I wonder if I’m just out of the blogger mode but it seems that the nights that I have the time and the space to write a post has me often sitting here wondering what to write about. I used to have no trouble with finding things to write.

Now I'm realizing that I rarely ever sat down with a specific post in mind. In fact, more often than not, I would just start writing. Topics would pop out of my fingers and there it would be, a post. Probably not the most coherent and eloquent post, but I had some semblance of an idea there and a few digression deletions later, I would be heading off to do whatever I used to do with myself when I had one child and… lordy, what did I do with myself?

I think I asked myself that exact question after Franklin was born. What kind of valuable time did I waste before I had a child? I could have been saving the world. I could have had a PhD. Two, even.

Anyway – coulda woulda shoulda.

I’ve been thinking a lot about genetics these days. Franklin seems to have developed an allergic reaction to latex. My father thinks I may be off the mark about this but it has been twice now that my son has opened a new toy and had an allergic reaction much like that described for those allergic to latex.

When plastic is made it usually involves chemicals or other agents to allow the plastic to release from the production molds more easily. Sometimes these are not rinsed properly. Someone I know has mentioned to me that we may want to keep an eye out for potential latex allergies, as sometimes a latex based dust is used in these molds.

My father is allergic to latex and this type of allergy can be genetic. It can also be a sensitivity that can get worse the more exposed you are to latex.

However, genetics aside, I wonder if this kind of allergy and many others that children seem to have been developing more readily is a product of our chemical world. The build-up on their little bodies must be horrendous. At this point, I really wonder how much genetics really play into allergies anymore. I wonder if we are totally redefining what we would traditional see as genetics through our dependence on chemicals in everything we do – from the diapers we put on our babies to the formaldehyde we use to preserve our dead.

Charity has mentioned to me that she is thinking of going shampoo free. We already use environmentally sensitive cleaning agents in our home, eat organic and cloth diaper(ed) both children but I think we can do better. I think I’m going to try and drastically cut back on the chemicals we are exposed to. This isn’t a case of ridding our home of germs and then unwittingly make our children more susceptible to colds and flu when they are out of the house. This is a prevention of chemical build-up that could potentially prevent more allergic responses and perhaps more serious diseases further on in their lives.

Hell, if anything, it will provide entertaining blog fodder for awhile.

I hang out with Eliza a lot.
Really.
In fact, the two of us are pretty much attached to each other. If she's not slurping down a breast milk sandwich or burping said sandwich all over ourselves then she's wrapped to my body and we are walking somewhere.

Notice just then?
When I mentioned burping all over ourselves? Yes, I apparently no longer have my own pronoun. It's not "myself" it is "ourself". Such has been my life for the past few months and I am confident that this will continue for a short while longer.

I don't mind.
I know the above few sentences would lead you to believe that this has been a burden but have you SEEN her ? She's gorgeous. She's fun. She's Eliza. She wraps her chubby little arms around mine and holds on tight. She slurps her hands into her mouth and looks up at me with as much of a smile as she can handle - considering the mouthful she has given herself - and then, because she's opened her mouth to smile and widened her entrance a bit further, she shoves those fists further down her throat and gags.

Too cute.
(I'm sure you are gagging right about now as well except I have a feeling that it is not due to how far your hands can reach into your mouth).

So my point is?
Gardening is slow when I have a three month old baby wrapped to the front of my body. This can be frustrating. The other day, Dickson took her in the wrap while I furiously weeded and sorted out the community plot. It was so satisfying. I kept thanking him as I pulled more and more weeds and straightened rows and made room for more plants. At one point, I was in such glee to finally get to a job I had previously only frowned at while watering upright that I actually farted.

Yes.
This was something I used to only do in bookstores when I knew I had about 6 hours to kill.

Now that the garden is in much better shape, I feel better about its progress. I can see a plan and I look a little more forward to watering it in the mornings. This year I'm planning to try forcing Belgian Endives. We have a crawl space in our new house that could be the perfect environment. I'll keep you posted.

Here's more sappy crap to take with you when you leave this blessed website.

I can't remember who sang this to me when I was a kid - my mother or my Kindergarten teacher with the hair that grew past her ass - but it fills me with such sentimental hippie calmness that I want to move to Lasqueti Island and start an organic farm. I still remember all the words and after a few years of being strapped to me in the garden, so will Eliza.

