing?
Me: I am sleeping. Go away.
Dylan: Wanna go downtairs?
Me: No.
Dylan: Wanna go downtairs?
Me: No. Wanna cuddle?
Dylan: Nooooooo! Downtairs? Downtairs? Downtairs?

We go downstairs.

6:05 a.m.
There is wet cereal all over the floor. It is also in Dylan's hair, ears and between his toes. I blearily attempt to make coffee and check my email while he runs back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, trailing milk and smushed Shreddies and screeching the theme song to My Big Big Friend. Thank God my daughter is sound sleeper.

6:07 a.m.
Dylan: (Enters waving the empty case to his John Deere tractor DVD) Watch twactors? Watch twactors?
Me: We can't honey. I don't know where the DVD is. I think you lost it.
Dylan: WAHAAHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! Watch twactors?

I find a YouTube video of a John Deere hay baler. Dylan squeals in glee and insists on watching from the comfort of my lap.

6:15 a.m.
Attempt to change my son's diaper. He kicks like a mule on fire. I take him to the corner and forcibly hold him there. When the 10 seconds are up, he tilts his head backwards like the exorcist kid and grins. We return to the change area and resume diaper changing. He shrieks so loudly my vision blurs. Back to the corner. Return, repeat.

6:17 a.m.
Try once again to change Dylan's diaper. He freaks out. I remind myself that I do not believe in spanking. I count to ten in my head. Twice.

6:18 a.m. I get Dylan's diaper off. It is full of avocado poop, because that is all he will eat. Dylan flips around and puts his foot in the poopy diaper, then steps on my bare leg. I grab him. He slaps me in the face. I start to cry and yell for my husband. He arrives, receives similar treatment from his son and marches upstairs with Dylan under one arm. More wailing ensues. I sit on the couch and sniffle. The living room smells like poo. So does my leg.

6:19 a.m.
Jade wakes up.

6:25 a.m.
Jade goes to the toilet, brushes her teeth, dresses herself. She comes downstairs and tells me she loves me. I remind myself that I do not favour one child over the other and get her some breakfast.

6:28 a.m.
Dylan toddles down the stairs and parks himself in front of the TV like nothing has happened. I slump onto the couch and start to doze.

6:29 a.m.
My son climbs up on the couch and starts using it like a bouncy castle. I become the best part of the bouncy castle. He leaps on me and gives me a fat lip.

7:00 a.m.
D and Jade are ready to go. I turn off the TV. Wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues. Drag my son out to the vestibule to get ready. Attempt to get his shoes and jacket on. He goes limp like a wet noodle and slithers out of my arms onto the floor. When I try to grab him, he reanimates and runs back into the living room, where he turns the TV on again. I wrench the plug out of the wall. Dylan collapses on the floor and has a fit. D grimly picks him up and carries him to the car.

7:05 a.m.
Buckle Jade into her car seat without incident. D goes into the house to get his lunch bag. I chase Dylan around the driveway and attempt to put him in his carseat.

Dylan: Wanna go to gramma's? Wanna go to gramma's?
Me: No, today you're going to Nina's.
Dylan: NOOOOO! WAHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

7:07 a.m.
Stuff my son into his car seat. He throws a major tanty and alternates between rigid two-by-four and aforementioned wet noodle. I finally manage to buckle him up.
Me: "Ha! Gotcha in there!"
Dylan: (slaps me) "HA!" (pause) Go to Gramma's?

I start to cry. Again.

7:08 a.m.
Husband passes me on my way back into the house. He asks what's wrong. I consider telling him I'm a lousy mother and I'm too old to have small children and we never go on vacation and I'm so tired and I just want some coffee and I can't believe I lost my job but I am crying too hard. I slam the screen door to discourage further discussion.

7:10 a.m.
Finish crying.

7:12 a.m.
Pour favourite giant mug full of coffee. Trudge upstairs, crawl back into bed, close my eyes and desperately pretend this morning never happened.

Garlified

I come from a long line of garlic lovers. My Babushka lived to be 96, and I'm convinced it was due to her daily consumption of garlic. She grew it herself, threw it into almost every dish she cooked, and even put it in her ear during one well-intentioned but unfortunate ear-ache incident (apparently it works, but it's preferable to stick a whole clove in your ear rather than chopping it up and shoving it into your ear canal).

My father's favourite appetizer is a slice of raw garlic on top of a slice of summer sausage on top of a cracker. My sister and I tend to avoid kissing him goodbye after visits involving this snack. My mother was another famous garlic-lover; she's the one who taught me the sacred trick of mashing a clove all around the bowl before you make caeser salad dressing, and jamming little slices of it into your roast before you cook it. One of our favourite things to eat was artichokes - she'd chop up raw garlic and douse it in melted butter, and we'd swish the artichoke leaves in the golden liquid and run them through our teeth. My sister and I used to challenge each other to drink a glass of milk afterwards; milk never tastes as foul as after a spoonful or two of garlic butter.

As for myself, I used to be addicted to roasted garlic smeared over crusty bread when I was just out of university and learning to enjoy food that didn't come in a can. It was all the rage in restaurants in the 90's. And I started getting spoiled: the great dried lumps of Chinese store garlic paled in comparison to my Baba's sweeter, smaller version; I would beg some from her whenever I'd visit and go home with my precious cargo. It was almost too good to share.

