When Franklin first started to talk there was a lot of imitation and pronunciation of every word under the sun. Everything was "What's that?" What's that?" What's that?"

It was entertaining at first and normal routine by the end.

"What's that?"
A squirrel

"What's that?"
A duck

"What's that?"
A tree

"What's that?"
A Shoe

"What's that?"
A pimple - look over there! A moose!

These days, it's a whole new slew of questions, but now they require more concentration:

"What does Custom mean?"

"What is a Gypsy?"

"Where are the leprechauns?"

"Why is my hair curly?"

"What are genes?"

It's a funny feeling, being my son's main lexicographer. I'm beginning to feel like Dr. William Charles Minor. His definitions will forever be tainted with our feelings about the environment, manipulative consumption and society's treatment of the mentally ill as we answer his questions as to where the garbage goes, why commercials seem louder in the movie theatre than the actually movie and the reason for the man walking down the street yelling and punching the air (ironically).

I know this is part of parenting, showing your children your views of the world, but isn't another large part of parenting the ability to let them think for themselves? My parents were good at that. I say this because I always thought they were wrong (har). Perhaps, in time, Franklin will understand that D and I don't know all the answers and that we are doing the best that we can with what we know. Perhaps I'm just jumping ahead of myself.

However, this absolute trust in our definitions of things can be hard. The other night, Franklin asked me the following question:

"What is an army tank for, Mom?"

That's such a loaded question.
It's one that I know will bring on so much more,

"What's war?"
"What do soldiers do?"
"What do they do fight / kill / destroy?"

I have a choice here. I can be obscure and evade the question with a vaguely true definition, or I can face it head on.

I evaded.

"Army tanks are big vehicles with strong treads so they can drive over a lot of rubble and dirt"

"What's rubble?"

See, that line I can handle.

rubble n. 1. A loose mass of angular fragments of rock or masonry crumbled by natural or human forces. 2.
a. Irregular fragments or pieces of rock used in masonry. b. The masonry made with such rocks.

Except that my "masonry" was brinks and bits of building. However, I forgot that I was talking to the patron saint of all things inanimate.

"Why do the buildings fall down?"
(worried)

"Oh, some building fall down, Franklin. It's a good thing. This means construction workers can come in and build new buildings."

"oh"

"Are there army tanks downtown, Mom?"
(There is a lot of condo construction going on in our city)

"No, Franklin. Not yet. We don't have that kind of rubble."
(worried)

Okay, that title is embarrassing.

Whatever. I write a blog. It's a mommy blog. It's about nothing but the amount of snot in my son's nose and my disasterous ability to convince everyone that I want my son to be gay. I should be BEYOND embarrassed by this point.

Anyway, Easter is coming. My family has always decorated Easter eggs for this holiday. It was always a treat for me, not just for the opportunity to be creative but to spend time with my family in an environment where they are all concentrated on an activity yet still felt the need to talk talk talk.

My family talks. It's especially funny because when they are concentrating, be it on a puzzle, an oversized Christmas colouring book, or Easter eggs, the conversation is really odd. It's a distracting conversation that results in all of us actually thinking a bit longer than normal before we speak - which is an interesting phenomenon for us.

I have always enjoyed this dialogue. In fact, now that I think about it, I should have brought over a few more boyfriends in these situations. The first time D met my family was at Easter time and although I believe he spoke about 5 words (Nice, To, Meet, You, Good-bye) he at least felt safe enough to stay around for the long haul.

Anyway, my point is that Easter is coming and I thought I'd post some easily-found-elsewhere methods of dying your eggs naturally - just in case you don't think of looking for it yourself (now, how holier than thou is THAT?)



Add tap water to come at least one inch above the dyestuff. This will be about 1 cup of water for each handful of dyestuff. Bring the water just to a boil, and then reduce the heat to low. Let simmer about 15 minutes or up to an hour until you like the color obtained.

Pour mixture into a liquid measuring cup. Add 2 to 3 teaspoons of white vinegar for each cup of strained dye liquid. Pour the mixture into a bowl or jar that is deep enough to completely cover the eggs you want to dye. Allow the egg to sit in the dye water overnight if you want the colour to be really deep - but make sure you store the soaking eggs in the refrigerator.

You need to use your own judgment about exactly how much of each dyestuff to use. Except for spices, place a handful (or two or three) into the saucepan.

Eggs colored with natural dyes have a dull finish and are not glossy. After they are dry, you can rub the eggs with cooking oil or mineral oil to give them a soft sheen. Rubber bands and waxed crayon are good for making designs, as are sponging the colour before it has dried.

