Becky the Criminal

It was just supposed to be a routine name change on my driver's license. It was one of those things that I had never gotten around to doing, and I figured after 7 years of marriage it was time to officially take my husband's name on all my paperwork.

The thought of being in the line up with the baby was a daunting one, so I decided to do it on Charlotte's day care day. Good call.

I smiled politely and gave my marriage certificate and license to the lady at the desk. She laughed when she saw our wedding date and said while giggling, "My my, is this your Christmas present to your husband?" while she looked at her computer screen. Then almost as quickly, her laugh turned to a frown and she looked at me with daggers in her eyes.

"Um, I'm sorry, but I need to confiscate your license,"she snapped. I looked at her in bewilderment, surprised by the sudden change in attitude. "I beg your pardon?" I asked. She looked at me like I was crazy, and said flatly, "Look, your license was suspended in December of 2008 for a DUI. I don't know why you still have it in your possession."

DUI? As in driving under the influence? ME? The girl who gets nervous when the hubby drives after just one beer and regularly tells friends and family off about it? I stood there dumbstruck, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

"I think there must be some mistake," I stuttered. "The only traffic violation I've ever gotten was a speeding ticket when I was 18. I don't EVER drink and drive, I don't drink now because I'm nursing my daughter, and I was pregnant at that time. Plus I was in France in December '08. Could it be identity theft?"

The reasons for why it couldn't be me started spilling out of my mouth fast and furious. I tried to keep my calm, knowing that blowing up would probably count against me. Another worker heard my pleas and came to look at my file. She took me over to a remote desk and called her superior. I could tell she didn't believe me by the way she presented my case. Thinking about it now, she must have seen a lot of guilty people at her job, and to her I was just another one in denial.

She warned me that I had commited a felony by driving for the last 2 years with a suspended license, and that had I been pulled over for a routine check or ticket I would have been brought to jail. She also told me that I had not been covered by any insurance. The thought of this started to overwhelm me, and I lost my cool and started to get pretty teary eyed. I mean, they were assuming I was guilty, and there was nothing I could do about it except proclaim my innocence. I called Julien, asking him if we still had our plane tickets, proving that I was out of the country when this so called indiscretion had occured. He assured me we did, plus my pay stubs and everything else that would prove I was abroad at the time of the crime. I started to feel a little better, and told them I would bring everything in that they needed to see.

The lady and her superior decided to call paper records in Victoria to pull out the file and at least tell me what the exact charges were, because it was classified information that she didn't have access to. After an hour and a half search, they were unable to come up with the file in Victoria, simply because it didn't exist. It turns out that they had electronically attached my driver's license number to someone else's DUI. They corrected their system and attached it to (hopefully) the right file.

So for an hour and a half, I was a criminal. Actually, I was a criminal for 2 years and just didn't know it. I have a new appreciation for people who are innocent and wronfully accused, because it's got to be one of the worst feelings in the world. I think what really bothers me is that fact that if I had had an accident or something, our entire lives would have been ruined because someone wasn't diligent in their work. That's a really scary thought.

Thank God that He was watching out for us and they were able to fix it before it was too late. Thank God.

The Big W

Work. When my little one was first born, the thought of going back was a completely overwhelming one. I mean, I was sleep deprived, sore, nursing, and just 100% not ready. When we moved back to Canada, I didn't want to work until I was sure that Charlotte had adjusted to the move. Then I wanted to wean her on her own terms. Slowly and surely, however, I started longing for a reason to dress up a little and do my hair and make up. A reason to have some adult conversations and maybe do something completely different than empty the dishwasher, wipe dirty bums and play dolls.

Thus the search for a job began. The criteria was strict. Only part time would do, no more than 16 hours a week so that I would still be able to have a family life and not leave my child to be raised at day care. It had to be close to home. NO mornings allowed. And, most important, it had to be a career job, with good pay. Good luck with that, I thought to myself. I pretty much knew a job like that would probably be impossible to find, mostly because it probably didn't exist. Part of me wondered if it was just an excuse to not work at all and just stay with the little one.

Despite my misgivings, I diligently searched for the job. Weeks went by, and applications were without follow up. I got a little discouraged, but then, there was a bite. An interview! I went to the interview and soon realized this was not at all the position I had applied for. It was better. But I wasn't sure how I had mistakenly sent my resume to this particular place. Of course, I didn't want to say anything to the interviewer. I went along with it, got through to the end of it, and went straight home to my computer. I soon discovered my error; during my job search, I had opened 2 different job tab windows at the same time. And then I had inadvertently copied the wrong email address, the one for the job I thought I was not qualified for.

Interestingly enough, I got a call back for a second interview. The hours were explained (Tuesday 2-8,Fridays 1-6, and Saturdays 8-1!) as well as what they were looking for. As I heard them speak, I KNEW this job was for me. ALL of my demanding criteria was met (ok, except for one tiny saturday morning). And the very next day, I got the call that I was to start the week of Christmas. It was such an amazing answer to prayer.

I've now been working for 3 weeks and things are great. It is so nice to come home to see my little girl. I appreciate my time with her so much more. I'm more relaxed when she has temper tantrums. I'm excited to play dolls. So, for me, the compromise between part time work and home life could not be a better one.
And everyone is happy!

Honey Melts

Ever since I've known my husband I've called him Hon. As in Honey, but the short form (I think this was during my Friends craze and Jennifer Aniston called everyone Honey) "Hi, Hon. How are you doing?" "Hon, could you please take out the trash?" "Hon, do you know where the keys are?" "Hon, do you have any plans for the weekend?"
Hon, Hon, Hon.

The funny thing is that after a while, he started calling me Hon, too. "Hon, do you need the car tomorrow? Hon, can I help you with anything? Hon, do you like this shirt?" Hon, Hon, Hon.

What I didn't realize was how observant little 18 month olds really are.

My little one was having a mega tantrum, screaming "MAMAAAAAAAAAN!!!!!!!!!!" (she calls me the French way, maman) I always tell her that I won't listen to her until she uses a nice voice to address me. This usually means she screams it out until she realizes that no one is paying any attention, and then will call me nicely, saying, "Maman, up please?" And then I come and pick her up.