If you haven't grown up with it, garlic can be something of an oddity. I can remember being shocked when making spaghetti sauce at a friend's place; when I asked him for garlic, he handed me garlic powder. He'd never even seen a bulb of garlic before. After my shock wore off, I gave him a lecture and sent him to the grocery store; I credit myself for creating a life-long love of the stuff after that first meal.

Sadly, D has a love/hate relationship with the stinky bulbs of goodness. He is of the garlic-powder generation, and while he enjoys all my garlic-infused sauces, marinades and roasts, his body can't seem to process the stuff. It oozes out of his pores, no matter how long the garlic's simmered in a pot of pasta sauce or soaked in a beef stew. God forbid I ever serve it to him raw; I think his head would explode.

So, for the sake of marital harmony, I rarely make anything with raw garlic these days. Until last night.

Last night I was glancing through my mother's old cookbooks for inspiration. I had one eye on Jade as she devoured her grape/crackers/cheese snack while watching Toopy and Binou, and one eye on Mom's tattered, splattered pasta cookbook when a recipe for pesto lept out at me. I checked the ingredient list: I had pine nuts. A bunch of basil. A hunk of parmesan. And of course I had garlic. Tally ho!

After a quick rummage through the fridge, and a brief tussle with the Magic Bullet, I had my pesto. I sauteed mushrooms in wine and butter, threw in some steamed asparagus and chopped up leftover chicken breast. I gooped all the pesto on top and stirred it in. I tossed the sauce, which smelled like happiness, with some spagettini, topped it with fresh parmesan, and JOY!!! Supper was served.

While my daughter ate plain noodles, asparagus and chicken and eyed me warily ("Why you eating grass, Mama?"), I tucked in to my masterpiece. The first bowl was heavenly. The basil and parsley tasted of spring, the olive oil mingled richly with the fresh parmesan. And the garlic....it had bite and spice and flavour galore. Why didn't I use raw garlic more often? I could live to be 96 too! I was going to make a caeser salad tomorrow for breakfast!

Halfway through the second bowl, I began to feel that slightly queasy, sweaty, self-loathing feeling I like to refer to as garlified. My body hadn't had raw garlic in quite some time; now it was waking up and telling me so. I drank two glasses of water and packed away the leftovers unceremoniously in the fridge.

Strangely, my husband ate his garlicky pasta without a word of complaint. Then again he did top it with more chicken and a handful of the salad I'd made; perhaps this downplayed the effects. At any rate, I brushed, flossed and even mouthwashed that night to no avail. Every exhalation turned into a cloud of noxious nastiness that seemed to hang over my head. After a fitful sleep, I woke up feeling like our septic tank had leaked into my mouth. Even hanging my mouth open in the shower didn't help much.

So the pesto was delicious, but the aftermath - the garlic hangover - is too gross to repeat anytime soon. And the irony that my husband is suffering no ill effects at all is just plain annoying.

I'm sure that somewhere in the afterlife, my mother is rolling her eyes Baba is shaking her head at her daft granddaughter. And somewhere, a garlic bulb is laughing.

Finding the silver (toilet paper) lining...

Yowzer, that was one vicious (and viscous!) flu bug. It took D down, and that man is never sick. I'm a wuss when it comes to being ill, but when he stays home from work, you know it's gotta be bad.

All that being off work & laying around moaning did give me a chance to reflect on some of the advantages of being sick, though. Cuz there are advantages to almost every situation, if one is willing to dig through the muck and find them.

1) Unlimited sleep.
Everyone knows that the cardinal rule when you've got the flu is to REST. But it's hard to slow down and take time out when the household screams to be looked after, your inbox is overflowing and your co-workers are on vacay. Luckily, the flu takes one look at your pasty complexion and says, "Oh, you're supposed to go to Yoga tonight? Nuh-uh. You wanna login to just one conference call? Think again. Feel like you should do up those dishes and scrub that mashed banana off the wall? Forget it kid. Now lay down and shut up." So you crawl up the stairs and fall into bed and sleep for 4 hours straight. And, cramps and nausea aside, it's heavenly.

2) MIL to the rescue
Those of you who read this blog regularly will know I extoll the many virtues of my saintly mother in law. She shines her brightest when D or I are ill; she swoops in with ginger ale and soup, whisks the kids over to her place and refuses to give them back unless we really beg. D and I are capable adults and good parents, but she is the master of all things maternal. Even though we sometimes feel guilty for letting her do so much for us, I know she thrives on it. Cuz who doesn't love to be needed? (Not to mention adored)

3) Unintentional Weight Loss
I've developed a really weird pot-belly over the winter. I'm not sure how I feel about it; I've always been thin, and having C-Dif made me too thin. So now I regard my pot-belly with equal parts confusion and admiration. My daughter likes to poke it, pat it and doze on it, proceeding to plunk her fluffy blonde head on my jiggly gut as though it were the softest of pillows. It wasn't until my neice asked me if I had a baby stowed away in there that I thought I should probably do something about it. But hey! The flu looked after Ms. PB for me. Thanks, flu. Now my daughter has to find somewhere else to rest that little head. I think my butt still has room...

A little Russkie never hurt anyone...

My recalcitrant, almost-two-year-old daughter was in "tune out Mummy" mode a few weeks ago when I was trying to get ready to go somewhere. After asking her to please come here three times, I suddenly blurted it out in Russian. My daughter stopped what she was doing. Her eyes got wide. I finally had her full attention, even though she had absolutely no clue what the heck I'd just said.

