August 17, 2013
Flaws in the cloth, flies in the ointment.
Me breastfeeding on a ferry-boat. I am proud of this.
It occurs to me that as I enter my mid-thirties, only now am I really learning how to be alive, how to be strong, to be brave. Part of this is having children (two! can you believe it?) which changes the stakes, but a large part of it is also flaws in the cloth, flies in the ointment finally starting to turn up after three decades in which things like good health and general happiness could still be taken for granted. And I wasn’t even going to write about this, for two days imagined that I wouldn’t have to, but this space is such an outlet for me. It also seems very dishonest to document the truly lovely parts of my life but leave out the sordid bits. To let you know all my stunning achievements (yesterday I breastfed standing up on a ferry boat!) but neglect to inform you that I am once again waiting on biopsy results. “Biopsy”, which was once a terrifying prophecy but has actually become an idea as banal as is the actual experience.
I returned to my thyroid doctor on Thursday for what I hoped would be my final appointment, the one where he told me to return annually for lump-checks but all would be well, but discovered that my thyroid lump has grown again. They did a biopsy, and I tried not to cry, and in doing so, forgot to ask questions properly about the state of my lump and therefore now my imagination is taking me to terrible places again. Though not so terrible–my lump is mainly cystic, which makes the change not so surprising. As it was not cancer before, it is likely to not be cancer again (though I fear believing too strongly in this until I know for sure, for fear of being absolutely gutted by reality. Also, I was only reassured that it was probably nothing by the resident doctor, and I fear she was just trying to be nice. I liked better being reassured by the doctor himself as I was before, as he is devoid of social skills and therefore would never just try to be nice. See, all this worrying takes one down twisty, twisty roads). Even if it was cancer, it is a cancer that will not change my life significantly. Though not being cancer won’t mean I get off easy either–the fact that the lump is changing suggests that I may still require a thyroidectomy. (Initially I wrote “will probably require…” but changed it, as I don’t in fact know this, or anything, and wild speculations have taken us to stupid places before, so let’s not do that again.) And while I can console myself that life will go on after this, and I could have far, far worse problems, sometimes these consolations are not quite enough and I find myself feeling quite sad, hence the need to sit down and write this post here on my blog.
This may be the last post I ever write on this computer. I turned on my computer last night, and the system had gone haywire. It’s working properly today, but I think this machine is reaching the end of its life. (Harriet is confused by our insistence on talking about computers “dying” and “being brought back to life”. It is strange but not so surprising that we accord them such essential mortal characteristics.) 4 years ago, my computer “broke down in an altogether final sense” and I lost many precious things, learning a very important lesson about backing up my files and also that computers don’t last forever (a fact I still resent: they are so expensive!). Consequently, the loss of this machine is not a big deal and I have enough money to buy a new computer, which I think I am going to do today before driving this one completely into the ground.
However clunky and unpretty, these computers suit as a kind of metaphor. (Forgive me, but my computer really is an extension of myself.) The crash 4 years ago came on my 30th birthday, a few weeks after Harriet was born. I lost everything, which was sort of how I was feeling those days, the disclocation of self that came with new motherhood. I consoled myself with the opportunity of a blank slate, stories to be written in replacement of those I had lost. And I am proud of what I’ve made in the years since. This time, however, there has been no crash. This computer I’m losing not long after the birth of Iris has all its files back-upped elsewhere. Instead of being caught unaware, I’m averting disaster. And instead of being inspired by a blank slate, I’m just inspired in general, more ready than ever to build on what I’ve created in the last four years.
I was terrified at the prospect of another new baby, that after the progress we’d made in the parent-game of having to go all the way back to the beginning. But it hasn’t been like that at all. The biggest surprise of having Iris in our lives is how clear she’s made it that I’ve actually been in a stasis the last four years, a kind of limbo as we sorted out the question of a second child, whether or not to have one. And now she is here and it’s as though we’re moving forward, finally. I suspect that I am probably done having children, and now it’s time to look outward, to focus on other things. I am enormously excited to think of what lies before me, of the things I’m going to write on the new computer that comes into my life today. (I am also returning to the Mac life, I think, which will automatically make me a more physcially attractive human being).
