To be a mom. Heavy man. I'm not a gushy baby person. I mean, I love babies, but they don't set my uterus on fire, I don't have 'I want to be a mommy again' seizures, I just, ya know, think they're pretty awesome. I see babies, toddlers, and little kids and see the person potential, 'Who are you becoming, you crazy little man?' 

As a mom, I feel like it's my job to raise these little people into individuals of substance, integrity, value, independence, and faith, who live out of love. I've actually been lucky enough to have this type of parenting modelled to me through a family friend as well through my own mom.

I interviewed our family friend Linda for a high school paper I was writing about parenting, she at the time had 2 young boys. And she basically said what she felt like her role as a parent was, and she outlined her parenting concepts for me. But to see it play out over years is pretty incredible. In her family there is such a sense of mutual respect and there is the space for her guys to become the (very different) individuals that they are. She encourages their growth but so clearly loves them at all of their different stages. And I really, really respect that. She is one of my biggest mom role models.

My mom has taught me how to nurture, tangibly love, have an iron will of patience, and to parent through faith. She always listens, is an advocate for new moms, and believes that children should be handled as gently as baby birds. KIDS.LOVE.GRAMMIE. She has a child like playfulness about her that means she sings silly songs in public, climbs trees with the kids, and has been known to darn a funky chicken hat. There was a time when I didn't see the humour in these acts but now is my complete hero. I hope I'm as cool as that when I'm a Grammie. 

As for me, well, seeing my kids enter and leave different stages is a complete joy for me and I'm excited to see the people they're becoming. Being Wyatt and Ali's mom is a complete honour and I feel like they in turn have made me a much better version of myself. I may not be at the funky chicken hat stage just yet, but maybe one day...

-Char

pee ess: GO HUG A MOM! (warning: they might cry)

So I'm not actually dead, SURPRISE! I've just been terribly negligent of the blog... As some friends reminded me last night, "So, you haven't had a post in awhile...", ah yes that is true! Crazy busy days leading into nights (well if I'm going to be totally honest, evenings, not nights. Most of the time I'm all ready for bed around the 8 o'clock mark. Shit. Fine. 7 o'clock) where I will opt for a glass of wine, some intriguing TV show and a side order of possible lobotomy. I am T.I.R.E.D. 

Things are still busy on the homestead. When people ask what we're 'up to' my brain, without fail, hears my dad's voice saying, "I've got all these balls in the air and only 2 are mine! Bah ha!" But I quickly remember my lack of balls and opt for the more demure approach of, "we're busy, but good!" Suzanne is still working away on average of about 3 times a week, sometimes 2 days, sometimes 4. So that means we have an 'all hands on deck' toddler festivus on those days. Five kids to be exact. A complete puppy pile, and they all love every minute of it. And I'm still plugging away at my work during the quiet, or not so quiet, afternoon rest times. Squeezing out every last drop of productive energy while the day is still light. 

Suzanne has been a total champ. She tends to pull in the strength of the ages and get things done. The sheer focus and energy her day needs is pretty alarming, not just in work but in how high maintenance her kids still are that their young ages. It's hard, but she has been finding joy along the way and remains positive.

We have a fuzzy closure date on the current situation of early September. There are some pretty large changes heading our way in September. Wyatt will be in full time school (oooh, a big deal, I know), as will the little guy my mom is Grammie-ing. So Suzanne will not have access to a car to trek up to Milton to work. The company she is working for is also in a state of change, so we are just waiting to see what comes down the pike in that respect. Change is in the air! The goal here is to meet the various needs as they pop up and continue to be fluid to changing situations. Sound vague? Well it is. Whatcha gonna do? Suzanne and I have both been learning to not push our own agenda but instead wait and see what we're actually supposed to be doing. And in many cases what we end up doing has more to do with building relationships and supporting those around us than say, plugging through our chore or 'hafta do' lists. Everything eventually gets done. That sounds cliche, but it's actually a challenge for me to just let things be. I want to, do Do DO! cruddy carpet? LET. ME. VACUUM! Waiting for the coffee to perk or the eggs to warm up enough to scramble? I CAN EMPTY THE DISHWASHER AND MAKE THE KIDS SNACKS!!! Derek has the kids in the bath, OH GOOD, I CAN PUT AWAY AAAAAAALL THE LAUNDRY!!!!!! Big Char lesson: be cool man, just be cool. If I don't fully realize this lesson I fear I'll one day turn into a thin-haired, wrinkly, up-tight worrier wiener dog type person. Nice image eh? Just be cool. Do what you're actually supposed to be doing, not what you think you should be doing... a Mr. Miyagi lesson if I've ever heard one... 

