Friday, December 07, 2012
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Monday, December 12, 2011
Holidailies: Silver and Gold
Silver and gold, silver and gold
Ev'ryone wishes for silver and gold
How do you measure its worth?
Just by the pleasure it gives here on earth
Way back in 1997 I held my first Chocolate and cookie making party. I still lived in my parents' house and a bunch of us squished into the den to play a board game because my sister had overtaken the family room adjacent to the kitchen. It was chaotic and awesome.
The following year I was living in the FIJI house and when I had the cookie party there, my "brothers" asked what kind of party I was having that required plastic sheets. Hilarity!
We moved the cookie party out to Chnanners' parents place for a few years and it seemed to snowball into this crazy awesome time. Over shared sprinkles and oven fresh cookies friendships became cemented and strengthened. In a time when life was throwing crazy curve balls, it helped me find the true meaning of family.
D and I had our first Christmas away from our families in Prince George and it was terrifying and lonesome and we were so lucky to be brought into someone else's family where we broke bread and shared in the warmth of their holiday sesason. But I missed my cookie party and the comradarie and chaos. I wondered if anyone else missed it.
As the years passed, other traditions grew and our family grew too and the cookie party crumbled a bit as other people and places took on importance. Friendships, too, fluctuated and spun closer and further, sometimes driven by distance, sometimes by effort.
And here we are, 14 years later, we've revived the cookie party for the kids that now run around our feet, the same friends sharing laughter, food and fun. I now have to make sure that every crumb is gluten free and safe but no one seems to notice as we snap pics of laughing babies and tease each other about decades of friendship. And as I look around and marvel about how things change, I realize that things also stay the same.
And that is gold
Silver and gold, silver and gold
Mean so much more when I see
Silver and gold decorations
On ev'ry Christmas tree
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Holidailies: Last Christmas
"Last Christmas
I gave you my heart
But the very next day you gave it away
This year
To save me from tears
I'll give it to someone special"
Last December was a watershed time. I was filled with angst and uncertainty. I was hurting myself and feeling adrift in hopeless confusion. I didnt blogvery much for a whole year trying to regain my footing and find my way. There was so much to learn, so many difficulties to overcome...
"...A crowded room
Friends with tired eyes
I'm hiding from you
And your soul of ice
My god I thought you were
Someone to rely on
Me?
I guess I was a shoulder to cry on"
2011 was a time of momentous decisions and facing challenges and being brave. We bought a house, packed up our life and said many goodbyes. There were some tears but there were so many more moments of hopeful anticipation. Even with the diagnosis, the steep learning curve, the challenges of the commutes, we found strength.
And now Christmas finds us here, in our dream home, decked with ribbons and bows, and, most of all, with peace in our hearts at last.
Holidailies: Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer
"Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" is one of my most abhored Christmas song selections that plays at this glorious time of year. It is trite, teeth-searingly chipper and sends somewhat of a bizzare message about family values.
Nonetheless, on this day--the day I have to clean my house, bake a zillion cookies, set out scintillating and delicious food and host a party--my little 1 year old delight decided to go to sleep at FIVE IN THE MORNING (yes, stayed up ALL NIGHT LONG) and then wake up at 10 o'clock.
I feel like I've been run over by a reindeer.
"Grandma got runover by a reindeer
walking home from our house christmas eve
you could say theres no such thing as santa
but as for me and grandpa we believe
she'd been drinking too much egg nog
and we begged her not to go
but she forgot her medication
and she staggered out the door into the snow
when we found her the Christmas morning
at the scene of the attack
she had hoofprints on her fore head
and incriminating Clause marks on her back"
Nonetheless, on this day--the day I have to clean my house, bake a zillion cookies, set out scintillating and delicious food and host a party--my little 1 year old delight decided to go to sleep at FIVE IN THE MORNING (yes, stayed up ALL NIGHT LONG) and then wake up at 10 o'clock.
"...now the goose is on the table
and the pudding made of fig (ah!)
and the blue and silver candles
that would just have matched the hair in grandmas wig
i've warned all our friends and neighbours
better watch out for yourselves"
I feel like I've been run over by a reindeer.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Mumford and Sons: The Cave
It's empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you've left behind
The harvest left no food for you to eat
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
But I have seen the same
I know the shame in your defeat
But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again
Cause I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I'll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind
So tie me to a post and block my ears
I can see widows and orphans through my tears
I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears
But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again
So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker's land
So make your siren's call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say
Cause I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it's meant to be
And I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Purging
I am the type of person who likes to have a handle on things and it doesn't have to be perfect or complete but I need to have some inkling of what to do to wrap my brain around any sort of challenge. Going gluten-free was a mountain and, like any climber, I prepared in stages. No one succeeds in scaling a mountain by throwing themselves against the face of it without being mentally and physically prepared.