One thing about speaking Russian to a non-Russian speaker is that the words have a certain commanding tone to them. It doesn't really matter what you say; I could have told my daughter that kitties and dollies were pretty and it still would have sounded like I was saying something important. At any rate, I found a magical new way to get her attention.

So now I find myself dropping the odd Russian phrase or word out of the blue into my conversations with my daughter, endearments like "detka maya" (my child), whimsical stuff like "sheek pat petch" (said after you sneeze; literally it means 'fly under the stove!')and exclamations like "astarozha!" (BE CAREFUL!!). We count in Russian going up the stairs; we play with my old Matroshka (nesting) dolls often.

I feel fortunate to be able to teach Jade bits and pieces of another language. My mother was born in Belarus and spoke Russian to my sister and I at home; we lived next door to my Babushka for 20 years, and she never learned much English beyond "Medy Chreestmas!" and "vatermelon," so my sister and I grew up speaking Russian as a second language of sorts. I didn't realize until I started taking Russian courses in university that the Russian I spoke was badly stilted, outdated and comprised mostly of diminutives and baby talk. Apparently my Baba spoke to us using childlike terms our whole lives; I think I must have sounded like a Muscovite four year old with a speech impediment every time I opened my mouth to speak the language of my ancestors.

But who cares? The little bits and pieces I can impart to Jade and Dylan will be for fun, not for educational purposes. My sister and I have always enjoyed having a secret language to employ at opportune moments (e.g. clandestine exchanges about hot guys at the grocery check-out; exclamations of disgust over rude people in public places) so perhaps my kids can enjoy something similar. At the very least, I've found a way to make Miss Jade understand I mean business when I throw a little taste of the ol' Russkie yzik (language) her way.

In praise of...the Thank You note

One of my more vivid memories of childhood is of my sister and I hunkered down at the dining room table, necks stiff, legs dangling, surrounded by tape, glue, bits of paper and lists galore. We were on thank-you note duty, as enforced by my formidable mother.

Although we had a small immediate family, my mother had a lot of friends. These friends were not only plentiful, they were generous, kind and always brought us gifts when they came to visit. They never forgot a birthday, or arrived for supper empty-handed. And even the ones who didn't celebrate Christmas still came for Christmas dinner bearing gifts for my sister and I. And one thing my mother insisted on was that we write formal thank-you notes for every gift we received.

These were not store-bought notes with swirly THANK YOUs already stamped across the top, oh noooo. These, my friend, were hand made notes, little paper cards meticulously folded and decorated with collages of cut and paste pictures scrounged from the piles of dead greeting cards my mother hoarded for this exclusive purpose. I'm sure they were perfectly hideous, and perfectly entertaining for the folks who received them.

I think I must have written hundreds of little notes over the years. When Christmas or birthday months rolled around, I would look at my delightful pile of presents and gloat over them - then groan inwardly, thinking of the cramped hands and stiff back I'd have to endure in a few weeks. Initially, writing thank-you notes was kind of fun. The first five or so would be carefully folded and decorated, with much thought given to theme and colour. Then it was all downhill after that, each successive card looking sloppier and more haphazard than the last.

I still have very generous friends and family, and I still feel moved to write thank-you notes. It's a testament to my mother's lessons about gratitude and politeness, but I also feel it's kind of a lost art. I wrote over one hundred fifty notes after D and I got married (his job was to address and stamp them); I wrote around fifty after each baby was born. It humbled me to see how generous and kind people were to us after these events; I figured the least I could do was write them a wee note to say thanks and endure a few hours of stiff neck and fingers.

A few of my friends write some pretty mean thank-you notes themselves. My sister-in- law always writes beautiful, very personal notes inside her hand-made cards; my good friend creates the most elaborate works of card art to send her thanks. And one of my newer Kink friends got her two year old daughter to crayola the inside of the note they sent to say thanks for her birthday present. I thought that was pretty cool.

I'm a bit ashamed that I don't take the time to write notes for my birthday presents any more. Emails and phone calls are easier for this sleep-deprived mama right now. I do my best to send notes anytime the kids get a gift though, and I'm hoping that I can pass along this small act of gratitude to them when they're old enough. I like to think that one day I'll corral them into sitting at the dining room table (the same one I wrote mine at) and creating little cards of their own, while I (and my mother from up above) nod in approval.

Bittersweet

Last week, D was doing chores and Jady was asleep. It was still and quiet in the house and I felt lonely. So I snuck upstairs, tiptoed over to Jade's crib and did something I never do: I eased her out, tucked her into my arms, crept over to my bed and cuddled with her for an hour.

She barely stirred - thankfully she's a sound sleeper! - and it was so good to feel her warmth, her heartbeat against my breast again. She's been weaned since May, and while I don't miss the middle-of-the-night feedings, I do miss the easy intimacy nursing afforded us.

Jade is a busy girl. The only time she's content to sit in my lap without wriggling around like a fish out of water is when she's tired (or asleep!). And then I'm in Mummy heaven. Her downy blonde head smells like honey; her chubby toes curl and uncurl when I stroke them with my finger. She still sucks two fingers and sometimes she looks up at me with an undescribable expression her sapphire eyes. And to think that ten years ago, I was convinced I didn't want children...