Blue: canned blueberries, red cabbage leaves (boiled), grape juice

Brown Gold: dill seeds

Brown Orange: chili powder

Green: spinach leaves (boiled)

Greenish Yellow: yellow delicious apple peels (boiled)

Grey: purple or red grape juice o beet juice

Lavender: small quantity of purple grape juice, violet blossoms plus 2 tsp of lemon juice, red zinger tea

Orange: yellow onion skins (boiled), carrots, paprika

Pink: beets, cranberries or juice, raspberries, red grape juice, juice from pickled beets

Red: lots of red onion skins (boiled), pomegranate juice, canned cherries (with syrup), raspberries

Violet or Purple: violet blossoms, hibiscus tea, small quantity of red onion sins (boiled), red wine

Yellow: orange or lemon peels (boiled), carrot tops (boiled), chamomile tea, celery seed (boiled), green tea, ground cumin (boiled), ground turmeric (boiled), saffron


What kinds of methods have you guys used?
Any other ideas?

I can hardly wait to get everything ready only to start with a gusto and then see Franklin get preoccupied with a vehicle and leave me to do it all by myself.

Yippee.

I've started writing this post over and over again and I figure if I just start typing whatever comes to mind I may actually come away with something. So here I am - writing.

The problem I am having is I'm working out more. I know! I'm one of those "glass half empty" people who seem to find the crappy consequences in whatever I do. You see I get introspective when I exercise and even though there are five television sets in front of the bloody trainers, I still find myself wandering into my life and analyzing the shit out of it.

Even when they are filming the underwater pictures of the Queen of the North.
Even when they are reporting on the daily happenings of TomKat.
Even when old re-runs of Sex in the City are on.

I know!

Lately, it's all been about D.
Last weekend we sat down to watch Sex Traffic. If you haven't seen it, please do - but I should warn you, it's heavy and will stay with you for days and days. I watched it on a Saturday but D went to bed early on in the film. That night, without going into any detail, I dreamt horrible, terrifying things. In the morning I was grumpy and quiet and all I could feel was anger mixed with a strange sense of relief. It was confusing and I didn't talk much all Sunday.

What a movie endorsement, eh?

I'm babbling.

What I'm trying to say was, I was a moody dork with D and Franklin and I should have been celebrating. I have an amazing son and partner and I live in an amazing place in the world. D is one of the smartest and most honest people I know. He is understanding and respectful and we have an amazing life together.
So I'm sorry, D.

About 4 years ago, an old friend of mine had a baby and it wasn't going well.
She mentioned uncontrolled crying (on her part) and thoughts of throwing the baby out the 3rd floor window. She knew she wouldn't throw the baby out of the 3rd floor window, but My Lord she thought about it.

I asked her what she thought it would be like, as I hadn't had a child at that point. She mentioned things like rocking in her expertly picked out antique rocking chair and gazing lovingly at her baby as the afternoon sun went down and homemade soup sat bubbling on the stove.

Based on her expectations and how things were going for her then, I thought I could somehow get a grasp on what a newborn would be like. After Franklin was born, the not sleeping and the crying and the body that still doesn't belong to you would have all been more manageable if my breasts weren't rock-hard globes of fire and pus.

Nevertheless, I do think of those days fondly. I knew that whatever happened, I could handle it. I bit through the pain, I woke up for each feeding and I kept going on (and on and on and on). For me, this young baby was a clean slate and something I knew needed only the most basic things. I could handle that.

What I knew I would be scared of is the parenting we are at now; the less basic, more complex issues that make me feel like there is no opportunity to do anything over, there is no rewind button. Either I get it right or he is subliminally horrified for the rest of his life. Our first memories are formed at around his age. He's three, he's asking questions, he's noticing things, he's feeling so many emotions - sometimes it seems he's feeling them all at the same time. I want to create the most well-adjusted human being I can - but I worry I don't have much to give.

I'm not well adjusted.

I know I haven't jumped on the Parade of Pain bandwagon much compared to others and apparently, this pisses off a few people. It is not my thing. There are issues I deal with daily (especially these days it seems) but I choose not to write about them. Please don't think I'm criticizing people who write about their more personal trials. They are who they are and I am who I am and well… why do I have to write more about that than I already have?

Everyone has his or her issues.
Everyone thinks they are screwing up their children. I'm sure I'm not screwing up mine any more than the average over-anxious mother. I'm just saying that these days I'm hyper aware that anything D and I say or do could be one of Franklin's very first memories.

Very. First. Memories.

That's so important.
I find it hilarious that it's only now that I fully realize that yes, we are raising a human being.
He's a human being.

Hopefully, he will be fully functioning.

So... Valentine's Day...

Franklin and I arrive at preschool and there are little paper bag mailboxes for little valentines all around the library.

Crap.

I felt like that time I brought him to Sporty Tots in his rubber boots. Get. It. Together. Mother.

Seriously though? There was some kind of notice sent around with all the kids names on a list so that parents could choose to participate in Valentine's Day.
We didn't get this.
How could I miss this?
I didn't miss it.
It wasn't there.

But you know if it was, I'm betting D and I would have thought, "Nah, it won't be a big deal. This is preschool for God's sake. Who does this kind of thing at preschool?"

Apparently, everyone.

We're both pretty down on this whole exchanging Valentine's cards thing. The cheap Scooby-Do commercials to drop in every box sounds down right insane. They get enough of this crap in the media everywhere we go, do we have to buy it for them/succumb to it too? I want to avoid the pleading store requests to buy cheap merchandising just to "be like everyone else" argument for at least 2 more years...