And so it goes, flaws in the cloth. I’m finally learning how normal life is supposed to go. Oh, but how I do love the cloth, this life, right here in what just might be the very best summer (and believe me, I’ve known some excellent summers in my time). And I love this blog as a proper reflection of it all, the good and the bad, and I am so grateful for this space where take note of all the things that are important to me. And to those people who are reading.
June 24, 2013
Today I am 34
I enjoy receiving bookish cards, and this one is pretty much as excellent as they come, sent via my Aunt from the Regional Assembly of Text. Today I am 34, which is a good age to be, I think. We’ve spent the day nicely, and it included a short bout of fiction writing while Stuart took Iris along for Harriet’s school drop-off. Also a nice period of Iris sleeping on me as I read The Flamethrowers, which I am enjoying so very much. (Forgive the lack of bookish content here. I finally finished reading I Capture the Castle and then got 100 pages into a book that turned out to be totally terrible. Looking forward to finding the time to write about The Flamethrowers. Also, I received The Silent Wife for my birthday, which I am very excited about! Anyway, since I resumed mobility, it has been challenging to find the time to read. I am often awake and idle at 4am, but I am so tired that I have to keep one eye shut to read lines of text, and even then they’re blurry.) We picked up Harriet and went out for lunch. We also get to go out for lunch again tomorrow because my favourite restaurant is closed on Mondays. Which is not to say that we didn’t go out for lunch yesterday too. Yes, it is sort of a habit. Anyway, after we went to our new favourite neighbourhood cafe, Redfish Bluefish, which features delicious baked goods, nice tea, really lovely and friendly staff and owner, and crafts, books and games to keep Harriet occupied. Our visit was especially notable because it led to Harriet’s first Wayne’s World reference afterwards, unbeknownst to her. (We try to reference Wayne’s World at least once a day in our family.) “It’s not just a clever name,” she told her grandmother on Skype, in regards to Redfish Bluefish. Because in fact there is a red fish and a blue fish. And now we’re home, the extreme heat is making the baby sleepy, we’re ordering a pizza for dinner and having oreo ice-cream cake to follow. Plus everyone is leaving me alone, or at least they have been. I hear somebody crying now, and I expect that she’s wanting to be fed…
June 8, 2013
How Iris arrived
It really was a very gentle time, the weeks we spent waiting for Iris to come. I spent last Friday evening bouncing on a ball to induce labour, made absolutely miserable, and then my husband discovered that if you bounced on a birthing ball to terrible hiphop ballads, the whole experience was made more fun. Though looking back, I realize it was probably for the best that my labour was not brought on by bouncing to Usher singing Love in this Club. And I absolutely adore the photo of me in my bathing suit from last week, the gloriousness of it all, though it’s all sort of bittersweet when I compare that image to my poor ravaged body today.
Here it is: I am so so happy. I know I am only four days postpartum, and probably hormones have something to do with the happiness as well, but they’re supposed to. “I never imagined it could be like this,” but this means something very different now. And I know the experience of my birth, although it was far from ideal, really has something to do with this. Oh, how much it matters how the baby arrives. I know this for sure now, but in a more nuanced way than when I was ranting a few weeks back.
My labour began on Sunday night after we’d eaten much of Barbara Pym’s Victoria Sponge, although it was not apparent to me that it was labour until Monday around noon. I spent Monday night awake every ten minutes with contractions, but then by morning they were gone. A visit to the midwives on Tuesday showed that things had been progressing, even without the contractions. They started again Tuesday night with a great deal of trouble on my behalf, and we were up all night again, sure that this was it. The midwives arrived with birthing supplies and found me dilated to 6 cm. But the contractions never got stronger and once again were gone in the morning. The midwives came later that morning with the intention of breaking my water, but then the baby’s heart-rate was troubling–she was not responsive enough. And while she was stable, it was scary, and there was no longer very much natural about my “natural” birth. I just wanted the baby out.
