5 Things…I didn't do on March Break

Ahhhh, March break. Nine (that's NINE) days of uninterrupted quality time with my children. Enough time to take a trip somewhere, or plan fun and exciting daily excursions. You know, museums, parks, swimming, skating, hiking, ice fishing, skiing, sap-collecting. Because spring break is about doing all the things things as a family that you normally don't have time for.

Or not.

This March break was not what I'd pictured. Never mind the fact that we passed around a violent stomach bug like a diseased hot potato ("Here, you have it!" - BARF! - "No, you have it!" - SHART! - "I know, let's give it to our poor, unsuspecting cousin. Catch! - RALPH! -). We just didn't really DO anything. I suppose there's nothing wrong with that; there's a lot of pressure on parents to DO STUFF and MAKE IT MEMORABLE, especially during March break. To be honest, I don't even remember what we did last year. I asked my daughter and she just shrugged. Whatever we did, I'm sure it was at least moderately fun. Probably.

The year before that, we went to Florida. But that doesn't count as a fabulous March break, because neither kid was in school at the time. I'm sure we won't remember much about this slightly miserable break either. But man, I had plans! I had ideas! Plus I didn't realize how out of practice I was having the kids home for long stretches of time. I'm used to a nice chunk of quiet between our morning shuffle and the evening frenzy. I'd forgotten about the Sisyphean task of cleaning a house while children are still in it. I'd forgotten how much TV they want to watch. I'd forgotten how to juggle puke bowls and towels and the awful necessity of a middle-of-the-night-sheet-and-pyjama-change. Boy, do I remember it all now.

So here are 5 Things I didn't do on March break, in no particular pathetic order.

1. Go to Kindergym.
Got the kids up, fed, dressed and excited about Kindergym. Drove 20 minutes into town. Made children peel off four layers of outerwear. Realized gym was filled with women doing Zumba because Kindergym was NOT ON TODAY because TODAY WAS NOT SATURDAY. Plied kids with doughnuts and empty promises to stop the whinging.

2. Write.
By the time the kids were in bed, I only had the mental capacity to play online Scrabble very, very badly.

3. Do something fun as a family.
D worked the entire week, which was unavoidable but still sucky. Dylan and I made it to visit my sister Tanzi and hit the butterfly conservatory for an hour before the crowds freaked us out. I guess mooching dinner off Grandma several times that week kind of counts as a family activity.

4. Have a romantic date with my husband.
D had a worse week than I did. Plus nothing puts a damper on hanky panky quite like finding a child sleeping in your bed covered in his own vomit.

5. Swim. Skate. Go to a museum. Go the freaking library. GO SOMEWHERE. GO ANYWHERE! AHHHHH!

So what did we do? Well, we painted the hell out of every toilet paper roll and pine cone in the house. We cuddled. Imagined. Sang. Tickled. Planted. Baked. Told each other how much it stunk to be sick over March break and celebrated with chocolate cake when we got well.

It wasn't the best of times, it wasn't the worst of times. We did get to relax and hang out in our PJs with no real routine or schedule pricking us in the conscience, which was pretty cool. I think I so got caught up in what I wanted to do with the kids that I kind of forgot to ask them what they wanted to do. It was their break, after all. Turns out there's a big difference.

Last night, as we snuggled down for our bedtime routine, I asked my daughter whether she'd had a good March break, mentally shuddering as I anticipated her answer. "Oh Mumma," she sighed from the depths of her comforter. "It was SO GOOD. I got to wear my pyjamas EVERY DAY and hardly had to go anywhere!"

I guess next year I'll try not to be such a doofus and take a cue from my kids.

A Little Less Should, a Little More Rum

It's Wednesday. No rain, just chills and wind and curdled clouds. I should be mowing the lawn. Or something.

I should do the kids' laundry so Jade won't have to crouch naked at the top of the stairs again screaming,

"MUMMA WHERE'S MY CHEETAH OUTFIT!? YOU SAID YOU WOULD WASH MY CHEETAH OUTFIT!!"
and Dylan won't have to wear his undies inside out tomorrow.

