The Tantrum

It started off as any other day. My testy little Charlotte and I were off to the park, except this time we were going to be bringing a 3rd party, a little stuffed animal named Tigger. It was a beautiful day, and I was so excited to finally take advantage of the weather after being cooped up for so long.

A side note: Since our little bug hates to be put in the stroller because she loves to walk, we decided to get her one of those little baby harnesses so that she couldn't run away.

I asked her what she preferred that day, and she chose the Tigger harness as opposed to hanging on to the stroller. I helped her put her little arms through the straps while she giggled about Tigger riding on her back. I grabbed Tigger's tail and went to leave. And then, World War 3 ensued.

The little girl that had been so happy to walk to the park started to scream at the top of her lungs. She threw herself on the floor, arms thrashing, fists pounding, legs kicking furiously, her back arched and her words undistinguishable. I actually think she must have been letting loose a string of baby cuss words. Bewildered, I tried to figure out what was going on; did she get pinched when we closed the buckles? Was she in pain? After about 5 minutes it became clear: She thought she was going to the park and could run free along the way. Which is why we had gotten Tigger in the first place, because our little lovey doesn't listen when we yell "stop!" or "car" or "doggy dodo!! or "river embankment!!".

I gently explained to her that Tigger was going to stay on her back if she still wanted to go to the park, or we could take the stroller. I also informed the little missy that the way she was screaming and carrying on was unacceptable, and that if she wanted Tigger off her back, she could ask me nicely because no amount of screaming would coherce me to take it off. Yeah, big mistake. I apparently missed that tantrums class at Parenting 101 informing you should never test a 2 year old unless you're prepared to follow through.

The screaming, flailing, thrashing, and blubbering continued. After about 10 minutes of that, I was sure that everyone in the building was wondering what was happening. After half an hour, I was sure someone was going to call child services. After 45 minutes, I was almost at my wit's end and wondering if it was worth the fight. But I HAD said I wasn't taking Tigger off until she could ask nicely, so I decided to use every last bit of patience and self control that I had, (all the while silently praying for God to give me more, because I was at my breaking point after about 15 minutes of this!) and continued to let her scream it out. I found myself reminding her as gently as I could what the rules were and what acceptable behaviour was. I kept reminding myself that me yelling would get us no where; that I would be showing her exactly the opposite of what I was asking of her. And I continued to pray for God to curb my own reaction.

And then, after a solid HOUR of this amazing and terrible tantrum, came a tiny little hiccuppy voice, trying to speak through the sobs, "Mama, please take da tigger off, please mama." I looked at my tiny daughter, her big, blue, tear filled eyes downcast and defeated, her curly hair matted against her forehead, her clothes in utter dissaray, sweat pouring down her little face. I didn't know if it was relief I felt that it was finally over, or pity at how stubborn this little one is. It was a heartbreaking sight.

And at that moment, I felt my heart swell with love for this incredible little girl. I unbuckled the Tigger and swept her up my arms, her little body still quivering from her hour long ordeal. I smothered her chubby tear stained cheeks with kisses, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and told her how much I loved her and how proud I was that she had decided to ask nicely. She snuggled into my neck and repeated, " Sowwy, mama, Sowwy for da scweamin'. It's not vewy nice. I love you mama". I held her for the next half an hour, rocking her and stroking her head, until the sobs diminished and she was ready to play, the smile back on her adorable little face.

I know that my little monkey learned an important lesson, because the temper tantrums now only last about 3 minutes before she gives up, ready to obey and speak nicely. And while I am grateful that she has learned, I'm even more grateful for what I have learned out of this. 1: If I say it, I need to stick to my guns. It will pay off later. 2. My little one is incredibly stubborn, but is also willing to accept correction and discipline if I can keep my own temper in check and show her what's acceptable by my actions. 3. I need God's grace for parenting, because I have SUCH a long way to go in knowing how to handle these situations. 4.These difficult moments, as trying as they are, won't last forever.
5.There is no greater feeling in the world than when the battle is over!

