Having a bit of an identity crisis

Not me. This blog.

I started it to be a dumping ground for the crazy that runs through my brain. Often I would litter it with posts about Elise. After Elise's diagnosis and the birth of Mattias, I find it harder and harder to find the time to post anything here anymore.

That makes me sad.

Writing has always been an outlet for me, and the written word helps me to express myself in a way that I cannot do through any other medium. For me it's never been about readership, comments or feedback (though it is always fun when I do get a comment or two). It's therapy; cheap and readily available for when I need it.

The main problem is time. Life is busy. Carving out a few minutes in a day to cobble together a post is hard. Especially with my attentions divided between this blog and my other one. When I look through my drafts folder, I see so many unfinished posts; lonely and forgotten like the awkward kids standing against the wall at a dance, waiting for their turn to come.

So the new year has me pondering what exactly I should do with this old dumping ground of crazy. And while I realize that this post does nothing but verbalize what's been knocking around in my brain over the last few months, it sure does feel good to get it out.

So it has come to this, has it?

I had an appointment with my "lady parts" doctor the other day, and in the days leading up to the appointment, I realized something... I was actually looking forward to it.

Because let's face it, laying half naked in "the position" covered only by the thinnest wisp of paper all the while getting cozy with a speculum, is about the closest thing I'll have to a spa day anytime soon.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids. They're awesome kids. In fact they are the greatest kids since the invention of kids (and yes; they are better, smarter, and more adorable than your kids)... It's just that they're always... there.

In fact, I don't even get to pee alone anymore. The other day, as I was sitting inside the toilet room (that itty-bitty room that houses your toilet inside the bathroom), I was joined by two kids and a 50 pound dog while trying to empty my bladder. It was all very cozy. A little too cozy for someone who used to have trouble peeing in a public washroom if someone else was in there.

And yeah, I hear those of you who are saying, "well, that's what you sign up for when you have kids."

Except that those of you who are saying that either don't HAVE kids, ergo have no voice whatsoever in this. Or you live in the land of grandparents and caregivers and you can leave your tiny shadows whenever it pleases you.

When you have a chronically ill child that needs specialized care, plus a 1 year old who I like to refer to as my "baby-on-crack", time without them just doesn't happen. "Date-night" around here includes two children, three bags and lot of screaming.

"Joanne," you say, "you sound so bitter!'

Nope. I'm really not. I'm just tired. And in need of some "me" or "me and the husband" time. You know that saying, "how can I miss you if you never go away?"

Yeah. It's kinda like that.

In the meantime, it is with great anticipation that I'm awaiting my sono appointment in a few days.

I gotta date with a wand wearing a condom.

The lost art of saying thank you

I can remember when I was a wee slip of a lass writing not thank you cards, but thank you letters to people. My mom taught me from very early on that when someone is gracious enough to take the time and/or money to give you a gift, you need to say thank you.

It was called having manners.

These days, it seems that saying thank you has gone the way of the dodo bird. We have been to probably 10 birthday parties in the past year. I can count on two fingers the number of thank you cards we've received. In these cases, my issue isn't with not receiving the thank you, it's the fact that these moms and dads are missing a chance to teach their child a fabulous lesson.

We just celebrated not one, but two birthdays; Elise's and Mattias's. And today I took the time while Mattias was asleep to work on the thank you cards. I called Elise over and told her what we we're going to do, and why we were doing it. I wrote the message, and she coloured the card and signed her name.

She was very into the project and wanted to know who each card was going to and what she wanted me to say. What I hope she takes away from our little project together is that you should never be too busy to say thank you.

Right after Elise was diagnosed with diabetes, a few people brought us dinners. To this day it eats at me that I never sent out thank you cards. Oh, I wrote them... even kept them for over a year afterwards. But at the time I was too overwhelmed to try and find their addresses. It seems like such a small thing, but if you've ever faced anything as devastating as being told your 12 month old child will have a dangerous chronic illness for the rest of their lives, then you understand that something as simple as finding an address can be huge.

So I kept the cards, hoping that one day I could send them. But by the time I was able to get the addresses, too much time had passed and I felt silly.

In retrospect, I should have sent them. I think a thank you is always appreciated, no matter how late.

Recently, our house became a two-dog residence for about three hours. One very HOT afternoon, I looked out into our backyard to see a cute, small white dog running around. We don't have a back fence, and the land behind us is a huge open field that bobcats and coyotes like to frequent. So I grabbed the dog and brought her inside.

She had no collar, but our 'hood is very close knit, and I emailed around to find the owner. I then left it in the very capable hands of our neighbourhood matriarch, M and she came over to take ownership of the dog until the real owner could be found. Although cute, she was a yappy thing and Mattias needed to nap. I'm talking about the dog, not M.

To make a very long story short, the owner was eventually found (when she showed up at another neighbour's house asking about the dog, and this neighbour had remembered my email), and all is well that ended well.

Except, I have no idea who the dog belonged to. I never received a call. A knock on my door. Nary a thank you of any kind. Nada.

I wasn't expecting a parade in my honour, but left to it's own devices, that pup could have become roadkill or a tasty morsel for a wild critter. Not too mention it was 107 degrees out. I could have said, "let someone else deal with it".

Maybe I'm old fashioned. Perhaps being gracious is over-rated. Why take the time to thank someone for real when you can facebook or twitter them (dude, that sounds sooooo dirty).