Wax on. Wax off. Wax on...

-Char

Settling down into the nest that is my bed last night I pulled up the laptop and watched "Julie & Julia" with Amy Adams and Meryl Streep. Sean was glued to his computer, avec headphones, watching Liam Neison in "The Gray" - a sparse, desolate flick about a plane crash and fighting off wolves with broken bottles. Occasionally marriage leads us along two paths, especially where movies are concerned - neither of us wanting to subject the other to our preferences.

It was my second viewing of the movie, a parallel tale of a contemporary blogger named Julie Powell and Julia Child, the famous mid-century cook who brought French cooking to America. I thoroughly enjoyed re-visiting the movie, confirming the fact that in the last few years I have joined countless legions of fans and become totally enamored with Meryl Streep. My turn to fandom really came about after I saw her speak live at the Royal Ontario Museum in late 2009. She spoke on her career, her life, her loves.

The things that struck me about Meryl: 1. She didn't take herself seriously 2. She was unaffected, not trying to impress anyone 3. She had great body language, using her whole being to express herself 4. She laughed all the time 5. She was incredibly honest, self-deprecating and intelligent 6. She was at turns open and then private - she didn't answer any questions that she didn't want to and she directed the talk. All in all, I left the interview thinking "Here is a totally integrated person."

The other thing about Meryl Streep is that she is a great role model for aging gracefully (and appropriately), which is a rare thing in our culture. She has shunned plastic surgery, she is not overly thin, she doesn't appear to be a slave to the gym, or trendy diets, or fashion for that matter. I can picture her chowing down on oysters and a glass of white wine, more then a macro-biotic organic raw food vegan power shake. You know what I mean? And a few months ago she was on the cover of Vogue Magazine, the oldest person to ever grace the cover (she is over 60). So apparently, if you stick to your guns you can turn the tides. And she has.

Her ethos about plastic surgery is that if an actress conforms to the ageless / beauty protocol, then opportunities and roles will be limited as a result. In all her idiosyncratic glory, Meryl has played some of the most iconic women of the 20th century (Child, Thatcher) while other actresses of her generation have ceased to work, their careers fading with their youthful beauty. So, that is a big statement. What I took away from what she said is that if we conform ourselves to a stereotype, we run the danger of getting boxed into a "role" - in the movie of our own life. To me Meryl Streep is a great icon of relatability triumphing over perfectionism.

 Okay, so the important difference between these two: seeking to be relatable vs. seeking to be "perfect", is slowly dawning on me as I creep along in my thirties. The drive to be perfect - to "have it all together", to be groomed, dressed and fit - to entertain in style, to have the right stuff, to have the right job and the right credentials, even to have a clean house or the right stuff in your grocery cart...it's pressure, sometimes strong, sometimes subtle. It's what makes us size each other up, it's what makes us feel less-than adequate when we talk to someone who has more boxes checked than we do at any given moment.

But the drive to be relatable...what does that look like? It means, if my house is messy, people are still welcome ("hospitality" vs. "entertaining"). It means I dress so I feel good, but not to call attention to myself particularly. It means comparing myself to the 99%, not to the 1% - which is what I do whenever I am tempted to feel hard done by. It's the enjoyment of food, especially in community, even if it's mac + cheese. It's taking off the make up, it's owning up to the cellulite, it's admitting the flaws and celebrating the brains, the talent, the joys and the messiness of womanhood. The bottom line: if I enjoy being myself...I am relatable to other women, not in competition with them.

There's this one great scene in "Julie & Julia" where Julia (Meryl) and her sister (played by Jane Lynch) get dressed up for a party and then look in the mirror together. "Not bad...." says Julia, assessing their appearances. Pause. Then laughing she continues, "but not great either!!!" and the sisters crack up and hug, knowing they don't look awesome - even at their best. But it doesn't matter. Being themselves is enough. Hear, hear.