The first thing I did was to purge all the gluten I could find in my pantry
We sorted the piles into those that had gluten and those that didn't and created a separate pile for those that were unknown
In the end, we had a relatively large amount of food that we were able to keep (and also a large amount of food that was now "homeless")
Next, I started reading. I devoured all the information I could find online and in the library. I scoured ingredients from health food stores and blitzed grocery stores to see what was available. I was insatiable to know the best way to cope.
But the true test was the food itself. Could I help her forget the sumptuous softness of bread? the crispy joy of cereal? the sultry smell of freshly baked cookies? And it turns out that watching me try was enough for her.
We made bread
and muffins
quesadillas
homemade hamburgers
even pasta
BUT birthday season was upon us and right away the challenge was at the forefront: birthday cake--the penultimate baking glory, worth 364 days of anticipation?
experimenting first with packaged mixes and then going one step further
The learning curve of this mountain is steep and there have been errors already
but it is a labour of love (Julia noticed the heart in the batter right away)
And every day since has been a game of trial and error, of finding new favourites and of leaving behind old ideas. There is nothing easy about this life, no matter how close everything gets. But if it gives my girl back her smile, the sacrifice of every crumb is worth it to me.
The first thing I did was to purge all the gluten I could find in my pantry
We sorted the piles into those that had gluten and those that didn't and created a separate pile for those that were unknown
In the end, we had a relatively large amount of food that we were able to keep (and also a large amount of food that was now "homeless")
Next, I started reading. I devoured all the information I could find online and in the library. I scoured ingredients from health food stores and blitzed grocery stores to see what was available. I was insatiable to know the best way to cope.
But the true test was the food itself. Could I help her forget the sumptuous softness of bread? the crispy joy of cereal? the sultry smell of freshly baked cookies? And it turns out that watching me try was enough for her.
We made bread
and muffins
quesadillas
homemade hamburgers
even pasta
BUT birthday season was upon us and right away the challenge was at the forefront: birthday cake--the penultimate baking glory, worth 364 days of anticipation?
experimenting first with packaged mixes and then going one step further
The learning curve of this mountain is steep and there have been errors already
but it is a labour of love (Julia noticed the heart in the batter right away)
And every day since has been a game of trial and error, of finding new favourites and of leaving behind old ideas. There is nothing easy about this life, no matter how close everything gets. But if it gives my girl back her smile, the sacrifice of every crumb is worth it to me.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Endoscopy
It is a restless night that precedes any medical procedure, I think. The fact that we have to be AT the hospital for 6am doesnt help matters. If I slept in, if I missed the appointment, who knows how long it would take to get in again? The pressure is on in so many ways and it is hard to get settled in.
5 am comes too soon and we roll quietly from the bedroom and exchange quibbles about company in the hospital then straggle to the car; apprehensive and afraid. The morning light has already tinged the day with pink streaks in the clear blue sky--it is a beautiful day and the streets are mostly deserted. I fiddle with the radio, trying to make small talk with Julia as we trundle along the empty boulevard but she isn't interested.
We arrive at the hospital and flounder a bit with the ticketing system (bring it? leave it?), glad for the parking spot right by the door.
The dayward is already busy--other anxious kids clinging to anxious moms. Julia looks as though she'd like the floor to swallow her up and my words of reassurances sound hollow even to me. The line up lengthens behind us, snaking out into the hallway, and I try to point out other kids of the same ages. Julia looks at me silently and I pull her close.
My parents pull into the room, smiling, sunshine and roses; I try not to sigh too loudly. It is a mix of emotions to see them. I hand over the baby and watch them wheel to the far end of the waiting area. The lady doing the registration beckons us and I grab Julia's hand as we step up to the desk--it feels papery and dry and small. The nurse calls our name before we are even done registering. Julia whimpers as I answer simple questions and fish papers from the diaper bag and again when the hospital bracelet is secured around her wrist.
We wait in uncomfortable silence for the nurse to reappear. When she does I can feel Julia's anxiety palpable in the air. It feels cloying and desperate even though the nurse is comforting and kind. She shows us to a cubicle and directs us to a set of striped pajamas. There is a set too small and a set too large. More whimpering. Embarrassment. Fear.
The doctor who is doing the procedure introduces himself--he is a middle aged Indian man with kind eyes and a wry sense of humour. He tries to soothe Julia's anxiety and his answers help my own. The nurses tape fat globs of emla cream to the backs of Julia's hands and she whimpers again.
I coax Julia into the clothes--she firmly rejects the offer to wear a mismatched set--and stumble our way back to the waiting area. Julia is mortified at the thought of being in public wearing someone else's pjs. We see that Auntie Rachel has arrived and I am immediately glad for her company. A smaller kids area is blessedly empty and she hunches in a chair, a shrinking stripey wallflower and even Auntie Rachel's warmth does little to comfort her. Small smiles for the owl I brought for her hospital surprise helps to ease the awkward conversation and too soon we are called.
She sits on a hospital bed, wheeled into an operating room filled with people.