The Streaker

It had been planned for weeks. A skype chat with my best friend in Australia. Unfortunately, it happened to fall on a day that the child was being very, very, very uncooperative. After trying unsuccessfully to have our long awaited chat, I finally snapped and put the little gaffer in her bed to scream it out, because she was desperately in need of a nap.

I came back to my conversation and caught up on some long awaited news. We chatted about life, about all the good and bad stuff happening in our lives. And the child was still screaming.

After about 45 minutes, I begrudgingly said goodbye to my friend and went to tend to my very grumpy daughter. To my utter surprise, there she was in her bed, standing with a radiant grin on her face,clearly proud of herself, and...... was completely and utterly buck naked.

Hold the fort! Back up a minute here! I put my daughter to bed in a diaper, onsie, and sweat pants. As I looked around for her clothes, I found the onsie with the buttons still done up lying on the floor. The diaper was still done up and stuffed between the crib and matress. And the pants, well, she had somehow managed to throw those into her open closet door.

Now if you have kids, you'll be able to appreciate how utterly talented you would have to be to wiggle out of a onsie without undoing any of the snaps. And how thankful I was that she did not use her bed as a potty.

While this episode did have me giggling, it's not quite as funny anymore as each nap now results in a little streaker tearing through the apartment.

And I am now more resolved than ever to focus on potty training this little girl before she paints the walls with something disgusting.

To Know or Not to Know? That is the question.

We've been debating on whether or not to find out the gender of our new little one. With Charlotte, it wasn't even a question of if I wanted to know or not. I HAD to know. I wanted to be prepared. This time around though, things seem different. I'm not as anxious with this pregnancy. Maybe it's because I've done it before. Or because I don't have the luxury of time to spend hours dreaming away and worrying like I did with Charlotte. Either way, we were still debating on the way to the ultrasound: Do we choose to wait or choose to know?

Like with everything, there are a list of pros and cons to consider.

Would I be able to hold out until end of August without knowing? Probably not. I absolutely hate surprises, and can't keep any secrets pertaining to myself (for other secrets, yes, I absolutely can keep them.)

Would I be able to keep the secret from family and friends until the baby came along, if I knew what it was? Fat chance.

Would we be able to come up with names for both genders, knowing how hard it was the first time around picking for just one gender? Hmm. Seeing as how we agree on very little when it comes to naming a child, this is asking for double trouble.

Would it be worth the wait to hear those words, "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl!" after those long hours of labour? Most likely.

Would I be proud of myself and surprise everyone else that I was able to wait? Hands down yes. In fact, I think those who know me well would be downright shocked that I was patient. For once.

And so we arrived at the ultrasound, still extremely wishy washy on the subject.

During the ultrasound, I found out that they won't tell you here until you're 21 weeks along to avoid selective abortion. I thought it would be a good plan to have it jotted down in the report, seeing as how they wouldn't release the information right away anyways, and that would buy me some time in this decision, seeing as how I wouldn't be seeing the OBGYN for another month.

And so I sat back, relaxed on the table, and watched my extremely active baby on the screen. After a while, I asked the technician if she could tell if our baby is a boy or girl. She replied, "well,actually, that's one thing I can't tell you." I nodded in understanding, knowing she was not allowed to say anything. Then she looked at me again and said, "I think you've misunderstood me. I can't tell you what it is, because I can't see what it is. You see, the cord is between its' legs." I lied there, stunned for a moment. Then my brain went into overdrive. ARE.YOU.SERIOUS. This can't be. What if I change my mind? What if I really have to know?

And just like that, my need to know came to life. No longer was I wishy washy on the subject. No longer was I thinking how proud of myself I would be for being patient and waiting it out. No, I needed to know. Right then and there. I wanted to be able to dream about my baby girl or boy, just like I did with Charlotte. About little dresses or little suits. About soccer games or ballet lessons. About a pink or blue room.