I can see the four(!) of us - my mother, Thuraya(!), Eliza and myself - stamping out our cob house while tending to our goats and chickpea fields. Sister power. Come into our garden.

Peace.

Recently we moved to a new home closer to my work (when I’m not on maternity leave, mind you), closer to Franklin’s school (living near the friends he sees at school is so so so much better – even if the closest bestest one is moving to Japan in August), closer to the community garden (a billion hoorays for this!). Basically, we walk everywhere now.

Who would have thought that moving to suburbia would free us from the car? Well, I guess our situation has made it so, anyway. Shopping is much closer, the beach is much closer and like I have already mentioned, school and the people we often set up play dates with are much closer. We didn’t really live “downtown” before anyway. We lived “in-between” or "on the bus route" - in the hard to define area where nothing really gets built except for apartment buildings and subsidized housing, really.

One thing Dickson and I have noticed is that when we watch a movie, the volume on the television is 3 notches lower. Everything is quieter here. There are no more sirens screaming down the road and the friendly neighbourhood dumpster divers don’t come all the way up here to gather their goods.

I used to get annoyed when people mentioned things like “idyllic, quiet countryside versus the busy, noisy city” because I love living in a city. Victoria isn’t all that much of a city, I know, and I would move to a bigger centre in a heartbeat – given the right circumstances. I love the action. In the past, I would defend the screaming fire trucks, the excavators and the car alarms. However, there is such a remarkable change now.

I can hear a lawn mower. I can’t remember when the last time I heard a privately owned, hand powered lawn-mower from my own kitchen. These things do make a difference.

I took an environmental aesthetics class once and during one class I remember questioning the unappreciated aspects of city noise – both visual and audio. I defended both graffiti and ambulances. I demanded a world where we become accustomed to the hustle and the bustle. I wanted there to be a world where living so close to each other was okay (even desired) and that people weren’t constantly trying to “arrive” and “feel successful” once they move to the suburbs or the countryside. We can't all afford to live with a green yard and picket fence buffer between us and our neighbours. Thus, we shouldn't set up artificial standards and thrive for this kind of life

However, I get it now. It’s not the hustle and bustle that we need to change. The environmental pollution that is caused by the noise of traffic isn’t what defines a city and it shouldn't need defending. In fact, this is something we need to change – through better traffic planning, bike promotion and communal commuting. Car alarms, fire engines and dump trucks are not a proud badge of city life but a kind of toxin that can slowly wear you out. This is something we need to find a solution for as I’m not so sure that children should be growing up with that kind of beat constantly playing throughout their soundtrack of life.

The Act of Opening
Yourself Up
So that Another Being Can
Pass Down the Channel
And out of You
Takes a Woman All the Way
Down
To the Very Deep of Living

- Judy Grahn

The fourth trimester is finished. Eliza is becoming a responsive, smiling, gurgling baby with a personality and a definite presence in our home. Franklin told me the other day that he loves her more than he loves me or Dickson. There are many ways to take that but aside from the curious need to place people in a hierarchy, I’m overwhelmed by his love for her.

My sadness over of the the end of an important stage of her life is shocking. These emotions coming from a person who wanted to adopt children (read: not babies), if have any at all? I suppose I can conclude that the birth of Eliza has made a deep impression on me. Perhaps I have less anxiety and more confidence? I’m not sure. From the moment she was born, I have felt a strong connection – something I didn’t feel with Franklin until he was at least 6 months old.

There could be so many reasons for this – breastfeeding, second child experience, help from relatives, a partner who isn’t freaked out either, a beautiful son to remind us that we can be confident parents. It could be all of these combined. All I know is that the first three months, while hard, are now done and they cannot be re-done. I can’t press rewind. I know there will be more and more wonderful things to come but the newborn experience is over.

I’m sad. I do truly wish we could have more children. I wish it were a responsible thing for us to do but it is not. I’m sad about this. I find it hard to believe that this is how I feel but there it is.

I saw this on typealice and thought it would be fun. I chose to pick from with the most relevant, recent or interesting searches, as it wasn’t specific.

The rules:

a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker.

The questions that inspired the photos:

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favorite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favorite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name.

If you guess what my answers to the questions were, I’ll send you a prize.
It won’t be gross, I promise.

Rustling plastic bags s-l-o-w-l-y doesn’t make you quiet. It makes you annoying and it makes you WAKE UP THE BABY!