However, a few of the children made their own Valentine's cards and wow, some were really sweet.

So, when I was called at my office to pick him up, I thought we could just make Valentine's Day cards that afternoon and bring them the next day. However, Franklin was pretty sick - fever, throwing up sick - so there was no wax crayon shaving going on.

Instead, I demonstrated what I was doing and he watched me and directed me as to the colours and shapes.

It was a group project. We're pretty proud of them.

P.S. If you try this at home, it's just the ol' wax crayon shavings between wax paper and iron it all to melt. We learned that a little shavings go a long way. Too many and the shapes are hard to cut out.

Usually, D and I don't celebrate Valentine's Day. I didn't get anything for him, anyway.
My work celebrates the day (and frankly, every Western holiday) in a BIG way so by the time I'm at home, I'm Valentined out. I feel like a humbug though - he got me roses.

crap.

It's not that I'm un-romantic. My work is a little too much for me though. Pink, red and chocolate everywhere. I was asked to bring red lipstick to kiss a wall so we could have red lip prints as a part of the decoration.
Do you think it's strange that I refused?
Is it odd that I don't want to bring every Western holiday up to the scale of ludicrous?

I don't mind that others get all crazy over the holiday. If they want to pick one day of the year to celebrate the people they love, that's great - but it's my workplace too, man. Let me do my work in peace.

It's not just Valentine's Day - so don't think I'm bitter about love. They celebrate (and I growl at) St. Patrick's Day, Hallowe'en, birthdays, Christmas... I want a place to go to do my work and be social - professionally. I don't want to be told what colour to wear or which day will be Goodie Day and who likes to eat what.

I've baked more times working in this place than I have in my entire life.
I've gained 10 pounds since I've started the job too - so obviously, I don't boycott the food.
Heh.

Don't get me wrong, I love working where I do. It's not the most challenging work but it has potential. I also like the people - hard-working, honest, no politics and very little gossip. My work also provides me with one of the best daycares in the city so there's that too.

There's that because today Franklin had a fever of 103 degrees and it took me less than 5 minute to pack everything up and run down to get him. There's that because I can now go back to spending my lunch hours with him - when I'm not in class at that hour (which is another huge plus).

Okay okay, I'm willing to withstand the tulle, the tiaras, the red, pink and fun fur, the valentines hearts and chocolate and a bit of weight gain to work with great people. They are a little wonky, but I like them.
However, I'm still not kissing cardboard displays with lipstick smeared on my lips. A girl has to draw the line somewhere and I require that my kissing surfaces are warm and soft... or at least smooth.

Happy Anti-Valentine's Day everyone.

I have a midterm tomorrow and I have a firm conversational knowledge of all the material that will be asked of me... but nothing more.
What this means is, if you were to ask me what "crisis of accumulation and spatial fix" meant while we were sitting in a pub and there was someone more knowledge at the table (who was obviously too drunk to answer this question themselves), I would be able to hold my own without causing the previously mentioned expert to snort something incoherent and shake their head in an uncontrollable manner.

I have no idea why I'm excited about this.
I think I get high on academic pressure situations.

My God. I have a prof who is most likely quite adept at searching for people on the internet. If he were inclined to go searching for my name, I wonder how difficult it would be to find me. Back when I had that weird legal trouble that I will still not mention because there is/could be/who knows whatthefcuk is going on with that in the works, I attempted to remove any mention of my last name and this website.
Regardless, it's out there.
I can't avoid it.

There is no such thing as an anonymous website.
whoopee (lower case)

Of course, this begs the question, "Why on earth would the man be googling one out of his 60 or so students?"
Yes, I know, I'm shaking my head too.

I'm also excited because come September, D goes back to school to study something he's talked about for the entire time we've been together. He's only recently found a school which will teach him the skills he wants to learn and low and behold, it's here in the city.
See? We were living here for some asinine reason!

Whoopee (upper case)

Every once and awhile, I start to see my life in a series of steps to the future. During these times, I don't feel the need to make plans, reassess my life, or fantasize about what I should or could or might drastically do.

I'm not fantasizing.
Well, not about my life.

When D and I first met it was a pretty large experience. I tried my best to screw it up in my own special way, but even I was aware of how crazy it would be to not spend the largest amount of time as possible with this person.

Some of the things I did with him are funny to look back on. At the time, they were meaningless, but it was as if I had some sort of relationship godmother making sure I took the right steps to show exactly who I was and what I wanted to be.

One of those steps was putting a copy of Germaine Greer's "The Madwoman's Underclothes" in his pack before he left for home. I don't remember why I did this. I wasn't thinking, "You must know that I will not be a SAHM" or "I do not care if you have clean socks and a prepared lunch every morning". I didn't even think he needed to know my stance on underwear or pornography. Yet, the book meant something I think. It meant I wanted him to think and be aware that there was more to me than the small amount of time we had so far to get to know each other.

No matter what you may think of this Greer and whether she could even hold a candle to the likes of more prominent feminists, this time in my life, when I knew (and was scared) that I had met someone I would love very deeply, is what I thought of when I heard that Betty Friedan had died today.