I should round up and capture all the dust elephants under my bed so I don't have another asthma attack tonight.

I should mix the dough for Hallowe'en cookies because it has to sit in the fridge for four hours before I can let the kids attack it with rolling pins and cookie cutters.

I should clean out the drawer from hell that caused D to curse and violently slam it shut when he was trying to find one elastic band.

I should write a blog article.

Oh wait, I AM writing a blog article. That makes one "should" out of five, which isn't bad considering I've spent most of the morning slumped on the couch playing online Scrabble and sipping a hot rum toddy. Mumma feels like she's getting a chest cold, and that does not make Mumma happy, or motivated, or overly concerned with her ever-present to-do list. Ever have one of those days when the "shoulds" creep up and try to strangle you? Screw the shoulds. Today I love the couch.

Anyone who spends most of their time looking after an active family knows the danger of forgetting to look after themselves. A couple of weeks of that stupidity and you simply collapse. After surviving several unsavoury health issues, I've come to recognize and listen to the messages my body sends me. Today, it was the sensation of having an invisible thirty pound cat sitting on my chest that made me stop doing the dishes and retreat to the sanctuary of my couch. I've essential oiled myself, turned the fireplace on, and concocted my tried and true "I feel like crap" remedy: hot water, lemon juice, raw honey, sliced ginger, a splash of rum and a cinnamon stick. Damn, is it good. It makes the invisible cat feel lighter with each swallow, and sends my should list back to where it belongs: in the drawer from hell.

UPDATE: 2 p.m.
I just watched the Walking Dead episode where a character gets a little tickle in her throat, which becomes a nagging cough, which then makes her cough up blood and die and become a zombie. If I start bleeding out my eyes, I know the rum just isn't cutting it.

Hey Shorty, it's your Birthday...

I'm 43.



43!!!

Which is kinda awesome, in my opinion. No longer in my carefree, naive 20's, or my semi-tragic, semi-romantic 30's. Nope, now I'm in my ever-evolving 40's. Mother, daughter, sister, wife, writer, unrepentant coffee addict, and looking to gain ten pounds, I'm adjusting my Aries horns and ready to ram my way into my 44th year. Look out, Bruce County.

Having dealt with so much nastiness these past three years, you'd think I'd be less than thrilled with this decade of life so far. Not so. I've been able to occasionally grasp that ephemeral sense of peace people have been encouraging me to seek. It's fleeting, but now at least I know it's there. Plus I'm filled with relief that the worst seems to be behind me, thankful for the funny, cosy, healthy moments that make regular appearances in my life now that I'm taking the time to notice them. Mindfulness, living in the moment, blah blah blah. I hate all that Oprah-speak, but the concepts are surprisingly great when you discover they're real and not just some crap Dr. Phil made up.

"So what do you want for your birthday, Kimmy?" is the question from D that starts getting asked in mid-February and usually lets up around April 1st, the day before my birthday. It's weird. This year, I didn't really want anything, not even a get-together with friends or a fancy dinner out. The absence of anxiety seems like gift enough. I was treated to cake and gifts by my family and in-laws on the weekend, and Jade drew me the cutest card, complete with a giant green balloon and a portrait of me with enormous ears. That fit the bill.

Then I found out that for the last two weeks, D had been frantically trying to buy me a 150 CC motorbike. What the what?? He'd put in three separate offers that all fell through, which explains his extra grumpiness lately. He told me he was going to put it in the garage with a big pink bow on it and make me take out the recycling. I was tickled by his covert plan, even though I don't really need a motorbike. I convinced him to buy me a non-fiction book I've been wanting to read called An Inconvenient Indian instead. Somehow, I don't think he was overly thrilled with the substitution. Motorbike vs. book? He just rolled his eyes.