But now the ultrasound is done, and here in Canada it's the last one I'll have before this little one joins us. A decision thought to be ours was made for us. A little umbilical cord has decided our fate. I will be able to shock people that I waited. Julien and I will hash it out for the months to come to find not just one, but 2 suitable names. I will go crazy by July not knowing, and will probably end up buying little suits and little dresses.

And I will be so proud when after hours of labour I hear those words, "It's a boy! or It's a girl!". Vive the end of August!

The Trouble with French

Learning one language is hard. Have you ever seen a little kid trying to speak? They speak a mish mash of something, and then every once in a while a recognizable word comes out, and they are so proud of themselves. So try adding another language in there. Not only does it make for Undistinguishable conversation if you don't speak both languages (the poor babysitter!), it also makes for some major, um, misunderstandings.

Observe.

Charlotte and I were in WalMart, cruising the kid's book section. She grabs a book about farm animals and shouts out, "LOOK MAMAN, A BIG COCK!" I watch in horror as other shoppers glare at me, and try to rectify the situation by saying just as loudly, "yeah, baby, that is a big ROOSTER, good job for remembering it in French!".

Or the classic, "Look Maman, a baby FOCH! A baby FOCH!" Yeah, baby, that is a baby SEAL. Good job for rembering it in French!"

And on it goes. Innocent words in one language are a nasty taboo for children in another. How do we deal with this? While part of me finds it absolutely halarious, I am nervous for the day when she'll say it at church when we're not there or around the wrong person who doesn't know she's speaking French, and have social services called on me. Hopefully she'll soon be able to distinguish the difference between the2 languages.

In the meantime, if you hear a toddler screaming what you think is something foul down the book isle, it's just my kid. Excuse the French.

Charlottisms

My 21 month old is a talker. She's always been pretty vocal, but now the words are flowing fast and furious, in French and English. She loves phrases like, "oh, it's stuck Maman!" "Oops, I farted. Scuse me!","We live in Canata", "Kiss on my booboo?","I'm Chaaalotte", and my ever favourite, "Go away Maman whom I love!!" (and yes, she really does say that, but in French Vas-t'en Maman que j'aime!)

While there is no end to the things that come out of her mouth, the other night had Julien and I in stitches. I was sitting on the couch with her, enjoying a night time cuddle before she went to bed. All of a sudden, she got a mischevious look and, pointing to my chin, said "Maman, there's a blueberry in there."

I was a bit puzzled as to what she was talking about, until I touched the area where she had her little finger and realized that I had a zit the size of Texas on my chin (thank you pregnancy). I laughed and said, "No honey, that's not a blueberry. It's called a pimple." She then said,"no, blueberry in there. No, apple". Then she started giggling like a school girl, like her joke was the funniest thing ever. Then she moved in closer, scrutinizing my zit like she was a dermatologist. The she gave her diagnosis: " Maman, no apple. Banana. Banana chin." At this Julien and I burst out laughing, and she kept repeating in a sing song voice " Maman banana chin. Maman banana chin."

So yeah. My baby daughter has already started making fun of me. I have no idea what this child will be like later on. But I sure hope she keeps her sense of humour.

The surprise

I sat nervously waiting for them to call my name. The technician came and pulled me out of the waiting room. I asked politely if my husband could come with me for support. She said she would see once her findings were done. So I entered the room with her and without Julien, feeling alone and just a little scared.

The tech smeared some hot gel on my belly and began to move the wand around on the gel. An ultrasound. I tried to see the screen, but it was turned away from me. I winced. It's not like it's painful to get an ultrasound, but when your bladder is full and you gotta go, it's not the most comfortable thing in the world to have someone pushing around on it.

The tech measured something, click click click. She measured something else. Click click went the mouse. It seemed to take forever. I had no idea what she was looking at,and from the non expression on her face I could only guess. Then she asked me what my husband's name was. She went into the waiting room, got Julien, and sat him down beside me. He looked anxiously at me, hoping for one answer but expecting another.