So anyways, she was having one of her flamboyant tantrums, and I told her the same thing as always," Charlotte, sweetie, I can't hear you when you scream like that. When you talk to me nicely I will be happy to help you." This time, for some reason, she stopped mid scream and came up to me, started caressing my shoulder, and said, "Hon?".

At first, I wasn't sure if I had heard her right. But then she kept caressing me and saying, "Hon, walk please?" I burst out laughing, realizing she was doing what Julien and I apparently do when we talk to each other. He always rubs my shoulder and says, "Hon?".

Now that Charlotte gets the reaction she wants, she does it all the time now, a big grin on her face. And it melts my heart every time she says it.

The Kissing Disease

Every Tuesday, I bundle my little one up and drive her to day care. There are several reasons why I do this, but I think the main one is so that I can get a much needed break, and give her one too.

As much fun as it is washing the floor only to have her drop her milk all over it, fold clothing to have her throw all my nice clean piles on the floor, and tidy in one room while she destroys the other, I just need one day to myself where I don't need to take her grocery shopping. I mean, she's THAT kid. The one that has several hugemegaenormoussuperembarressing tantrums in the store. The one that screams bloody murder, causing everyone to stare and give dissaproving looks.

So I didn't think that it would be too much to ask. Just have her play with her buddies for one day a week, allowing me to clean my house in one go, get my shopping done quickly and with no meltdowns, and also have an hour or two to read.

This was all well and good. It was working wonderfully. Until the day she brought something home with her. Sore throat. Sniffles. High fever. Puking. Then, because I can't stay away from those chubby little cheeks, I came down with it. Except mine seemed a little worse. Sore armpits. Sore everything. I went to the doctor, and he ran some tests. His fears were confirmed: Mono. The kissing disease.

I remember in grade 5 someone came down with mono. We made fun of them, saying it was the kissing disease. Obviously they had come down with it while K-I-S-S-I-N-G in a tree. It was kind of those illnesses you dream about as a kid, because those poor patients stayed away from school for months. The thought of lying in bed playing nintendo and having my mother wait on me hand and foot was amazing.

Was I ever stupid. Mono is NOT fun. Now, because of my selfish desire to have some alone time, Charlotte got mono, and I am the most tired I have ever been. I drag myself out of bed in the morning, drag myself around the house all day, drag drag drag. I take lots of vitamins, and try to eat as well as I can, but it's sure slow going. It could take 6 months before I'm back to my old self. That's a long time.

On the bright side, Charlotte is fine. She just takes 2.5 hour naps now, something that is unprecedented in our home. So while I am not thrilled about this illness, it will get better, and my daughter is actually SLEEPING. I guess it's not so bad afterall.

Fire and Things

A shrill noise split through the air, taking me by surprise. It took me a second to realize what it was: the fire emergency alarm.

If you've ever lived in an apartment building, then you may have experienced this. But for me, it was the first time. I remember the building mananger had told us that if it ever went off, we needed to evacuate asap. So I quickly ran from room to room, turning off the piercing sound that threatened to make my already sore ears explode. Of course it cut Charlotte's nap short, but I left her in her crib as I flew around the home collecting things I thought I would need if stuck outside for a while: purse, diaper bag, cell phone, baby food, camera. I got the baby ready to brave the cold outside, and went to the door. In all, it only took about 4 minutes. Then I made my way to the front door. I put my hand against it, like we were taught in the Ronald McDonald Fire house.

On a side note, I will never forget that fire house. It was a learning tool that was actually a camping car but had the layout of a house, and pumped strawberry flavoured "smoke" under the doors. It was your mission to close the doors, feel if they were hot, drop and roll, and get out safely. We loved that thing.

Anyways, I felt the door, and it was not hot. At this point, I decided I was being a little ridiculous. It was probably someone who had burnt their toast, and was feeling downright embarressed by now. So with my things in hand and the baby on the other arm, I opened the door, fully planning to follow protocol and get to the stairs, but thinking I'd be back inside within a number of minutes. I opened the door, and was shocked by what greeted me.

Thick black curling smoke had filled the hallway, making it impossible to even see the stairwell, even though our apartment is only 10 feet away from them. I slammed the door shut and thought about my options, which were basically 2. I could try and brave the smoke and run for the stairs, or I could go out on our balcony and drop Charlotte down to someone and then jump down myself. Because I didn't know where the fire was, I decided to go to the balcony.

Our neighbours had done the same thing. We waited, anxiously speaking about what was going on. I started thinking about what would happen if the building really did burn down and we lost everything. In my mind, I went through every article near and dear to me. I'm not the most sentimental person in the world, so "stuff" really isn't that important to me. Or so I thought. I don't care about the Xbox, the couch, and kitchen apparel. But then I started to find things that did matter. The ring my dad gave me. Several lifetime's worth of photos. Charlotte's hospital bracelet from when she was born. I started to get scared and play the What if? game. What if we did lose it all? What if the baby blanket sewn so lovingly by my daughter's Godmother was destroyed? What if all of our pictures and videos were lost? What if Charlotte's baby book was gone?

The alarms finally stopped and we were allowed to go back inside. It turns out that the apartment next to us had left some ribs on a lit stove, and it had caught fire. Since they had left to go shopping, they didn't even know about it until the fire had been put out. It was a brave neighbour who had seen the smoke coming out from under their door and broke into their apartment to put out the flames. Luckily for them, the damage was mostly smoke damage. They didn't lose anything of importance to them. Neither did we. But I did take from it a valuable lesson.

I realized that yes, I would be devastated by those momentos being destroyed. Those objects are proof that we are alive. That we've lived. That we've survived. Why do we attach importance to them? Well, I decided it's not really the things in itself that are important, but the feelings you get you get when you touch the object. The scene that floods your mind when you caress it. And that feeling,that memory, I realized, is something that can't be taken away from you. It's a part of you.

So I'm glad that I learned something out of this.

Oh, and I also bought a fire/waterproof chest to put my pictures and small objects in ;-)

The Art of Discipline

Our 16 month old has really started to test us. Besides still not sleeping through the night, she has started the terrible ones. "Charlotte, we do not hit mommy." "Charlotte, we do not hit daddy". "Charlotte, we do not throw food on the floor." "We do not throw food on the floor". "We do not throw food on the floor". "We do not throw food on the floor". "We do not throw food on the floor". "We do not throw food on the floor". "We do not throw food on the floor". "We do not throw food on the floor". "We do not throw food on the floor".