We took a cab to the hospital, both of us crying–partly because we knew our birth plans were out the window, because we were scared for the baby, and also because we knew we were leaving Harriet without having prepared her for this. (She was at school at the time, would be cared for by our wonderful friend Erin until my mom arrived to stay with her here.) It was cold and grey outside, and as we drove past a high school, a group of boys threw rocks at our car. The world seemed quite horrible and we kept crying–I have never seen a taxi driver more concerned about his fares (and so maybe the world was not so horrible after all).
En-route to the hospital, I started having contractions again, which continued as we waited in triage. The OB on-call found it odd that someone dilated 6cm was not progressing, and give me the option of induction, which I had no intention of taking. (“It’s going to need a lot of drugs to work,” she said, again, a far cry from natural.) But still, that she give me a choice made the decision to do a repeat c-section one that I could own, and I am grateful for that. Which is not to say that I wasn’t weeping in the OR, so much so that the staff was confused–never had a sadder woman been about to give birth. Situation compounded by an anaesthesiologist who I think forgot I was a human being as she handled my body pre-surgery. The student midwife came over to comfort me with casual conversation though–I think she said, “So what’s the first thing you’re going to eat when you can eat again?” And obviously, the answer was chocolate croissants, and seriously, that woman changed my world around. By the time Stuart was brought in in his scrubs, I was comforted and ready, and knew we had made the best and only choice.
Iris means rainbow, and Malala is a hero. The midwives knew how troubled I’d been having never seen Harriet until she was wrapped and hatted when she was born, and so when they pulled her out and brought her to the warming bed, I knew just where to look and Stuart snapped a photo. She was amazing, purple, and she was mine, ours. I knew it instantly. Because of Harriet, there is a part of my heart that is mother-love now, and Iris resided there immediately. I cried and cried, like I’ve cried just one time before, at the birth of Iris’s sister. Our girl was finally here. Our family was complete. It meant something that we’d been waiting so hard for her, that I had been supported so much in my intentions for VBAC, and that Iris herself had been trying as hard to come to us–they discovered the cord was wrapped around her neck four times and there was no way she would have made it out on her own, and an induction would have been a disaster.
They didn’t lie, all those people who told me it would be different the second time around. That first night as Iris fed all night long, Stuart having to deliver her from one side to another as I was unable to move, I didn’t sit there wishing we could leave her and run away. I knew already that the objective to such a night wasn’t getting the baby to sleep, that the baby was doing nothing but simply being a baby. The goal of the night, I knew, was to get through it as best we could, which we did, aided by the fact that Iris has breastfed like a champion since being 40 minutes old.
We left the hospital yesterday–turns out they can boot you out after 2 days now, which is kind of unbelievable, but we were good to go, and eager to get home to Harriet. The surgery has left me brutalized–I think my surgeon 4 years ago was a master of the art, because I was out for walks last time and today I can barely move. Midwives have assured me that my previous experience was the exception to the rule. And I hate that, feeling so badly, but it’s also not so bad being confined to my bed. I’m reading Where’d You Go, Bernadette, which I love. Stuart is bringing me snacks and meals. We prepared for all of this by buying a queen-sized bed last winter, which is so comfortable, and I also got a smart phone a few weeks ago, knowing it would make this kind of thing easier, still being connected to the world. The postpartum crazies also have yet to arrive–they were knocking at the door last night, but then were followed by the woman I’ve paid to make capsules of my placenta, which are meant to help balance hormones. She dropped off the pills, I started taking them, and I’ve been feeling cool ever since. No weeping even! Maybe it will all kick in tomorrow, but in the meantime, I’m happy to take good days where I find them.
Iris, as we know her so far, is marvellous. She arrived and looked like an elderly frog, the next day like a dinosaur, but now she just looks like Harriet did, but with fairer colouring. She practices smiling in her sleep, and midwives reported today that she’s doing great. Her mood could be assisted by the fact that her mother is not a lunatic. She’s just three ounces down from birth weight and we no longer need to wake to feed! Because of my previous experience, when Harriet lost so much weight, I’ve been breastfeeding with great persistence (which is not so heroic–Iris is content to let me read while doing this) and it seems to have paid off. It’s so good to be home and Stuart is taking such good care of me. Harriet is the big sister beyond my wildest dreams, her bond with Iris already making us swoon, and she is displaying such annoying and atrocious behaviour in addition to this that we know she is in fact fully processing the change in our family and we won’t have to wait for another shoe to drop.