"It was very sweet of you to try and buy me a bike," I whispered to D in bed on April Fool's night. He grunted, still ticked off at his bad luck. As I drifted off to sleep, my mind wandered over to that back shelf of my brain where I keep my (clean) fantasies. If I could have anything I wanted for my 43rd birthday, besides a motorbike, what would I want? How about..

- a plane ticket to Calgary and a rental car so I could drive out to Banff for a week of writing at the Banff Centre. I soooo miss the mountains and the smell of the air there. And the food at the Banff Centre canteen. Banff always makes me feel like a writer.

- rent a horse and go riding for a couple of hours along a wooded trail. I'd hear the jingle of the bridle, the squeak of the saddle, the whoosh of horse breath and the clump-clump of horse feet. There would be warm flanks under my legs, cold air on my nose, sunshine in my hair. There would be birdsong and blue sky. Yeah.

- hole up at the cottage on the couch with the fireplace cranked up and a dozen blankets on me. I'd sip coffee and Baileys, read the paper and my books, snooze, order pizza from Ripley for supper and drink wine with D as we devoured each gooey slice. We'd curl up together on the couch and watch the fire after the kids went to bed and listen to the waves, newly released from their icy shackles. And, um. You know. "Cuddle."

- go back to Florida for another 10 days!

The reality of my 43rd birthday was pleasant, if not as exciting as some of my fantasies. I had a lazy morning with the kids, where we cuddled and tickled and teased, before Grandma took over for the rest of the day. Sushi was on the menu for lunch, with a great girl from my Mom's group for company. We had some good laughs together about hapless husbands and wacky preschoolers. I went for a pedicure to get rid of my hideous hobbit feet, after which I foolishly ruined the polish job with a long hike in what the kids call "The Muddy Woods" (aka the Kincardine trails). I discovered a new trail that led me up a steep hill flanked with cedars and reminded me of the trail that connects the town of Banff to the Banff Centre. It even had icy spots and coyote tracks. All it was missing was elk poop. On my way back into town, I grabbed a mochaccino at Books N Beans, snuck into the library with it and my laptop to blog and write and Facebook the afternoon away. Sunshine on the desk, dude reading a Wolverine comic in the corner, a collection of sweet birthday greetings online, peace and quiet. In a word: lovely.

After a few flirty texts, I packed up and met D for supper at the dim, cosy room at the back of the Governor's Inn. The food's always great there and the servers are sweet. After that, kid pick-up and tuck-in, a few glasses of wine in front of the fireplace and 43 spanks. (Okay, I made that last part up) (Sort of)

Let's hope the rest of 2013 perks up for this ol' lady, cause the first half hasn't been a laugh riot. I guess that's my biggest birthday wish.

'Twas the Night of Oscar...

...and there I was, decked out in my finest frilly dress, champagne clutched firmly in hand, ready to nosh and giggle and eye-roll my way through the ceremony for yet another year. Little did I know it would mean wearing my primrose pink three inch heels and thin cocktail gown for THREE FREAKING HOURS!!! Yowzah.



My Oscar date this year was a non-plussed D, who fell asleep somewhere around the announcement for best actor. He's never been much for Oscar night, apart from appreciative gawks when I come downstairs all dressed up. I stuck it out though. It's my February tradition, and I'll be darned if I'm going to let a weirdly-charming-but-completely-tasteless host or long-winded speeches or a horrific appearance by Barbara Streisand throw me off my Oscar game.

Plus, it was good to finally feel well enough to drink bubbly alcohol, eat roasted garlic, stay up late and feel kinda sexy. I mean, I got to wear the dress I wore on the day D realized he was in love with me (or so the story goes). I haven't fit into that sucker in a few years, and when I found it buried in the back of my closet, I gingerly plucked it off the hanger and slid it over my head thinking No way in hell this is gonna fit, but not only did it fit, it felt great. Which meant I had to dig out the aforementioned pink heels, bought on a complete whim in Halifax while I was there on business eons ago. Those shoes have seen a lot of Ripley arena and wedding hall dance floors; the soles are practically worn off. A woman walks a certain way when she wears heels. You have to have confidence and a sort of nonchalance to pull it off, and I was out of practice, but after a few clicks up and down the hallway, it all came back to me.

