a new walk

I feel like I’ve been off in emotional recovery and rehab rather than here on this blog. As much as what’s here is part of me, much of it still hurts to revisit. Since deciding to tentatively reclaim this spot as a means to express myself (CATHARSIS WIN!), I’ve been reading past posts, laughing and crying and nodding in agreement with myself.

I thought that motherhood would separate me from the past but it just made me so busy that I didn’t have much time to sit and remember.

It’s been almost three years since I envisioned my future with The Dog and Child. In his first year on the outside, JJ spent part of every other day in a stroller or sling as we wandered the neighbourhood, The Dog as our proud, if far too protective, escort. The Dog’s leash is now gripped by 2.5 year old JJ, who thinks he’s controlling the walk, unaware that I’m still setting the pace with a few words to our responsive girl. The Dog does give me a look like she’s soooo hard done by whenever JJ picks up her leash but it’s the only time that she gets to run now that JJ refuses to get into a jogging stroller. His response to seeing the stroller is a stern “I walk, Mama!”. With that, he’ll pick up the dog’s leash and scream “go go go!”. They run at his top speed in unison until his little legs tire and he stops, laughing and proud of how fast his shoes go.  Neither child nor dog will cross the street without me (yet) so I can walk at my own pace, laughing at their antics, The Dog washing his little face with her tongue if he gets within range.

It’s joy I never imagined.



bottle this

I have an almost three year old now.

He’s amazing. Like, really funny and goofy and we made cupcakes tonight and he poured juice for both of us to drink with our snacks and he giggled at the dog and accused her of wanting his cupcake (smart kid) and was distressed when the icing hit his shirt… he is the personification of a run-on sentence. When he was done sucking back a metric tonne of sugar, he hugged me hard for no reason, kissed my cheek and ran off to play trains.

He’s not perfect by any means. I mean, he’s TWO and working on being the poster child for that age. He’s stubborn and independently strong willed and he stamps his foot and yells “NO” and has to do everything himself which often drives him to frustrated tears and tantrums and why does he need to get into my brightest lip gloss but when he wakes me up at 3am to tell me that he was dreaming about daddy’s truck or bugs or our dog, I want to hold him tight and remember the moment. I want to smell it, taste it, document it in every form because it feels so right, even when I’m thinking “for the love of all that’s holy, GO TO SLEEP”.

This little body snuggled into mine.

This little boy that I longed to meet.

This little person that makes my heart sing.

P.S. Today I added the Category of “motherhood” to this blog. And then, I cried. Some wounds never seem to completely heal.

He’s here!

Long time no chat… but I had to pop by between wiping a very cute bum and trying to find a shower for myself to report:


The last 13 weeks have flown by. Motherhood seems to suit me much better than I expected.

Every day I thank all powers that be for our son. He’s really an inspiration.

And I’ve apparently become a mushy cliche-slinger in the meantime.


My available topics of conversation over the past few months: baby, baby, labour, breasts, baby, baby, labour, labour, hope, breast, baby, baby, labour, baby, dog.

The poor poor dog.Voodoo

I understood in theory that The Dog would have to take at least a temporary backseat to the offspring since she’s relatively self sufficient while a newborn human will need the time we have historically devoted to the dog. We’re five weeks away from the estimated due date of the Offspring and oh, the poor poor dog. As it’s happening before my eyes and the dog hasn’t had a walk in at least 4 days and I think I forgot to feed her supper last night and she’s still following me around the house with deep affection in her eyes – I have Le Guilt. The offspring isn’t even HERE yet but just having him fully embraced in my pelvis has me choosing to be a neglectful dog mom.

Today I committed to refocus on my girl. We walked/waddled for an hour, I minded good posture while she minded sniffing all the parts of the neighbourhood that she hadn’t smelled for awhile. It felt good to wander the ‘hood to do a few errands and I do love walking with the beautiful, focused, prancing pooch.  It was a relief to see her continually adjusting to my new physical self where I am slower and more awkward than I was a few short months ago. Today The Dog would pause and take a glance behind her to make sure I was still coming along behind. The Dog, she patiently walked me.

We’ve been told that The Dog can already hear the Offspring’s heart beat from deep within my body, smell my different pheromones and I’m sure that’s why she’s become more focused, more affectionate, more  concerned with me than ever before. As we get ready for the newest member of the family to arrive, we’ve stepped up The Dog’s  training to commands like “leave it” to prepare for her first encounter with baby vomit, diapers and other things she’s sure to deem delicious. She’s been introduced to a newborn and was very focused on helping clean his cradle-capped head with her giant tongue and thus, we have deemed her as having much potential as a big sister.

I keep picturing a gorgeous autumn day in October or November when The Dog can walk both myself and her little brother around the neighbourhood. I hope we can keep the small human alive and well while continuing to ensure that The Dog, the first of our dependent family members, continues to be healthy and happy.

Thank gawds her patience is easily bought by a big disgusting bloody bone. I’d better stock my freezer.


I forgot my water bottle at home so I’m at my cubicle, drinking water from a clean yet previously used plastic bottle.

By reusing the plastic, the BPA is probably leeching into me then into The Inner Child’s body and generating a third arm on his itsy bitsy self. I think about these things quite regularly now that I’m the sole provider for a small human that exists somewhere near where my kidneys used to reside.