-Suzanne

Everyone has a parenting style. Our own style is sometimes difficult to see, while the style of parents around us can seem oh-so-obvious. I am now deep into the realm of child number two and I am just starting to have perspective on my own particular flavor, mostly evident through the contrast or likeness to those around me.

One benefit of the community living situation that we have here is that no single parenting style dominates and we tend to work within the structure of the group to shepherd the kids to and fro. Just by nature of the two families living and working through things together, we take a similar approach in matters of disciple, praise, reinforcement and other methods of instruction and training. What goes for one kids goes for all, that's just the way it has to be. I am grateful for the socialization that it is proving for my kids and also for the context it gives me in terms of questions I have personally, such as "what are reasonable expectations?" "what boundaries are needed?" "what is appropriate discipline?" Every parent has to answer these questions for themselves, but it is a lot easier when you're not in a bubble. As the dynamics between the kids play out day after day, as we (the parents) talk things out with them and amongst ourselves, we usually figure out how we want to handle particular behaviors pretty quickly.

Or sometimes one of us will have a lightening strike of inspiration and the rest of us will hop on board. One example is the dinner hour, where the general chaos of schedules colliding (people coming home from work, people dropping in, dinner being made, different activities happening in every corner of the house) adds up to an eating experience that is often less than relaxing. With everything that is happening, sometimes the last thing on the kids' minds is to eat. So the other night Char said, "Uh oh. I think that if we are all very loud and we don't eat our dinners, dessert might get scared and run out the front door." This, of course, totally engaged the kids - Was dessert outside? Was it at the front door? Would it ring the doorbell? Char continued, "If everybody eats their dinner and is very, very quiet then maybe dessert will want to come inside." All of the sudden, there were three very busy kids plowing through their dinners. Meanwhile, Char stuffed the ice cream carton under her hoodie and went to the front door. "Oh hello" we heard her say from the kitchen. All of the sudden, the ice cream appeared in the kitchen doorway. Char nudged it forward along the floor, like some kind of frozen dessert cowboy, pivoting one side to the other. Dessert Had Arrived. And the kids were delighted, showing us their empty plates proudly. So sometimes it just takes a fresh take, a new slant on an old problem. And that kind of creativity with parenting solutions is contagious - once you are in that mindset, other out-of-the-box ideas start to come into focus.

So yeah, my own style. I totally love having babies, but I am not really a baby person if you catch my drift. I was never a baby oggler, a coochi-cooer, someone who gushed over babies or got all mushy at the sight of a Baby Gap ad. I am sort of matter of fact about cuteness - I appreciate it, but it's not the end all and be all for me. I love and appreciate my kids at every stage, but it is the formation of their little personalities and their discovery of the world that really blows my mind. I am the kind of parent who wants to equip my kids to be independent adults, to do stuff that gets them ready for the real world. I am a big fan of "real" toys, like play kitchens and cash registers, like baby dolls and pretend steering wheels. I encourage my kids to participate in stuff like making meals, doing laundry, cleaning up. I am definitely more of a mama eagle nudging her chicks to the edge of the nest, not a mama duck cuddling them under a wing. I mean, you gotta be both, but my nature is the first.

The downside of this style of parenting is that sometimes I give my kids too much rope. I let them run too far, climb too high or do something that either gets them hurt or gives me a heart attack. Sometimes I think "what is wrong with me?" and I am constantly battling with myself to reign it in, to make sure I am not letting them do stuff before they are ready. The truth is, I am painfully aware that I fall short as a parent very regularly - I make bad judgment calls, I am not "on" all the time, like I need to be - especially with two little ones going 1,000 miles an hour in two directions. When I mess up, there is the temptation to beat myself up - but that is where my faith comes in. In my experience, I am far harder on myself then God is. I have learned to bring my insufficiency, my doubts, my mistakes, my worries to him and let him look it over, help me do better, and I am trusting that he will make me into the parent I need to be. Also, I have started to ask little Eden to forgive me when I screw up. Even at 2 1/2, she totally gets it. She will go from angry and resistant to giving me a big hug - "Will you forgive mommy (for losing my temper, for misjudging a situation, for being sharp with her etc.)? "Yes!!!" She says with glee and hugs my neck. That right there, that's everything. I don't need her (or Calla) to think I am a perfect parent or person - in fact I want them to know that I make mistakes all the time. And if my kids can forgive me for not being a perfect parent, well, I just might be able to forgive myself too.