How many times do you need to walk into our room before you realize that the centre passage way creaks? For Pete’s sake, walk along the side of the room, like this, see? Otherwise you’ll WAKE UP THE BABY!

Of course you can brush your teeth. What do you think I am, a sleep tyrant?
Umm, don’t leave the water running it’s ummm, bad for the environment and, um, don’t flush the toilet it’s yellow, let it mellow… all for the environment, right? Besides, all that commotion on the other side of the hall will WAKE UP THE BABY!

Have you ever noticed that your “whisper” isn’t as much a “whisper” as just low talking? Do you want to practise how to whisper? I know you wouldn’t want your current pathetic excuse of a whisper to WAKE UP THE BABY!

Why are you clearing your throat like that?
Stop it.

Forgot the grid meeting this month. I set it up, made sure the meeting place was open, near the month’s grid and wasn’t to be overcrowded at the designated time. Then, life happened and I didn’t make it.

Actually, I may have made it in a somewhat late fashion had I not been strapped to a baby under a pile of boxes and plants. Yes, it’s an excuse. I am calling uncle. I have too much on my plate.


List of things I have tried to keep on top of this month:

· Newborn (gotta be on the top of the list, right?)
· Moving abodes (within the same city but still a sweet sort of hell)
· Grid Project (with that comes a website and gallery showing)
· Childcare Subsidy argument (I lost)
· Taxes (what? I can’t hear you)
· Baptism for Eliza (had to find a church that wouldn't make Franklin break out in hives, don't ask)
· Bills (Telus and BC Hydro can suck my balls)
· House Guests (most of it a help, some of it not – no, I’m not telling you which was which)
· Selling of furniture (anyone want a vanity?)
· Buying of furniture (we are officially adults)
· Handling utility and address notice
· This blog (had to sneak it in here somewhere, don’t feel bad)
· Making of meals (Lordy, I made a Martha recipe the other night)
· Garden (we will supply the island with brussel sprouts this year)
· School (AEG grades rock my world)
· Keeping up on emails (everyone seems to afraid of bloody flickr)
· Thank-you notes (I can’t find them!)
· Baby announcements (still trying to correct those mofos)

Jesus and Mary Chain! Looking at that list makes me feel super human. Okay, I can officially cut myself a little slack. Last time I pushed out a human just making it through the night was an accomplishment.

And it’s not that Dickson is a low down dirty lay about either. He was finishing school and now he’s in MUST FIND JOB mode. Yes, he must because my maternity top-up ends in July and then, my dears, we are poor.

Not living on the street trying to find a cardboard box poor or trying to fight our way to get a cup of rice poor but we will be scrapping. On the bright side, there will be no more private school to pay for – except for the money we already owe them…

Fuck.

The thing about a second child, I find anyway, is that I expect myself to be competent. However, when I really think about it, I wasn’t all that competent with the first one. Why would I expect myself to be competent with the second?

Don’t get me wrong; this doesn’t cause me much anxiety – my lack of competence. I am just a little surprised at my naivety this time around.

“What? This worked for Franklin! Why doesn’t it work for Eliza?”
Riiight, a totally different baby.
(hand slaps forehead)

As we round out the fourth trimester I can definitely say things are good. There are things that have gone definitely better this time around (breast-feeding), things that have been the same (haemorrhoids suck) and things that have been worse (the crying, oh the crying).

Ever heard of hyperlactation syndrome? It’s not something I ever thought I would have to worry about with my wonderful bouts of mastitis with Franklin. I avoided the mastitis problem this time and low and behold, too much milk?!? So much milk that Eliza gets too much for her little body too fast. So much foremilk that she fills up on it and doesn’t get to the hind milk. Too much foremilk means too much low-fat protein and gas build-up. This causes, hands down, the best projectile vomit I’ve ever seen in my life.

The vomiting is hilarious because she’s gassy and bothered and cranky and then she spews watery milk across the room (she seems to always to reach the teak wood on the heirloom rocking chair or my side of the bed) and then she looks at my shocked face and seems to say, “What? Haven’t you seen the Exorcist?”

