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.

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)

SF - City of Random Singing and Grumpy Sea Lions

SF is a busy, hectic city. The crush of people here can be overwhelming. But one nice thing is that a lot of them sing while they plummet down steep sidewalks and dash in front of trolley cars. Some have i-Pods jammed into their ears, but others just sing random tunes without any ear-budded accompaniment.

Take the business-suited Hawaiian guy walking behind me on Market street yesterday. He scatted an impressive ladder of notes, jogged to catch up to me and said, "Hey beautiful, like my singing?" I had to admit that I did. Once he'd quickly determined my marital status and given me his website ("I write all my own music, s'true!"), he cheerfully skedaddled. But my favourite singer was the little Asian guy in the wheelchair going up an impossibly steep hill outside of Chinatown at 10pm last night. His voice was as high pitched as one of those Chinese erhu thingies, which is funny, because they say the erhu can sound like a human voice. Anyway, his lament pierced both my eardrums and my heart.

Speaking of Chinatown, I had a chance to explore it for a few hours on foot yesterday. What a boisterous, shiny, colourful, crowded, gaudy bit of over stimulation it is. I found the perfect Kuan Yin statue, something I've been searching for, and the shop keeper directed me to the Washington Restaurant to try their "very delicious" won tons. You know you're probably in a decent Chinese place when you're the only white person there. (Although the "noodles with hot dog and tomato sauce" wasn't my idea of authentic Chinese food) The crispy won tons were so delicious that I forgave the grim-faced waitress for giving me a fork instead of chopsticks.

On the less than melodic side, we stumbled on the famous sea lions of Pier 39 on our waterfront crawl. Talk about a cantankerous group of creatures: barking and biting and whacking each other with flippers. And the stink! It was almost like being back in Bruce County at manure-spreading time...or watching the tourists vie for room at Station Beach on the long weekend.

Finally, let me say that the sushi here is absolutely the best I've ever had. Heaven = San Francisco rolls, a rich combo of toro (fatty tuna belly) and California avocado. Washing them down with chilled Cherry Blossom sake, I found my happy place. God bless whoever invented sushi.

They say SF is the city of "foodies," and tonight I intend to drag a reluctant D to a fine eatery to test this theory further. So far, I haven't been disappointed.

Up next: eatin', drinkin', dancin'...and Alcatraz.

San Fran - city of irritable drivers and chilly fogs

D had an opportunity to come to San Francisco this week for a work-related conference. His boss kindly advised him to "take his wife," so I've tagged along like so much pretty luggage. You should see our hotel: fancy schmancy.

I'll post snippets of our experience in SF instead of inflicting big rambly posts on you, dear reader.

First, let me say that it is cold here. Cold and windy. So much for my whole California dreamin' notion of sunny skies and temperate climes. My mother whisked my sister and I to L.A. back in '88 and it was deliciously warm the whole time. With that happy memory in mind, I packed flimsy summer dresses, sandals and tank tops. And one pair of jeans. Thank heavens I packed my all-purpose Reading Festival hippy scarf! When I knot it around my goose-pimply self, it helps stave off the damp air shooting up from the wharf; it also warms me to know that wearing a scarf jauntily around one's throat seems to be in keeping with the local style.

When I complained about the weather here to my friend from Vancouver, she said, "September is sweater weather on the West coast, Kim." (I could almost hear her mentally adding, "You dingbat" but she's too sweet to actually say it.) So I scurried out after work yesterday and bought D and myself sweaters. We went on a boat cruise last night with his conference buddies, and I was glad for my wool/acrylic blend - salty sea winds are nice in theory but killer in practice.

The only other thing that's made an instant impression on me is how nasty San Fran drivers are. I mean, NASTY - honking if you hesitate for a second at a light (HONK! "Is this New Montgomery street?" HONK HONK! "How should I know? You're the one with the GPS!" HONNNNK!), cutting you off mercilessly on the freeway, refusing to let you in, trying their best to run you over as you wander across the street. Maybe I've been putt-putting along in Bruce county for too long, but I don't remember Toronto - or even Montreal - drivers being so gosh-darn rude. D and I felt like country mice in a big ol' city full of feline drivers. We have decided to walk as much as possible.

Coming up next: the best tuna belly God ever made, my search for Kuan Yin in Chinatown and the Hawaiian guy who wanted to marry me.