- Suzanne

Of all the things that you teach kids, I think maybe one of the most important is emotional literacy. The ability to say "I am happy" or "I am frustrated" or "I am angry". This is the big thing that I am observing from the daycare that is our home. Kids need a chance - a pause from the big, loud overpowering world to express their feelings, to express like + dislike, to express interest, to push against the stuff that makes them instinctually uncomfortable. If my kids learn how to:

1. Recognize how they feel

2. Feel that is safe to express those feelings

Then I will feel, in some measure, like a success as a parent. The thing I observe around here (where on any given day we have 5 kids that are three and under) is that when things are too crazy, loud and in a state of reaction for those little voices to be heard, then all may disintegrate into chaos - fighting, pushing, crying and dissent. It is tough to pull two fighting toddlers apart and calm them down to the point where they can talk about how they feel. But Oh The Rewards! If a kid can say "Please don't do that, I don't like it" or "I'm frustrated", it curbs all kinds of behavior, like whining, like grabbing, or shoving to the floor.

So that is what we are working towards around here. And I have to say, that I am learning a thing or two from teaching this skill - I guess that is the unexpected reward of parenting. In teaching this to the kids, I am learning it (with greater conviction + clarity) myself. I guess I never realized that it was a skill I lacked - the ability to recognize (knowing in the moment is key) and say "I am angry" or "I don't like that." As adults, it seems that "diplomacy" sometimes replaces being honest about how we feel. The adult world is political and sometimes it is easier to keep things in rather than deal with the repercussions of saying how we feel. But the thing I am learning from the kids is that when a feeling comes out in the moment, be it a "good" or "bad" feeling, everyone takes it in stride, everyone accepts it. Are we so different, as grown up people? What is so scary about someone saying (or saying ourselves) "I am frustrated because..."?  Nothing. It's just the stuff that we withhold that gets painful.

I am learning to say, with greater boldness (in the words of Eden my 2 1/2 year old) "I don't wike it!" - hey, now that wasn't so hard!

-Suzanne

I don't know if it is symptomatic of this crazy, multi-faceted, high demand household or perhaps just a developmental level of being a thirty-something, but my life lesson these days seems to be: occupy only your own space. What do I mean by that? Well, I guess it has to do with not taking offense when other people are having a hard time, not taking things personally. It has to do with coming into situations ready to listen rather than ready to unload. It has to do with having eyes to see where other people are at rather than letting the volume of my internal dialogue drown out the world. Basically, it is letting awareness of the people in my life trump my awareness of myself. This is the thing I want to grow into - it is the "grown up" life that I aspire to. Put yourself aside. Don't get capsized by emotions, realize they will pass. Keep giving to all of these amazing little people that are growing up all around me. Shut the F*** up and don't worry about it. Look outside of yourself, listen and trust.

If that's my thirties, my twenties were intensely introspective. Oh, I've done that, trust me sweetheart. I remember floating in a public pool, before kids, I was off work for some reason, it was a summer afternoon. I was bobbing there in the blissful aquamarine chlorination, looking out at a freshly mowed baseball diamond and the lazy clouds, framed through a chain link fence. I remember thinking: I have had enough. Enough time to myself. Enough of myself, full stop. I was done. I was ready to give more, I was ready to be more than just me. I guess that was my "ready to have kids" moment. But it wasn't kids I was thinking about. It was just the fact that the life I had been leading was done, over, complete. I wasn't fighting, or striving, or looking for anything else in the same old places. I needed somewhere new to look, something new to find.

My walk as a Christ - follower has followed the same pattern (I use that particular language as the term "christian" carries a lot of baggage. "Christ follower" is the most accurate term I have heard to reflect the belief that Christ came to supplant religion and calls us to follow Him, not laws or doctrines, or religious protocol, or other man-made expectations).*whew* pause...take a breath...but more on that in a minute.