We are getting there. I can convince my breasts to produce a little less but I can’t do a thing about my let down - my massively powerful swoosh that, I swear to God, feels like I’m about to have an orgasm in my breasts. For Eliza, I think it may be a little like trying that plastic flamingo drinking game where someone pours a beer down the neck of the lawn ornament and you have to try to chug it down without wasting any of the precious Bud Light or whatever horrible beer that die hard asshole from the bush party who should have graduated years ago but still likes to be the cool guy and tries to feel you up as you wait for your boyfriend to get back from peeing in the bushes….

Sorry, where was I?

Anyway. Either Eliza will get the hang of the let-down at some point and by high school be able to master the flamingo chug or we will have a few more weeks/months of the milk version of Linda Blair.

And really, I’ve always loved that movie so whatever.

This is the baby announcement I designed this morning. This morning I deleted all other designs I had been working on. Now, people will be getting a postcard in the mail with our faces on the front along with a plethora of flower photoshop brushes that I know I overdid. I didn't know when to stop and once I looked up....well, crappola.

I’ve never watched as much television as I have while breastfeeding (I find it hard to juggle a book and feed because I'm uncoordinated in terms of breast sports). In fact, I was talking to a few friends the other day about this and how it can affect your state of mind. A good friend of mine had a son 9 days after September 11th, 2001. Her entire first few months with her baby were spent watching coverage of the twin towers over and over and over again. She will always remember how much she analyzed that tragedy and how she followed all the coverage – the conspiracy theories, the falling man, and the hunt for Bin Laden.

When Franklin was born I’m sure there was a lot going on in the world. I watched CBC News as it reeled its news loop over and over and over again. There isn’t much that I remember as there wasn’t anything as all encompassing as 911 but I do remember one specific news item – Michael Jackson dangling his son, Blanket, over the balcony.

I was horrified. What was even more perplexing than a sheltered superstar with no sense of reality showing off his latest acquirement was that no one in the media seemed to think it was a dangerous thing to do until the following day. It was like all the childless reporters were all, “Hey! Look at Wacko Jacko” and then those with children saw the clip and saw the reality of what was happening – a terrified child was dangled out of a balcony because his father had no sense of consequence.

This time around I’m still in front of the television while breastfeeding. I’m also in the company of a five year old boy with a dinosaur / shark / Ben 10 obsession so I watch a lot of this as well. However, there is one thing that sticks in my mind and it isn’t terrorism or child abuse. It is botox.

We were watching reality tv the other night – Hell’s Kitchen. (Wow. There is crap on telelvision, by the way, and this is one of them.) The masochistic junior chefs were cooking for a sweet sixteen party and the mother of the birthday girl was a stereotypical debutant mother – with the typical face of a person who lives in an alternate universe than mine. I suppose it was more noticeable because of the “reality” contestants and their “relaxed” faces. Her face was smooth and tight and cartoonish. I started noticing it in other television women. It was like when I started to see breast-implants as sore, engorged breasts on the verge of mastitis.

I suppose when you see this on a regular basis in your routine life, you don’t think you look all that different. Perhaps when you are used to watching women on television look this way one may think that this is just the way television looks. However, I can’t get over this now. Everywhere I look in the media… botoxed, poisoned women. I’m scared for them – and frankly, disgusted.

So, with Franklin I witnessed Wacko Jacko in a delirious fit of immaturity and with Eliza I see women walking around perpetually frozen and trying to stop time from appearing in their faces by paying people to inject botulism toxins into their bodies.

Ugh.

We have had a load of company since before Eliza was born. It has been so wonderful having so many people come out to see us and I’ve been out and about more in the last few days with some beautiful old friends (and by old, I don’t mean “old” – inside joke) than I have in months.

Buchart Gardens!
I went to Buchart Gardens, Beacon Hill park AND wondered all around downtown with two fabulous women for the last three days and I forgot my camera every time. It’s like I have only enough memory for a baby and a diaper bag. The camera has been shut out.

However, now my sister is here and I’ve been pulling out the camera more often. She captivates Eliza. The photo with this post is of my sister lulling Eliza to sleep with her beauty and a few hums of Hush Little Baby. Thuraya has a touch with these little humans.

I get glimpses of my sister when I look at Eliza. I can only hope Eliza takes on some of her qualities – but not the screaming part.

Puleese.
I love you, Thuraya, but you were a loud kid.