I am married. I am a wife. I have a son. However, I am married to a man who sees me, not a wife. I have a son who has tea parties with his dinosaurs. I work fulltime and study at university. I will be the bread-winner in the house come September and no one bats an eye at this decision. I think it would be safe to say, I am growing to my full human capacities.

Also, I'm happy. I think much of that has to do with Betty.
So, I just wanted to say thanks.

It's quiet.
All I can hear is the trickle of the fish tank, the hum of the computer and my typing.

There is no child upstairs "singing my life with his words" at the top of his lungs.*
There is no television playing behind me.
There are no dishes washing and no music playing ever so quietly through headphones that I'm not supposed to hear.

Only the blissful sound of silence.

I love this.
I can write 500 assignments on geo-economy and local governments in this atmosphere.

I remember sitting in the front seat on a ski trip one winter. The rest of the team was quiet and it was only my coach and I traveling down a small highway with snow shooting straight at the windshield in small white pins. The rest of the world was completely blank and void of life. It was so peaceful. I remember telling my coach that night that I didn't really want to be a racer but that I prefered to live in a cabin, in the middle of a forest, totally isolated.
My coach was surprised at this - not that I didn’t want to be a racer (he had mentioned a year earlier that I analyzed things too much to really let my skies go), but that I wanted to live in silence.

People who meet me assume that I like action. I suppose, when placed in a hectic situation, I tend to get excited like the rest of the adrenalin junkies out there. However, silence is heaven. Silence gives me the space to think the thoughts that are yelling at me on the inside. It also gives me the focus to get things done. Silence is… golden.

This is why you will get emails from me at 3 in the morning and comments on your blog at 4. I need silence.

This isn't a Mom thing.


* I've been singing a little Roberta Flack to him before bed these days. "Hush Little Baby" was gettin to me, man. There are only so many mocking birds and dogs that don't bark that I can take in a lifetime.

... and you were speechless .... and I was giddy
.... and you drank too much ... and I was tipped too much.

I love you , D.

Yes, I watched that last night. What a warm Christmas flick, I tell ya.
It was a gallant attempt at facing some of my more irrational fears
- a bit of a New Years quest, if you will.

So the film ended at about 11:30pm.
D watched the casting and the genesis of the movie with me as I tried to convince my over-active brain that although it was based on a true story, it wasn't based on the future of my true story - or Franklin's, or D's.

D went to bed at midnight.
I was up until 2am.
I'm not even studying - honest.
I'm really that freaked out by these unscary Hollywood courtroom Catchecism class seminars.

This morning, once I examined everyone for signs of demonic possession, we started the official Franklin Boot Camp of Independence.
Now, this would make a good horror story.

Ask me how long it took to get dressed this morning with not a finger lifted by either Mother or Father.
Answer: 45 minutes.

Actually, I think it's going not too badly - considering.
The week of slow transition to the preschool has the little guy seeing things a little differently. As well, it has me seeing how much I shelter him and, as a result, hold him back.
Yes Ada! Your child can put on his own slippers, coat, boats, mittens shirts, pants, underwear and socks. Amazing!

The socks shocked the shit out of me.
(Say that 5 times fast)

But, you know? It's not so much that he can't do these things, it is that he gets so easily distracted. I do believe he has an abnormally fickle brain for concentration on one task. Watching this distraction in action (5 times), I am frightened for him and his scholastic ability.
Was it the scotch I drank on New Years? He was conceived on January the 8th - thereabouts.
Perhaps it was more like December the 28th?

I remember my math teacher in Grade 12 realizing I had a serious concentration problem. In an effort to help, he told me that whenever my mind started to wander I had to say, "NO!" out loud and get back to my studies. The only problem was there were many times when it took me 45 minutes to realize I was actually wandering. By then, I was drawing a sketch or examining my pimples and couldn't possibly be interrupted to do 15 calculus questions that were essentially the same anyway.
Right?
I mean, weren't they all the same?
I wouldn't know.
I was drawing my right big toe.

Yeah.
I'm scared for the guy.
Clearly, his father would have been the more suitable gene parent to choose from.

I am rewriting a paper for publication. The first version was dismal.
D.I.S.M.A.L.
I'm hoping this second draft will be acceptable because the process may just give me the last set of gray hairs and extra sallow skin that will make my transition from good-looking woman to tired looking... complete.

I'm not sure I resemble a woman anymore so I can't tack that onto the last phrase.

This will teach me to hand in a piece of writing with my eye shut and fingers crossed. That almost never works. I think the last time it worked, the person looking it over had malaria.
Clearly, we need more malaria in North America.

Seriously, I'm not kidding.
Har. I love writing that.

If I were to make a list of things I dislike doing, analyzing a paper of mine would be right up near the top. Clustered around it would be mastitis, arguments with my older brother and cleaning the bathroom after a balding man (or woman in my case, it seems).

The only thing that's making it palatable is the Check Your Head, Beastie Boys album I'm listening to.
Dr. Boot-ay.