Lying in bed with Jade the other night, I was struck to my core with a strange blend of deep joy and profound grief. I couldn't help but think of how my other two lost little ones should be there with us, cuddled in my arms with as much right to be there as Jade. So I allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes and imagining their presence - what their scent, their warmth, their own personalities might have been like. I think those few minutes of fantasy defined the term bittersweet for me; I'm learning that so much in motherhood is exactly that.

Oscar and the grumbling tummy

Some of you long-suffering readers might recall my effusive, gushing Oscar entry last year. Well guess what? It's that time of year again - huzzah! But I think that instead of boring you with my usual starry-eyed Oscar deluge, I'll focus on the food.

What, no moaning about how my Oscar dress is tighter than ever this year? Or the fact that I can't indulge in too much champers on account of nursing Jady? Nope, this year, I'm just gonna tell you about the food I plan to make and devour during the 3 hour Oscar shennanigans. Cause I'm hungry and I haven't written about food in ages!

I come from a long line of excellent cooks and entertainers. My mother threw elaborate parties, and relied on several mainstays when serving appetizers. My sister and I were schooled in the art of putting together the "hors d'ouvres" (as Mom always called them) for the parties, and to this day, I can still make many of her recipes from memory. They're not fancy, but they look good and they have a certain 1970's - 1980's kitsch factor that tickles me every time I make them. Plus, they rock the tastebuds, which is the most important thing.

I'll describe a few of them here, then list the recipes below if you're interested. And if you have any fancy-dancy appies to share, please do. I always prefer a meal of appetizers to a full course supper.

First on the list are the Cheese Dreams. This one is kind of a poor man's quiche, but there's never any left when I serve it. It's a bit annoying on account of the Pillsbury dough management technique, but once you get the hang of it, it's worth the sticky fingers and muttered epithets while unrolling the dough. For those of you outside North America who have no idea what Pillsbury dough is, I'm not sure I can suggest a substitute; Pillsbury dough is every lazy cook's companion. It's chock full of fat, salt and unmentionable ingredients, but does it ever taste good.

Next, I like to whip up Mom's famous Taco Dip.
Mom's prounciation of the word "taco" used to make my sister and I exchange eye rolls, but the dip is absolutely scrumptious. I have even been known to eat leftovers for breakfast...if there are any, that is. It's simple, and actually not that horrible for you if you use low-fat cream cheese. The flavours meld together into a fantastic blend and the texture is somewhere between creamy-crunchy depending on which veggies you use. I must stress that you use decent nacho chips for dipping though - use a cheap brand and they'll snap like matchsticks when you try to scoop up a decent helping. Blue corn chips seem to be the best pick in my experience.

I didn't make Mushroom Caps this year, because D doesn't like them and I don't want to gobble an entire platter myself, which is exactly what will occur. But my heavens, they are SO GOOD. I assume it's the bacon, or maybe the fresh parmesan...in any case, I have never once made these and had people not scarf them so quickly they burned their tongues, despite my warnings. Once, I brought a tray of uncooked mushies to a New Year's party. The power went out - and the guests snorked them all back raw!

Mom never served proscuitto
that I can recall, but it's a treat for me. The sweetness of the melon against the saltiness of the meat is divine. The trick is browbeating your deli-counter employee to slice it PAPER THIN. There is nothing gaggier than a too-thick piece of proscuitto, trust me, and the folks at Sobey's, bless their high-school hearts, just can't seem to grasp that until I've sent the slice back at least three times. Good thing I don't make this one very often - I might get banned from the grocery store.

So anyway, the recipes are below. I hope you'll try 'em - and even if you don't watch the Oscars, I hope you feel glamorous when you eat these patented Alisa Feick hors d'ouvres. Bon appetit!

Cheese Dreams
You'll need:
2 rolls of Pilsbury dough - crescents
4 eggs
splash of milk or cream
1/4 cup parsley, minced
1/4 cup green olives, sliced
1/2 cup onion, chopped
1/2 cup bell pepper, chopped
1/2 cup cheddar cheese, shredded
dash of your favourite hot sauce
pepper

1. Preheat oven to 375. Spread the dough out so that it covers a 9x13 baking sheet, preferably one with edges. It's a pain in the butt process, but try to make sure there are no gaps between the seams. You may have to get creative.
2. In a medium bowl, beat eggs and milk together until well blended.
3. Add all other ingredients except pepper. Stir until everything is well coated.
4. Spread the mixture out until all parts of the dough are covered. You may have to tilt the pan to get the eggy stuff to move around.
5. Grind some fresh pepper on it, and bake for 15-20 minutes, or until slightly browned. Cool for 10 minutes, cut into squares and serve warm or cold.

Taco Dip
What you'll need:
5 green onions, chopped
1 red bell pepper, finely chopped
1 orange or yellow bell pepper, finely chopped
1/2 seedless cucumber, finely chopped
3/4 cup salsa
1 block cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup sour cream
1 tsp chili pepper
1 tsp onion or garlic powder
pinch oregano
1/2 cup jack or cheddar cheese, grated

1. Blend cream cheese and sour cream together until smooth and no lumps. (If you have the energy, use electric beaters.) Add spices and mix well.
2. Spread the cheese mixture over a large platter to 3/4 inch thickness. Cover with the salsa.
3. Starting at the outside edge of the platter, spread the onion in a circle. Follow with a circle of red pepper, then orange/yellow pepper, then fill centre with cucumber.
4. Sprinkle with cheese. Chill 30 minutes; serve with good quality nacho chips.

