how much to say and how to say it: the blogger's dilemma

I'm finding my blogging constrained these days by thoughts of how others, particularly my family, are feeling. I'm especially concerned that my children could be reading, if they chose to do so. How could I possibly put my very darkest thoughts here, as well as my most hopeful, happiest, meanest and angriest, knowing that they could read these words and not understand that how I feel in one moment is not how I feel all the time?

Do I protect them or do I just be honest and know that those closest to me have the real me to talk to and reassure with my presence? Does silence actually protect anyone?

It's hard, even in the most banal of times, not to feel self-conscious - something that definitely hampers writing.

I feel a need to write but also a need to be read. I've considered password protection of my posts but that feels like locking people out when I want to be accessible. I don't even have much security on my Facebook profile because I think gives a false sense of security. I prefer to only post to the internet things that I'd be comfortable with the whole world reading. I can write, edit and even delete before posting. I am in control.

Or perhaps not. How can I know who reads and how they are affected? Are my thoughts embarrassing or even wounding to those I love? Months of silence on the blog have not meant that there has been anything wrong, just a lack of inspiration brought on by ennui and the self-imposed imposed limitations that have grown with the years.

My oldest son, who is beautiful, brilliant, funny and talented is a pretty private guy so I don't often write about him here. I have lots I could say but I respect his boundaries and don't share about him without his permission.

My youngest is more outgoing and happy for me to post photos and discuss our adventures. He's almost 12 though, so I know that door could soon be closing.

I've always considered writing about myself and my fears and foibles to be fair game. But perhaps it's not. At any rate, I'm conflicted. We'll see how it all shakes out in the coming weeks and months.

I have kept a journal for years. It's where I purge everything and I seldom feel a need to go back and re-read my words once a notebook is finished. One afternoon this winter, I threw a bunch of these journals into the fire and watched them burn. It felt very cathartic but created an awful lot of ashes. I think I'll just gather up the rest when I'm ready and throw them out with the re-cycling (I'll do it on pick up day, so no one actually has the chance to try and decipher my writing).

This blog, however, is permanent. I do know a woman whose family deleted her blog after she died but that felt really wrong to me. I want my words to live on but hat very thought makes each word weigh more heavily.

late to the party

My last post was called, "just under the wire." I sense a theme developing here. Perhaps it's better to get things up at the last minute or even late, rather than not at all.

Last Friday was Halloween and it was a milestone for my family - the first time in 16 years that my spouse and I were home together all evening. So weird.

Sacha dressed up for school, then helped a friend with his haunted house and watched Shaun of the Dead. He ended the evening with a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. We didn't actually see him from the time he left for school in the morning until we heard him and his friends come in after the show. We got some of the details over bagels the next morning (a few of the boys slept over). It sounds like it was a great evening.

Bob from Bob's Burgers

"Best Group Costume"

For the first year ever, Daniel went Trick or Treating without an adult. Two of his friends came over after dinner and they went to collect two other friends in the neighbourhood. They trick-or-treated for a while and then went to one boy's house to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas and Beetlejuice. Daniel came home tired and euphoric, with the smallest bag of candy I have ever seen on Halloween. Clearly far more time was spent walking and talking then actually trick or treating. It sounds like a great evening.

Space Cowboy, inspired by Sparks Nevada

The division of labour in our house was always such that I stayed home and gave out candy and Tim went out with the boys. This was my choice. Perversely, now that I will never get the chance, I wish I had gone out trick-or-treating with my kids at least once.

It wasn't a relaxing evening in our house. Toby, the dog we adopted in May, barks when the doorbell rings or someone knocks. This happens when he thinks he hears knocking (the other dog might just be scratching herself) or when he hears the doorbell on TV. Sometimes, he even barks when he hears somebody come down the stairs in the house. So Halloween? Drove him crazy. And he whipped Lucy into a frenzy. By the end of the evening my nerves were raw but the dogs seemed pretty happy. I think they had a great evening.

Gratuitous photo of Lucy (the co-barker) from last Halloween. The dogs wouldn't sit still
long enough for a photo in this year's Halloween hats.