And so repeats my day. Every meal time, she gets about 3 time outs for throwing food. It's a problem because she really does do it on purpose. She looks us straight in the eye, daring us to give her a time out. We've gotten used to her full body tantrums, and I've learned to just make sure her head is safe before simply walking away.

But we've tried pretty much everything we can think of to get her to stop throwing her food. We've ignored it, we've given a tap on the hand, we've given her time outs, we've taken her food away, we've made her clean it up. The problem is that it just doesn't work. She will come straight out of her time out and rebelliously throw something again, just to show us how angry she is. This has been getting consistantly worse over the last 6 months, to the point where we don't dare bring her anywhere else so there won't be spaghetti on our hosts' windows.

I'm kind of at my wits end. Who knew that a one year old could be so strong willed? My mother said that I was the same way, so I should know how to handle her. The trouble is, I really don't have a CLUE how to handle this stage. We try to be consistant and always explain why she's in time out. I try to control my temper, but it's true that by the end of the day I am 150% fed up of wiping food off the walls, the rugs, and myself, and tend to get a little angrier than when she does it at breakfast.

So that's where I'm at. I have a beautiful, bright little girl, but if you have any suggestions I'm all ears. I've worn out all my wash cloths.

Confessions of an ER Patient

Yesterday I spent a few hours in the ER. I had picked Charlotte up for the millionth time that morning,and something just gave. I felt a stab of pain so acute that I almost dropped my baby, and kind of ended up tossing her on the couch before falling to the floor. Never in my whole life have I felt pain that badly. It seemed to radiate throughout my body, and even moving my head just a milimeter seemed to make it 50 times worse than it already felt.

Not one to play the hero, I went to the ER. I was surprised at how long the paperwork took. When I was done at the reception desk, I was sent to triage. When I was done at the triage desk, I was sent back to the reception desk. That in itself took 20 minutes. I do need to mention that I was in the worst pain I have ever been in. Ever. When a screaming child with an ear infection came in, I was tempted to cry right along with him. Being the good adult patient, I waited like a good girl until I got called. I walked ever so slowly, gritting my teeth the whole way as not to scream while I was shown to the observation room.

I patiently waited while the guy next to me b**ched and complained that he was in terrible pain and needed a doctor NOW, and that he'd been this way since Tuesday. I couldn't help but think,"Geez, buddy, you've had all week to come and you left it until now?" I was even more bitter when I heard the doctor tell him that there was nothing wrong with him and that his blood work was pristine, and proceeded to send him home.

I felt a little sorry for the doctor. He seemed very flustered. I heard one of the nurses say that he was alone all morning for the whole ER. I also listened to one nurse complain about her salary, vacation time, shift lines, and how she spent 5000 dollars on a couch. About how the ER was not busy at all and she was bored. All the while, I was fighting back wave after wave of pain, trying not to faint or scream.

I saw a kid who had broken his collar bone. Yes, he had a good reason for bumping me. So did the kid who needed a bunch of stitches. But the soccer player who had a sore shoulder and only needed an ice pack? Really? I started to question if I was being too quiet. That maybe if I did scream someone would actually take notice of the girl stuffed in the corner, with silent tears streaming down her face. But I didn't. I just continued to wait.

After about 2 hours, a nurse showed up. It was the same one who was complaining about how slow it was and how bored she was. She just took the same info that the triage nurse had taken. Then she wisked away, promising the doctor would be there soon.

After another hour, the doctor finally came. X rays would reveal a pinched nerve and herniated disk in my upper back, which is not only painful but explained the tingling right down to my feet. Physio and chiropractor should help, he said. He called for the nurse, and I heard him ask her to give me a 'good dose' of morphine and toradol. The nurse came back in and gave me the hip shots. Then I was free to go.

I glanced around as I left the ER, (yep, I could actually turn my head by that time)and saw all of the empty beds, and a few people waiting to be seen. I have to say that I am really grateful to live in a place where we have access to care. When I think of places that I've visited where there's no doctor within 400 miles I thank God to live where I do. At the same time though, living where we do, should there not be more doctors available, ER? Do we really have to listen to the nurse complain that she's bored out of her tree, while you are waiting over 3 hours to be seen, which feels like a lifetime when you're in pain? I'm not so sure.

So today I'll just say that I am happy that we have the care, and that my pain was relieved once the morphine took over. And we'll leave it at that.

The Littlest Mommy

I crawled up into the attic of my childhood home, wiping away cob webs as searched for a treasure from my past. There it was, in the corner. My beloved dolly named Elizabeth. She's the size of a newborn, maybe even a bit bigger, with eyes that open and close when you lay her down. I pulled her gently toward me and dusted her off. Once she was clean, I presented her to my little 14 month old girl. I was watched her as she squealed in delight, showing me the baby's eyes, nose, hair, and mouth. And thus Elizabeth was adopted right away.

Charlotte brings Elizabeth everywhere with her. In the car, for a walk in the stroller, at the table. I watched her as she lovingly fed her dolly (baybay, as she calls her), sharing her blueberries with her and spoon feeding her cereal. I saw her smother her baby with kisses and give her hugs. I saw her pat the baby on the back, and pretend to talk on the phone, then pass the phone to her baybay so she could have a go. She sat cuddling her baby as she watched her little cartoon.

Of course, I was chuffed. I mean, everything she was doing with her baby she had learned from me. Reading her books, the cuddles, dressing her, changing her diaper, feeding her, bathing her, tickling her toes, giving her raspberries on the tummy, and even brushing her teeth were being acted out by my little copy cat before my eyes. And I was proud.

But I should have known better. Pride always comes before the fall.

The other day Charlotte was busy taking very good care of her baby. She had her little sippy cup in the baby's mouth and was helping her drink. But then out of the blue she turned on her, like a dog who's playing one minute and then chomping on your leg the next. I watched in fascinated horror as she started shaking her little finger at the baybay and telling her off in baby gibberish. She then promptly threw the dolly to the floor and stomped on her. Oh my. I always knew my daughter had a dramatic flare, but this was above and beyond my wildest imagination.