Marvy Mushroom Caps
You'll need:
20 medium sized mushrooms, stems removed (reserve 8 stems & chop finely)
1/2 block cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup sweet onion, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup parsley, minced
two (or more) dashes hot sauce
salt and pepper
5 strips bacon, cooked and crumbled (Do NOT chintz out and buy pre-cooked bacon. Just...don't.)
1/4 cup fresh parmesan, grated

1. Preheat oven to 400.
2. Mix all ingredients together (except mushroom caps!).
3. Stuff mushroom caps as full as you can.
4. Bake for 20 minutes or until juices start flowing out of the caps.
Note: let them cool slightly or you will burn your tongue!


Proscuitto & Melon
You'll need:
10 slices of proscuitto, paper thin
10 chunks of honeydew or canteloupe melon
10 fresh mint leaves
juice from 1/4 lemon or 1/2 lime

1. Toss melon with lemon or lime juice in a small bowl. Let sit 5 minutes.
2. Wrap each piece of melon with a slice of proscuitto.
3. Top with a mint leaf. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Note: You can stab them with toothpicks, but I find the meat/melon/mint combo sticks together quite well without them.

Help me, Dr. Ferber...you're my only hope

Call me cruel, call me unfeeling, call me a bad bad mummy. We are Ferberizing this kid, and the process starts PRONTO.

I used to brag that I had the best little baby in the world, because up until a month ago, Jade usually went to bed around 9pm, got up once at 3am and then slept until 8am. "What a good baby!" people would exclaim when I proudly told them she only got up once. Yes, she was my good, smart, perfect child. Until she turned 5 months old, that is, and began to display a penchant for partying in the wee hours.

I don't mind getting up once a night to feed and change her, but 3 and 4 times gets to be a little much. I become Zombie Mummy, Jade becomes Miss Crankypants, and together we don't win any congeniality contests. Ferberization began to sound pretty good.

Ferberizing, for those of you not up to date on your kiddie psychobabble, is a method of sleep training where you let your baby cry in small increments, while reassuring her that you are still there, you still love her and it's okay for her to GO TO SLEEP. The trick is that you don't crack and pick her up. That's what she wants you to do. That's what she knows YOU want to do. So you have to fight every instinct in your body that is commanding you to go and seize your screaming child in your arms. Instead, you have to fight nature and let her "cry it out," as they say in Ferber parlance.

Several of my friends have used this method with great success. Several others, proponents of attachment parenting, think I am sick and cruel. My step-mom, who is a nurse, applauds Ferber, but I have a feeling that my mother-in-law is in the second camp, although - to her credit - she rarely offers advice. But you can tell a lot from the tone of a MIL's "Oh?" in response to your declaration that you plan to let her beloved granddaughter cry herself to sleep.

Our first attempt at the whole Ferber thing occurred last night. Jady Lady sleeps in a crib in our room (Daddy's idea) which makes the whole process even trickier. D is a big softie and I was hoping he'd sleep in the Blue room so as not to disturb my resolve, but he stayed put and admirably held fast to the rules. I fed Jade at 10:30, then again at 2:30, but when the fussing began at 4:45am, I said a silent prayer to Dr. Ferber and let her cry for the recommended 3 minutes before going over to give her a comforting pat. I went back to bed. The crying turned to screams of rage. D and I clung to each other; neither of us needed to say a word, but we were both thinking, "LET GO OF ME! I MUST GO AND PICK UP MY BABY! MY BABY NEEDS ME! LET GO OF ME!!!" We tightened our grip on each other.

At the 5 minute mark, I went and talked to Jade again. The screams turned to shrieks so loud my eardrums reverberated. Same thing at the 9 minute mark, and the 12 minute mark. But at the 15 minute mark, her shrieks subsided into angry hiccuping sobs, punctuated by the familiar "squish squish" sound of Jade sucking the heck out of her favourite two fingers (think Maggie Simpson's soother sound, but wetter). She was still ticked off, but had figured out that screaming wasn't going to help. And she slept through until 7am. Whoo hoo! Best of all, when I asked her this morning if she still liked Mummy, she gave me her signature gummy grin and squealed. Phew.

Tonight is Return to Ferber Mountain; let's hope it goes smoothly. If we crack now, baby Jade will know she rules the roost and that won't do us any favours now...or in 16 years!

Once more into the beach...

At last, summer has stopped hiding like a naughty child and made an appearance. Huzzah! Sunshine! Warmth! Blue skies! Final-frickin'-ly.

It never quite feels like summer to me until I've baptized myself in the cool waters of lake Huron. And while I'm not really a beach person per se (e.g. I don't enjoy laying on the sand cooking exposed body parts to a vibrant hue of red), I do adore being near the water, especially on that magical weekend every year when the lake turns warm enough to swim in. Sometimes that weekend occurs in July, but most often it's August before anyone other than kids and a few reckless teens venture into the waves. To my delight, this past week of sunshine and humidity coaxed the lake into swimming-friendly temperatures.