I'm pleased to announce that I didn't eat any Halloween candy this year. But I might have had a whiskey. And some cheezies. They go surprisingly well together

that could have been me

Last week, I was very moved by an interview on CBC Radio with Newfoundland actor-comedian Andy Jones and his wife Mary-Lynn Bernard on the radio about the death of their son, Louis who "passed away by his own hand after a lengthy and brave battle with mental illness...age 28 years." (from Louis' obituary)

Despite pain that was practically palpable, Ms. Bernard and Mr. Jones have been doing media interviews across the country to shed light on mental illness and the very high toll takes on those affected and their loved ones. I was very, very moved by their story, and the brave decision they have made to share it. 

It brought back a very intense memory, part of my own ongoing struggle with depression and anxiety This is just one of my stories:

I remember crawling under the kitchen table in the house we were renting, turning to face the wall and pulling my knees to my chest. I wanted to make myself as small as possible. To disappear. To cease to exist.

I felt defeated and ashamed. I was a failure. 

After many, many months of pretending, hurting, numbing, self-disgust, suicidal fantasies and giving up on getting better, I had accepted a prescription for anti-depressants.

I can acutely recall the self-loathing I felt as I held the prescription bottle in my hand. I was disgusted that I was ill. Disgusted with the weakness of my will. Disgusted that I hadn't been able to just get better on my own.

Depression, as I experienced it, felt like a heavy weight on my chest and limbs. I could not fall asleep at night and then slept for most of the day. When I did get up, eating and dressing would exhaust me and I would sit in front of the television, hair and teeth unbrushed, flipping the channels aimlessly, not really watching. When I did have to leave the house on my own, I wanted nothing more than to be invisible. 

This lasted for months. I was 25 years old.

This was not my first episode of depression and anxiety (I started to wrestle with this in my teens) but it was the longest. And it was the first that did not seem to go away on its own. And so, in the end, I took the prescription. It took a few weeks and a change of meds (the first drug seemed to do nothing for me) and one day, as I was out with the dog, I realized that the fog had lifted. 

I wasn't euphoric. I didn't feel like a different person. I just felt lighter. And interested in the world around me. I felt better. I had hope. 

I'd like to say that was the day I stopped blaming myself for my illness but it wasn't. More than once over the next few years, I took myself off the medication that helps me stay healthy because I was ashamed to be taking it. I didn't know then that abrupt withdrawal can be very dangerous. One time, I actually got off a plane at a stop-over and went to a friend's house because I was so overwhelmed with the desire to harm myself. It took me years to realize that for me, the drugs help and there is no shame in taking them.

This is not to say that everyone dealing with depression needs medication (they don't). Or that everyone needs to stay on it (they don't) but I do, along with talk therapy, exercise, good nutrition and the support of the people I love. I have to stay vigilant and watch for the signs that I need to slow down and take care of myself.

It's only in the last couple of years that I've started to talk about my depression. When I worked, it was my deep, dark secret - onne I realize now I very likely shared with several of my co-workers. There are so many of us who live with mental illness and never talk about it.

My point in sharing all this is to let go of a bit of the shame and chip away a little at the stigma. Andy Jones said in his interview that "compared to people who do heart surgery, the mental health field is still in the 17th century."

Enough already. Mental illness runs in my family. I'm trying to teach my kids to take care of themselves, watch for the signs, seek help and to never be ashamed of who they are.

And we need to treat mental illnesses like any other. We need prevention, treatment and cure. 

Additional reading (otherwise known as some of my very favourite posts from writers who live with anxiety and depression):

"Depression Lies" by Wil Wheaton.

"Today and forever" by Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess).

"Adventures in Depression" and "Depression Part Two" by Allie Brosh (of Hyperbole and a Half)

"Depression. There. I said it." by Rachael Herron.


Update: This post was featured by BlogHer on April 4th.

remembering

photo: Benoit Aubry, Ottawa (Wikimedia Commons)

Across Canada today, people are attending events, watching ceremonies and wearing poppies in remembrance of those who lost their lives and lived through war around the world.

It's a time of gratitude for willing sacrifice and for melancholy remembrance of all that has been lost.

This year, there was a fair bit of controversy over those who would replace the traditional red poppies with white, to symbolize a commitment to peace. In my view, there has been far too much hyperbole on both sides of the issue. Those who advocate change, accuse those who wear red as glorifying war. Those who love the traditional red poppy have called the white "disrespectful rubbish" and those who advocate for them "morons."

Personally, I think it matters little what colour poppy you wear.

So many young men and women have given their lives in Canada's military. So many more have come home grievously injured in ways that are visible and some that are not. We should remember their sacrifice and work to make sure that medical and psychological services are in place for those who return. Providing a decent pension and access to education and employment is a genuine way to thank a soldier for his or her service.