For the record, I have NEVER thrown my baby to the floor, nor do I stomp on her. I do scold her though, and she does get time outs in her bed from time to time. Apparently, in my daughter's eyes, it's the same thing. My little drama queen, the same little girl who has mega temper tantrums by flinging herself to the floor, is just imitating life as she sees it. And if she sees and feels things this big now, I can only imagine what it will be like when she's a teenager.

Heaven help me!

Thunder, Dribble, and Bay Watch

Sweat poured down my face as I tried to catch up to the rest of the people running their hearts out. Boot camp. "So this is what I signed up for", I thought as I struggled to breathe. "Minute by minute torture. What was I thinking?". Squats, dumb bells that were too heavy for me, push ups, and running up and down hills were on the menu. I think by the 5th minute I was done and ready to be served on a platter, (I even puked!) but somehow willed myself to keep going even though I was last every single time. And this for the last 3 weeks.

I'm not sure what's more painful about boot camp. Is it the fact that my lungs feel like they had been set on fire? Is it the old back and knee injuries that flared up the second I started running, making me look like quasi modo as I run? Or is it that darn rubber tire around my waist that seems to weave and wobble , throwing me off balance ? Or maybe it's the blisters from my thighs rubbing as we pound down the track. Or my boobs hitting my chin during the jumping jacks. Or the fact that my body starts to feel like rubber and trembles with each exercise until it finally craps out on me. I'm not quite sure what it is, but I hate.every.single.second. of boot camp.

I think that Monday was the most embarrassing to date. It was a night (yes, I switched classes, because 5:30 am was just too much for this sleep loving princess) filled with an awful lot of bouncing, bobbing, and jumping. And then I realized that I have another little problem. I leak. If you have had children naturally, you know what I'm talking about. That little bit of dribble that seems to squeeze out despite your best efforts. And with that, I was officially over boot camp.

Funny thing, though. As much as I hate going, there is something inside of me that is actually starting to like it. Not the boot camp per say, but more the feeling afterwards. The physical tiredness. The blood pumping. The muscles relaxing after working so hard. My body honestly hasn't changed that much, except that I have a lot more energy, and I do find that my outlook is a little brighter. If you don't exercise, get cracking. It hurts, you look ridiculous, and you will dribble. But my, will you feel good afterward. It makes it all worth it. For those of you who do exercise, well, I'm starting to get it.

So with these thoughts I leave you. I need to go buy some Depends for the next class.

Boot Camp

I'm going to do it. Boot camp, that is. I have finally narrowed my activity of choice down to one here in town that starts at 5:30 4 mornings a week for a month.

For those who know me, I'm sure this will give you a good chuckle. First of all, I'm the furthest thing from a morning person you will ever meet. I have a hard time getting out of bed at any given moment in the a.m. (yes, 11:59am too). It must be psychological from my school days or something. Even on Christmas morning as a kid I let my parents sleep because, well, I was sleeping too. Morning sleep is when I get my best sleep it seems. So when Charlotte is up at 6:30 and trying to pry my eyelids open so that I'll look at her, I have to admit that I am not a ray of sunshine.

Moving right along. Secondly, I am the gimpiest person around. Between my bad back, sore joints, bum knee, and constant tripping, (which, by the way I have a theory on; you can click here for details) So being out in the rain, limping along as I mutter under my breathe with my eyes half closed is going to be quite the site to behold I'm sure.

So why boot camp? Well, I was brainstorming of activities I could do to get rid of that darn rubber tire around my waste effect my jeans seem to give off when I sit down (or stand up). I mean, whole wheat chocolate chip cookie recipes don't seem to be making a whole lot of difference. But then neither are going for long walks with the baby or doing a certain shred exercise video.

I wanted to try belly dancing, but I was afraid I would poke my audience's eyes out with my G sized nursing boobs whirling around. Come to think of it, I may have ended up knocking myself out with those puppies. So no to the belly dancing.

Swimming would be good, except that I wouldn't be caught dead in a bathing suit. I don't think anyone could pay me enough to put my thunder thighs on display and cause a tsunami as I jump into the pool. Then again, I would probably float pretty well with that inflatable looking tire around my waist. Call it pride if you will, the pool is not for me.

Dancing? While I am a secret wisher that I could dance, I cannot. As in cannot, will not, should not. I am a menace to the people around me on the dance floor. You know that song Murder on the dance floor? Yeah, that was about me. Stupid left feet.

Running is my all worst nightmare, (sorry RW. For the record though, you have highly inspired me to get into shape while avoiding bicycling, even though swimming and running are not my thing)

So boot camp it is. I have no idea how in the world I will be able to get up for this. But I figure a screaming-in-my face-coach at 5:30 in the morning is just what I need to get these old bones to move. It's not that I lack motivation. I want this michelin man look gone just as much as the next girl. I just lack motivation to go by myself and exercise by myself. I need someone on my back, pushing me and giving me direction. So here goes nothing. I think I'll stock up on the ibuprofen tonight though. It's going to be quite the show tomorrow morning.

His and Hers

His and her sinks. I think I've dreamed about having them since I got married. The thought of having my own sink, hair, toothpaste, and beard trimming-free has tickled my fancy ever since sharing day in and day out the little European sinks. So when we moved and were lucky to find a place with a master bathroom with not one, but 2 sinks, I was elated. I imagined getting up in the morning and brushing my teeth beside my hubby, not behind or in front of him. I imagined washing my face and not being pushed aside to make room for the next person in the room. I saw myself putting on makeup while hubby shaved beside me. Oh, the joy of having my own sink.

So when we first moved in, I asked hubby which sink he wanted. He looked at both, thought for a while, and said, "well, I'll take the one closest to the wall. That way I can plug in my razer when I shave. "Done," I agreed. I arranged my side to make it look pretty, putting a nice perfume bottle, a decorative box of Kleenex, and a little candle on my side. I made sure it looked nice and clean. I took my hair out of the sink after combing it. I wiped the toothpaste off after brushing my teeth. This ritual went on every day. The first week, I cleaned hubby's sink of the beard and hair and toothpaste. It was great. I had my own place to get ready, my own mirror, my own drawers.

But after that first week, something funny started to happen. I noticed that my sink had an awful lot of dark dark hair in it. And toothpaste. And beard trimmings. At first, I thought that maybe it was me forgetting to clean up after myself (minus the beard trimmings ;-). My weekly cleaning was back to 2 sinks. It was pretty clear what was going on. So I asked hubby if he preferred to change sinks. He could take mine, and I could take his. "Agreed", he said. "I seem to keep going to yours".