When Franklin was born, we lived in a very large house by the ocean. We had tons of space, but very little storage. We had one amazing roommate and very large windows. It was a wonderful place to live. Steps to the ocean, 15 minute walk to downtown. The neighbours were owners of one of the best bookstores in the city and the lady who lived downstairs came up to visit me and take care of Franklin if I needed to sleep off the bazillion bouts of mastitis that I contracted.

We are living what seems to be the opposite. The home we have now is small (North American standard of small anyway), we are several kilometres from the ocean, we have very little space (tons of storage), no roommate and windows that are pretty big but that don't open upstairs and which has caused me a few sleepless nights going over fire drill scenarios.

The lack of space means we don't have a change table set up for Eliza. Big deal, right? Sure, but now that I have another child, I constantly compare experiences. I think it will be something I do until Eliza becomes more than a milk drinking blob and I quit thinking she's actually baby Franklin all over again. Those wee hours of the morning can do wonders for your mind, but that's an entirely different post.

Franklin's change table had everything an over-achieving mother is supposed to display for her child - the black and white stimulation mobile as well as a variety of fish and a stash of rattles at the ready. It's not that he was incredibly fussy and needed all of this, we just wanted him to be a genius in order to placate our own insecurities regarding our own precarious intelligence...

Eliza, however is getting a raw deal in comparison - at least until we move to the new place next month. She gets changed on the floor, the bed or the couch. Her stimulation? Well... Franklin's silhouette? The frame of my glasses? My soothing rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?

When they say you are more relaxed about the second child, I hope I don't actually fall into placing her in front of a window and letting my five year old babysit while he simultaneously cooks dinner so that I can have my beauty sleep (wow, that sounds nice...).

Actually, there is one pattern she is attracted to and it is right above the rocking chair where I feed her. A big Marimekko fabric stretched on a canvas that Dickson bought at a garage sale and is our favourite possession. I love these patterns. The one on our wall is a classic and I hope to be able to afford a few more designs in the future.

Recently, I found this clip on you tube (a slight addiction of mine, that you tube).

When I left this blog, I was feeling a little exposed. I was also conscious of the amount of emotion I was sharing with the Internet and I wasn’t quite sure why. I didn’t really like the fact that my friends would start a conversation with me based on something I had revealed only on my blog. I wanted conversations and revelations to be with them, not a result of something I had written days earlier.

As a result, I decided to stop the blog. I wanted to concentrate on other things and most importantly; I wanted to share my thoughts and feelings with my friends through face-to-face conversation. So, did this happen over the course of the year I was away? Absolutely. I was pleasantly surprised at the amount of close friendships I have developed. There are people who used to read my blog that I only knew as acquaintances that I now call a close friend. There are others who used to be what I considered a friend but take away the blog and with that, all intimacy we really ever had.

Sometimes I hesitate to write this or mention this to others with blogs because I most certainly don’t think this applies to all who blog but for me, a blog stood in the way of real friendships and falsely propped up others. I had always thought I would return to blogging to would try to save the more intimate portions of my life for my friends and partner instead of just letting them read in online. These friends are not necessarily those in my same city, but they are the ones who return my emails, who come to visit and whom I feel comfortable talking to over the phone (normally, I loath the phone). They are the ones I call when I find out I’m pregnant but can’t tell anyone yet, who are genuinely excited about projects I’m working on and who know how to listen without judgment and always have wise advice.

However, I’m on maternity leave! I’m not reading anything mind-blowing or profound and I’m not taking any courses. Franklin had his booster shots last week and the book about Louis Pasteur was probably the most challenging read I’ve done in a month.

In fact, I’m overdosing on HGTV programs and the news channel until our cable gets cut before the move and providing 24 hour nipple for Eliza. The most perplexing thoughts I seem to have these days are whether her eyes are going to be blue or brown. What to write about? If I’m saving my more personal thoughts for more intimate forums, what do I fill in here? I suppose I will have to just wait and see – and perhaps set myself more of a challenge to read more interesting things than cute television realtors with British accents and whether Brenda Martin is innocent or guilty.

Weekends are definitely more difficult than the weekdays.

I have to constantly remind myself how wonderful Franklin is. When we ask him to prepare for swimming lessons and he says “No” I have to remind myself that if this is the extent of his “rebellion” then we are extremely fortunate.

And it is - the extent of his rebellion. For a child who has been the centre of my life for 5 years, his entire life, he is doing remarkable well with this whole "new sibling" thing.