Crap.
D just took back his headphone to do the dishes.
Bastard.

Sigh.
Le Sigh.
Someone give me another way to say,

"The main strategy of industry groups has been to suggest that recycling of plastics is best accomplished by what industry figures call waste-to-energy recycling".

There's too much "recycling" in that sentence.
It sounds dumb.

I will never do this again. Do you hear me Internet?
I am making you responsible to personally chew me out because I don't think I trust myself NOT to take two courses and work full time while being a mother and partner - again.

I had almost convinced myself that I can do this for one more semester.
However, I re-evaluated tonight as every little thing Franklin did seemed to intentionally piss me off.
Upon further reflection and inquiry with D, there is no toddler conspiracy to make The Mother insane. He's just being a regular three year old and I'm being a regular cranky bitch that can't handle a child head butting me in the ass as I bend over to pick up his coat he just tossed oh-so-casually onto the floor behind him.

I have a large post in mind regarding why I am doing this, where this ambitious drive is coming from and how I will provide a reputation for myself as "The Crazy lady on the Internet Who Thinks the Sky is Falling", but now is not the time to do it.

Now is the time for writing about New Urbanism and Walkable Suburbs, Edmonton neighbourhoods and Design Charrettes, the economics of Road Diets and community involvement. These are all things I want to bury my head into and concentrate on for the next few days until I can finally lift out of the fog and turn in something of which I am immensely proud.
However, I know this will not happen. It's not possible.

Instead, I will do the best I can "under the circumstances" while I simultaneously write Christmas cards, go to Truck Light Parades and visit Santa Claus in the mall.
(Oh, and I’ll try and show up for work on time and stick my tongue down my partner's throat for a bit so he’ll remember who I am)

You know, I don’t think I’d want this any other way – except for one less course, please.

Holy Moses.
Why the hell am I writing right now?!?!?!

Yesterday, I ran home from work while D and Franklin picked up dinner. I figured he might whip up something with the kale in the fridge - because I have no idea how to cook kale and kale is in season right now so that's what arrived on our doorstop.

I got home, sweaty and triumphant for making it up that last hill, only to see my son sitting on the couch slurping down a strawberry milkshake from MacDonald's.

Dinner consisted of chicken mcnuggets, fries (which Franklin miraculously hates) and steamed baby carrots - with blueberries for dessert. I haven't eaten Mickey D's in a while and holy moly, that stuff is salty. I read a statistic somewhere, I think it was in Fast Food Nation, that there are people (more than you'd believe) who eat there 4 or 5 times a week!

Later that evening, D had to play squash with his lover(s) and so he took the bath duty while I made myself a nice salad with local lettuce, avocado and red peppers (not from my garden).

I read to Franklin and put him down for the night, promising to check on him later (thanks for the idea Kyle, it works like a charm). When D came home he plopped down on the couch and revealed to me that Franklin had stayed in the tub that night until the water had all drained out.

And then he peed on himself.

And then he stood up and put his hands practically inside his butt and farted.

You know, I appreciate the information, but MacDonald's dinners, pee baths and fistfuls of fart are all things I really don't want to know about.

There I was yesterday, making people puke with the display of adoration for my partner and today I am here to tell you that Franklin has a drastically different opinion.

For some reason, Franklin has decided that Dad is "un-cool". Dad's allowed to say "Good Morning!” but he's not allowed to come into the room. Dad's allowed to pour a glass of juice for Franklin, but he's not allowed to sit next to us on the couch. Dad's allowed to talk about digger and excavator and dump truck Halloween costumes on the way to daycare, but he's not allowed to hug him good-bye.

It's weird and I really don't know what to say. I can't just tell Franklin to smarten up and give his Father a hug. How does that sound?

"Hug your Father! Hug him or you'll get no dessert!"

Jeeesh.

Of course, I enjoy the fact that Franklin wants to hang out with me - but lately it feels like he wants to hang out with me only to not hang out with Dad. Personally, I wouldn't want D telling our son to give his Mother a hug. It’s supposed to be a pleasure - much like reading the comments on my site...

ahem

So... other than reading about the Oedipus complex, I've been perusing other parenting websites and this whole thing is as common as the day is long - which is a funny expression for me because the day is really never, ever long enough, is it?

Yes, this is called favoring one parent over another and I've read that it will eventually sway between the two of us as his ever-pleasant moods crash back and forth. I also know that this is only one part of the large quagmire that is a toddler's emotional development. Still, it's uncomfortable. It hurts. It sucks. I'm so eloquent.

Whatever. I'm going to go back to my little life of ranting and blathering and amusing and playing and stressing and whatever else my privileged butt can manage to do in a 24 hour day minus the 4/5 hours of sleep I get. Stages are stages. We'll get through this too. It's not like he's requiring an enema or anything - not yet, anyway. I wouldn't want to count anything out. He hasn't been doing much pooping lately - in his sleep or the toilet.

Sigh.
Sometimes writing in this thing is a pain in the ass - pardon the expression.

I love him. I really really really do.