So there it is. Everything is wonderful. Just four days in, and I know you have to take good times one day at a time just like the trying ones, but it really means something. Four days postpartum with Harriet I was in pieces already. I was so scared to go through all this over again, and I am so relieved and grateful that this is different. That the gentle times continue. Knock wood, of course, and there will be challenges ahead, but I’m pleased that there really is a chance that I’ll be strong enough to meet them.
And thank you to so many friends for support and best wishes. We are a very lucky family.
March 21, 2013
Good Things
A few weeks ago, when everything seemed really terrible, I discovered that Kawartha Dairy Ice Cream was sold by the tub at Bloor Superfresh, and I think that this ice cream has been what’s gotten me through most of March. We’ve tried a few flavours, but nothing has outranked Death by Chocolate. We’re totally addicted, though we’re trying to wean Harriet off the habit. Yesterday we told her dessert was a mango, and we saved our ice cream until after she’d gone to bed.
Before I went for my biopsy last week, I had a conversation with a friend who told me that she always rewards herself after unpleasant medical procedures with the reward of being able to eat whatever she wants. This was in an email, and how I laughed and laughed as I read that. “I’m 7 months pregnant and awaiting a biopsy,” I replied. “I eat what I want all the time.” We’re actually on two tubs a week, which is a little excessive, but what can you do? My other craving is for quinoa and asparagus salad, so I think it all balances out.
The wonderful thing about our Kawartha Dairy habit is that it leads to the most delightful shopping excusions. On Sunday, the only items on our shopping list were ice cream and a bouquet of pussy-willows, which is not a terrible way to live a life.
Another good thing is my good fortune to have a sister who can put together a care-package like nobody’s business. Unfortunately, the local squirrels concur. A big box arrived two weeks ago packed with our favourite kind of tea, a variety of creams, soaps and bathy things, chocolate, and stickers for Harriet. It occurred to me then how much things can really matter when more important matters are up in the air–you’re in a bad place, but then you can eat chocolate and have a luxurious hot bath (while reading an Isabel Huggan book, naturally) which doesn’t transport you away from that bad place, but it also doesn’t make the loveliness any less lovely either.
The package, however, with its many scents had proved too much for the squirrels to resist, so they go to it first. When I finally received it, the squirrels had eaten a hole in the side and it was a sorry sight, that brown paper package tied up with…tape. But thankfully the squirrels had left the contents unscathed. I’m not what they were looking for if the reality of the package came up short, but I’m glad it did. Such lovely scented things have never been better enjoyed.
Oh, and other good things have included the moms at Harriet’s playschool who make up one of the nicest communities I’ve ever been a part of. I remember being apprehensive about the school’s cooperative nature back before we started. Surely, I figured, I’m friends already with everybody ever worth being friends with? But the other parents were so welcoming, and lovely, and I’ve so appreciated their support these last few weeks when my mind has been dwelling in less than fun places. These women have expressed concern, offered generously to help us out, and have been there for me to talk to (and cry to, on one particularly difficult day). Their goodness has made all the difference in the world.
And there are also wonderful books to read (I am reading this one now and it’s amazing); our new bed that is so comfortable, I spend the day counting down until I can get back in it; brunch guests who bring enormous boxes from Clafouti; good things in the post; reading Ramona the Pest at bedtime; hot baths; one of those playschool Moms who gave me a big bag of maternity clothes that aren’t ugly; our fantastic midwives; that I’ve got really good parents; friends who call/write/email; crocuses up across the street; that whole week we went without winter boots; strangers who email to tell me everything will be okay; when our fetus dances to I Got You by Split Enz; and that the strangers were very likely right.
Everything is probably going to be okay, and even if it isn’t, isn’t it more than a little okay already?