I guess this is why I always find boxes of thank you cards on clearance at Target. Nothing like saying thank you for 75% off!

Just one more thing to blame on social media...

I love a Rainy Night

Eddie Rabbit had something when he sang those lyrics.

I, too, love it when the rains start after darkness has fallen. It should really come as no surprise, being from the Pacific Northwet, as I am.

I remember when I was in high school, I wrote a poem about a guy I was in mutual like with. It was about how I loved to lie in bed at night and listen to the rain tapping away on my roof top. And how it gave me great comfort to know, that at that very moment, there was someone else in the world who was doing the exact same thing as I was.

These days when I hear the rhythm of rain on my roof, I no longer think of this boy, but I do think of the people in my life. Whether they're lying in bed right next to me (although seriously, he's asleep, not listening to rain... I guarantee), in a room down the hall (she'd better be asleep!), around the corner from my house, or even a few miles away.

I lie in bed and wonder if any of them are being gently lulled to sleep by nature, and it reminds me to pray for them. And as sleep slowly steals over me, I am once again comforted by the fact that someone, somewhere is listening to the raindrops dancing too.

I love a rainy night.

My road not taken

I've been thinking a lot about paths lately. How different paths can take you to different places. Some you choose and some you don't. You come to a fork and you go either left or right. You can choose to take the bridge over the river, or just walk alongside it. In some cases, you can even turn around and go back the way you came.

Sometimes the way you choose to go seems inconsequential at the time. I think about when Fred and I had to decide which pediatrician we were going to take Elise to when she was born. A doctor is a doctor is a doctor, right? Unless they graduated from an on-line medical school in Guadalajara or something; as long as they mesh with your personality, are willing to work with you on personal choices (i.e. vaccinations), and are competent, then you're set.

We made our choice based on a recommendation from somebody in our child birth class. We met the doctor a few weeks before I was set to deliver, and that was that. I never thought much about the choice again.

Until Elise was 12 months old and diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. It was only through her pedi's thoroughness did we catch it early on. What brings to mind this particular path we chose is a story I just heard. About a 15 month old girl who died from undiagnosed type 1 diabetes. Her parents twice had taken her to the ER, and twice were sent home. One with a diagnoses of teething, and the other with an ear infection (if you know anything about diabetes then you realize how incompetent these doctors must have been).

This story is such a punch to my gut. But for a pathway we chose over two years ago, that could have been us. How could something so simple as choosing a doctor lead to something so huge?

Sometimes we are forced to walk pathways we don't want to be on, not realizing with each step we are slowly becoming who we were meant to be. It is so with diabetes. It is a rough pathway, rocky, and full of ups and downs. Sometimes it takes us through the darkest, most mournful of forests. Other times we can feel the warm sun gently kissing our faces while a cool breeze plays with our hair. It is lonely, heart-breaking, wonderful, isolating, amazing, sobering and exhausting all at the same time. I have never learned so much about myself as I have since I stepped foot on this pathway.

It is not one I would have ever chosen for myself, but I am glad to be walking it hand in hand with my beautiful daughter, rather than trudging along another path; arms empty and aching for my little girl.

I'm not kidding... again

I originally wrote and posted this a year ago. The passage of 364 or so days does not make it any less true, so I thought I'd repost it. Plus, I'm thinking that after what happened with my passport... maybe someone will hear my pleas.

Dear Person or Persons in charge of Daylight Savings Time,

Yes I know the time change was a few days ago so this may seem a little late. You see, it took a few days to put my thoughts down into writing because I've been wandering around my house trying to figure out WHAT BLOODY TIME IT IS.

It seems some of my clocks are smarter than me and change on their own. Some, my husband changed on Sunday. And others still display the "old" time. My problem is, I can't figure out which is which.

So, onto my issue with you. I hate the very concept of DST. It is, quite simply, a load of crap. I don't care that on some farm, in a far away land it makes the cows happy, or whatever bull you're touting, but it screws with my life and it must stop. And I don't appreciate the propaganda the news is spewing by telling me, "you gain and EXTRA hour!" That is pure crap to the highest degree.

We're onto you, yes we are. Who are we? We are the parents of children who cannot tell time, and ergo do not give a flip about your stinking time change. We are the parents of children who are now waking up a FULL OUR EARLIER than normal now, because of a reason that no longer exists. My daughter has decided to add an extra half hour to that, because that's how she rolls.

An hour may not seem like a lot to you, but when your days are filled with house-cleaning, meal-preparing, child-rearing, errand-running, diaper-changing, laundry-washing and nose-wiping; and you do it all while suffering from the 500th consecutive bad hair day, AND quite certain you have poop smeared somewhere on your person (because why else is THAT SMELL following you around the house like the dog when she's hungry), well then, I would say an hour is HUGE.

So I am urging you, PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy... do away with DST. Or I shall be forced to hunt you down, find out where you live and start banging away on your bedroom window an hour before you usually get up. I will also knee you in the groin for the extra half hour. Because that is how I roll.

When the teacher becomes the pupil

I find people-watching fascinating. Fred says I'm just nosey, and maybe so; but I love to watch people in situations and see what makes them react. I swear it's better than most of the crap you see on TV.