I have to remind myself that after I put Eliza down and Franklin yells across the room about some random shark fact (did you know that Shark Water is out on video finally? FINALLY?) and she wakes up again that it wasn’t intentional. The fact that he forgets she’s here isn’t his fault and really, it’s nice that he isn’t worried about her all the time.

I have to remind myself that my reminder of hugging her gently was actually followed through and that his leap onto the bed before that and narrowly missing her head is only enthusiasm and not malice. We are lucky he is so enamoured with her.

I have to remind myself that we have a wonderful boy who is trying so hard. Having a sibling this late in the game will take getting used to. My brother (18 months older) didn’t really know any different. I probably always seemed like I was there. Franklin, on the other hand, can remember before Eliza was born. He remembers what it was like.

I had a friend come over for a visit today. Her children are spread 4 years apart. Her son reminds her of what things were like before his little brother came along – “Mommy and Me Time”. It breaks her heart. I wonder if Franklin thinks about this. He seems good about it all. He tells Eliza he loves her (even when he thinks we aren’t listening) but I hope he’s also happy. He’s such a pleaser (inherited from his mother) that I wonder if he believes this is how he’s supposed to act.

I’ve tried to talk to him about it but we weren’t alone and I think he needs some time to think about what we talked about. His responses were very “No big deal, Mum”.

Of course, I may also be over thinking this entire thing. He may truly feel that things are “No big deal”. Perhaps he has inherited the ability to take things in stride from… not me.

Dickson? Perhaps….
or maybe when you are born on the west coast it seeps into your genes.

Motherhood the second time around is funny. In many, many, MANY respects, it is easier. The breastfeeding went smoothly. The recovery time went smoothly. Even the inevitable haemorrhoid has been better. You know what to expect and when it does, you know the solution before it gets worse. When it doesn’t happen, you are pleasantly surprised.

I am also fortunate to have a loving family. My mother came for a few weeks and then my mother-in-law came for a few weeks after that. They cooked, cleaned, rocked and shhhh’d their way into Eliza’s heart. As well, they learned all about aliens, dinosaurs and sharks from Franklin and there is no boy on earth that has had a baby sister be born and be lavished with so much attention at the same time.

My mother-in-law has left tonight. It was a little odd to have no company in the house after 6 weeks of in and out relatives. Of course, there was still her meatloaf ready for dinner on the kitchen counter but other than that; I was actually left to my own devices. While Dickson was at the airport and then off to school to finish a final project I ate dinner with Franklin (with Eliza feeding away), got him ready for bed and brushed his teeth (while burping Eliza) and then read him stories and put him to bed (while she fell asleep).

It feels like the same kind of system we’ve always had with one added difficulty level – Eliza. However, I think we’ll be fine. In fact, I think we’ll be wonderful.

I have a feeling that my mother and mother-in-law are worried about us. In a way, this hurts, as I know the two of them did it on their own with three or more children. They didn’t have automatic washers or supportive families like I do. They did it anyway. They were tough. They persevered.

I’m tough. I’m game. I can do this too. I think I’ll just have to show them that we are going to be okay. Of course, we are also moving in less than a month and I have to pack this house up tout suite (yes, moving mid-May!) but I’m competitive that way. They’re ringer washer and language barrier difficulty levels have to be matched somehow, right?

For the birth of Eliza, it was arranged that there would be one person to be with Franklin while I was in labour (my mother-in-law) and then my mother (doula) and Dickson with me. We weren’t sure if we were going to do the home birth or a hospital birth until the last few weeks revealed I was positive for GBS and I wanted a hospital birth for observational reasons. Regardless, I wasn’t going to assume that Franklin wanted to be with me at home so I wanted to make sure he had someone else to “hang with” while I, breathing low, slow and ever so gracefully, laboured through the night.

The evening my mother and father arrived my water broke with an audible “pop”. I woke up my dubious partner from his comfortable sleep and then took a nice long shower. My labour started the same way as with Franklin; steadily increasing with intensity, but nothing unmanageable. The only difference was that the contractions were more intense. In the end, Dickson had very little time to catch Eliza. She shot out like a cannon. In fact, she came out so fast that her head looked as if I had a caesarean. She also had quite a bit of trouble coughing up residual mucus, something that also tends to happen with caesareans, as the baby doesn’t squeeze it out while going through the birth canal – makes for a few scary first days while she choked and stopped breathing every once and awhile… (ack).