Some who fought in Canada's "Great Wars" were children who lied (while the military recruiters turned a blind eye) so they could fight for their country and so that they could be employed. All over the world, there are child soldiers being recruited through enticements and threats. On Remembrance Day, I think of all the young people who's future is eradicated or greatly compromised because of the scourge of war.

Thousands of men and women have suffered at the hands of there own brothers and sisters in the military. Since the WW1 and before, soldiers have died because of bad decisions at the top or at the political whim of government. Many have been sexually assaulted, only to face silence and retribution if they have spoken out. The military has been slow to address violence and mental illness within its own ranks. We must take a moment to remember those who have suffered and to celebrate those brave soldiers who've had the courage to speak out and to advocate for change.

You don't have to believe that every battle or even every war was just in order to be grateful. It takes nothing away from veterans to say that we need to do more for those who have come home. It's not disrespectful to remember war while calling for peace. And I know there are many veterans who would agree with me.

my good bad dog: a love story

She makes an excellent, if somewhat smelly pillow.

It's a good thing she's cute.

This is her Hallowe'en costume. It suits her.

She jumps up on visitors and gets into the garbage at least once a week. She ignores most commands, unless she feels like listening and she steals food off the table (one time a fresh baked lemon meringue pie), the moment you turn your back. She'd run into traffic, if she thought there were something interesting on the other side of the street. She hates to get her feet wet but will roll in the mud. She disappears the instant I have a brush in my hand.

But she comes when called (most of the time) and materializes from out of nowhere when I put on my shoes for a walk. She loves me exuberantly and unconditionally. To her, I will always be The Best and Most Important, even when I have lost confidence in myself. She is happy almost every moment of every day and she gets me out the door when I'm feeling unmotivated.

She has the sweetest temperament of any living being and I have watched a child pull her out of a hiding place by her tail, without a whimper or a growl. She'll sit in a lap like a toddler and will fall asleep in my arms, with her head on my shoulder. I call her my Hairy Little Girl and whole host of names too embarrassing to repeat in this space.

She's a balm on my bruised spirit and an undemanding, forgiving companion. She makes me smile and even laugh on the days my heart hurts the most. She reminds me to be happy, to let go of the little things and how much fun it is just to be alive.

She's formally called Amaia Fiesta Lucy Diamond. She's a very good bad dog.

doors open - an excuse for frivolity

I have a long overdue post up at Frivolity (getfrivolous.com). We had such a good time at Doors Open Ottawa!

Daniel "driving" an OC Transpo bus.

let's help writer David Farland and his son Ben

A couple of months ago, I subscribed to the email list of author David Farland, on the advice of a friend. I read his "Daily Kick in the Pants" almost as soon as it arrives in my inbox. The emails are short, entertaining and full of concrete and useful advice. I know I've already become a better writer because of the help he offers other writers - free of charge.

Today, David Farland and his son Ben, are in need of our help. Ben is 16 years old. Last week he had a terrible longboarding accident that has left him in a coma, with very grave injuries. Medical bills are spiralling into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. The family lives in the United States has no medical insurance.

Friends of David Farland's have organized a book bomb for today. A book bomb is typically a day when thousands of people buy a book, in support of an author. Today we are doing it to support Ben.

There are 3 ways that you can help:

1. Buy one of two featured books.

David Farland’s young adult fantasy thriller Nightingale has won seven awards, including the Grand Prize at the Hollywood Book Festival. It has been praised by authors such as James Dashner (The Maze Runner), Brandon Sanderson (Mistborn), and Paul Genesse (Iron Dragon series). You can read reviews on Amazon.com. 

Nightingale is available as a hardcover, ebook, audio book, and enhanced novel for the iPad. 

Buy it on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble, on the Nightingale website, or, get the enhanced version, complete with illustrations, interviews, animations, and soundtrack through iTunes.

If you are a writer, you may want to consider purchasing David Farland’s Million Dollar Outlines instead. Both books are part of the book bomb. Million Dollar Outlines has been a bestseller on Amazon for over a month and is only $6.99. David has taught dozens of writers who have gone on to literary success, including such #1 New York Times Bestsellers as Brandon Mull (Fablehaven), Brandon Sanderson (Wheel of Time), James Dashner (The Maze Runner) and Stephenie Meyer (Twilight). There are a bunch of reviews at Amazon.com.

Get it on Amazon.com, Amazon.ca or  Barnes andNoble.