The other day at one of the story times Elise and I frequent, I had the chance to observe a Mom that I couldn't tear my eyes away from. She was like a character from a movie or a book; one so over the top and full of hyperbole, you swear she couldn't be for real. She marched into the library with her approximately 2 year old child strapped into a stroller. Dressed more for a business meeting than a sit on the floor story time with your child, her mouth was set in a grim line as she picked up one the the story time programs and said to her child, "let's see what they do here."

I watched, totally caught up in the scene, as the librarian told her that her child could play until the other kids arrived and story time began. The lady looked uncertain and replied, "I don't know, she's a bit of a trouble-maker and gets into everything."

The librarian just laughed and said they were pretty much set up for the chaos that kids create. The lady looked worriedly at her daughter and started un-strapping her from the stroller. The kid (I'll call her G), ran over to a bookcase and grabbed a book off the shelf. The mother looked horrified and ran over to her, telling her no and that she needed to behave. G then started to walk over the parachutes that were set up on the floor and the Mom grabbed her, admonishing the child as she pulled her back towards the stroller.

Throughout the story time, the Mom sat with the child in her lap, arms holding her in an almost straight-jacket fashion. Every time the child would "act up", the mother would hiss a warning in her ear.

From what I could see, G was no different from any other child at that story time, full of energy and life; just wanting to experience the world around her. And my heart ached for her. I wondered if the Mom's controlling nature was going to quench this little girl's enthusiasm for life. Is this how the Mom grew up? Being told she was a trouble maker and was never allowed to be mischievous?

I then started asking myself how my nature affects Elise. I accept that I am a bit of a perfectionist. And a control freak. And I also have the tendency to be a wee bit anal retentive. But I try not to push my personality defects on Elise. I want her to be a clean slate, free to grow up to be the true person she is.

One thing I hate is a mess, I like to clean as I go, and I'm not big into getting dirty. But the other day Elise wanted to finger paint. And more specifically, she wanted me to join in. She started by smearing a line of paint down my arm and as I fought the urge to run and wash it off, I realized I needed to stop being so "grown-up" about things and muck in on her fun.

So we painted, Four or five glorious pictures of gooey paint. We had paint everywhere; the wall, the table, the chairs, ourselves. And I loved it.

What I loved most is that although I am the one who is supposed to be teaching Elise, she is a wonderful teacher in her own right. She has taught me to slow down, not to get caught up in the little things, and enjoy getting dirty once in awhile. Children view the world in a way that is so freeing, so wonderful; I think more adults need to sit down with their kids and learn a lesson or two of their own.

Here is a picture of the lesson I learned that day. Beautiful, isn't it?

This is what happens when you blink

I was shopping for some pants for Elise the other day, and as I looked through rack after rack of clothes, I was becoming increasingly frustrated. Why couldn't I find anything in her size?

Then I looked up an it dawned on me that I was in the wrong section. "Baby", the overhead sign said. My daughter is no longer a baby, ergo I cannot find her size in the baby section. Gone are the days of the onesies, and cute outfits that come already matching so it takes the guesswork away from people who are fashionably-challenged like me.

Feeling rather stupid, I toddled on over to the "Toddler" section, marvelling at how quickly time was sliding past me.

What happened? When did my little girl make that transition from baby to toddler?

It must have been on one of the days where I was at the end of my rope, so I put her in the pack and play outside of the bathroom, and took a 20 minute shower, just so I could get some time alone. But I remember peeking out through the shower curtain, looking past the steam and watching her solemnly looking at a book, and she still looked very much like a baby to me.

Or it could have happened any of the times when I was in the kitchen trying to prepare dinner with her hanging around underfoot. I'd get so frustrated with her, that I would send her out to her playroom, asking her to let me be for 15 minutes. But as I peered around the corner and saw Elise laying beside our dog Seven, absently stroking her fur, I could still see that tiny, helpless infant that we brought home from the hospital just over two years ago.

As a mother of a small child, it is so easy to become weary of the work that goes into raising them. Some days I think it would be less painful to repeatedly smash myself over the head with a frying pan than to deal with the many moods of said child.

Some days I want to lock myself up in a closet and pray that Elise won't find me.

Some days I feel like I deserve the World's Worst Mother Award because all I want to do is sleep in until noon, get up, eat some candy, have a two hour bath, followed by a two hour nap and not have anybody ever need anything from me ever again.

And then I have the moments where I realize my baby is a baby no longer and is, in fact, a toddler. And the realization hits me so hard that I can scarcely breathe.

And all the whining, the moods, the tantrums, the screaming, the clinginess, the short naps, the split drinks, the messes that need cleaning up, the waking up in the middle of the night; all of it seems so insignificant when you start to comprehend that this time with them is so very short, and so precious that instead of complaining about the negative aspects of it, I need to be celebrating all that I love about being Elise's Mom.

And there really is so much that I do love, but that is another post for another time.

For now I will just rejoice in the fact that I do have the greatest job. It's not always sunshine and roses, but there is nothing else in the world that I'd rather do.

My new love/hate relationship

I think I could be in trouble. Nordstrom Rack just opened a store about 5 minutes from my house, and although I am not a clothes horse by any means... wait. Why is a person obsessed with clothes called a horse anyway? Why not a clothes pig? Or clothes sheep? Is it because out of all the animals on the farm, the horse wears the most stuff? They get shoes, a bridle, I've seen blankets underneath the saddle. Is that it?