I woke up this morning at 5:30 am to the silhouette of Calla's little bald head peering over the edge of the playpen "MUM MUM MUM", her chipper little voice announcing: I'm up for good. Groan. Covers over the head. Oh, okay, up we get. I scooped her out of the playpen and was fumbling with her sleep-sack in the dark (for those of you who don't know a sleep-sack is like a wearable-sleeping bag), trying to undo the zipper. Oops, her little hand flails and her sharp little finger nail digs across my cornea, scraping my eye. Tears, eyes watering in the dark. Going downstairs, I realize that the vision in my one eye is all cloudy, making everything appear as though in a cheesy "Vaseline" photograph with blurry edges. Shit. I get a queasy sensation in my stomach and am worried that I will have permanent vision damage. Later, Char laughs at me and quickly apologizes, reassuring me that scratches on the cornea heal quickly. She googles it and I am calmed by the findings. I go to the walk in clinic and get some drops. Catastrophe averted.

What I am left with is that strange feeling of vulnerability you get when you have a brush (big or small) with your own limitations. I have had similar sensations after car accidents, after the births of my kids, after a tooth crumbled, after I have said things that I was sure would change an essential relationship forever. It's the feeling of "I can never go back to how things were" and the feeling of permanent loss, or change, or mortality. However capable I am (and I am a very capable person, admittedly), there are such distinct boundaries to my own powers and sufficiency and efforts.

I can't fix my eye. I can't safe guard my kids the way they always need, or even love them in the unconditional and perfect way they deserve. I can't always be the wife I want to be. I can't heal the crescent shaped burn on my arm, the one that Eden says looks like a rainbow. I can't give forever, I get tired, I get cranky, I freak out, I break down, I falter, I doubt, I cry and I complain.

But He doesn't. And the more I look at Him, the more my own limitations are this incredible thing, leading me onward and upward and closer to him all the time. As the heat turns up, as the stakes rise, I am more and more assured of his compete sufficiency in all things, all the time. I have experienced it a million times: I hit the wall, I crumble; I ask for help; I suddenly have joy where I had frustration, I have endurance where I had exhaustion, I have patience where I had touchiness and irritability. That's the exchange: my end is his beginning.

-Suzanne

This one has been sitting with me for sometime. I've been chewing on it, rolling it over, trying to make sense of, and attempting to plan an execution...

After talking with helpful and excellent supportive friends, I have concluded that I need to go this alone. No real plan, speak my peace, and see who wants in. In the end, I guess I'm just an off the cuff kinda girl.

So here is what I propose: On Sunday, February 26th, the day of the Oscars (a traditionally vain, catty, and unrealistic portrayal of womanhood)  a make-up free day. A day to be BARE. Who we are, as we are. Level the playing field.

Let me explain.

While putting on my make-up one morning months and months ago, thoughts began to form. Questions started to bubble up. What's the deal with make-up? Habit? Need? Am I hiding or enhancing? I became acutely aware that my daughter Ali would watch me over the years, getting ready, doing my hair, putting on my make-up, taking it in, becoming her model for being a woman. And I wondered, am I sending her the right message?

For those of you who have known me most of my life, you'd know that for years I made a career out of being invisible. Through my high school years, I became an expert at not being seen. Totally under the radar: perfect. To give you an example of this skill, I once took a math class that was so easy that I began to skip class at least once a week. As the semester wore on I skipped more and more and as the course finished up I realized that not only had I been skipping on average, about 3 times a week, I had also not really thought about report time and the number of absences that would plague my report card. Feeling a little queazy I received my report card and opened it up, only to realize my teacher had me down for a total of 4 absences... Yup, I was invisible.

Now I realize that I needed to be that way as a means of self-protection. But as I got older and more comfortable with myself, that behaviour became unnecessary. As an adult I relish being exactly who I want to be, wearing what I want to wear, saying what I want to say (blog What???), I have a level of comfort that I know is hard earned and I wear it like my old chucks. This process for me has also made me aware that not all women (and I say 'women' because I am one, I know guys have these types of issues too but I'm not a dude and I only have my own experience to draw from...) feel comfortable with who they are. We, as a group, have something to prove, things to hide, we judge and compete with one another.