2. Donate money directly.

You can do that here: http://www.gofundme.com/BensRecovery 

3. Help spread the word.

If you can’t spare any money, but would still like to help, you can do so by telling others about Ben’s donation page, and/or this Book Bomb. Share it on facebook, twitter, pinterest, your blog—anywhere you can. There is an event page set up on Facebook.

You can find out more about Ben and check on his progress at  http://www.helpwolverton.com/

mental health day

My youngest son is home from school today. He's not sick. He just didn't sleep very well last night. He's been out of sorts lately - hard on himself and everyone around him. It just felt like a day off would be a really good idea.

We've a windchill of -35C at the moment (that's an almost as cold sounding -31F). It's warmer than yesterday but still not really warm enough to play outside.

This morning, I pretty much left him to his own devices. As per my stipulation of "not a lot of screen" (I'm convinced that watching videos and playing video games compound his bad mood, which would defeat the purpose of a day off), he asked me if he could make "pure juice" in the kitchen. I was hesitant but Tim said I could trust the 9 year old with a hand juicer and a paring knife (this is when I'm glad that the kids have two parents. The 14 year old would still not be leaving the house by himself). 

A short while later, Daniel brought me a tray in bed. He came back a few seconds later with a snack.

As we sat together and drank and ate, Daniel observed that food tastes better when you make it yourself. 

It tastes just as good when your child makes it for you.

I have just a little more writing to get done, then we're going to make soup (he bought a big bag of sweet potatoes for me with his own money, on a recent trip to the Farmers' Market in Guelph) and then do a yoga DVD. If there's time after that we may do a little spelling homework.

Or maybe not.

I'm having a mental health day, too.

proud mama requests your support

 My son and his friends made this video as their entry for a contest. Canadian indie rock artist Joel Plaskett (we're big fans in our house) has invited folks to make a music video for a song from his Scrappy Happiness album. The winner gets a free backyard concert!


 This is where you come in. Please watch the video. If you like it (and how could you not - it's brilliant!), click through to YouTube and "like" it (the like button is under the video on the left side). I know it's a bit of a popularity contest but I'm proud of these kids and think they should be encouraged (and not just because I'm Sacha's mother!). 


 

look what we did!

Remember my secret happy project?


We did it! We yarn-bombed a corner of my neighbourhood. We were 10 knitters, 14 installers and one videographer. It was so much work but so much fun. I dare you to watch this short video without smiling:


   
(video: Mark Blevis)


There are lots more photos up at our web site, Frivolknitty.com. It was so much fun - we're already planning for the next time!


An observer pointed out that three of the knitters/installers involved in this project have lived with breast cancer. I don't think it's coincidence that we all wanted to share in a little frivolity.

filling that prescription

A few years ago, I worked my way through the Artist's Way. I found the process to be extremely helpful in getting me past my writer's block and I followed the program dilligently - except for one component. In all twelve weeks, I did the Artist's Date exactly once.

I know in my head that play time fills the soul. And I know that the repetitive motions of knitting can spark creativity and be enormously soothing. Yet I seldom set aside time just to knit unless I'm watching a movie with my kids,out on a knit date or on a road trip. And I know, too that I chose knitting as my play because I usually have a product at the end that someone can use. This makes the time easier to justify.

But human beings need to play in order to be happy. And the benefits of creative time spill over in to so many other aspects of our lives. Blondie, one of my favourite bloggers wrote in a recent post she wrote after a night of insomnia:

...I got up and went to the couch. Sitting on the footrest was the latest cross stitch project I've been working on. It hadn't been touched since sometime last week. I can't even remember when I started it? I picked it up and worked on a little flower. In no time at all, I felt my body and spirit relaxing. I realized I was holding my entire body slightly UP and in a very unusual and stiff way. I was wound up TIGHT. If you touched me, I probably would have zapped you with a long, blue, electric arc. But after a half hour of stitching, I was much more calm. Even the kittehs seemed more relaxed. Collectively, we were detoxing. And after I made some good stitching progress, I made myself go lie back down and try to sleep. Eventually, I did.

Blondie called her post "Prescription for Art." I think this is perfect. Indulging our creative needs should not be an afterthought but a prescription for mental health and happiness. As Blondie points out in her post, art is good for our bodies and our spirits. We should all make time for it. The product need not be perfect. It's the process that matters.