Did you know that the term clothes horse also refers to a type of drying rack? Oh information super highway, is there anything you don't know?

Sorry, I'm back. My brain saw a rabbit and had to give chase. Heh, clothes rabbit.

Okay, for real this time. What was I saying? Ah, yes Nordstrom Rack. You wouldn't know it to look at me (because let's face it these days my usual style is what's-on-the-floor-and-doesn't smell), but I do enjoy wearing cute clothes. If I had to give my "preferred style" a name, it would be bohemian-athletic-hippie. Boleppie... it has a nice ring to it.

Walking into that store is like walking into my dream closet. You know, if I had enough time on my hands to dream of such things.

But, I don't tend to spend a lot of money on clothes because I am cheap. And Nordstom Rack ain't exactly the 75% off rack at Target.

Can you feel the war that is raging within my wallet?

Taking the stroller outside

I've said it before, in this post, that if I were a super hero my name would probably be something like Miss Meticulous. As much as I would like to think of myself as a zany, crazy, spur-of-the-moment type of gal, deep down I know I am just kidding myself.

Lately I've been noticing that the overly anal-retentive side of my personality is creeping up on me, and I'm afraid it's going to take over like a rising tide. If you've ever lived near the ocean then you know what it's like to be playing out on dry sand, and the next thing you know you're knee deep in water and your beach blanket looks very, very far away.

I relish order and, for lack of a better word, cleanliness to my life. And although this is an okay thing in small doses, I don't want it to stop me from living my life.

Elise has this baby doll stroller and she loves to toddle around the house with it. She puts her doll in it and strolls around; clucking her tongue and telling baby, "it s'okay, be-be, it s'okay". Apparently, her baby is suffering from some sort of angst... all the time. The other day she had the idea that it would be fun to take it on our walk with us. You know, outside.

I kneeled down and told her that no, the stroller needs to stay in the house. If we take it outside, the wheels will get dirty, and then track the dirt inside. And I'm the one that will most likely end up carrying it home (I added silently in my brain). As she started protesting violently, as only Elise knows how, I thought about how ludicrous my reasoning was.

But this line of thought is in lock-step with how I've been living my life lately. I refrain from doing things just because it's messy, or hard. The long and the short of it is; it's just easier to keep the stroller at home. If you've been reading for awhile, then you know that my daughter, now 22 months old, was diagnosed with diabetes at the age of 12 months. And it has made life hard. And messy. And it has made me afraid.

My day-to-day routine is peppered with "what-ifs". I hate to stray to far away from the house lest something happen with Elise's diabetes. Plus I'm starting to feel like a bloody pack mule with all the stuff I need to carry around for her. And forget travelling. Trying to go through security with all Elise's supplies and food, not to mention what if something happens when we're in the air? Forget it. It's too messy and it's too hard.

But it's dawning on me that I'm not really living my life, I'm hiding from it. Life is messy, it's dirty, and man-oh-man is it hard. But isn't it during those times when you have the most fun?

I can remember when I was 15 or so, I was at my soccer practice one night when the sky opened up and it started to pour. Some of the more adventurous ones on my team thought that was a grand time to practise slide-tackling. In the mud.

I stood on the sidelines and said, "no thank you, I'd rather not have to scoop mud pies out of my shorts" (not those kind of mud pies you dirty, dirty people). But as I watched them, I saw the fun that they were having, I realized that I was missing out, so I took a flying leap into the biggest mud puddle I could find. And yeah I was dirty, but I had a load of chuckles with my team mates that night.

It's a stroller, and what else is it meant for if not for my little girl to take it on a walk around the neighbourhood? So what if the wheels get dirty? It's not like I'm trying to keep it in pristine condition for re-sale on EBay or something. The stroller, like life, is meant to be taken outside and used. And if I end up carrying it, and Elise, and her baby doll for a quarter of a mile; well, so be it. I could use the exercise.

I think what I'm trying to say is that for the past year I've been living my life in a box. Or a hole. Or behind a curtain. Or locked up in a tiny, windowless room with no light or sound being able to penetrate the walls. And I want out.

I want to know what it's like to live again.

Normally Strange or Strangely Normal?

During my Mom's recent visit, I unearthed an old swimming report card while we were going through my baby book. There, among the chunky baby pictures and photos where I'm not wearing any pants (and my God there are a lot of them), I found a truth that has defined me for so many years. The date on this report card would put me at almost 4 years old, and the teacher wrote, as delicately as she could, “Joanne is a very different little girl.”

Thunk. Those words leapt off the pea-soup coloured page and smacked me in the forehead. It's something I've known about myself just about forever, but I never knew other people saw it too ... especially when I was that young. When I asked my Mom about it she said, “you always did march to your own beat.”

I've always known that I lived somewhere outside the borders of normal. While other little girls played house, or with dolls, I was out pretending to be a ninja, climbing trees, playing with G.I. Joes and beating up boys. All at the same time. I thought poop and fart noises were funny. I hated dolls. Barbie and My Little Ponies were for weenies. In fact, I remember one day when my older brother stole (gasp) the head off a Barbie doll at a department store. He brought it home, cut off all her hair and dyed what was left green with kool-aid. We called her “Boobie”. That was the respect I had for dolls. I didn't care that Kirk Cameron was dreamy, or that NKOTB was cool.