I don't love the way he leaves all the cupboard doors open after merely walking through the bleeping kitchen.

I do love how he tries to cancel everything at the last minute if I find out my book club is on his squash league night.

I don't love how he tries to cop a feel as we're playing choo choo train with our son.

I do love how he tries to cop a feel as we're playing choo choo train with our son.

I don't love how every time I make dinner he eats before I've got anything on the table.

I do love that he prefers to make dinner.

I don't love how nuts he makes me feel.

I do love how nuts he makes me feel.

I don't really know why I'm writing this, I just am. I know it's completely uncool to blather on about one's partner. However, if I ever decide to get another one, I want one just like this one. Seriously. This man is not only hot and sexy, intelligent and wise, crazy and goofy, but he's also a completely giving person who thinks before he speaks and listens to more than what you say.

I love him.

I also love how, while looking for baby pictures of him in our old photo albums, I came across the bill in which I wrote my phone number the first night we laid eyes on each other.

You can hardly see the printing anymore. You can see my shaky handwriting, not because of the drinking, but because I was nervous and excited... and the door was ajar, and it was December 28 in Edmonton, and his friends were trying to get him in the taxi as the bar had closed loooong ago, and he wouldn't go because he was trying to tell me that something huge had just happened... but he couldn't get it out.

Of course, his speechless demeanor may have had to do with the 12 martinis he "sampled" that evening, rather than shyness or being love struck...

Whatever. I'm still love struck. The man is beautiful - and he looks good too.

Perhaps you weren't able to tell.
Perhaps, I've really not strayed from my usual neurotic and obsessed persona.

I've been stressed out lately.

Today is the last day D's work receives clients. This is the beginning of the end. He will be officially out of this type of employment (which he has done for as long as I have know him) by the end of this month.

The MAN of the house will not be receiving a REGULAR PAYCHEQUE anymore.
The WOMAN of the house holds the REGULAR PAYCHEQUE and ALL HEALTH BENEFITS from here on end.
(I know, I know... but it's the automatic response - pathetic and scary as it is)

D does have a job. It's an amusing one which will eventually have an end that will satisfy it's means but... IT'S NOT REGULAR. As in it's causal, as in they call him in when they need him, as in we can't count on it.

So, I've been a little stressed out about all this role changing, bread-winning, less money, turn down the heat, food on sale only, turn off that light, TURN OFF THAT LIGHT!!!! cost cutting measures.

Franklin's feeling the crunch because he hasn't a new train in I don’t know, 2 weeks maybe? Even then, it was Grandma and Taita buying the vehicles.
His parents have let him down.

Won't be the first time kid.

Don't get me wrong. I think we'll be okay and everything turns out and I don't want to make D feel bad....

Okay, I just wrote, "I think we'll be okay and everything turns out" but I don't really mean it.
I have to come clean. The only statement there that was in any way truthful was that I don't want D to feel bad.

I think I've been doing okay with all of this until today.

Okay, that's a lie too.

Someone explain to me how people with normal jobs and lives can afford to adopt a baby?!?!!!!

The only saving grace is that D is completely and utterly calm about all of this. He's the one who's truthfully saying, "Everything’s going to be okay, it always turns out okay". In fact, this is a direct quote:

I think if I didn't have Franklin I might be affected by all this crap at work. But it just doesn't matter and I'm glad I don't care. I guess it's nice to have people tell you that you made a great difference in the community and how sad it is that the government shut down your organization. I guess it's nice. But at the same time I'm tired of people asking me what I am going to do next. I usually tell them I've worked steadily for the past 8 years ...and I might just see what the alternative gets me.

That statement right there tells me that I've married the right person. I will stress out, make plans, change plans, make more plans, stress out again, make alternative plans to the first plans, and stress out...

D will lay back and tell me to breathe.

Breathe Ada.

D cut Franklin's hair over the weekend. I say "over the weekend" because really, it's still going on - the marathon haircut.

I think I've mentioned this before - not too long ago in fact.
My my, I'm just so damn exciting.

Franklin's hair is pretty.
I was going to say that his hair is pretty curly but really? I can confidently stop at pretty. It is pretty. I'm envious.
D also has this pretty (curly) hair - as you can see from the flickr photos. My hair isn't this curly - as you can also see from the flickr photos.

It's strange to me that all of you now know what I look like.
Just so you know, if you see me walking down the street, I would love for you to stop and say hello. Pointing and saying the word "dirtyolive" to your husband sitting next to you in the coffee shop isn't as friendly.
I can see you, you know.
I don't bite.
I'm really quite friendly - especially if you feed me.

Anyway, I digress.

When you have a child, most of your family, friends and transit bus drivers tend to play "genetic counselor" and attempt to piece Franklin's DNA together using D, me and our other, somewhat immediate, family members.

It turns out that the freakishly curly hair is a dominant gene. No matter what happens, if a child squeezes out of my vagina, it will have curly hair. This means that if I ever decide to "stray from our marriage", I've got to choose wisely - you know, just in case.

Now my prospective lover(s) must be laid-back, intelligent, funny, nice, discrete, patient AND have course, wiry, curly hair.
It's never going to happen.