Their faces are friendly and the chatter surrounds us but their hands are busy and business like in their efficiency. The anesthesiologist introduces himself first to Julia and then to me as "Bob" and Dr. Persad's eyes smile at us above his green mask. I brace myself for a shitshow as they prepare the IV and I see Julia clench up. I will her silently to be brave and to be strong. They are so good about showing her all their equipment; the straw (not needle) that will deliver the medicine that will make her fall asleep.
"What if I won't fall asleep?" she wonders out loud. But as quickly as they slide the IV into her veins she is out and I ease back down the hall owl stuffy and pager in hand. I meander through the food court, suddenly hyper-aware of all the things that have become off-limits to her. I dont even have time to eat more than a bite of breakfast when I am called back. It is done and she is already in recovery. It has taken less than 30 minutes.
I hurry back and find her already awake and amazed "I cant believe it is already done. I dont even remember anything but my throat is sore"
The nurse offers her a popsicle and I nod when her eyes slide over to me to see what I think of that idea.
I have a quick chat with the doctor who reassures me that everything went smoothly and he didnt see anything alarming. The lab biopsy would return in a week with the results. Julia finishes up her popsicle and when the nurse urges her to have one more, she hesitates.
"You can have as many popsicles as you want. Mom and Dad's rules dont count here" the nurse declares. Julia agrees to "just one more".
By the time we leave, her spirits have risen considerably. She feels stronger and braver and happier. We leave the grandparents and make our way to the gift shop for the promised treat (she chooses a small stuffed owl) and head back to the food court to eat breakfast. Auntie Mellie meets us and the day's worries seem to fall away and dissipate in the warm May sunshine.
5 am comes too soon and we roll quietly from the bedroom and exchange quibbles about company in the hospital then straggle to the car; apprehensive and afraid. The morning light has already tinged the day with pink streaks in the clear blue sky--it is a beautiful day and the streets are mostly deserted. I fiddle with the radio, trying to make small talk with Julia as we trundle along the empty boulevard but she isn't interested.
We arrive at the hospital and flounder a bit with the ticketing system (bring it? leave it?), glad for the parking spot right by the door.
The dayward is already busy--other anxious kids clinging to anxious moms. Julia looks as though she'd like the floor to swallow her up and my words of reassurances sound hollow even to me. The line up lengthens behind us, snaking out into the hallway, and I try to point out other kids of the same ages. Julia looks at me silently and I pull her close.
My parents pull into the room, smiling, sunshine and roses; I try not to sigh too loudly. It is a mix of emotions to see them. I hand over the baby and watch them wheel to the far end of the waiting area. The lady doing the registration beckons us and I grab Julia's hand as we step up to the desk--it feels papery and dry and small. The nurse calls our name before we are even done registering. Julia whimpers as I answer simple questions and fish papers from the diaper bag and again when the hospital bracelet is secured around her wrist.
We wait in uncomfortable silence for the nurse to reappear. When she does I can feel Julia's anxiety palpable in the air. It feels cloying and desperate even though the nurse is comforting and kind. She shows us to a cubicle and directs us to a set of striped pajamas. There is a set too small and a set too large. More whimpering. Embarrassment. Fear.
The doctor who is doing the procedure introduces himself--he is a middle aged Indian man with kind eyes and a wry sense of humour. He tries to soothe Julia's anxiety and his answers help my own. The nurses tape fat globs of emla cream to the backs of Julia's hands and she whimpers again.
She sits on a hospital bed, wheeled into an operating room filled with people.
Their faces are friendly and the chatter surrounds us but their hands are busy and business like in their efficiency. The anesthesiologist introduces himself first to Julia and then to me as "Bob" and Dr. Persad's eyes smile at us above his green mask. I brace myself for a shitshow as they prepare the IV and I see Julia clench up. I will her silently to be brave and to be strong. They are so good about showing her all their equipment; the straw (not needle) that will deliver the medicine that will make her fall asleep.
"What if I won't fall asleep?" she wonders out loud. But as quickly as they slide the IV into her veins she is out and I ease back down the hall owl stuffy and pager in hand. I meander through the food court, suddenly hyper-aware of all the things that have become off-limits to her. I dont even have time to eat more than a bite of breakfast when I am called back. It is done and she is already in recovery. It has taken less than 30 minutes.
I hurry back and find her already awake and amazed "I cant believe it is already done. I dont even remember anything but my throat is sore"
The nurse offers her a popsicle and I nod when her eyes slide over to me to see what I think of that idea.
I have a quick chat with the doctor who reassures me that everything went smoothly and he didnt see anything alarming. The lab biopsy would return in a week with the results. Julia finishes up her popsicle and when the nurse urges her to have one more, she hesitates.
"You can have as many popsicles as you want. Mom and Dad's rules dont count here" the nurse declares. Julia agrees to "just one more".
By the time we leave, her spirits have risen considerably. She feels stronger and braver and happier. We leave the grandparents and make our way to the gift shop for the promised treat (she chooses a small stuffed owl) and head back to the food court to eat breakfast. Auntie Mellie meets us and the day's worries seem to fall away and dissipate in the warm May sunshine.
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