As I got older, I think I got weirder. In my twenties if I had taken out a personal ad, instead of reading, “I like candle light dinners and holding hands while walking barefoot on the beach”, mine would have read, “Loves hurtling down icy cold rapids in a raft, hockey, and drinking Earl Grey Tea.”

It's the tea that makes me a lady.

All this self aggrandizing drivel to say normal and I were never well acquainted. Looking back I now realize that if it was popular, I hated it. I'm still that way, for the most part, but I have noticed a strange trend. Weird is now cool ... the more different you are, the higher your score on the coolness scale. Bizarre hairstyles are now trendy. Fauxhawk anyone? Wearing clashing couture is now the norm. Pink goes with red. Wear your polka dots with stripes, if you please. It's a free-for-all in the fashion world! Music that would have been listened to only by indie aficionados is now downloaded by the masses. Thank you Al Gore for inventing the Internet.

Looking at my life now, I think I've immigrated to normal. I'm a stay at home mom who loves looking after her family. A good day for me is taking Elise to story time at the library and scoring a great deal at Target. It seems everyone around me is getting weirder, and I'm becoming more normal. Or does that make normal the new weird? I have a headache. I'd better go watch my soaps and eat my bon-bons.

And for the record... poop still makes me laugh.

She's watching me

My daughter is watching me.

Elise started imitating us at a very early age. I don't remember her exact age, but I do remember how it made my heart melt. First she would copy the sounds that we made. Then, our facial expressions. I think she was about 10 months old when she picked up the telephone and held it up to her ear; pretending to talk to someone.

The other day I was in the bathroom, completing my morning ritual of getting ready. Elise was standing beside me, intently watching. As I was putting cream on my face, I could see her out of the corner of my eye, copying every move I made. She rubbed her hands together, then mimicked smoothing the cream over her cheeks and onto her neck.

Next, I started to brush my teeth. And again she pantomimed my actions, complete with sh-sh noises, using her finger as the toothbrush. Her joy was apparent and she seemed to revel in doing everything Momma was doing.

I kept watching her as I reached for my hairbrush. She grabbed a discarded comb and we brushed our hair in tandem; Elise standing on her tippy-toes trying to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

My daughter is watching me. And if she's imitating the very mundane details of my life; just what is she seeing and copying when it comes to what is important?

How I treat people.

The things I place value in.

How well I love.

My words versus my actions.

How I spend my time.

The words that I use.

I could write more; it is a seemingly endless list. But I worry that she sees the worst in me, not the best. More than anything, I want her to see Jesus in me. The Jesus that is kind, and gentle. Who loves well, and not just the people who are easy to love. The Jesus whose yes means yes and no means no. The Jesus who died on a cross to save the ones He loves.

Some days I just don't see that person in the mirror when I'm getting ready in the morning. Old habits die hard and I need to remember.

She's watching me.

I think, therefore I am ... what?

It's exhausting being me. And not in a good way. Not in the I-have-all-these-fabulous-things-to-do-and-places-to-go-and-body-parts-to-be-refurbished way. It's more in the I-am-going to-think-myself-to-death way.

I'm what you would call an over thinker. I over think everything. Including this blog post, probably. But that's besides the point. I spend so much of my time thinking and re-thinking, that I end up thinking myself into a corner; unable to move from the sheer thoughtiness of it all. Yes, I'm quite sure that is a word.

Take, for example, this one time Fred and I were driving somewhere. It was quite a drive, and I was unfamiliar with our surroundings. At some point in the trip I turned to him and asked, "are you driving me out to somewhere remote so you can kill me and dump my body?" Okay, I was totally joking when I asked him this, but the way my brain got to there was this:

"Hey, I don't recognize where we are... where did he say we were going again? I haven't seen another car in ages. It's pretty isolated out here. Lots of trees and wooded areas. You know, this would be a perfect place to take someone if you were going to get rid of a body. Fred's been pretty quiet, I wonder what he's thinking about. Ohhh look, a squirrel! Wait, maybe the reason he's being so quiet is because he's plotting my murder and he's trying to figure out the best spot to leave my body."

I think I have Mr. King to thank for thoughts like that swirling around my cranium.

I can blame my insomnia on my tendency to over think things. I lie awake at night dreaming up scenarios that could happen, and what I would do to get out of them. The other day I asked Fred if he ever thought about what he would do if our house caught fire one night.

His response? "Whatever would I do that for?" Fred doesn't really talk like that. Only when I recount a story in my head does his diction take on a much different sound. He also has a British accent and uses words like "fortnight". Anyway, my point is, I do think about these things.

Obviously, it would depend on where the fire broke out, and if it was blocking the stairway. I would, of course, run heroically into Elise's room, grab her from her crib, and open the window in her room. I would then use a bed sheet from the linen closet to scale my way down from her second story window, with her strapped to my back with another bed sheet. I guess I would have to throw Fred and the dog out the window first, since they are utterly incapable of planning an escape of their own.

If Fred and I were superheros, I would be Miss Meticulous and he would be Fly-By- The-Seat-Of-His-Pants-Man. I am the stick-in-the-mud to his flapping around like a paper kite. I usually slow us down with all my thinking, and Fred? Well, sometimes he doesn't slow down enough to think.

But somewhere in there we have found balance, and it works... for the most part. I always tell people that Fred's strengths are my weaknesses, and vice-versa. And we're the same where it matters. I could get all over-thinky about it, but for once, I think I'll leave it alone. I will say this, God really knew what He was doing when He gave me Fred.