So we started over, this time with his sink closest to the shower. Except there were still beard trimmings. And toothpaste. And hair in my sink. It's been a month now, and I have resided to the fact that there is no such thing as his and her sinks. There are only his and his.

Start your morning with a Bang

The deafening sound made me an leap to my feet as the windows shook. Julien was on my heels as I ran into the living room to see what had happened.

We looked at each other in bewilderment. "Did you hear that?" I asked, feeling a little silly for asking such an obvious question. Why else would he be up at 5:45am? All of the possibilities ran through my mind in the blink of an eye: a car running into the building, someone getting shot, a bomb going off. Julien ran to the front door and looked down the hallway. I checked the laundry room, the den, the bathrooms, and Charlotte's room. Nothing.

Then I opened the balcony door and a horrible site awaited me: Fire. Flames were licking our balcony rails. Thick black smoke curled upwards and made me cough as I closed the door as quickly as I had opened it. I ran to get Charlotte as Julien and I pondered what to do. Many seniors from the building across from ours had heard the explosion too and had made their way to their own balconies to watch the action. They yelled to us to call 911, but our phone hadn't been hooked up yet. Our home of 4 days that we had been so excited to get had become a nightmare in the blink of an eye.

I ran for the building manager as someone in the other building called 911. The firetruck seemed to take an eternity to show up, but in reality it only took a few minutes. We watched as they extinguished the fire and started to interview witnesses. The police showed up and also started their investigation. After we were told it was safe, we went back to bed and tried to piece together what had happened.

The building manager called us to thank us for getting him, and explained that a tenant on the 4th floor (we are on the 2nd) had gone camping and had transported a propane tank and some briquettes in a big plastic storage bin. When they somehow caught fire early this morning, he made an executive decision to throw it over his balcony, knowing it was better for it to explode outside than in the building. It turns out that it exploded right in front of our bedroom window on its way down and kept burning once it hit the ground. We were a little bit stunned at the news, especially when we heard that our windows should have imploded with the force of the explosion and would have surely hurt us, as our bed is beside that window.

So knowing this, is it coincidence that just last night Julien and I prayed for protection from walls to windows, floors to ceilings, and doors to doors on our new place?

I think not.

The grass is always greener...

We've moved out to our own place and the dust has started to settle. And with that, so have the stars in my eyes. At first, I was so excited to be home. To have my family close, to see my friends, and to have a better quality of life than we had in Europe.
As I started to set up house, however, there are things, though, where I can't help but feel utterly extorted here, and it is definitely starting to irk me.

Like cable, phone, and internet. For 30 dollars in Europe, you have all channels, mega internet, and your telephone, and it is free to call 50 countries. Here though, it's 100 dollars just for a basic plan, with no options and no channels. There, an unlimited cell phone costs about 50 euros a month. Here, it's 140 dollars. There, all the tax is included in the price. Here, you have to add it after. Groceries over there: 200 bucks a month. Here: we're at 450 and the month is not over.

While I knew that there would be good things and bad, I didn't realize how expensive it is to actually live here. I guess I totally had my head in the clouds. If any of you know by experience how to get things cheaper, please let me know, especially for groceries. I feel like such a foreigner now! And while it is more expensive than Europe, (yes, seriously, this is a sad, sad fact Canada) it is definitely worth it to have the mountains, the lakes, the rivers, and the ocean. And my family and friends of course.

And on a brighter note, Charlotte has finally learned to fall asleep by herself after waking up in the night. I have learned to just let her cry it out (seriously, if I had just been able to wait 2 minutes, this whole no night thing may have been over a long long time ago!) So what is that worth to me? Well, it's priceless.

Long Overdue

It's been a while. I don't blame anyone for not reading this blog anymore, because I have pretty much been the worst at keeping it up. I do have several excuses though if you're willing to read them.

We moved to Europe from Canada on one of the smoothest flights we've had. We had really prayed about when the best time to move would be, and were convinced that it was mid May. We weren't really able to explain why, but it just seemed the direction God wanted us to take. So we had faith, and left without having closed the sale on our apartment. The airline was awesome and gave us all of our extra luggage for free (we literally had 4 extra bags all over-weight) and Julien got his visa within 15 minutes on the other end. My mom and brother were waiting for us, and brought us to our new temporary home at my mom's.

The next day we spent our time running around getting Julien's social insurance number, applying for medical insurance and baby bonuses, and of course looking after my growing little baby, who is into absolutely everything and needs to be watched like a hawk.

So the last 3 weeks have been spent trying to get settled, picking our things up at the cargo hold, catching up with friends and family, and desperately looking for a job, especially for Julien. After about a week and a half of applying all over the place, we were starting to get a little nervous as no one was getting back to Julien. Then the incredible happened: he was offered 2 interviews in 2 days. During the last interview, he discovered that this particular company not only worked with the same supplier that he worked with in India, but also the exact same contact person. Seriously, it is a small world. After the interview on Friday, he had only been home about 5 minutes before he got a call saying that he was to start on Monday. Se exactly 3 weeks to the day we arrived, he started his new job. What an incredible answer to prayer.

In the mean time, we celebrated my 30th birthday, Charlotte's first birthday, and my mom's 60th birthday. I got my hair fixed from that horrible tang orange colour, and even though it is the darkest it had ever been in my life, I don't think it looks horrible. I just need to get used to it.

Now in 3 weeks we will be moving to the town where Julien's working, and I'm pretty excited about that. We found a great condo for rent, and I'm excited to go furniture shopping and stuff. So those are pretty much my excuses for the last while. I hope you think they're valid, but I will be coming with more soon.

Becky

6 Nights of Bliss

We've had sleep issues with Charlotte since day 1. At first, I thought that it was just a newborn thing to be up 12 hours straight, sleep for 45 minutes, and then be up for another 6 hours. But then Charlotte wasn't so new anymore, and the whole no sleep thing was getting old really quickly. Then around 8 months, she took a nap . A nap! I was so excited that I too took a nap. Then she slept 5 whole hours in a row. What the heck? Then, 2 weeks ago for the first time, Charlotte slept for 6 blissful nights without waking up once. 6 IN A ROW!! After the first night, I thought it was just a fluke. After the 4th night, I saw a glimmer of hope. And after the 6th night, I allowed myself to dream that it was for good.