Make-up is just one way we do this to one another. We can erase a shitty night sleep, hide our worry, blend away our imperfections, in many cases cover up scars, bruises, and scrapes. Our faces don't lie about our lives, we choose to put fourth a distortion of the truth. 

Feel insecure? Have something to prove? Put your war paint on. Intimidation a la L'Oréal.  

Please don't get me wrong, I dig make-up. It has it place, I guess my point is the motivation behind it. Do we really need it? I do really need it? 

Having wrestled my fair share of body issues, I have definitively resolved to not carry forward my insecurities into my relationship with my daughter. She will never feel from me that how she is, who she is becoming, what she looks like, is not good enough. Total and unconditional acceptance. To do this I have to cowboy up and get past the relic shards of my own bullshit experiences. I can do that. 

I believe that older generations should be modelling and ushering younger generations into adulthood, not competing with them. 

So let's do something about it...

On February 26th, all you have to do is post your BARE face as your profile picture on facebook and 'like', 'join', or 'share' the blog post or event page listed below: 

http://www.facebook.com/events/308094999239194/

Unashamed. No competition. Just BARE.  Are you in? 

-Char

Okay, ladies. Today's post is not about diapers. Or pooptastrophes. Or sleeplessness. Or kids. Today, TODAY, I will diverge (ahem)...today I will talk about something completely unrelated to motherhood. Oh yes, old boyfriends.

When I sift through the rubble of my memories, like so much sand in a gold miner's pan, there are a few nuggets related to old boyfriends that remain, shining like gold in the afternoon sun. I have arrived on the fact that I am indeed grateful to my old boyfriends in some measure, though all they left me was indeed not treasure. Hey that rhymed.

So for one, I got my education in music from the boys in my life, past and present company included. I grew up in a household that had exactly three areas of musical expertise:

1. Christian Contemporary (shudder)

2. Oldies (sing me an oldie I don't know, I dare you)

3. Movie Musicals (OOOOOOOOOklahomaaaaaaa)

So I remember the day in grade 8 when I realized I knew nothing about the music my friends were into and sheepishly went into a music store to see what all the hype was about. I bought my first cassette tape (yesssss), solely based on the cover art. It was Bon Jovi's Keep the Faith album. It was my less-than-adequate introduction to the world of popular music. Y' see, to really get schooled, I needed the boys.

My first sweet boyfriend in Grade 9 was Lee. Well, it only went on for a few weeks, really just a couple of car rides, a jump on his backyard trampoline (where I farted to my total mortification) and one make-out party. But we were together long enough for me to get a foundation in 90's alt rock: Dinosaur Jr., Jane's Addiction, Sloan, Nirvana and the Breeders (play Sloan's "Underwhelmed" for me and I am instantly 14, getting ready for school in the morning while the sun streams in my bedroom window).

Not much later I met Andrew, my first real boyfriend. Oh Andrew. He was almost 19, almost done high school. My dream. My mom's nightmare. He wore a burgundy bomber jacket, camo shorts, had dyed greasy blond hair, ratty old converse and a perpetual cigarette. He dropped acid, he played guitar, he took photos, he was moody and poetic and totally messed up. We snuck into places all summer long, we lit fires, we went swimming in our underwear.

Andrew gave me: R.E.M., Leonard Cohen, the Pixies and the CBC. "Here Comes Your Man" by the Pixies is still one of my favorite songs. Incidentally Andrew was the first person I knew who used the internet. He would sit in his basement and type orange text onto this blank black screen, just lines of code and then a message. It was1995.

Next came Asher. I was almost 16, he was 18. He had a mohawk and mutton chop sideburns and "look after me" eyes, a lethal combination. I spent most of the summer with him downtown Oakville, drunk with the boys under the Rebecca street bridge. I lost my virginity one muggy July night to the three chord strain of Operation Ivy's "Bombshell" on Star Wars sheets. I know. Classic.

Asher introduced me to Punk music. Confession: I only ever liked catchy punk music, which is decidedly un-punk of me. Full confession: I only actually like catchy music, full stop.