We can't all make great, or even good art. But perhaps this prescription applies most of all to those of us who would never call ourselves "artists." We can all seek inspiration in the world (and from art of all kinds) to make stuff and make ourselves a little happier.

lost my mojo

Mid-winter blues.

Bored.

No new ideas ("said it all before" syndrome).

Too much loss.

Whatever the reason, I have not felt much like blogging (or doing any writing) lately. 

I couldn't even muster up the energy to blog about the recent Komen debacle (although I took it all in with great interest).

And I can barely bring myself to think about Rachel (a scathingly brilliant and funny anti-pinkwashing activist and kindred spirit) or Susan (an equally brilliant leader, founder of Mothers With Cancer and mother of two young boys) without becoming undone. They deserve the kind of tributes others have written but I can only say who devastated I am that cancer has taken two more wonderful women.

So, I've been taking a break. 

And fallen out of the habit.

I think I might be ready to come back soon. Or to get back to writing down some thoughts.

And spring will come soon too.

Meanwhile, please know that all my latest tests have been gloriously normal. I'm doing OK. I just need to get past this dry spell, so I can return to writing with joy and enthusiasm.

3 truths

No one can understand hot flashes unless they have experienced one.


It is so much easier to appreciate the beauty of one's own community when viewed through a visitor's eyes.


This is the definition of  good friends: You don't think twice about letting your kid go to their place for dinner wearing pajamas. And when you get there you discover that their kid is still in pajamas too!

photo: M. Slavitch

outside the zone

In the nearly six years since my initial breast cancer diagnosis, I have become increasingly introverted. As a child, I was pretty outgoing. However, later in my teens and throughout adulthood I have developed a form of social anxiety that makes it easier to address a crowd of hundreds than to speak to a handful of new people at a social gathering.

I come by it honestly - anxiety disorders run in my family - but the structure of my day to day life hasn't helped. When I was going to an office every day, I had to interact with co-workers and new people every day - and (mostly) I enjoyed it.

I've always liked spending time on my own but these years of introspection have made it seem like more of a hurdle to confront social anxiety. I have a busy social life but I choose to spend time mostly with trusted friends, going places that are familiar to me.

I don't think there's too much wrong with that but I have seen how fears can make one's world smaller and deprive us of experiences that we might enjoy or, at the very least, that can teach or inspire us. I talk to my kids a lot about how everyone needs to strike a balance between doing things we know that we love and undertaking new challenges - about how confronting our fears is often the only way to make sure that our fears do not come to control our lives.

This year, I've been very inspired by my friend Andrea, who has taken it upon herself to do many things that take her outside her personal comfort zone. While she's danced and travelled and taken on public speaking, I've attended a conference, taken a job as an Elections Ontario officer for a day and now - my family is heading on an entirely new adventure.

This morning, we are pointing the car towards Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, on our way to take part in a week-long family vacation hosted by Little Pink Houses of Hope. We will be joined by 13 other families and every mother in the group will have been treated for breast cancer. The only mandatory group activities will be dinner on the first night and the last. In between, we will be in our own beach house and all group meals and activities (in the past, these have ranged from jewelry making to hang-gliding) during the week are optional. I'm very grateful for the opportunity and the generosity of the organizers but I'm also freaked right out.

It's going to be an experience. And, as Susan (aka the Bubbster) pointed out to me in an email, "The trip sounds wonderful and you'll all 'dine out' on the vacation for years to come. They'll be happy and funny stories, I know." 

In other words, great blog fodder. And most definitely, an interesting experience.

my kids are alright

I had a dream a few nights ago.

My kids were in a giant flash mob, dancing their hearts out, surrounded by dozens of other kids and adults. They were exuberant and focused, their movements fluid and in synch with those around them. My heart swelled with pride and joy.

I learned that the flash mob had been created to drum up excitement over an upcoming performance. In a couple of hours, my kids would go on stage and perform. I could tell they were ready.

Then I was handed a note. My own performance was scheduled for right after theirs. I was wholly unprepared. I hadn't even looked at my script. I was rushing off to find it when my alarm went off.

Sacha was in a play very recently. And they did organize a flash mob a week before the performance, as a form of advertisement. And Sacha performed beautifully. My heart did swell with pride.

In part, my subconscious might have been remembering the play but I choose to believe that I was also sending myself a message.