I spent all afternoon Friday soaking up the sights and sounds of Bruce Beach with my sis, my good pal and her small daughter and my kissin' cousins from Indiana at my auntie's cottage. My sis and I have been going "up to the cottage" ever since we were kids. It holds a lot of nostalgia for me and has felt like a second home of sorts ever since the day we sold our family home after my mother's death.

My aunt and cousins aren't blood relatives; my auntie was one of my mother's closest friends, but she treats us like one of her own three girls. Coming from a very small family where my only cousins live either in Nova Scotia or Russia, it's wonderful to have a doting auntie so close by. And it's such an added bonus to live two concessions over from them now. We're neighbours all summer long.

While auntie cuddled Jade for the afternoon, we girls giggled, gossiped, swigged lime coolers and Coca Cola. We watched my friend's little daughter get acquainted with sand castles, rocks and waves for the first time, took dips in the water and discreet peeks at the handsome neighbour boy. I decided to pooh-pooh post-pregnancy body woes in favour of my favourite turquoise bikini. It's strangely freeing to wear something revealing despite the triple threat of cellulite, stretch marks and thunder thighs. And man, can I ever fill out that top now. Yay for dumplings!

On Saturday, my friend and I took our daughters down the 6th concession to the public beach. Our umbrella kept blowing away, but we managed to keep our babies shaded and happy. We built more sand castles, picnicked, took pictures of her daughter's sandy goatee, watched a guy wrestle his lemon-yellow boat into submission. I went swimming a few times, and suddenly I felt 10 years old again: watching the water foam up when I kick my feet, snorting nose and mouthfuls by accident, diving under just to listen to the weird watery silence. I even carried lady Jade with me into the water and dipped her teeny tiny toesies in the lake for the first time. It wasn't a screaming success (just a lot of screaming), but hey, my mother did it to me - I have the photos to prove it - so I am just carrying on a hallowed family tradition. As I took my last dip for the day while she snoozed on the shore, I kept thinking how great it's going to be next year when Jady Lady is old enough to frolic with me on the sand and in the surf.

I am a very blessed girl on so many levels. What a great weekend.

Hullo from the 'hood...

Mummyhood that is! Yes, the blessed event finally happened on May 16th at 2:04pm. May I present to you the lovely miss Jade Violet Alisa Lowry!

She weighed 6lbs 10.5 oz, 19 inches long but is now up to 7lbs 7oz and is verrrry long...thanks to daddy's genes. She is growing way too fast for Mummy's liking. *sigh* She makes snorty piggy noises when she's angry and honks like a Canada goose when she's content. I can't get enough of her toes and fingers and belly. As for the name, which probably seems huge for such a wee girl, here is the story behind it.

D and I had been volleying names back and forth for months. Our tastes are very different and so we had a hard time agreeing on anything for a girl. We had a very short list for boys (of course). After Jade was born, she was referred to as "sweet pea" for 4 days because we STILL couldn't decide on a name. I think the nurses were getting rather disgusted with us. And then, as I was lying in that wretched hospital bed, recovering from the C-section while Sweet Pea got light therapy for her jaundice, I started mulling over a conversation I'd had with my brother-in-law about a month previously.

C was filling up my errant Kia's tires with air in the shop on the farm. Suddenly he looked up at me and said, "Kimmy, I have the perfect name. Your troubles are over. Jade Lowry. Just add whatever your mother's name was in the middle." And he grinned in triumph. Hmm, I thought. Kinda strippery. Kinda catchy. I politely nodded but wasn't really won over at the time.

The more I thought about it in that hospital bed, and the more I came to know Sweet Pea's personality, the more I realized that she was not a Grace or a Madeleine or a Danielle or a Taylor. She was a Jade! And really, C has done so much for us over these past two years - the least we could do is let him name our child.

D liked the name Jadyn, which means "God has heard us" so it was a good compromise. Also, the stone Jade is said to have mystical, heart-healing properties; what better way to heal hearts so bruised after two losses than with sweet baby Jade's arrival. And as my sister Tanzi reminded me, I wrote several stories when I was younger that featured a main character named Jade.

As for Violet, it's my favourite flower, and I found them in bloom all over Someday farm's lawns the week Jade before was born. Alisa was my mother's name; she died in 1993. She was a strong, sophisticated, intelligent woman who had a gift for friendship. I can only hope that Jade will inherit these qualities from the Babushka she never got to meet.

So there's the scoop for now. Sorry to have kept you in suspense, bloggy friends! I hope to do more entries, but I'm telling ya, it's darned hard to type blog entries with one finger while nursing. (0: We are all well and healthy and very, very happy. Thanks for all your prayers and warm wishes. I'll be back soon...

Lucky Irish Stew

Happy St. Pat's to ye!

I toured the entire southern coast of Ireland when I was 23; my English friend Wendy and I drove her powder blue VW bug over on the ferry. We started in Dublin, went southwest all the way to Galway and then drove straight back to Dublin again. (Interesting fact: the pizza in Dublin was better than the pizza I had in Florence, Italy)

Ireland was a country that had fascinated me ever since I did a paper on James Connolly and the Easter uprising in high school, and it seemed fitting to get away and clear my head after my mother died. She loved to travel and knew I had been planning the trip before she'd gotten really sick; I remember she encouraged me to go "no matter what." So I did, and Ireland was everything I wanted it to be: friendly, green and beautiful, with ruined castles around every hairpin corner and live music in every pub.