I guess you could say that Fred completes me. No you can't... not without me vomiting all over you because that was so, so lame.

Pyjama Day #2

Because the weather here has been so crummy the last few days, Elise and I have been hanging out in our pyjamas since Sunday night. I believe that's a total of 40 hours pyjama-time so far (not counting bathing). If all goes as planned, and we don't change into "real clothes" until before we go to story time on Wednesday morning, we'll have each logged 60 hours in our pyjamas. That rocks on so many levels.

That's not to say being a stay-at-home mom is easy. I mean, there's getting the bon-bons out of the cupboard, opening the bon-bons, chewing and swallowing the bon-bons, picking up the remote to turn the TV on, deciding which "Judge" show to watch... the list is endless.

Actually, right now my favourite entertainment is to watch the weather people practically crap themselves when they see the tiniest bit of frozen precipitation. "Ice, Julie, ice! Did you see it? If you look reeeeeeally closely, you can see it forming on the ground. Damn, it seems my warm breath just melted it. Oh well, back to you in the studio."

Heh, crazy weather guys.

Little Messes

Why do I even bother?” I grumbled to myself. It was a freezing 36 degrees (that's 3 degrees C for you fellow metrics out there) out, and I had stopped on an incline and was trying in vain to stop the stroller from rolling down the hill with my darling 16 month old daughter in it. Seven, my dog, had just deposited her latest fragrant offering on a neighbour's lawn and I was stooped over, trying not to breathe in as I picked it up with my scented poopie bag. Which, by the way, does nothing to mask the scent of the poop. Rather, it now just smells like baby power poop.

I was grumbling because picking up said poop was really too much of a hassle. And besides, judging from the 4 or 5 other piles scattered throughout the grass like little poopie colonies, I could tell no one else bothered. But pick up that poop I did. Just like every other time my dog decided to drop some kids off on the lawn.

Why? Because it's disgusting to just leave it there for everyone to see, or gulp, even step in. It's a duty (heh, doodie) that I took on when I became a dog owner, and just because other people don't, doesn't give me the all clear to shirk my, ahem, doodie duty. And well, this crazy universe, being the way it is, would probably find some way to make sure I was the one who stepped in it.

I have my own little messes that I refuse to pick up and I end up stepping in them more ofter than not. Rage, jealousy, gossip, and laziness are just a few. And they lay scattered about the lawn of my life in plain view, yet I don't take the time to scoop them up and throw them away in the trash where they belong.

I stepped in rage just the other day when my dog went tearing down the street after a squirrel and almost got hit by a car. After I went and retrieved her, dragging her back by the scruff of her neck, I proceeded to scream at her and smacked her on the butt a bunch of times for good measure. When I was done with my not-so-little tirade, I looked down and saw my poor, sweet dog, quivering and afraid. Because of me. It breaks my heart that I lost control, and now gaining back her trust will take a thousand times longer than it did to lose it.

I step in laziness all the time. When laundry piles up and instead of sorting through it, I sit on the couch and read. Or I get on the Internet and waste my time away. I tell myself that I deserve a break, I work hard and need to rest. And that's true, until I look up at the clock and almost two hours have gone by. Elise is now up from her nap, and I guess Fred won't have clean socks for work tomorrow.

I have to scrape jealousy from my shoe every time I compare myself to another person. Her house is bigger than mine. She always looks so well put together, I wish I had style like that. Their car is newer than ours. Ugh, I hate it! A friend once told me that comparison breeds contempt, and boy can I be contemptuous.

And gossip can be some of the nastiest mess to clean up. Because it affects other people. You're not the only one stepping in it, but you're smearing it all over others by gossiping to, or about, them. I know the hurt that is caused by someone talking (or worse, spreading lies) about you. So why do I roll around in the very mess that makes me sick?

If I can make the effort to clean up after my dog, then I need to start cleaning up my messes too. Hopefully I can find a scented poopie bag that is big enough.

I am not Kidding

Dear Person or Persons in charge of Daylight Savings Time,

Yes I know the time change was a few days ago, so this may seem a little late. You see, it took me a few days to put my thoughts down in writing because I've been wandering around my house trying to figure out WHAT BLOODY TIME IT IS.

It seems some of my clocks are smarter than me and change on their own. Some, my husband changed on Sunday. And some others still display the "old" time. My problem is, I can't figure out which is which.

So, on to my issue with you. I hate the very concept of Daylight Savings Time (here fore to be referred to as DST). It is, quite simply, a load of crap. I don't care that on some farm in a far away land it make the cows happy, or what ever bull you're touting, but it screws with my life and it must stop. And I don't appreciate the propaganda the local news is spewing by telling me, "You gain an EXTRA hour!" That, is pure crap of the highest degree.

We're onto you, yes we are. Who are we? We are the parents of children who cannot tell time, and ergo do not give a flip about your stinking time change. We are the parents of children who are now waking up a FULL HOUR EARLIER than normal now, because of a reason that no longer exists. My daughter, has decided to add an extra half hour to that, because that's how she rolls.

An hour may not seem like a lot to you, but when your days are filled with house-cleaning, meal-preparing, child-rearing, errand-running, diaper-changing, laundry-washing, and nose-wiping; and you do it all while suffering from the 500th consecutive bad hair day, AND quite certain that you have poop smeared somewhere on your person (because why else is that smell following you around the house like the dog when she's hungry), well then, I would say an hour is HUGE.