Life with metastatic breast cancer is filled with uncertainty. But no matter what happens, my kids will be fine. They are smart, talented, resourceful and resillient. They have friends and family who love them. My kids will be alright.

early memories

A few childhood memories remain incredibly vivid. Some have been worn into grooves in my brain, they have been retold so often. With those, I am unsure where my recollections end and those of others begin. Others, I am quite certain, are mine alone.

Here are twenty memories, off the top of my head. Some I have likely shared here before but of some others, I have never spoken, let alone written:

1. Sliding down the driveway at my friend's house, until my pants were worn out. I was wearing a jump suit with giraffes on it and I was in big trouble.

2. Being in love with an airline pilot. He was my aunt's boyfriend and he brought me presents from all over the world. He also called me Miss Muffet.

3. My father telling me that my baby sister had been born.

Those first three memories were from when we lived in Montreal. We moved away just after I turned four. All the rest are from Hawkesbury, Ontario and take place before my 11th birthday.

4. Going to the Dairy Queen with my aunt to get a Buster Bar and dropping it on the way home.

5. Getting caught peeing in my neighbour's rose bushes.

6. Ringing doorbells with my friends and running away.

7. Knocking on my neighbours' doors and asking them for their autographs.

8. Having the belt on my blue coat ripped off by a boy.

9. Being pushed into a bush by some bullies on my way home from school.

10. Trying to ignore a class-mate who was standing at my desk chanting "Tête carrée!" (It means square head and was the standard put down that francophones used against anglos. I had an English last name, and spoke English at home, so I was fair game).

11. The boy I liked in Grade Five telling me that all the boys, including him, had crushes on my best friend.

12. Making up sins in confession because I was too embarassed to tell anything real to the priest. "I talked back to my mother" was a frequent sin.

13. Winning a medal for "best behaved girl" on the same day as my crush won "best behaved boy."

14. My friend Philippe telling me how babies were made - through kissing. I was fascinated and horrified.

15. Being on the winning team during Carnaval at Ecole Marguerite Bourgeois.

16. The way the principal of that school smelled like pipe tobacco and how much I loved him.

17. Being flashed, as I cut through the church yard on my way to school.

18. Seeing a dog that had been hit by a car on the street in front of my house and how it felt like hours until the city came to take it away.

19. Getting a red bike with a yellow banana seat for my 7th birthday.

20. Bringing my new cat across the street to meet my neighbour and telling her "If you don't like my cat, then I can't come to visit you anymore."

Your turn. Can you share some random childhood memories?

random on a rainy day

There's something about a cold, rainy day that makes me just want to crawl back under the covers. I've resisted that temptation all day but I'm fighting a cold and my brain doesn't seem to want to function, except in fits and starts.

Here are some random thoughts, that I'm posting as a compromise between cogent and nothing at all.

1. All four performances of my son's play went very, very well this week end. I could not be prouder of him. He worked very hard for many months, to learn his lines and his blocking and he got himself to every rehearsal on time. The director gushed about him and said that she'd loved to work with him again. He had a big part and he was brilliant.

2. I thought, as his mother, that I was very restrained. I found myself reacting quite viscerally to the kids and teacher who bullied him on stage (Sacha tells me that they are all very nice people) and had to remind myself that they were actors in a play.

3. I was also very restrained during the after-party at a local pub. We sat in a different room from Sacha, gave him money (hey wait - the community centre paid for dinner and drinks and he still kept our twenty bucks!) and we only went to talk to him when it was absolutely necessary. I did call out "There's my baby!" when he walked in the door but otherwise did my best to embarass him only minimally.

4. The pub did not have a wide selection of food, so I decided to pretend I was a student again and share calamari, antijitos and nachos, washed down with beer. Afterwards, my GERD reminded me that I no longer have the constitution of a student. My GERD is well managed but apparently fried things can knock down the best defenses.

5. My jaw is very sore today. I think I'm going to have to break down and wear my mouthguard. Every time I think of it, I remember Tina Fey and Steve Carell in Date Night. It really is that sexy.

6. I've been editing a book in progress for a friend and loving it. It's made me remember how much I love that kind of work - especially when I'm working with good writing and interesting information (which I definitely am).

7. My skirmish with Zellers ended with them sending me a cheque for $7.48 because they "value my business."

8. This blog post was interrupted when Daniel's school called. He was sent home with a tummy ache. He was fine when he got home. This happens every Monday afternoon. Time for a meeting with the school.

9. Daniel just told me to "stop being so moody."

where i've been

Update: I've decided that my habit of using initials instead of names makes some sentences confusing and nearly unreadable. Henceforth, I will use my discretion - and mostly use names.