D,

Do you remember when we were laying on the floor of my living room in Edmonton and listening to the Dave Matthew's Band - "Crash Into Me"? Do you remember me saying to you that I wished time would speed up because I wanted to be able look back on our life together? I wanted to hurry up and get living - with you.

I was walking through the campus this afternoon and I realized that we're at that point. We've gone through many things and we have so much to look forward to. It's hard for me to believe that we've been together this long already.

Franklin's a little boy. We're parents. We're partners. We're friends.

I'm glad I have this life to look back on. I wouldn't want it any other way.

I love you, D.

D had a job interview today.

I haven't mentioned this before, but D is looking for work. He is going to be laid off by mid-March. There was a bunch of information about it in the news, grant transparency, funding project problems... I can't find a shred of it now. It's disappeared. Of course, it's 1 AM and I've just finished an assignment on environmental regulations versus economic efficiency so I'm not the most effective news surfer at the moment.
If you know what I'm talking about, send a link my way, okay?

Frustrating.

On the bright side, I got to see D in the suit he wore to our wedding - this is his only suit. He kept it on until Franklin and I got home because I begged him to let me see him in all his fancy-pants glory. It's amazing it still fits him so well.
He's so damn good-looking.

Then again, he hasn't birthed a 7 lb. 1oz child in the last couple of years. He also has a healthy addiction to squash that keeps him in amazing shape.
I may weigh the same as I did before all this pregnancy, wine gum, breast-feeding, too pooped to do another sit-up thing happened but I don't think I'm in the same shape.

In fact, someone once told me it takes a full five years for all your internal organs in your body to shift back to where they were originally positioned. I tried to find some proof of this little piece of information too but all I found was actually how quick everything moves back into place.

Never mind the internals, I still have about two pairs of pants that I can't wear. They fit, but they don't fit fit, you know?
I think it may have to do with the fact that my hip-less, pre-pubescent lower body now has something resembling an hour-glass and some definite "ba-dong ba-dong" going on.
I used to walk around with such a tight little ass.

That ass is gone.

Last year, I said goodbye to the tight ass and donated many of my "LOOK AT MY ASS" pants to charity. I'm hoping that in a couple of months I will regret that decision.

I have decided to welcome the tight ass back into my life.
I need it back. I'm not ready to let it go.
I find my naked body jumping up and down in front of the mirror every morning just to watch my butt do moves I've never seen it do before. I do this stupid dance partly out of horrified curiosity and partly out an inherited sense of dark body humor. Thanks Mom.

I'm okay with the wrinkles and the strands of white hair. I'm even okay with that 2 inch by 2 inch bit of skin below my belly button that, in certain positions, looks like a balloon has deflated as the rubber has gone back to a wrinkled and shriveled post pregnancy belly. It's kind-of cute.

However, the ass has to return.
I had such a nice ass.

When I first met D I marveled at how free he was - especially when it came to complete relaxation. He was able to sit on a beach and watch the ocean for hours. This was something I wasn't able to do and never thought I could. My mind always seemed to be going too fast to be able to sit in one spot and let it wander in any direction that it chose.
Perhaps I was afraid of where it would take me. Who knows.

What I do know is that through the 8 years or so I have known him this has changed. I am perfectly comfortable on a beach, under the stars, or looking out a window and letting my mind wander. In fact, sometimes I wonder if that's all I do these days.
I suppose I can give some credit to the perspective life gives as one matures, but I would also have to acknowledge that D is always able to remind me of what is really important and how insignificant we all are in the grand, grand scheme of things.

I'm sure many of you have noticed that I have a tendency to get caught in the details. This might be a life long battle - this perspective, forest through the trees thing D does so well.

Something else I remember was how D did not give a rat's ass what others thought of him. People say this about themselves all the time but D is the only person I know who really meant it.

I'm speaking in the past tense but I shouldn't.
He still doesn't give a rat's ass what people think of him.

He once told me about a work related shopping trip with a co-worker in which the two of them did a flailing competitive gorilla dance down the aisles of the market. I remember thinking to myself that

1.) He was wonderful
2.) He was crazy
3.) He was going to need some wacky friends other than me because I certainly wasn't going to be able to match that kind of behaviour in public.

Today, the daycare called to say that the happy little boy I dropped off this morning was crying inconsolably. I got there as fast as I could and drove to the nearest medical clinic. Franklin wasn't doing very well and as we waited for red lights to change, all my efforts to sooth him from the front of the car were not good enough. By the time we reached the clinic, Bach was playing on the stereo and I was finding my "happy place". I let my mind wander to the nearest snow-covered mountain peak where the clouds meet the slope and it seems like you could ski across the world...

Right, where was I?

Franklin has ear infections in both ears. Both Ears
That sucks.

I've never had an ear infection but according to my mother, it's painful. Unlike the nose syringe, I'm not about to try it out to see what all the fuss is about.