Out she shot and then once he tried to place her on my chest she only came to my belly. Her umbilical cord was too short to go any further. No wonder she was head down since I was 18 weeks pregnant. No other option!

Anyway, it was a wonderful birth. Two midwives, my partner, my mother and… my father who was called in while my leg was way up in the air and I was mid-push. Poor man. He was waiting outside the door and my midwife thought hey! He’s here! Ada? Want your father to come in?

“Sure!”
The look on his face… he thought that the baby had already been born.
Har.

However don’t get me wrong, it was incredible special to have all of those people in the room with me. I think if I ever give birth for a third time I’ll bring in my entire family, Dickson’s family, Franklin’s classroom and any co-workers and friends who want to stop by. We can serve beer and nachos and have the game on in the background.

and you’re invited too.

It's hard, after being away for more than a year. Where do I start? What do I say?

Basically, it's been a good year. I want to tell you everything but it would take so long.

The best news though? We have a new baby. Her name is Eliza and she is almost 1 month old.

We are in love, all three of us.
I'd like to think it's mutual as well.

There have been a few hurdles and I've finally decided to forget everything and post.

I wanted to start out with a redesign but something seems to causing problems and I'm not sure what exactly is holding it up - except for my inability to actually have control over the ultimate design of this website due to my inexperience with MT. This will change.

I wanted to fix the archive problem that seems to have developed but from what I understand, it isn't fixable and I'm still not fully understanding why. This will also have to change. I stopped writing in this blog in December 2006. I don't like the prospect of having to manually enter all of these back into the archives but if I have to, I would like to get going on it.

Not much to write about yet.
Well, there is a lot to write about but for now, I'm busy with some illustrations and I have to go. I just wanted to get this post out of the way. I'll be back tomorrow.

So I find that if I log on to the laptop at home, one version of my weblog universe comes up - the one I normally see at work (on my break of course). Then, if I log on to the main computer with the gorgeously large screen we received for Christmas, I see the original version, the one with the majority of the comments and the one I think most people are seeing - but I'm not sure because by golly people just don't comment anymore...

Oh man.
Franklin is upstairs crying and it's breaking my heart not to come to his aid.

I've found I have to step back a bit more these days. Franklin needs to know that Dad can handle the messy moments just as well as Mom. For awhile there, it was nothing but me. Then I stepped back and it was back to normal. Now, since returning from Pender Island, it's been a little clingy again. Most of the folks at the wedding, D went to high school with so he was a bit preoccupied most of the time. This left me and a three year old doing the crab walk down the boardwalk and discussing the rules of Crazy Eights by the fire.
We had a great time, and basically, I told D to bugger off and hang with friends he probably won't see again until someone's funeral... but still, it was a Mom and Franklin all request weekend.

Speaking of the weekend, it was wonderful.
I've never been to Pender Island. My oh my! The construction that is happening all over the place! Real estate is so addictive. It made me want to join in the frenzy and fix ourselves a little hide-a-way somewhere for retirement.... you know while things are cheap?!?

Yes, that's where it the little dream popped.
Whatever. Land owners are bourgeois lay-abouts.
Yeah, that's it...

The highlight of the trip - other than, say, all of it - was the fact that a disposable camera was left in the room for Franklin. At first, the bucket and shovel were the prizes that were pounced upon. Then, the dolphin stickers found there way to everyone's hand. Somehow, the Denman Island chocolate mysteriously left the bucket...

But, after awhile, the camera got a good look over.
The first shot was of his nostrils of course, but after a short while he was priming the flash and positioning the lens like a pro. Of course, there was also the fascination of taking close up shots of my fingernail, the shells on the beach and almost an underwater excursion in the toilet bowl and the inevitable shot under the shirt. However, I'd say that a good 50% of them turned out quite well.

I'll be posting the results tomorrow on flickr.
I'm sure you are all quivering in anticipation.

Yes, an alternate universe!
Stay with me.

In this alternate universe, the "Happy Kid" post never happened.
That's right.
It neeeeeever happened.

In that alternate universe, there is a post lamenting the fact that I have lost the last three April entries. This means that this alternate universe is devoid of all things connected to dirtyolive and strawberry karma, space obsession or poop.

When I am at work, I see the post lamenting the other posts. Supa and my sister see this universe.
When I am at home, I see “A Happy Kid” and this little dribble you are currently reading – as does Barbara, Jess and Andrea.