I couldn't help but feel a little stab of joy as I peeked in the mirror to fasten the emerald necklace D gave me for Christmas a few years ago. Gone was the gaunt, hollow-eyed waif with the limp hair and stooped shoulders. Back was ME - the real me, the recovering me, the sexy me. Thank God. And thank Oscar, too. He gives me a reason to flounce around in a fancy outfit at least once a year.

I'm baaaaa-aaaack!

My first instinct was to call this post "Yo bitches, I'm back!" You know, a catchy, gleeful, boo-YA! type of title since I've been out of action for so long. But it seemed a little too gangsta for some of my more gentle readers, not to mention the fact that I don't actually talk like that (except in my head). All I could think of instead was the voice of that little possessed girl from poltergeist: cute and a wee bit creepy.

Because when a blogger that I follow (and by "follow," I mean check in on when I'm bored) drops out of the blogosphere for no apparent reason, it is a little creepy. I tend to fret. Did they die? Did they lose both index fingers in a horrible keyboarding accident? Or did the activity of blogging just become so boring they threw up their hands in disgust and vowed never to post navel-gazing claptrap again?

F*** You Penguin, Zombie Guy and YayNayDay, all blogs that I enjoyed reading, have all gone the way of the dodo in the last few years, ceasing their entertaining posts without much, if any, explanation. Their disappearances left me feeling a bit bereft. Even though I didn't visit their blogs every day, dropping in to find no recent entries was like going over to a friend's place, hoping for a friendly chat, only to discover your friend won't answer the door. You just wanted to pop in and chat for a minute, dammit; where the heck did they go?

So if anyone out there has experienced a similar feeling of mild disappointment (or irritation) after arriving at Someday to find I haven't been posting since December, I do apologize. The truth is so banal that I'd rather tell you what didn't happen. As in:
- I did not break my leg skiing after winning the Canadian Butter Council's all-expenses paid trip to Banff.
- I was not arrested for participating in peaceful, naked protests on Parliament Hill.
- I have not gone all Honey Boo Boo on my kids and hired them out to toddler modelling circuits.
- I did not adopt a Vietmanese potbellied pig.
- I did not catch c-dif again. (THANK GOD)
- I was not swept away on a romantic month-long vacation to Japan, Kuai or Bora Bora. (sigh)

Okay, okay. Here's the truth:
- in early November, I pulled two muscles in my neck and became severely dehydrated playing my very first game of hockey, which led to a violent migraine, which led to 48 hours in bed. (I did score one goal though)
- Both kids contracted the flu, which led to a reocurrance of an anxiety disorder I thought I'd just said goodbye to.
- The anxiety triggered a month of wildly unpleasant bowel experiences, which resulted in a joint colonoscopy/endoscopy (or, as D put it, a "two-fer"), which resulted in a diagnoses of IBS, which is what I think doctors tell people like me when they find out we're not dying of colon cancer or cursed with colitis, but will be stuck for life with a cranky tummy and unpredictable bowels
- Enter medication, which my body decided to unceremoniously reject, leaving me in bed for over three weeks, unable to eat anything that didn't resemble broth or applesauce.
- Say hello to full-blown anxiety attacks, with an occasional smash of depression, which made me feel as though I'd fallen into a rather large, rather black hole that I couldn't seem to claw my way out of...

...but I did. With lots and lots of help. Phew.

So, see? I've got reasons, people! I didn't just bugger off and decide blogging was for foodies, celebrity hounds and sarcastic moms. I was here, fretting about my own absence; I was here, writing poignant, moving blog posts in my head that I promptly forgot; I was here, wondering if you'd come back and knock on the door again. I'm so glad you did.