So I am urging you, PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy... do away with DST. Or I shall be forced to hunt you down, find out where you live and start banging away on your bedroom window an hour before you usually get up. I will also knee you in the groin for the extra half hour. Because that is how I roll.

So You Think You Can Dance?

Warning: this is a tad long. I write it mostly because I've been hearing from a lot of people that they think diabetes is just giving Elise a shot once in awhile. I'm not writing it for myself, but so others will know what parents of kids with diabetes go through on a daily basis.

Being a mother of an infant/baby/toddler is exhausting. Being a mother of a toddler with diabetes is exhausting. Times ten. Million. Aside from all the injections, carb counting, blood sugar and ketone testing I do; my mind is constantly spinning from all the thinking and planning that taking care of Elise entails. Each step of my day is a carefully choreographed dance. I have memorized most of the moves through repetition, but sometimes I have to improvise depending on the situation. Click here to see Fred's flow chart - it's almost like a "Choose your Own Adventure Book"!

For example, my morning routine looks something like this: Get her up, change her diaper, save said diaper in case I need to test for ketones. Don't forget to put cotton balls in the diaper in case I have to test for ketones later! Test her blood sugar. It's low - get some juice in her asap. It's high - test for ketones and perhaps call the doctor. It's normal - breathe a prayer of relief. After all that business is taken care of, it's time to nurse her. It's one of the few times I get to sit down, relax and turn my brain off. A lot of people think I'm weird because I'm still nursing her. Are you kidding me? It's the only "me time" I get during the day.

Nursing is done, time to start preparing her meal so I can give her insulin. She needs to eat about 5-10 minutes after her injection, so I need to have breakfast all ready to go before I can give her the shot. Her meal must consist of at least 15 grams of carbs; so I have a scale to weigh the food, a scrap piece of paper and a calculator to figure it all out. Gone are the days of just putting some food on a plate. While I'm preparing the meal, my monologue is punctuated with, "Elise, stop that. Elise, hands off. Elise get off of there, put that back, come here, take that out of your mouth, don't open that..." Well, you get the idea. After her meal is all ready to go, I prep the insulin, give her the shot, put her in her high chair and it's time to eat.

After I'm done feeding her, it's usually about 10:00, and I'm feeling woozy because I haven't eaten yet. Sometimes I'm not done with breakfast and clean-up until 11:00, and then it's almost time for lunch. Sigh, the dance begins again.

Diabetes is a disease that keeps you on your toes. Throughout the day I'm constantly wondering, "Is she high? Is she low? Should I feed her a snack? What if she goes low during her nap? What will I give her for lunch? How many carbs are in 40 cheerios anyway?" In case you care, it's about 4 grams.

If you think leaving the house with a baby is hard, add diabetes to the mix. In addition to the diaper bag I also have to make sure I have a whole other bag o' goodies; apple juice in case she goes low, the emergency kit in case she passes out, the BG testing kit, sippy cup with water, extra supplies for the testing kit. If we're going to be out during a meal time I need to pack the insulin with ice in a cooler bag, bring needles, alcohol pads, her carefully planned out meal, and some "free foods" (foods with no carbs that she can eat in case she finishes her meal and is still hungry). It's a lot of crap to haul around and it's no wonder my back hurts!

I keep a watchful eye out for things that could harm her. A mother at story-time offering her a snack without checking with me. Elise picking up another child's sippy cup with juice in it and trying to drink from it. My heart breaks when I am eating a snack and Elise holds her hands out for some. These days I try not to eat in front of her (or only eat when she does).

We keep a daily log of all her BG tests (usually 7+ per day), her carb intake (3 meals + snacks), and her insulin (3 shots per day, sometimes 4). We email them weekly to the endocrinologist so they can make changes. If there are changes to her bedtime insulin, we have to test her at 2 a.m. to make sure she doesn't go too low. If she is low, we have to wake her up and give her some juice to get her BG back up, and re-test in an hour. There's something darkly comical about forcing a sippy cup on your child as she sits bleary-eyed in her crib at 2:30 in the morning. Luckily, my wonderful husband takes care of most of those incidents, although I do get up for the force-feeding fun. Thanks for the extra sleep time, Freddie!

We do get off a bit easy... If Elise is high during the night, we don't give her insulin to correct her. Parents of older kids have to do this, and then check in one and two hours to make sure the child doesn't go low. If they over-correct, they have to wake their child up and give them fast-acting carbs. It really is like walking a tight-rope.

I've left out a lot of stuff, mostly because this is getting obscenely long. My point is this; the dance of diabetes is a difficult, tiring one; full of dips and twirls that will make you dizzy if you let them. A lot of the time the steps are tricky, and cause you to fall. And it would be so easy to just lay on the ground and cry from the hurt of it all. But in the end, you always get up. Because your child's life depends on it.

Not only do I have to dance the dance everyday, one day I will need to teach Elise the steps as well. If you know a mother (or father!) of a child with diabetes, let them know that they are an amazing dancer; more graceful and dedicated than any of those people on that stupid show I stole the title from.

Why I Wish I were a Baby Part 2

If you haven't read part one, go here.