Then I went a round with a nice guy for a change, Scott. 80% best friend, 20% boyfriend. A bright spot in the stormy sea that was my high school love life. Scott was (is) a talented bass player and introduced me to the glorious world of Ska and also The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Scott had a thing for Charlie Chaplin, British chocolate bars and being very kind to me, his slightly unhinged girlfriend. Now sometimes Ska and Punk are all lumped together in one cultural moment, but Ska is infinitely cooler, by my measure. Yes! The Selector. Still stands up.

There are more, for sure. But after a while, what do you know, I stopped needing the boys to help me navigate the world of music and started figuring out what I liked, all on my own. But wait, I have to mention one more:

Sean, my husband. When I met Sean he was DJing pubs at Sheridan and was perpetually hooked into a pair of over-sized black head phones. Sean was into old school hip hop, the Gorillaz, stuff like that. But it wasn't till we were back at his scuzzy old apartment, snuggled under a sleeping bag on his old futon and listening to The Verve, that I knew, this is my man.

This is for you babe:

xo. Suzanne

Doesn't that sound like a band name?

Anyways, note to self: never eat salty, greasy Indian food when already feeling bloated from overwhelmingly powerful period, the second post birth. Too much information? Ah, who cares. Legend has it that the ancient Hebrews would sequester their menstruating women in a red tent, since these female-folk were "untouchable" during this time. Doesn't sound bad to me. Where's my red tent? Where's my refuge from everyday responsibilities? Grouch, gripe. Where's the Advil?

In other news, I am into my third week of work. My 2 1/2 year old stopped crying for me on Tuesday morning. All cool as a cucumber, it was like "Bye Mum!" at breakfast. Well, that's good I thought to myself, while trying to swallow my sense of panic at her indifference. It's almost worse than her clinging and crying as I walk out the door. Almost.

Calla has been totally fine. A 10 month old is, as Char says, a Fickle Pickle. As in, whoever is around and can meet their needs sufficiently is just fine by them. Also, as the youngest of the brood, Calla is sort of being reared by the group. She loves her sister, her cousins, her auntie Char, her Uncle D, and everybody else who frequents the house. If I left a little pile of cheerios, a sippy cup and a few diapers, she could probably get by without much help at all. Though she has learned how to say "MUM!" in a bold little way that makes me mushy and goopy and her veritable love-slave. She toddles around on her newly-minted walking legs, teetering this way and that like a drunken sailor and then plop on her diaper, "MUM MUM MUM". She is totally awesome. Squish, squish, squish. I just want to squish her all day long. Alas, other pursuits demand attention. *sigh*

The aforementioned Indian food was the destination of my first dinner out with Sean in, oh, probably about 10 months (funny math, that). It was at our longtime favorite Indian restaurant, the one we have been going to since 2002...10 years, I guess. Yikes. And still the same persimmon hued table cloths, the same waiter, the same menu, the same oily indigestion. It is comforting that some things never change, though the last 10 years have wrought nothing but change for us. And yet, there we sat, talking, a little buzzed on our 1/2 liter of wine. Conversation veered to kids, to dreams, to this to that. I was proud of us, shoveling down our naan bread and papadum. We've weathered a lot of storms, we're still happy, we're still here. Pass the curry, my love.

I have been fending off a wicked case of the Insecures this week. Insecurity bred from lack of sleep, a lot of change, pressure and the desire to be good to the people in my life, not spent like yesterday's allowance. I am in uncharted waters in many areas and like my baby daughter, I feel like I have wobbly legs. In the past, my insecurity was more of the "Who am I? What is my purpose?" variety. Now that those questions have answered themselves, insecurity sometimes comes from life making me grow more quickly than is comfortable. I wear my heart like some kind of throbbing, strange accessory on the outside of my person. People's words, moods and intentions shoot through me like arrows. As the heat turns up, I am constantly in dialogue with God, asking for direction, enabling, peace and joy. Maybe that's it anyways, if things were at a comfortable level than I would be sufficient in my own strength, in my own abilities. But I am not. Believe you me, it took a lot to get me to the place where I can say that. Um, about 10 years of driving, driving, driving, striving, striving, striving and then burrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnning out.

But that's another story.

Good night friends! Have a great week.

xo. Suzanne