Just so you know, this blog was never intended to be about anxiety, depression or IBS, and it's not going to change now. There are so many other, more talented bloggers who capture these experiences in a much more graceful, succinct manner than I ever could. The Someday Diaries is just going to be about life at Someday, in all its crazy glory.

And I'm back to answer the door, even if I have to crawl over to do it.

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...

Boo to the Flu

We have been pretty fortunate this winter so far - the kids have only had a few mild sniffle attacks, and we've managed to steer clear of the bronchitis, tonsillitis and c-dif that plagued our lives from November-January last year.

But.

Dylan has croup, which I thought was a 19th century thing.

And now the dreaded "bum explosion" flu has arrived, and it's here with a vengeance. Dylan and I had it on the weekend, and now D and I have it full force. Jade seems to have escaped the worst of it, and only has a cough (I am touching wood vigorously right now!) so we shipped her off to Grandma's to be sequestered for the day.

So.

No blogs for me right now...or work...or food...or fun.

BLEAH!

Oh yeah baby...I'm back!

Oh true and faithful readers of this ol' blog, I'm back.

Finally.

I'm not back with a vengeance, or back to kick butt and take names or anything. But hey, fingers to keyboard and arse in chair are pretty impressive after having written barely a word apart from countless inane facebook status updates since the spring.

2011 was a tough friggin' year. Thanfully, it didn't kill me. It did, however, make my life miserable on a number of levels. It also made me appreciate my body, my health, my doctor, my kids, my husband, my extended family and - most surprisingly - my sanity. Which, I'm happy to report, is now intact and functioning at a near-normal 90% success rate.

So thanks to everyone who stuck by me, encouraged me and held my hand, both literally and through cyberspace, while I battled some nasty demons in body and soul.

I'm back. Yeeha!

In sickness and in health...but mostly in sickness!

Fighting this wretched c difficile bacteria hasn't been a pleasant experience to say the least. Some days - okay, most days! - I've been an absolute mess of anxiety, worry, guilt and fear. I honestly don't know what I would have done without my steadfast husband, my encouraging sisters and my amazing mother-in-law, who have all taken turns steadying me when I felt I was about to crash, nurturing me and loving me without fail. My friends - especially the newer ones I've made up here through my Mums' group - have been unfailingly supportive. They send me daily email check-ins and offer help every time. Thank God for family. Thank God for friends.

Having been very ill for over four weeks now has given me lots to think about. There isn't much else to do when you're fighting near-constant nausea, the shakes and lethargy and have been confined to bed for most of the day. Sometimes one's brain goes in some pretty dark places, but there are also moments of sanity-preserving clarity that I am deeply grateful for. Here are a few that come to mind:

1. Sometimes it's only when you are at your most vulnerable that you discover how much you are loved. When I'm feeling really sick, and I have absolutely nothing to offer, my husband still makes me feel beautiful and beloved. He and my sisters can still make me laugh. My mother-in-law is still thrilled to see me and the kids, even when I spend the entire day moping on her couch or dozing in her guest bed. It is an experience that both swells my heart and humbles me.

2. Be thankful for the things that are going right. My kids are healthy. My husband is healthy. My mother-in-law is recovering well from her recent surgery. I have a doctor who takes me seriously and listens to my concerns. I live in a country where medicine is readily available. My house is warm and snug; we have a fridge full of nutritious food, even though I can't eat it! The sun sparkles on the snow, even though I can't ski in it. My daughter's laughter is as wild as ever; my son greets me with a smile every morning, even though I haven't been able to spend as much time with them as I want to. My husband's arms are warm and safe at night, and he holds me tight when I am too weak to reach out for him myself.