Having a Bad Day
One day, Elise was having a Terrible-Horrible-No-Good-Very-Bad-Day of the Alexander variety. Things just were not going her way, and she would throw herself on the ground and sob her little heart out. And I admired the fact that she could do this. My day wasn't going too swimmingly and I was tempted to join her. Why shouldn't I be able to fling my angry self down, flail my arms and legs about and wail until I felt better? Next time a cop pulls me over, I just might try it.

Cute Clothes

I have a secret... I can't match. Seriously, I have no idea what colours go with what. I was too busy beating up boys and climbing trees when I supposed to be learning colour co-ordination. A lot of times I have to go back and change Elise out of what she's wearing, because Fred takes one look and just shakes his head. These days, I'm letting him dress her most of the time. The best thing about baby clothes is they come in outfits! No matching needed, everything is right there! Plus baby clothes are pretty comfy. And let's not forget about footie pyjamas!

I Just Peed My Pants

I'm not saying as an adult that I would like to wear diapers... but sometimes the outright convenience of it is almost enough to make me start clipping coupons for Depends. I drink a lot of water during the day... probably close to 64 ounces. That makes for a lot of peeing. When I start thinking about the time I could save by not having to take a bathroom break every two hours... maybe I would be able to write more blog posts about wanting to wear diapers. I'm also the type of person that HATES leaving a movie in the middle just to go pee. Usually I'll just tough it out, but by the end of the movie I'm yelling for Spiderman to just hurry up and die so I can get out of there.

Okay, I seriously don't want to wear diapers, but it made me laugh, and I hope you enjoyed it too.

Why I wish I was a Baby Part 1

It wasn't until I had a baby, that I realized it was quite the life (for her). Now I'm kind of wishing I could go back and re-live my baby years all over again. Here's why:

Mandatory Nap time
This alone would be enough for me to want to be baby again. What? You seriously want me to go and lie down two to three times a day for an hour or so at a time? Let me get this straight... I get to sleep at night AND during the day? And the more I sleep, the happier you are? Gimme my blankie and I'll see you in a few. And please try and keep it down.

Making a Mess... and Getting Away With It!
I have this friend who refers to her kids as natural disasters. I won't use their real names, but her nicknames for them are Hurricane Hank and Earthquake Eva. Little 'Cane and 'Quake came over a few weekends ago and truly lived up to their nicknames. It seriously looked like a giant had picked up my house, shook it around so everything fell out of where it belonged, and then set my house back down again. Not that I minded, it was fun to watch the kids enjoy themselves. My point is this... after the kids were done creating chaos, who were the ones picking up after them? Their parents, of course! At the end of the day, almost every cupboard in my kitchen has been opened with at least one item taken out. And I dutifully follow behind Elise and put it all away, chuckling to myself that it's cute how she is so curious. If you do that as an adult, they call you a slob. Not fair.

What a Cute Wittle Baby!
When was the last time someone (besides your spouse/significant other/person in your life who is obligated to tell you) called you cute, precious, adorable, etc? Not that I'm all that hung up on looks, but I think it would be nice if from time-to-time a perfect stranger were to come up to me in the grocery store and tell me, "You are just the most darling thing I have ever seen in my life!" I think we could all use a compliment like that.

I have some more, but didn't want to let this post get so outrageously long that nobody would read it... stay tuned for part 2!

Sarcasm Sounds Best in B-Flat

If my life were a Broadway show, I think it would be called "Sarcastic, the Musical". Jodie Foster would play me. Not because I think I look like Jodie Foster, but a crazy man in San Fransisco told me that I could be her twin. Good enough for me! David Duchovny would play Fred. No wait... I would play me, and David Duchovny would play Fred. No wait... Gillian Anderson would play me, David Duchovny would play Fred, then I could see them kiss without having to watch the new X-Files movie.

I like musicals. In fact, I think life should be one big musical. I love the idea of breaking into song, just because the moment tickles you. There is something so freeing, so utterly fantastic about it. Not convinced? Imagine this:

You're driving down the highway and some jerkwad does a three-lane-at-a-time lane change, almost becoming your new hood ornament. What do you do? You could speed up, get in front of him, and then slam on your breaks; refusing to move for the next 5 minutes. Or you could break into song:

You cut me off
You stupid jerk
You cut me off
I'm late for work
Now feel the wrath
Of my extended finger
And may the shame of what you did
Throughout the day linger

While you are composing your eventual Grammy-winning song from a musical, you will have arrived at your destination, all you anger vanquished from singing.

I think marriages could use some music too. What if your fight with your spouse was done as a duet:

Wife: Why do you always
Leave your dirty dishes in the sink
Why do you always
Speak before you think?
Why can't you ever
Buy me something nice?
Or even share
The remote control device?

Husband: You talk too much
It's always yap yap yap
You talk to much
Your gums, they always flap
I work so hard
I need some peace and quiet
If you want something nice
Why don't you go and buy it?

Together: You drive me crazy, but I... love... you... anyway!

As they sing the last line, the couple would fall into each other's arms and passionately kiss.

Could you imagine trying to have a good, old-fashioned, door-slamming, foot-stomping, phone-throwing fight with your spouse while singing to them? Plus, it's really hard to find words that rhyme with "jerk-face". I think this could end marital strife as we know it!

So, if your life was a musical, what would it be called? And who would play you? Come on, I know I have some very imaginative friends out there...