March 16, 2013
March Break Delights
This week was our first March Break, which turned out to be legendarily good thanks to Stuart taking the week off too. It’s funny how spending a week with my child and another adult is a vastly superior prospect to just kid and me. We had a very wonderful time and were careful to never travel too far from home. We took care too to spend a lot of time hanging around doing nothing, which isn’t to say that we didn’t get up to some excellent adventures. We are also very pleased to have achieved our goal of going out for lunch every single day.
Sunday was our trip to the Maple Sugar Bush, which was sweet and sunshiney. Monday we decided to go crazy and visit the library (it’s true! I know we sound reckless and wild, but it’s just the way we are) which was fun because Stuart doesn’t usually get to come on our weekly visits. And then we had lunch at Caplansky’s Deli, because all the experts say that pregnant women should ingest giant mountains of smoked meat.
On Tuesday, we had lunch at the new Montreal-style bagel place in Kensington Market, which is so so delicious, and then we walked to the Allan Gardens Conservatory to see palm trees and cacti and other green things. Wednesday morning was devoted to having holes poked in my neck, but things got better afterwards. We had lunch at Fanny Chadwicks (our favourite local joint) and then spent the afternoon on the couch watching Pete’s Dragon.
On Thursday, we visited the Textile Museum of Canada (with our free MAP pass) to see the Marimekko Exhibit, whose designs are right up my alley. (I got a Marimekko scarf!). And then we had lunch at St. Lawrence Market, pure deliciousness. We also visited the Market Gallery and picked up a print of I is for Island Ferry to hang on our wall. And then Harriet had a meltdown because we wouldn’t buy her a painting of horses, and cried on the streetcar all the way home (which everyone else found absolutely charming). Later that afternoon, Harriet cheered up and we all visited the midwives, and were thrilled to hear our baby’s heartbeat and to have it confirmed that Baby is growing well.
And then there was Friday. We had a reservation for 3 for tea at the Windsor Arms Hotel. Afternoon tea is my favourite thing in the world, but we haven’t taken Harriet since my birthday 2 years ago when she kind of ruined it for everyone. But she’s bigger now, and more importantly, our March Break had been excellent training in dining out. And she was an absolute star. Staff looked a bit dubious when we confirmed that Harriet would be having her own tea, that we wouldn’t have her “nibble off our plates” as they advised. And we’re glad we didn’t, because then we wouldn’t have been able to eat anything. Harriet had her own pot of apple-mango tea, discovered that she LOVED tiny sandwiches (and even cucumbers), and was an absolutely delightful afternoon tea companion, consenting to have tiny cakes cut into three so we could all have a taste of each. The scones were wonderful, I was so so proud of Harriet, and we all three had a very good time. I think we might keep this kid around
December 13, 2012
Ten Years Ago
“It was ten years ago today that I met your Daddy,” I said. “And then you had a baby, right?” said Harriet, eager to get to her favourite part of the story. (Harriet cries if we look at photographs and she’s not in them. The Harriet-less world does not interest her one bit, and sometimes I see her point.) “No, not right away,” I said. “We lived in England for awhile and we were poor and bored, and we slept on an inflatable bed that slowly deflated every night. We were just out of school, barely employable, and we had no idea how we were going to do anything we wanted to do. So we decided to move to Japan, that old last resort. We had an apartment there that was smaller than our kitchen, and one day Daddy bought me a desk so I could write. He carried it home on his bicycle. We decided to get married, so we went back to England to have our wedding.” “And then you had a baby, right?” said Harriet. “Not yet,” I said. “We moved to Toronto, and I went to graduate school. Daddy had to wait a year before he was able to work in Canada, and we had to shop at the Dufferin Mall No-Frills. Our budget was $50 a week. And every month we had $20 to 
spend on fun, so we went to Riverdale Farm often and we went out a lot for ice cream. And it wasn’t really that bad. I don’t know how we did it, and I couldn’t ever go back, but we learned a lot. Like to how to subsist on chickpeas.” “When do I come?” Harriet asked. I told her not quite yet. But we knew we wanted to have a baby, and so we moved to a new apartment where there would be room for our baby when she came. Our apartment used to feel enormous, but now it is brimful of bookshelves and tiny socks are scattered throughout every room. No amount of picking up the socks ever changes this reality. Harriet gets her sock-discarding affliction from her dad. I tell her, “We had a baby. And we liked you so much, we want to have another one.” She likes the story now. Harriet is looking forward to being a big sister, and what lies in store. And so are we, the great unknown. Which is terrifying, but also wonderful, and who ever could have foretold ten years ago what this extraordinary decade together would hold?