Julien and I were in heaven. We caught up on sleep. We had some great conversations. We sorted our belongings in the evening. We had dinner together for the first time since before Charlotte was born.
And just as I thought that things might actually be changing and that our nights were now ours, it stopped. All of a sudden, she started her endless hours of screaming again. She refused to go to sleep on her own, and needed to be cuddled. We're back to square one with it all, and it is so darn frustrating. But we did have 6 glorious nights, which gives me hope that the next time will be longer. One day, sleep, you will be mine. Oh yes, you will be mine.

Orange

This week, I became a product of my own vanity. Now I wouldn't say that I'm vain when it comes to clothing, nails, make up, or anything like l that. I'm usually pretty low key, preferring sweat pants to dress pants and big baggy shirts to body hugging ones. For some reason though, I can't stand it when my long blond hair goes dark. While I am naturally blond, it just seems that these last few years my hair is going darker, and I just can't handle it anymore. Because of a lack of babysitter and cash, and some big family events coming up, I decided that I HAD to do something all by myself. I mean, when I was younger I did it all the time. I used Kool Aid to make my hair pink. I dyed my hair black, red, blue. You'd think that would have been my first clue.

Anyway, the promise on the box: beautiful light golden blond hair. I had visions of myself tossing my beautiful long goldie locks in the wind. I saw a crown of lovely braids around my head. I saw airy blond curls, and thoughts that blonds really do have more fun.

I put Charlotte down for her nap and ran to the bathroom. I followed the directions to the letter. I put the dye on, and left it the allotted time. And rinse, and wash. And then I took a look in the mirror. Orange. Orange like Orange. Crap. I felt like Anne of Green Gables in the scene where she dyed her hair "a beautiful raven black" that was actually green. I thought maybe it just needed to be dried. Nope, it looked even worse. Plus the fact that I have a red skin tone, and then this horrible yellow-orange combo on my head made me look like one of the fraggles from fraggle rock. Or like Lady Gaga.

As the disappointment set in, so did the panic. This is going to be immortalized in pictures, I realized. With all the parties and get togethers before we leave, there I'll be, orange tinged and red faced.

My darling husband took pity on me and took the baby so I could run to the professionals. The result? 160 bucks to "fix" it, and to be honest I think it looks worse. There are now fluorescent yellow streaks nestled in a sea of orange. The worst is that now I really can't do anything about it, because my hair is too fragile. So what was done to save money and time ended up costing me alot more. And I am now convince that some things should just be left to the professionals.

All About Charlotte

Today this post is dedicated to my little bundle of joy. I don't mean to gush, but I don't want to forget all the little things she does!

Charlotte,

You are 10 months old, and so full of life. You crawl around like everything is a race, and when you lose your balance I think that you're a split second away from calamity. You always prove me wrong and somehow end up catching yourself. You pull yourself up on everything you find, and you even stand by yourself without realizing it. Of course, the second you understand that nothing is holding you up, you lose your balance and plop down on your padded bum.

You are amazed at everything you see, and that little finger just points away. You grunt, you babble, and you make the funniest faces. I love it when you see something you like and you go "OOOOOOHHHHHHHH" with your little red lips so perfectly shaped into an O. When I give you your lunch, you shake your head no when you don't want anymore and rip off your bib, and then bat your eyelashes at me.

You play me like a cheap violin, because when it's nap time you cuddle into my neck so that I won't put you into your bed. And then when I do put you down, you look at me with this tortured look and cry MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA just so that I'll pick you back up.
You applaud your daddy when he comes to get you in the morning. You do the actions to all the songs we sing, and you are so proud when you do them. You are the most social baby I've ever met. You'll go to anybody without any hesitation at all. You have this mischevious little smile whenever we tell you NO for something.

You love to empty your toybox, and haven't yet understood how to put it all back. You light up like a light bulb when you see your daddy when he gets home from work, and giggle like a school girl when he tickles your little tummy.
When you're overtired, you go into system overdrive, where you do every little expression, sound, and action you know how to do all at once. It's comical to watch. You have a whining yell that causes your daddy and me to shudder, because it makes our eardrums bleed. You splash everyone and everything when you're in the bathtub, and it's the hardest thing in the world to keep you on your little bum when you're in the water.

You spend hours babbling away to the baby in the mirror. You find it halarious to stick your finger up my nose when you nurse (I find it much less so). You still don't have any teeth, and I am so grateful for that since you give me one hard CHOMP at the end of each feeding. You clutch your little blankie like your life depends on it and twirl it in between your fingers when you sleep. I never find you in the same place in your bed.

You try to help me dress you, so your little arm is always pushing into your sleeves before I'm ready, and you always get stuck halfway down the sleeve. You are constantly opening drawers and pinching your fingers no matter much duct tape I use to keep them closed.

You arch your back when you see the car seat or the stroller, rendering it impossible to put you in it. You have little temper tantrums when you don't like something. When we take you to the doctor for your check ups, she marvels at how tall you are and how alert you are. Then she cringes when she notices that the needle on the scale hasn't budged in the last 4 months. Because you are a skinny baby, your pants are constantly around your ankles. When I put your pretty leather baby boots on, you refuse to move and will just sit there.

You usually wake up at least twice in the night, and nothing calms you down except nursing. In 10 months, you've slept through the night about 10 times. You are a total drama queen and love it when the spotlight is on you.

And I love you with all my heart.

I can't believe how fast time is flying by. In 1.5 months, I will be home. HOME. My home. I am so excited, yet at the same time scared out of my wits. There are so many questions running through my mind.

Will it be as good as I imagined? Will all of the hours spent pining away for my homeland have been worth it? Will Julien adapt well? Will he be like I am here, miserable and pining away for HIS home? Will we have a social life, something that was so severely lacking here? How will we carve ourselves a place in friends' lives that are so used to us being gone? How will Charlotte adapt? Will she still understand French? Will I lose my French? Will we find jobs? Will we be destitute? Where are we going to live? How long will it take to get settled?