While we were in the pharmacy getting the antibiotic prescription and the heroin tylenol, I became the flailing dancing gorilla. Anything I could do to distract Franklin from the obvious pain he was in, I did. We waltzed, buried our faces into the toilet paper, made funny faces in the lipstick mirror and discovered mommy's blood pressure was actually pretty good - you know, considering.
Everything worked... for about 3 seconds.

In the end, I was loudly and proudly singing, "You Can't Judge a Book by it's Cover" from a Thomas the Tank video but replacing all the lyrics (because I don't know them) with stories about Franklin and his adventures with trains/trucks/stickers/mommy/daddy/poodle dogs named Skittles.... anything.

You could say I don't give a rat's ass anymore.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.

I remember the way I felt when we first met and I still feel that way after 8 years of enjoying my life with you. When I watch you play with Franklin, read a book or just wash the dishes, my heart skips a beat and I feel warm and wonderful all over again.

I love you D.

I have new interview questions from brixton:

1. How did you and D meet?

One Christmas holiday, D came into a waaay too trendy gay bar where I was working as a server. Many of the friends he was bar-hopping with took one look at the pictures of the explicit male nudes on the wall and left. D saw me and excused himself to get more cash. I saw him and stole his table from another server. We both felt something incredibly powerful right away. There was no question what was happening. Needless to say, I also made a lot of money that night...

2. What is your favorite holiday cookie or treat? And yes, it can be any holiday and any kind of treat.

I love pumpkin seeds from a night of Hallowe'en carving - especially with a little jalapeno sprinkle.

3. What is your personal philosophy?

My personal philosophy... wow. I guess when it comes to anyone asking me my opinion of an issue I tend to study all sides. I don't believe in black and white - but I also don't believe in sitting on the fence. I don't think there are right and wrong answers to very many things. I believe in examining each case as it comes. I suppose I believe in a hell of a lot of things and I find it hard not to believe in much. I felt a large connection to the book, "The Life of Pi" and not for the obvious reasons of religion and faith. I believe in what is outside is also inside and what is inside can also be found outside. I believe in chaos theory and the im-permanence (is that a word?) of the universe.

I am also, obviously, a true believer in babbling like an idiot.

4. How do you feel about pirates?

As in Peter Pan or in the real thing? I must admit I don't know a lot about real pirates. I'd have to look into that before I told you my feelings surrounded the whole pirate "lifestyle"...

5. What do you wish you would've done before Franklin was born?

Perhaps I would have liked to live in another country for awhile - France, Budapest, Iceland... I don't really feel it is something I can't do now though. In fact, it would be very special to see Franklin grow up in a different culture for awhile - not noticing the cultural differences as much as D and I would.

Other than that - which isn't really anything. I feel I've lived quite a large life before his birth. His coming was another wonderful thing I feel privileged to be apart of.

Oh, on second thought, it would be nice to have finished my Masters. It's pretty slow going right now. Hopefully things pick up soon though.

Yesterday, for Father's day, Franklin and I went down to Speaker's Corner at the local TV station and told the world (or at least those in the world that like to watch drunk people spew on about Gordon Cambpell) that it was D's very first Father's Day and that we loved him very much.

Well, I said it, Franklin tried to eat the camera and gave out a "ka ka ka da da pbssssbt!"

I wonder when it will be on TV?

Does anyone know when they finish screening them?

Sorry I have been away so long. D and I went to a wedding in Edmonton, Alberta. D was one of the groomsmen and he looked mighty hugh-grant-in-4-weddings-and-a-funeral-like in his tux (which is a good thing in my books as long as he can change into his sexy shorts later).

The wedding was for a good friend of ours who I met on the same night I met D. After D and my first date, D called Grant (the recent groom) and told him all about me and how great I was (sigh). Grant popped the tape out of the recorder and kept the message. He then brought it to our wedding a year and 8 months later and played it during the dinner. It was so romantic. I was overwhelmed.
I sure know how to pick them eh?

I also had the chance while in Edmonton to see some old friends like Charity and Jenn and my sister Thuraya and finally her styl'n fiancee Joshua. It was so nice to see everyone. I miss them.

Today is D and my fourth wedding anniversary.

What can I say, I feel blessed.

I know he doesn't like it when I get too mushy or sentimental but it's hard to contain my excitement sometimes.
I was watching him on the squash court yesterday and I couldn't believe I was married to such a beautiful and intelligent and thoughtful man.

I feel blessed.

D, our roommate, and I went over to Vancouver and saw
The Charlatans last night.
They were very, very good and we had such a great time. The crowd there was amazing as well.

Did you know that the lead singer, Tim Burgess, practically licks the microphone when he sings? He sticks out this pointy tongue and reaches out to it. It is very reptilian.
Dix thought I only noticed because I'm thinking about The Vagina Monologues all the time but I think it's because I have a vagina that I noticed. Haven't we all heard penis comments when some diva practically swallows the microphone?...

We also saw my brother. Unfortunately, we lost him in the crowd and I have yet to find out what happened to him.
We assume he spent the rest of the night with the band. He really is just "that kind of guy", you never know where he'll end up, but he is very hard to keep up with.

or, are we getting old?