December 9, 2012
Very Good Days Have to Just Be Allowed to Happen
My holiday reading has started, and it’s so nice to be back with books on my own terms, reading solely for pleasure. I’ve read 2.25 books in the last four days, which is sort of lovely, yesterday in particular. And it occurs to me that you can’t really plan a good day. Certainly, you can collect them like they’re postcards (and oh, you should), but no amount of shrewd plotting can make a day truly magic.
I wouldn’t have even thought to request that yesterday’s weather be cold and dreary, or to think that there would be an up-side to Harriet waking up at 6:30 possessed by a demon. We had friends to brunch at 11:00 and we managed delicious and gluten-free, which is kind of amazing. Harriet was terrible, and by the end of the visit she was naked and throwing muffins across the kitchen in a rage. Thankfully I’d had enough rest and our friends had enough of a sense of humour that the whole thing was terribly hilarious. And as soon as they left, we threw Harriet into bed for that nap she was begging for and she stayed that way for three hours. (Harriet has stopped napping, for the most part. And now when naps arrive, they’re like a gift from the heavens.) I went to bed too and spent all afternoon rereading Comfort and Joy by India Knight. When Harriet got up, I still wasn’t finished, so I kept hiding from my family so I could get to the end, which was tricky because we live in a small apartment and the book kept making me laugh out-loud.
We were overjoyed to discover that Harriet’s nap had rendered her a human being again, and also that everyone in our family was equally inclined to not bother leaving the house. Except that we had to buy a Christmas tree, which was to have been the day’s main activity, but it was 6:00 by this point and dark outside. We went to get the tree anyway, carrying it home on our shoulder from the convenience store around the corner. Picked up Thai take-out to have before we hung the decorations up. We brought the tree home and unwrapped it to discover it was gorgeous, and so absolutely enormous that we’re going to be unable to remove it from the house after Christmas without causing major damage, but we’ll worry about that later. The whole house smells coniferous. And we decked our tree, rediscovering the fabulous decorations we’d forgotten we’d owned. And then Harriet was put to bed finally, the last of the pad-Thai eaten. And I settled in for the evening with Isabel Huggan’s You Never Know, which is so very wonderful.
The icing on the cake would have been not having to wake up every three hours all night long to pee, but that is too much for one woman to ask for. So I will content myself instead with the most accidentally perfect day.
November 4, 2012
Wild Writers in Waterloo
I took all the wrong pictures in Waterloo yesterday at the Wild Writers Festival. The pictures that I should have taken included one of a room full of about 30 students (with such friendly faces!) who’d turned out to listen to me talk about blogging for an hour and a bit; the Wild Women Writers panel with Miranda Hill, Alison Pick, Carrie Snyder and Kerry-Lee Powell, which was such a joy and inspiration to listen to; Miranda Hill’s book Sleeping Funny, which I had to buy because its author enchanted me; photos of all the people I know from online only and was so thrilled to meet in person finally; and pictures of The New Quarterly staff and their terrific volunteers who worked so hard to make things run smoothly and make the day so enjoyable for us.
The pictures I did take were of my gourmet lunch box, which I’d been ridiculously looking forward to and which surpassed all my expectations and then some. The box was massive, and the food was so so good. I also took a picture of (part of) the booksale table (by Words Worth Books), because they’d brought in Best Canadian Essays 2011 (with my essay in it!) and put it on display beside all the other festival presenters’. I am sure it sold like hotcakes, but yes, it was kind of the honour of my life to be a little old blogger up there beside some of Can-Lit’s finest. A thrill I will never, never forget.
Rumour has it that the event was a success, and they might put it on again next year. Here’s to the beginning of a fantastic literary tradition!