It's amazing how when you decide to do something, opportunities seem to open up where you are. All of a sudden, our weekends are chalk full running everywhere. All of a sudden, I have visitors during the week, whereas before it was like solitary confinement. All of a sudden, we are invited everywhere and have a bit of a social life.

It's amazing how life goes. And how your perspective changes when something is on the line. Yes, I'm sad to leave. I have 2 lives, 2 cultures, 2 families, 2 languages. I think that no matter where we are, we will be torn in 2. Now it's up to us to make sure that it's not a half life.

Memories

I haven't written in a while. The truth is that I've been in a funk ever since I came home from Vancouver. I realized just how hard the last year has been for me, and how utterly lonely the life of a stay at home mom is, especially when you don't have a car to get out and about or friends within a hundred mile radius.

But that's not what I want to write about today. I want to write about something positive, so here we go!
I was packing yesterday for our big move (yes, we are finally moving to Vancouver this spring!!!) and I started going through Charlotte's clothing. I couldn't believe the feelings of love and nostalgia that washed over me as I picked up the tiny little onesies and little tiny outfits and teeny weeny socks. I mean, she wore those only 9 short months ago. But it seems like a lifetime ago. And it's funny, because I never thought I would be able to look back on those first 7 months of her life with fond memories. At the time, I would grit my teeth and repeat to myself, "hang in there Becky, this too shall pass" as my daughter would scream for hours on end and refused to sleep, causing me to wonder if I was senile because of the crazy thoughts that entered my mind from sheer and utter exhaustion and worry. It's amazing how time makes you forget all of the sacrifice, the frustration, and being so sleep deprived you could fall asleep anywhere, even the loo.
I'm happy to say that my little bug has developed from a screaming baby into an awesome little toothless wonder (yep, still no teeth!) who crawls, gets into everything, is a chatterbox, makes funny faces, and actually sleeps. Granted, she doesn't sleep through the night. But that will come I'm sure. I'm so grateful for her. And I know I don't mention him much, but I'm grateful for Julien too. He's turned into an awesome husband and a super dad, doing dishes, helping with the housework, changing diapers, bathing the baby, and getting down on the floor to chase her around. I realize as I look at them how blessed I am and how I really shouldn't complain, even if the days are a little lonely.

Looking at Each Other In Wonderment

The closing ceremonies are over; the flame extinguished. When that flame went out with a haunting Neil Young singing, I think something in my heart broke a little.
We may be labled as tacky, cheesy, and completely unsophisticated by some. Ok, maybe some of us DID seem a little Happy Gilmorish at some of the events. But we were real. Proud. Full of sheer and utter elation to be such an integral part of something that was bigger than us.

But that feeling of being so proud your heart could burst is slowly dwindling. We become our quiet, respectful, polite selves once again. The flag is taken off our cars; the faces painted with our country's symbol are less and less. The tragedies, triumphs, danger, adversity, and joy will soon become nothing but a faded memory.

But that's the stuff that legends are made of.

The Countdown...

The countdown is on!! (drumroll please) WE'RE MOVING TO BC!!!

Befor I go on, I should probably fill you in a little about the steps it took to get here.

In October 2008, after 6 years of debating, discussion, prayer, and hoping, Julien applied to get his Canadian visa. We had been told at that time that it would take about 4-9 months to obtain. So 10 months later when we still hadn't heard anything, we followed up on it. And soon after, we received a rejection letter, stating that the skilled worker category that Julien had applied for was no longer on their list because of the economic crisis.

As you can imagine, I was heartbroken. It was so hard to understand why things were happening the way they were, especially after losing my father. It was so important for me to move back because of the task he asked of me before he passed, which was to take care of my mother. I didn't take my promise lightly, and my awesome husband knew how important it was for me to get back there.

So we then decided to take the hard route, which meant me acting as a sponsor for Julien. I signed a pact with the the government, promising to support Julien for 3 years, as he wouldn't be entitled to any benefits, such as disability or employment insurance. It was a big undertaking, but we knew it was our last hope for coming back.

We sent our huge file in October 2009, and were told that it would take 6-12 months to get an answer if I was accepted as a sponsor. At the beginning of November, I received a letter stating that my sponsorship was accepted, and that the file would be transferred to the embassy in Paris to treat the visa request. Then in January we received a letter informing us that the visa itself would take another 6-12 months. So I decided to go on my little adventure and bring Charlotte to see my family, because another year is a long time to wait seeing as how these little babies just morph into little independant people before your eyes.

About a week into my trip, Julien called me with some shocking news: His visa was ready for pickup. A million thoughts ran through my head. What? How? What do we do now? Holy crap I'm going to have to get myself organized and think about what to send internationally, while watching my little girl like a hawk because she gets into everything everywhere.

So, in total, it took only 4 months.

To be honest, I shouldn't have been surprised, because around Christmas Julien's dad had given us a verse talking about how the wise men went back to their own country "another way". At the time, he had told us that our plans wouldn't go the way we thought they would. For us, we had planned on leaving maybe in September at best, which seemed logical. When JL gave us the verse, we thought it meant we'd end up leaving later. We never dreamed that it would come now.

Julien gave his notice, and our appartment sold on the same day. Everything has fallen into place so perfectly that we can't help but acknowledge God's hand in all of this. I'm trusting now that jobs are waiting for us on the other side of the ocean. And I know that everything is in good hands.

The Home Coming

For those nearest and dearest to me, you know that last week I pulled up my socks and headed for the airport. I decided to give my mother a heart attack and just show up at her door, direct from Paris. I'm pretty sure that if I had waited any longer, I wouldn't have come at all. If you read my post about travelling alone with a baby, you would know why.

The day started out as any other. Suitcases ready? Check. Passport and travel documents? Check. Baby stuff ready? Check. Period after 18 months of having none? Check. Stroller confiscated at the Paris airport? Check.

The first flight wasn't all that bad. Charlotte crashed pretty early into it, and the flight attendant played with her because there weren't too many people on board. The flight from Amsterdam to Vancouver was the one I was really dreading, because it was 10 hours long. And I was right. It started by arriving on the plane and being shown to my seat with a flash light because there was a problem with the electricity. Then the captain came on saying "Hello, this is Captain Menace. We are experiencing electrical difficulties, which we hope to resolve very soonn. Now will Mr What's his face from Iran please report yourselves immediately to the ground crew. Immediately make yourself known Mr What's his face from Iran."