3. Give yourself permission to be sick. This is the best advice a doctor has ever given me, but the hardest advice to actually follow. I have been overwhelmed with guilt - the house is a mess! I look terrible! My kids are going to get disconnected from me! My husband must be going crazy and wish he didn't marry such a weak woman! - but I am learning, very gradually, to try and let go of the guilt and just face the fact that I. Am. Very. Sick. Period. The hardest thing for me has been to accept the idea that I may need to lie in bed for another few weeks and rest, and to give myself permission to do so. I'm talking excrutiatingly hard! But really, what choice do I have?

4. Find your happy place. Like I said before, the mind can go to some pretty dark and disturbing places when your body is failing. I'm teaching myself to acknowledge the darkness, then steer my brain into some happier thoughts. A counsellor once taught me to create a vision of a "safe place" and use it to combat anxiety, so I use the original one I created all those years ago: it's a warm summer night. The sky is scattered with stars. I walk down a sandy beach path into a clearning beside the water; there's a small bonfire burning and a large log beside it where my Babushka sits, waiting for me to join her. I've also created several new ones - my husband and I gently sway in a hammock on a deserted beach in Hawaii; my husband and I hold hands on a porch, watching our adult children and small grandchildren play a game of soccer on the front lawn of Someday; I'm driving the mountain highway towards Banff, where I'll spend a week writing. They are strangely comforting and help keep me grounded when my mind wants to think terrible things.

5. Be brave. Not much else to say, really. (0:

The winter of my discontent

Holy. Crap.

It's been over a month since my last bloggy post, and you wanna know why? Because I have been living in a house of plagues for the entire winter!

Not to bore you with a litany of our illnesses, but check this out: Jade had bronchitis, tonsillitis and a variety of colds. Dylan was (mis)diagnosed with urinary tract infection. D recently got whomped with a wicked bout of the flu (in 5 years, I've never seen my man toss his cookies before, so watching the usually healthy one in our family retch his guts out for 12 hours was an eye-opener). And yours truly had bronchitis, mastitis, a cold and finally a bacterial infection that's beaten me down to a shadow of my former self. I'm thinking of marketing it as the C difficile weight-loss programme.

As a family, we've been in and out of emerg, different hospitals for tests and the doctor's office more times than I can count since October. It's been horrendous. And yet...I know that though we've had rough luck, we haven't had to deal with anything life-threatening or incurable. So I am trying to count my snotty, pukey, nauseous blessings in between doses of anti-biotics, piles of crumpled tissues and empty gatorade bottles. In the shadow of things like Haiti, close friends who have recently lost loved ones and relatives who have been in wheelchairs for nearly a decade, our misery is negligible.

Here's to a stronger, healthier 2011. Wishing you blessings and good health, my bloggy friends.

Comfort for a sniffling soul

That's what my Nana wrote above her recipe for chicken soup in one of her recipe "scribblers;" I often think of it when I'm suffering from a wretched cold like I am right now. Ugh. What a way to ring in the new year. (By the way, HAPPY NEW YEAR my bloggy friends!)

I haven't figured out how to get rid of a cold quickly, but I have come up with a roster of remedies that trick me into feeling better. Half the battle with a cold is to do everything in your power to stop yourself from feeling completely miserable. Because I find that when I'm sick and miserable, I make everyone around me miserable. I am a terrible, terrible patient.

First, get as much rest as possible. I know, I know - that's what everyone says. But hardly anyone does it! No, most of us slug ourselves off to work or school anyway, where we moan and snuffle and infect 3/4 of the people we come into contact with. Stay home, for pete's sake, get into bed and stay there for a few hours. Enlist the help of friends or family or whoever you can cajole into looking after your kids/pets/plants so you can catch at least one or two hours of rest. I think colds are our bodies ways of telling us, "Dude, slow the freak down." So listen to your body, get under a blanket and get prone, pronto. Better yet, go to bed a few hours early. I dare ya.

I've already expounded on the joys of taking a bath in an earlier blog, so I won't blather on about it again here. It does wonders for your sinuses though, and loosens up all the guck in your chest too. Add a drop or two of eucalyptus oil and suddenly you'll remember what it's like to breathe through your nose again.