Can someone, with more geek skill than I obviously have, explain this to me? I recently changed nameservers. Is this the problem?

Regardless, I know you are all breathing a sigh of relief that this is the side of the universe that still is privileged to read such incredibly "been there, done that" material.

The “been there, done that” is a teasing reference to a woman who may mistakenly think I am angry with her for presuming that I, with the one child, is so sufficiently fascinated with my life that I will post anecdotes on the internet about my son but which anyone who has already had a child has.... “been there, done that” and oh... yawn.
Yaaaaawwwwwn.

I’m kidding, Jess.

There is no way on earth that I would be angry with you for speaking your mind on your blog. I didn’t feel like you were slamming me - or my one child family. You were talking about what it feels like to be a family with four kids in a world where people seem to think one or two children are enough, for whatever reason.

If I were mad, I wouldn’t be talking about it on the net.
I would be marching right up to your blessed doorway and snapping my fingers like an idiot. Ha. Yeah, right. That would be funny though.

Seriously, I'm not mad.
I understand it is all part of the mother debate going on and the big hubbaloo surrounding that infamous book. To me, it's not only exclusionary because the world (including the blogosphere) seems to concentrate on the single child families - although I can see your point.

If you are going to start commenting on who is excluded in the mother who works versus the mother who stays at home, then lets open the picture to both the multi family households and the women who work because they have no other choice. You feel there is little choice to be a SAHM because of the size of your amazing family. I feel there are far more who do not have the choice to stay at home OR have more children due to simple finances.

(And here, my other friend, Charity will scoff at my constant beef with our society’s invisible classism, which seems to range from Thomas the Tank Engine tales to crappy social commentary best seller books.)

So this book, from what I've learned, is a personal account of many wonderful women and their somewhat different ways of raising their children. Apparently, even Naomi Wolfe feels it is a great representation of “real women everywhere”, which actually surprises me.

You see, the working versus SAHM debate doesn’t exist in my everywhere. However, I have a feeling that Naomi Wolfe lives in a vastly different everywhere than I.

In my everywhere, most families can’t afford to have another child - with or without childcare. There is still a face-off in my everywhere, but it is not this way because women are defending their choice, but out of frustration, insecurity and “the grass is greener” envy of ignorance.

In my everywhere (and perhaps, for Jess), the women who have more than one child do not have a choice to work or not to work. The debate is thrown completely out the window. Thrown out that same window is the feasibility of childcare for multiple children – multiple meaning two or more. Infant care, toddler care, after school care…. Yikes.

In my everywhere, some women weren’t even ready to have one child and now they are doing it alone. SAHM? According to many in society, this is the role of a “nurturing mother” (excuse me while I roll my eyes). If this is the ideal, then why are single mothers on social assistance so vilified? Why does our government try to limit this opportunity? There seems to be a narrow image of a SAHM and I object to this.
(Incidentally, I absolutely love the stupid factoid they give about mental and verbal development on that linked site. Yes, lets makes the “other side” feel like crap too. Yawn)

In my everywhere, there are families who would love to be able to adopt a beautiful child without a stable home but are stopped due to their financial status. Today, I felt like crying as I watched a thirteen-year-old girl testify against her adoptive father’s sexual, physical and mental abuse. SAHM? Working Moms? Who cares! There are children out there who just need a loving home.

What about the Dads who want to stay at home? I have one. I’m sure there is a hell of a lot more. Is that even a question? Nowhere in literature or on the internet do I see this debate. Dads? Stay at home? They don’t bond with their children! They do sporty stuff! They are adoringly removed! They pat heads and straighten collars!
They don’t wake up in the middle of the night! They don’t wipe the noses, bums and tears! They don’t worry about food groups and chemicals and if Jimmy knows how to share.
If I make more than my partner, why is it odd that I would be the one at work? What if I (gasp) enjoyed working and knew my partner would prefer to stay at home? From my experiences, I find it hard to believe those who try to tell me that there is a wire inside mothers that isn’t present in fathers that make staying at home more of a desire for women.

In my everywhere, we are all doing the best we can and yet, everyone thinks that everyone else is doing a less thoughtful, less stimulating and less nutritious job of raising their children.

To me (in both universes) the “right choice” isn’t really much of a choice – either way.