Lovely. Not only was the electricity not working, but there appeared to be a terrorist on board, as well as a captain named Menace. Very reassuring for someone who hates to fly. Anyways, we took off, and I spent almost 10 hours stuck at the window seat with a screaming baby who peed all over every dry outfit I had for her. Quite honestly, by the time I got to Vancouver, I swore that I would never ever ever do this alone again. So if Julien wants me home, he can come and get me!!!

Anyway, I completely surprised my mother, who had no idea whatsoever that I was coming. And once I was home, I felt utter relief. And then I cried myself to sleep.

I've been home for 2 weeks now and am starting to get over the trauma of that flight. Hopefully things will alright for the flight home, but for now I have a solid month ahead of me to enjoy. And truth be told, now that I'm here I am so glad I did it. Charlotte is thriving and crawling all over the place and pulling herself up on the furniture. She meows at the cat and flirts with everyone she meets here. And all is good.

The Game

I love a good competition. The problem is that sometimes, a little competition can go too far.Take Farmville for instance. I started playing this little game on facebook in November. At first, it was just so cute and fun. I planted crops and harvested them, and all was happy until one of my friends decided that he was going to play too. Only his strategy was better than mine, and he started to level up faster than me. Never one to be outdone, I had to change my strategy (well, more like HAVE a strategy) and I became a planting, harvesting, and plowing machine. Then another friend decided that HE was going to play, and overtook both of us because he apparently has hours to spend in front of the computer.Needless to say, the farming was intense. We were plowing, seeding, and harvesting everyday, sometimes a few times a day. My farm was very well kempt. All of my animals were brushed everyday. The trees were harvested. The eggs were collected. The cows were milked. I built fences, buildings, and continued to plow. I was a very busy beaver.

That is until one night when Julien kind of burst my little happy farming bubble with a simple question, "How come your farm is so neat when the house is such a mess?".

Ouch.

Begrudgingly, I took a look around me. Dishes piled on the counter, laundry to fold on the couch, and a glance in the mirror at my unbrushed hair suddenly made me feel ashamed of myself, like being caught with your hand in the cookie jar. I decided to count how much time this game was taking me, and was appalled at the results. Here I was complaining that I never have time to do anything, but yet I was spending about 3 hours a day on that game. Granted, it was not in one sitting, but that is alot of time for a dumb little computer game.Needless to say, I have decided to leave the virtual life for reality. My house is getting cleaner by the hour, while my animals are left needing to be brushed and my crops withering and wasting away. It's amazing that all of a sudden I feel like I have free time, even though I have the same amount as before. I guess it's just a question of priorities. You'd think that after almost 30 years on this earth I would have learned that by now, but apparently I forgot somewhere along the line.

What Ever Happened to Little Miss Independant?

If you had asked me to describe myself a year ago, I guess I would have said that I'm a go-getter. A self starter. A take charge kind of girl. If you told me something couldn't be done, I would attempt it just to prove you wrong. I take the bull by the horns. I tackle problems logically and head on. I love a challenge. I laugh in the face of danger. Well, ok, maybe not that last one. But you get the picture. I'm an independant woman. Or at least I was.

I was planning a trip home for myself and my little girl, seeing as how I am off work for good in France. I thought about how wonderful it would be to see my family before my baby grows up and goes to university (yes, total exaggeration, I know) and how awesome it would be to actually see my mum and best buddy in person, because I really miss them. So I started looking for flights to get me there. At first, it was all good. I found a few flights that looked decent, and started to book them.

Then I got hit with a thought: how in the world am I going to get the suitcases with the baby and stroller? Checking them is no problem; Julien could help me with that. But what about on the other side? Are there people who can do that for you? How to I pick up a 50 pound suitcase and not leave my daughter or belongings unattended? How in the world do I push a stroller and the suitcase trolley through customs?

And then another nagging thought: how am I going to keep my squirming, curious, and cranky-when-sleep-deprived baby on my lap for a 15 hour flight? I can't keep her still for 5 minutes, much less 15 hours. How do I go to the bathroom? What do I do when my arms start cramping from holding her but there's turbulance and I'm not allowed to put her down? Where will she sleep, seeing as how she's too tall for the baby basinettes?

With all these questions, my trip has been postponed until I can figure out a solution to each and every problem. If someone were with me, they wouldn't even be an issue. But alone? I think it's something that's just too big for me, no matter how badly I want to go home. I've looked at it from all angles, and every time the same feeling comes back: sheer and utter fear. This is just something that I can't do myself. So much for being independant. And so much ffor Hakuna Matata.

If any of you bloggers out there have travelled by yourself internationally with a baby, please let me know how you did it. Or even if you have any advice about the logistics of it all, like the suitcases or bathroom issues, please let me know!
PS I did call the airline I had wanted to travel with and they were most unhelpful. They told me that there was no way the flight staff could hold my baby while I pee, and that the ground crew would not help me with suitcases, especially because there are simply not enough staff to do it.

New Year: A Time for Resolution?

Happy New Year! I was trying to come up with what I could possibly use as a New Year's Resolution, and pretty much drew blanks. I could join the "This year, I will quit smoking" group, but then I would have to start smoking in order to stop. I could go with the "lose 20 pounds" group, but I think I've joined that group every year and dropped out around January 6th,when the French pastry "galette des Rois" is celebrated. I could choose "I will do better at my job", but since I'm jobless that could be kind of difficult.

This year is new to us. Not in the sense that it's a new year, but in the sense that it is a complete unknown for us. There's no plan, no direction. We are both jobless and don't know if Julien will find a job to tide us over until we move back to Canada. Our appartment is up for sale, but we don't know when it will sell. We're waiting for Julien's visa to come through, but again, we don't know when it will come. Our entire life is unknown right now. So this year, my resolution is to join the "go with the flow" group. This is a big challenge for me, because I like having a safe net; I like being in control of my life. Because everything is so out of control right now, I have no choice but to trust that God knows what's best. Clichéd, definately. But so true. So here's to the Go with the Flow resolution, complete with song and dance.

Hakuna Matata!

What a wonderful phrase

Hakuna Matata!

Ain't no passing craze

It means no worries for the rest of your days

It's our problem-free philosophy

Hakuna Matata!