My Dad's remedy for neutralizing all things germy that come within 10 feet of him is pretty good too: slice a raw clove of garlic very thinly. Place it on a cracker with a piece of cheese or better yet, a chunk of venison salami. Eat. Watch all your loved ones flee to the next room. But seriously, garlic and onion do seem to help me feel better when I have a cold. And it doesn't have to be as drastic as dear old Dad's pungent remedy; think fresh salsa with raw onion and garlic (I like Garden Fresh from the deli), or hummus or baba ganouj. You won't be able to smell yourself anyway.

The best thing about having a cold is that it gives me an excuse to drink hard liquor, which I rarely ever do. My version of a hot toddy is the ultimate sickie sleep aid. As a bonus, it also numbs the throat and soothes any of that nasty coughing business. Take a cup of boiling hot water and add a generous glop of honey. Then add the juice of half a lemon. Then add two slices of fresh ginger. Crown this glorious concoction with an ounce of cognac or sherry. (Yes, I know it's supposed to be whiskey or scotch but I'm trying to cure, not kill myself.)

Finally, buy some Vicks Vapo Rub. Find someone you really like, and get them to slather it all over your chest and back. It's surprisingly soothing and stimulating at the same time. (0:

Stay well everyone.

The Perils of Pregnancy (aka "Good Lord, is that REALLY my belly?"

I vowed that if I ever had the good fortune to become pregnant again, I would never, ever utter a word of complaint. And these are not complaints by any means - simply some obstetrical observations I feel compelled to share.

Here are Nine Perils in Three Blogs...think of them as trimesters!

1) The Queasies
I've experienced pretty violent morning sickness with all three of my pregnancies. This confession is met with puzzled looks from many of my formerly pregnant friends and family members, who perkily inform me that they never had any nausea at all. WTH? I thought EVERY woman who was up the stump suffered from the queasies. Apparently I am one of the chosen few. I think my many mornings of retching means my child will sleep through the night, learn to change his/her own diapers and despise Barney and Teletubbies. Right?

On the bonus side, The Queasies prevented me from having to attend early morning meetings for the first four months. And now that the Queasies have left the building, eating has become a near-divine experience, where all the flavours I once loathed taste fresh and new again.

Aside: I have to insert a few blessings here on the makers of Stoned Wheat Thin crackers. I should really write them a thank-you note for single-handedly ensuring I didn't starve to death between September and January. And blessings on D for learning to make fresh ginger tea, which he dutifully carted to my bedside for innumerable weeks.

2) Tipsy Doodle
Hormones are funny things. Being pregnant, I am apparently full of them. They course through my body, pausing to wreak occasoinal havoc with my emotional state and, recently, my balance. I'm not any dizzier a blonde than I used to be, but I tend to tip over more often than I used to. No spectacular wipe-outs; just gradual, slo-mo descents into snowbanks or walls for no apparent reason when I walk out to the barn or try to put on my boots. One minute I'm filling the bird feeder, the next I'm inhaling snow thinking, "Alright, who just pushed me?" I'm being very careful and walking slowly, but I think pretty soon I'm going to have to buy one of those funky carved walking sticks old Swiss men use.

3) You're going to put WHAT WHERE?
I suppose it's because of my venerable age and past medical history that I'm subjected to bi-weekly ultrasounds, poking and prodding from a variety of medical professionals and, most recently, hideous procedures that even really mean aliens wouldn't perform. The ultrasounds aren't too bad - I love seeing Bumbo making faces at me - but some of these other tests are hard on a girl's dignity. But not to worry: my friend R, who recently had a baby, informed me that after a few hours in the delivery room, I will not have any dignity left anyways.

Stay tuned for the second trimester...

The Kittification of Someday

We have four cats at Someday Farm. They are inherited barn beasties, left for us by the previous owner's daughter, who cared for them diligently after her father died. I tried to tell her she was welcome to take the cats before we moved in; she looked at me as though I'd suggested she barbeque them and retorted, "It's the only home they've ever known." This sentiment was forcefully repeated inside a card she left us after we took possession of Someday, along with photos of "the girls."