The technician hesitated for a minute, cleared her throat, and said "Well, Becky and Julien, I need to show you the findings. I don't know how you will react, so I would rather have both of you here."

Ok, now back up 2 months. It was Christmas. I learned I was pregnant on Christmas Day. It came as a total shock because we weren't planning it, and truth be told, I had no idea how far along I was. The pregnancy test had shown 5+ weeks. In a panick, I called and made an appointement with my doctor, who sent me for an ultrasound. Because I had had a miscarriage in the summer, she wanted to follow this "pregnancy" closely.

When I had that ultrasound done, the tech told me, "I shouldn't tell you this, but all there is is an empty gestational sac, and that at this point there really should be seeing a yolk sac, fetal pole, and even a heartbeat. I just want you to prepare yourself for the big possibility of another miscarriage."

The doctor, after seeing the results, decided that she wanted to wait to see if I would miscarry naturally like last time. And so I was scheduled for another ultrasound in a month's time.

So back to my story. The tech turned the screen toward us and said, "Do you see what I see?" Julien and I peered at the screen, terrified that it was still just an empty sac, or that it had dissappeard completely. The tech, now smiling, said, "Well, folks, there is definitely somebody home in there."

And then we saw it. A baby. A heartbeat. A little precious life growing inside of me. The tech showed us its little arms, legs, profile, and heartbeat. Julien's eyes filled with tears, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. On the way out we thanked God for blessing us again. We looked at the souvenir picture of our second child in shock and disbelief. I looked at Julien and said, "huh. So what do I do about work?" Ah, my new job. I was still on trial period for another 2 months. But that is a whole other post.

It turns out that it was just simply too early during the first ultrasound to see anything. Had we gone just one week later, we would have seen everything she thought she would see. Because my body was adjusting to weaning my daughter, my hormones were pretty messed up and I actually conceived much later than I would have normally. Hence the surprise baby.

We're so thankful that this new little child will join our family. I'm also a little scared of my little toddler's reactions and how having 2 small kids will be. But I still have 6 months to get used to the idea. And I am so incredibly blessed.

For Every Season There Is A Time

For every season, there is a time. These were my most memorable seasons of 2010, which, was, in my books, one of the most roller coaster years of my life. Enjoy!

January: The uncertainty of how we would survive with Julien losing his job and me on unpaid mat leave. The relief at him finding a new one closer to home. The sheer and utter fear of me taking a trans atlantic trip with my difficult little one by myself. The relief when the trip was over.

February: Doubt about me giving in my notice at work. The clarity when Julien's Canadian visa arrived 18 months ahead of time. The joy of seeing my family and pride at being in Vancouver during the olymipcs.

March-April-May: The stress of organizing an international move and selling our apartment. The sadness at saying goodbye to all of our friends and family in France. The excitement of starting something new and happiness at seeing our loved ones on this side of the ocean.

June: The concern when Julien wasn't being called for any interviews. The peace that came when he started his new job just 3 weeks after we arrived on Canadian soil.The worry when the sale on our apartment fell through. The surprise and elation at finding out we were having another baby.

July: Devastation and guilt felt after having a miscarriage. The joy in meeting our new little niece Aeden.

August: The blood, sweat, and tears of boot camp. Frustration that our little one was still not sleeping through the night.

September: Fun on a road trip to the interior.

October: Fear of putting Charlotte into day care. Exitement to start my new job; dissapointment when I was laid off before even starting (company downsizing)

November: Fatigue and illness after contracting mono along with Charlotte. Joy and relief at finding another buyer for our apartment.

December: Nervousness at an interview.Excitement when I got the job. Confidence on my first day. The wonder of a little one when seeing the Christmas tree lit up with presents underneath. The gratefulness for Jesus coming to this earth to save me from myself.

All in all, it was a memorable year. Here's to 2011 being just as momentous! Happy New Year everybody!

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.