My favourite places were Doolin (where I learned to smoke Marlborough Lights and flirt with backpackers). Little more than a crossroads with three pubs, it's famous for its ability to attract musicians and they play until the wee hours every night. I also loved Dingle, which took my breath away with its coastal scenery.

Another thing I remember was seeing little Catholic shrines along the road at various intervals - statues of Mary smothered in flowers seemed to nod at us as Wendy drove her beloved beetle at top speed around the winding roads. (Insert a sigh here as I recall these pleasant times...)

Okay! Enough of McMemory Lane. Whether you've got Irish blood in your veins (I don't) or just like to celebrate St. Patrick's day with green beer, here's a yummy Irish stew recipe to honour the day. Green food colouring not included.

Lucky Guinness Stew
Ingredients:
- package stewing beef
- 3/4 cup flour, spiced with salt, pepper and whatever dry spices you prefer
- 2 tbsp olive oil
- 1 medium onion, diced
- 2 ribs celery, sliced
- 2 carrots, sliced
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 cups beef or veggie broth
- 1 cup Guinness or other dark beer (Toast your health and drink the rest!)
- 1 bay leaf

1) Toss beef with spiced flour to coat.
2) In a heavy saucepan over medium heat, lightly brown the beef in the olive oil.
3) Add the onion & celery; cook 3 minutes.
4) Add the carrots, garlic, broth, beer and bay leaf. Bring to a boil.
5) Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 1 hour or until beef is tender.

You can serve this over broad egg noodles but I like to soak it up with a heel of crusty dark bread. You may be wondering why there are no potatoes in this so-called Irish stew: it's because I really don't like potatoes! (I told you, I'm not Irish)

The V-Day Debate

Ahhh, Valentine's Day. To buy into the canned romance, or loftily scorn it as an exercise in commercialism? To stick a cinnamon-heart-stained tongue out at the cynics and bake heart-shaped cookies or stonily spend the day organizing your sock drawer?

I know Feb 14th has become a marketing nightmare. The pressure to spend is silly. But look at it this way: V-day is an extra chance to celebrate love, friendship, warm fuzzies, whatever. It doesn't have to be done in an expensive or elaborate manner(although planning a V-day scheme of some sort is always half the fun in my eyes). And it doesn't have to feel like canned romance either if you're creative.

I don't care whether you're male or female, young or seasoned, single or matched up. Even if you're a growly old bear who forcibly damns all Valentine celebrations back to Hallmark, you CANNOT tell me that getting a Valentine card - even if it's home-made - on your desk or in the mail doesn't make your gravelly heart soften just a leeetle bit.

C'mon, admit it: didn't you love being a kid, filling out a bunch of those weeny little cards, sticking a paper bag on the side of your desk and gloating over it when it got full?

I partially blame my mother for my constant love of V-day. She celebrated it in style: big construction paper hearts with doilies stuck on every window; cards for my Dad, sister and me along with some sweet treat; an elaborate breakfast table that inluded pink grapefruit halves decorated with a cinnamon heart in the middle, home-made crepes, and the ruby-coloured goblets full of freshly squeezed OJ that only came out on February 14th. We always had to wear something red or pink that day. So did she. I LOVED IT!

So I'm celebrating V-day, people, and I urge you to do the same, even if it's just in some small way. This year I am going all out, Alisa Feick style: I bought some heart decal thingies to stick on the windows, I'm making crepes for D on the 14th, and I'm even going to put on my lucky heart-dotted underwear and bake those delectable, heart-shaped, cream-cheese cookies mom used to make with the pink icing in the middle. If you're nice to me, I might even send you some.

And when I walk the long lane down to my mailbox on Friday, I hope I find a card or two in there from those of you who haven't completely drowned in the mire of anti V-day cynicism.

Welcome to the Growling Tummy

Boy, do I love cooking. I've only discovered my true culinary identity in the last few years, so now I'm making up for lost time. I was puttering around in the kitchen with lamb chops and wild rice tonight and it struck me (a thought, not a lamb chop) that I should write about it.

One of the beauties of working at home is that it leaves the perfect chunk of time between signing out and D's arrival home to cook supper. D used to make supper a couple of times a week when we were in the city (which is how I learned to hate tilapia) but I've pretty much taken over chef duties at Someday by choice. I love that my man is self-sufficient and not a bad cook (MEAT-VEG-VEG), and he's my main dude when barbeque season rolls around (oh how I hate the BBQ lighter!) - but there's something about having the kitchen to yourself and peeling through recipe books to find an "aha!" meal. The tunes go on, the Coke with lemon comes out, the dog gets something to gnaw on and I'm off to my magical kitchen escapade for the evening.

I come from a long line of amazing cooks. My mother was a virtuoso in the kitchen, whipping up gourmet concoctions from all cultures. When she died, she had a stack of Gourmet magazines that was almost as tall as I was; I still occasionally want to kick myself for selling her mandolin (the kind you slice with, not the kind you strum). Nana also reigned supreme in her kitchen. I have never to this day tasted roast beef as good as hers was, and I have very happy memories of eating lamb and roasted potatoes in her apartment kitchen ("Oh, I thought you might like a snack.") Even Baba, who leaned towards the simple things in life, made delicious soups and yeasty raisin cakes that she never had recipes for. I would kill for a bowl of her "Kroupki (barley) soup" right now on this -20 degree day.