My mother always had a cat in the house when I was growing up, with a succession of different personalities and a variety of names: Vodka, Snowball, Velvet, Champagne, Selina, Chaucer. But four cats is more than I've ever had to deal with at one time, and I'm now faced with the dilemma of a very sick kitty. Comfort, the friendliest, purriest and most congenial of the barn kitty coalition, has not been well of late. She's gotten skinny, even though she still rams her way into the food bowl. I suspected an ear infection, as she was shaking her head a lot, and made a mental note to go and buy ear drops from the vet. But this week she has deteriorated at an alarming pace, walking with a lean and sometimes falling over when one of her companions brushes by her too enthusiastically. Yesterday I found her looking practically post-nuclear, with a trail of crusty blood coming out of her eyes.

So, much to the amusement of D and C, I'm waiting for the vet to arrive. Most country people don't spend money on barn cats; they are an expendable commodity, and believe me, when one goes to "the bush" or "the happy hunting ground," there are a dozen more willing to pounce into the empty place at the food bowl. But I feel bad about leaving Comfort to suffer. She is the only barn kitty who'll stand up to Neko, and the only one I can pick up and hold in my lap. She's a friend to all children and amuses visitors with her paunch of belly fat that swings when she walks.

We've spent hours together sitting in the sunshine. She truly was a comfort to me while I was on my leave of absence, her purrs a tonic to my grieving soul. So although I am usually a bit more of a hardass when it comes to animals, it doesn't feel right to follow "the country way" in the case of Comfort. I called the vet over on the 4th Concession and he promised to drop by today. I'm going to shell out a fistful of dough, probably only to have the vet tell me she's a goner, but at least then I can put her out of her misery knowing I tried to do something for her.

I wonder how the other kitties will react if Comfort, whom I've always thought of as the feline ringleader, disappears from their kitty coalition? I think Comfort and Betty are sisters; I have no idea if cats care about that kind of thing or not. I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

The Flu, Someday style

My husband's adorable 6 month-old neice, whom I've christened "germ-baby," visited for the family Christmas extravaganza this past weekend. How someone so small and so darling could manage to infect 5 of us with the flu, I'll never understand. I thought I'd escaped the curse, but it serves me right for being smug when everyone else got it. This morning, I woke up and knew one simple fact: the toilet and I would become very, very good friends today.

Thankfully I only have a mild dose of old Influenzie. D's dad got it and threw up four times during the night. (D told me that when the old man retches, the whole house shakes.) D's brother got it and actually missed work for the first time in years. So I count myself lucky to work at home and be in close proximity to the porcelain god.

The worst thing about having just a mild case of the flu, in my opinion, is not the stomach pains, the inability to keep anything down or the shakes: it's the BOREDOM. OH, the boredom! I hate TV (and we don't have a connection yet anyway), I've read every book I can think of, not to mention every Sears/Home Hardware/Agricultural flyer I can find, I've stared out every window of the house, and I've napped until my back aches. Neko keeps groaning and sighing at the bottom of the stairs but I can't stray far enough away from the bathroom to take her for a walk. The second worst thing? Not being able to eat anything delicious. Yesterday was D's birthday, and there's a whole rack of chocolate cupcakes taunting me from the counter. But alas...I'm attempting to follow the flu-related "BRAT" diet, which consists of bananas, rice, applesauce and toast. I feel like a four year old.

Things, of course, could be worse. I could have a raging case and be retching my guts out. Or D could have it and we could both be sick at the same time, something not conducive to marital harmony. So I'll just keep spooning applesauce into my mouth and shut up. After all, maybe D will bring me a movie and some ginger ale when he comes home. Or better yet, maybe he'll stroke my hair as I lay prone on the couch and say, "Aww, you poor thing." THAT makes being sick all worth while.