Hey there.

March has been a busy month for our little household. And last week was March Break. We all drove to Toronto and then our oldest, Sacha, went to visit two of his parental grandparents in Florida. It was his first flight (other than a short hop between Toronto and Ottawa) on his own (and he's now too old to be an "unaccompanied minor"). 

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It seems that I'm not so great at multi-tasking these days. I have lots of blog posts in my head but before I write them, I thought I'd catch you up on what we've been up to since my last post.

On Saturday, March 12, I ran a bunch of errands and packed for our week away. We also went shopping for new clothes that my 7 year old could wear for a theatre date with his Grandma in Toronto.

He was very pleased with this outfit. The photo doesn't do him justice.

On Sunday, March 13, we drove to Toronto. That evening, Tim and I went out for a delicious Indian meal to celebrate our 20th anniversary (we celebrate the anniversary of our first date because our wedding anniversary is September 7. At that time of year, our lives are so busy. Besides, March needs a reason to celebrate). It's hard to believe it's been that long - and we still like each other.

I started my day on Monday, March 14 by lining up outside the Toronto office of Passport Canada, since we had realized the previous Friday (at 4:30) that our son's passport had expired (I can now safely confess this, as he has been and returned to Florida and you all can know that our parental ineptitude didn't lead to tragedy). I was second in line (well before dawn) behind a woman and her two young children from Northern Ontario who had been turned away from their flight to South Carolina the previous day (the woman's MP had assured her that her son could travel to the US on an expired passport. He could not). Her name was also Laurie and her boys were also five years apart. We bonded, as we stood on the pavement outside the passport building for 90 minutes.

Once the new passport was sorted, Tim and I took our youngest to the zoo (Sacha opted to go check out the  TIFF building with his Grandma). I didn't take any pictures but we had a great time. It's a sprawling place with animals that appear to be reasonably content. At least I hope so. Daniel was ecstatic. His favourite animals were the gorillas and the bats (no photos. I was too distracted and perhaps still groggy).

On Tuesday, March 15th, Tim drove Sacha to the airport in Toronto (I was happy not to go, since I was beside myself with anxiety) and then headed back to Ottawa to work (he was extremely patient with me as I texted him every forty-five minutes for updates).

I was happily distracted by the wonderful company of my friend Andrea We went out for brunch and then spent a few hours at the Purple Purl, one of my favourite places in the world. Andrea's spouse Patchen joined us for dinner and we three had a lovely meal. I was back at my Mom-in-Law's place before my seven year old who had spent the day with Grandma and gone to both a Second City kids' show and Billy Elliott.

On Wednesday, March 16, Daniel and I took the train to Guelph, where we hooked up with some cousins and went to the Butterfly Conservatory. Despite the heat in the building (I looked with envy at the folks who'd worn shorts), we had a great time. Besides the amazing butterflies (a gorgeous blue one landed on Daniel, to his great delight) there were many kinds of birds, fish and turtles.

Daniel and his young cousin Y. had some strong mutual admiration going on.

On Thursday, March 17, was primo cousin hanging out time. Daniel loved being the oldest cousin. Five year old N. (whose two older sisters were in Florida with Sacha) seemed equally pleased to have some boy time. 

I took the boys to see Mars Needs Moms in 3D (great animation, problematic movie) and then we went to a really great park. That evening, the boys entertained each other happily over dinner out (at Swiss Chalet - the pubs were packed with partiers dressed in green) and my brother-in-law and I had the chance to converse in complete sentences (my poor sister-in-law was at home recovering from a very bad case of food poisoning. She was more of a trooper that day than I would have been in her shoes).

On Friday, March 18, we returned to Toronto and I got to spend the afternoon and evening with my dear friend Leslie. We had lunch, browsed the Distillery District, went for a big walk along the Boardwalk and then had dinner at our favourite pub over pints. Meanwhile, Grandma took Daniel up the CN Tower and for a swim at the Y.

We took the train home on Saturday, March 19. We watched far too many episodes of The Magic School Bus  but not once did Daniel say, "How much longer?" or "Are we there yet?"

It was a very good week.

The last couple of days have been focused on re-entry - catching up with friends, going to appointments and making endless lists of things to do. As of this evening, Sacha is safely home. Tomorrow we can return to routine (bring on the fights about homework and cleaning up bedrooms). Whatever form it takes, a break from routine can be a very good thing.