The lovely, talented (and perpetually good-natured)Jaime has begun posting recipes and meal plans on her funky blog, which is very cool. Her cake in a cup is beyond words - I mostly just moan with pleasure when I eat it with vanilla ice cream and blackberries - and I'm forever indebted to her for the peanut butter ball recipe I made at Christmas. So hey, I'm gonna borrow from her creative brain and post a few of my own favourite recipes here. Not a cook? Well, if foolhardy-and-inexperienced-but-brave me can make stuff, anyone can. I have about a 75% success rate in the kitchen, which occasionally leads to bouts of rage where I throw vegetables and pots around, but I have come to view cooking as more of an art than a science. Sometimes things don't turn out the way you want them to, but that's okay - you just feed it to the dog and try again.

Ode to Alisa (Mom)- Chili Honey Shrimp
Mom loved seafood and used to serve this regularly. I remember my sister's dairy famer boyfriend came for dinner once; he didn't know you weren't supposed to eat the shrimp shells. Oops.

- 15-20 medium sized shrimp, shell on
- 1 clove minced garlic (or more, if you're not kissing anyone later)
- 1 good pinch dried chili peppers
- 1 good pinch sesame seeds
- 4 Tbsp honey
- 3 Tbsp butter
- green onions, chopped
- basil or any herb of your choice

1) Melt the butter in a frying pan on medium heat; saute garlic for about 1 minute.
2) Add shrimp and saute for 30 seconds.
3) Add the chilis; saute for another 30 seconds.
4) Add sesame seeds and onions
5) Turn up the heat to high and add the honey. Stir until thickened. Top with herbs of your choice.

I serve these on Oscar night; you suck the coating off the shrimp, then peel and eat. Yes, it sounds disgusting. But trust me - these are addictive.

Tomorrow: Ode to Baba!

Cookie Press or Torture Device? You decide.

I have a small group of girlfriends whom I love. We drink together, we laugh together, we commiserate and rant together. We do not, however, bake together, and that's likely what has kept our friendship so stable.

You hear about women who congregate annually and form group baking coalitions in someone's kitchen. Dough and hilarity ensue. Dozens upon dozens of different cookies are baked, and then shared amongst the group. Everyone goes home and smugly fills their freezers to the brim with holiday baking.

In theory, this sounds very nice. Sometimes I sigh and wish my sisters and friends lived closer so we could have our own bake-bonding session. Then I attempt to bake something on my own and the burning smell snaps me back into reality: I am not a kitchen-sharing kinda gal. Nor am I a baker.

These simple facts were reinforced last week when I roped my mother-in-law into helping me make shortbread cookies. She is a kitchen goddess - she bakes, she stews, she cans, she preserves, she roasts, she does it all. So I figured with her help, I couldn't possibly screw up the sacred shortbread recipe bequeathed to me (after much coaxing) by an older colleauge. Boy, was I wrong.

My aforesaid girlfriends are not without a sense of humour. A few Christmasses ago, they gave me a cookie press. They know I don't bake very well, but they also know I love to try. They also know about my weird obsession with Martha Stewart. She's a bit wacko and her projects are often astronomically unattainable, but I love her anyway. I'd enjoy being her for a day (sans the prison record and scary smile). A cookie press is the ultimate in Martha-ness: it's a beautiful concept, but mere mortals don't have much of a chance of making the damn thing work.

My mother-in-law is used to being the master of her kitchen domain. Unfortunately, I am used to being the master of my kitchen domain. This does not bode well for an evening of community baking. But we like each other and both of us made an effort not to assert any kitchen-nazi tendencies. We unpacked the cookie press, took it apart, admired the different patterns. We read and re-read the recipe, measured the ingredients for the dough and mashed everything together with our hands.

Things were going swimmingly until we jammed the dough into the press and attempted to mould our first cookie in the shape of a wreath. I clicked the trigger of the press three times and looked down at the cookie sheet. Nothing. My mother-in-law tried. Still nothing. I shook it, smacked it around a little and tried again. Nada.

Upon further examination, the instructions on the cookie-press box warned us not to use a cold cookie sheet (not a problem, as my MIL's house is always 80 degrees), and not to use a non-stick surface. Well, who the hell owns a cookie sheet these days that isn't non-stick? We looked at each other in disgust.

Finally, after taking out all the dough, adding a little water to the mix and stuffing it back in again, we got our first cookie out. It looked like it had been a victim of radiation poisoning. We changed the pattern to the tree and tried a few more. They looked like little Charlie Brown Christmas trees. And so it went.

Three dozen cookies laster, I discovered that the worst part of all this baking humiliation was not that we burned the cookies (we had trouble getting the oven to heat up, so overcooking wasn't a problem) or even that we never got the hang of the press (eventually, the cookies kind of resembled the shapes they were meant to). It was that they tasted AWFUL. Kind of like butter mixed with sawdust. Even the cute little mini-m&ms and candied cherries we used to decorate the tops couldn't save the flavour. My husband tasted one; he chewed, and chewed, and chewed, then fled to the fridge for some milk to wash the cookie down. "Gahhh," he said after a mighty swallow, "not my favourite.

So now I have 3 dozen nasty tasting shortbread cookies in my freezer. And a cookie press that is going back where it belongs, in the dark forbidding far corner of my least-used cupboard. And I know exactly what I'm giving my girlfriends for Christmas.