Oh hold on – the bottle is a Type 1 plastic made of polyethylene terephthalate
and Wikipedia didn’t mention anything about it killing me softly, quickly or having any negative effect on me or the Inner Child at all. It is the same type of plastic they use to make polar fleece. I had no idea that polar fleece was a type of plastic.

Is it unhealthy to model all of my behaviours based on info garnered from publicly edited Wikipedia articles?

wanted: hookers

You know what I did yesterday?

No, not that. Although that would be fun…

I watched people work. It’s one of my favourite things to do. I watched them work, occasionally offered beer/water/pop, then retreated to try to nap. And was unable to nap because there was so much Work To Do. I wasn’t doing the work, involved in the work, or expected to contribute to the work, but hell, it totally interfered with my nap knowing that six strapping DIYers were in my basement, using drills and sharp knives.

I watched this:

Before Drywalling

Before Drywalling

Turn into this:

After Drywalling

After Drywalling

I am swimmingly impressed.

There is also a bedroom with a closet AND a utility/laundry room with a sliding pocket door. That pocket door brings me a type of joy that I can’t quite express. It’s a door. It slides into the wall. It makes me giddy.

This reno must be part of The Husband’s nesting process. I’m busy growing the little one into a bonafide being that can breathe in the outside world, making lists, crossing off tasks, filling out copious amounts of paperwork. And he is preparing by Making Beautiful Space. Yes, we really could use extra room now that a small person is about to come and live with us and I will have to move everything from the spare room (aka The Inner Child’s room) to somewhere else in the house but… we live in a house equipped with a large unfinished basement designed to pile loads of crap and The Inner Child is expected to be very very small for quite some time. But, once reality hit that this babe could really be joining us, The Husband declared that The Basement Will Be Finished In Time For Inner Child’s Arrival and holy batshit, he wasn’t kidding.  It’s flown together, friends and family showing up with drills and tool belts and sweating until deep into the night to help The Husband Get Shit Done.

This morning, the morning after The Drywall Party, he can barely get out of bed but the Massage Nazi is on her way over to help him finish drywalling the staircase.

If the upcoming volunteer painting crew is as effective as the drywalling crew, I think I’ll be expected to provide food, drinks AND hookers.

So… anyone got a line on hookers that work for breakfast sammiches, pizza and beer?

all folked up

I woke up this morning to my dog licking my hand in a manner than can only be described as desperate. She only does this when she really needs a human to open the door for her so I rolled out of bed but rather than following me downstairs, she hopped into my spot on the bed and promptly went to sleep. Bitch only lickin’ to steal some valuable real estate on the bed. Jerkdog.

So while being serenaded by The Husband and The Dog’s snoring, I’m finally sorting through photos from last weekend. I’m still, 6 days later, recovering from 2.25 days of Folk Fest. All week at the office I had to hear “wow, are you alright?” or “should you BE here today?!?” because seeing my somewhat pregnant self slugging around like I’d been on a 5 day bender is concerning for other people. Each time I fessed up to partying my pants off all weekend but no one seemed to believe me. I stayed up to the morning hours and had a helluva great time – I wish I’d been there longer because I missed doing and seeing things on my list but I think if I’d stayed even 2 hours longer, I’d have passed out from sheer joy mixed with exhaustion. And I even garnered a nap on 2 out of 3 days.

I saw old friends  and made new friends:


Max's hand with Jules

I saw my favourite world-traveler/activist and the moment of seeing each other was very Lassie/Timmy, slow running towards each other, arms wide open…  except for the part where I was so overcome with excitement that I caught my bag’s zipper on my shirt and got wound up and completely restrained. We spent our first few moments squealing while trying to get me untangled. It was actually a pretty fitting reunion moment.


Professional Protester and All 'Round Awesome

I also saw a Bunny On A Rope(tm):


Bunny on a leash

I convinced a man to take off his shirt:

shirtless man

shirtless man

I did not see Schmutzie however I was able to locate the specific table at the pub where I expected her to be. I felt vaguely like a stalker, confidently walking up to a table of strangers-to-me friends-to-she based purely on evidence from her Flickr photos. It was kinda awesome, actually.  Alas, although I met Mr. Head, I did not see Schmutzie nor The Palinode. It would have rounded out the weekend but not every weekend can be perfect.

My mom and I take our folking rather seriously – as soon as gates open, we’re there. As soon as a stage opens, we’re scoring the spot that is a perfect view of people-watching and stage-watching. We picnic lunch and then take a break daily around supper, usually at the food tents (BUTTER CHICKEN AND MINI DONUTS, I LOVE YOU) then hop back to the stages. If a very loud band comes on stage or someone we’re not passionate about watching, we go and cruise the arts market because we can hear the band clearly while we shop. My mom is the Ultimate Girl Guide, packing food, rain gear, tarps, jackets and glow in the dark gear.


Delhi 2 Dublin onstage

HARD CORE, people. That’s what we are. Only, you know, in a folky way. It’s not just folk music but any music that can be defined as “music for the people”. This year closing out the musical menu on each night were K-Os (R&B), The Wailers (Bob Marley’s reggae peeps) and Corb Lund & The Hurtin’ Albertans (country).

Our fave: Delhi 2 Dublin – for when you need to dance and can’t decide if you’re prefer an irish reel, north indian beats or reggae:

And that, my friends, is why I’ve been recovering for the past six days.

So… what’s your favourite festival?