I decided some weeks ago to subscribe to a certain women's magazine, one that apparently targets ageing moms with nothing better to do with their free time.
Ok. So it was an impulse purchase. Since I entered my credit card information on their website and pressed the point of no return "purchase" button, however, it has come to my attention that absolutely everything, every article, recipe, etc. is on their website!
They should point that out on their "purchase the darn paper magazine and take your place among those who have absolutely no regard for the environment whatsoever" page.
Anyway. This has nothing whatever to do with this post. Except for an article in said magazine that caught my attention: "How to stop parenting your partner."
Ugh.
An article directed at "Adults who are natural caregivers (aka women)" and yes, it used the word "nagging."
Obviously.
I am so tired of that word. I figured out in the not too distant past when I finally reclaimed my self-esteem (following my recuperation from my twenties) that "nag" is just a word invented by men to shut women up. You see it works like this: men are assertive; women nag.
Not so. I once had a male roommate (in my twenties) who moved in just a few weeks after I had occupied the apartment, who complained to his girlfriend on the phone (I was eavesdropping from the bathroom) that I was messy and had "left my stuff all over the bloody apartment." The stuff he was in fact referring to were the towels I had bought for him and placed in his room to make him feel at home. I never explained to him the gesture, and simply removed the offending articles from his sight. But after that he continuously "nagged" me about my alleged messiness until he moved out a couple of months later.
I also know a woman who is so relaxed and easy-going she wouldn't nag a dog for devouring an entire Marc Jacobs bag (that's just an expression - it didn't actually happen. Not to anyone I know, anyway).
Getting back to the article. One of the ways it suggests to stop the so-called parenting habit, is to "acknowledge your part" in the issues you presumably nag your partner about. "Did you do anything to create the situation?"
I immediately thought back to what happened the other day. My husband had left a very wet diaper on the rocking chair in the baby's room. Just to put this in perspective, the rocking chair is at exactly the same distance from the changing table as the garbage can. I had not noticed it there, and sat on it.
Yeah. Yuk.
Now tell me what part I played in "creating" this absolutely disgusting situation.
To tell the truth, I didn't nag. Some absolutely horrible person with no idea what it's like to sit on a very wet diaper might say I nagged. But even they would be pushing it. I did no such thing. I simply "pointed out." Because, understandably, I couldn't help it.
After placing the diaper in the garbage and wiping the chair, I went downstairs and pointed out to my husband that he had left a very wet diaper on the rocking chair and that I had sat on it.
"Oh, I must be tired lately," is all I got. I raised my hands to the sky and tried not to laugh. I have lived with him for half a dozen years. I know that's all I'm going to get. Can I even change this situation? No. All I can do is watch where I sit from now on.
The woman who wrote the article would probably tell me I handled the situation very well, without nagging. My reaction would fit under her rules no. 2: Be direct, and 3:Talk it out (even better, make it a joke). But is this going to stop me from finding wet diapers on the rocking chair, in the playpen or on the change table? If I know my husband, I already know the answer. No. Absolutely not.
Saturday, 27 April 2013
Friday, 22 March 2013
Midwife or doctor?
I will always remember how I felt when I gave birth to my second baby. Ecstatic, giddy, ridiculously happy. I also remember something that went through my mind almost immediately after I saw her little body slide out in a gush of water: it was somewhere along the lines of "Wow! That was easy!"
Yes, I said it. Giving birth was easy.
At least, for me it was. I won't speak for anyone else. I'm convinced that many women in labour must have felt more pain than I did. Then again I was once witness to a friend actually texting a woman who was at that very moment in the middle of the second stage of labour (the pushing stage).
It was actually quite interesting. My friend decided to text her friend who was overdue to have her baby. It turns out, from the reply, that the woman in question was at that moment lying on a bed in the hospital, and in between texts was pushing! I cannot imagine how she managed it, but she literally had the time and the leasure to take her ipod in her hands and text: "Labour started this am, baby will be here soon!" (Not sure if there was a smiley face after that). My friend then texted "So, are you thinking about having another baby after this?" At which her friend texted: "F*** you!" The baby was born twenty minutes later.
Anyway, back to my birth story. I must admit I would not have been in any mood to text anyone, but the entire process was so much less painful than I had imagined. The contractions started in the early morning, and by the afternoon I was in active labour. Only I did not know how advanced it was. I called my midwife and she said she would check on me sometime after supper. I made myself as comfortable as I could, sitting on a chair and leaning on the backrest. I forced myself to breathe deeply during each contraction. I ate when I was hungry; I had lunch, and later pasta for dinner at around 5:00. I would eat between contractions, then pause when I felt one coming on. I would close my eyes, breathe, and after it had passed, smile at everyone sitting at the table around me, and continue to eat.
My midwife came at 6:30. I put myself in a position where she could examine me, and that's when my water broke! She told me I was already dilated to 6cm.
We obviously made our way to the birth house after that. My baby was born at 9:00.
I wanted to experience a natural childbirth more than anything. I am convinced that having a midwife by my side helped me do just that. After the birth of my first baby, I had to force myself to believe that I was even able do it.
My first baby was born by cesarian. It was an emergency; she had been in distress. The doctor wanted to get her out quickly so I was given general anesthesia instead of an epidural. I was asleep when she was born, and I only saw her for the first time four hours later. I made myself be grateful to the doctors for saving her life, but I felt like something had been taken from me. It's hard to explain, but when you carry a baby for nine months, and you don't give birth to her yourself, you feel like something's missing. It took the birth of my second baby, nearly three years later, for me to finally be able to get over it.
I don't want to criticize, or be ungrateful. But I wonder if any of the interventions performed at the hospital almost as soon as I arrived worsened the problem. Could my first baby have been born naturally?
When I arrived at the hospital, I had not had dinner, and I was already hungry. But I was not permitted to eat. My midwife told me later that women who give birth in a hospital are not allowed food because they are being prepared for a cesarian (if one should ever be needed). But a woman in labour needs to eat! Contractions last for hours; imagine if you were running a day-long marathon; wouldn't you need to pause for nourishment?
I was given a narrow bed in a wait-room and told to lie still while I was being monitored. Because I had tested positive for strep-B, a needle was inserted into my hand and I found myself permanently attached to an IV, which I would, for the remainder of my labour, have to wheel with me to go anywhere.
About an hour later, it was suspected that something was a little off with my baby's heartbeat, and I was told that my water had to be broken because a more precice heart-beat meaurement system than the one they had strapped to my belly had to be attached to the top of my baby's head. The machine they had on now just wasn't giving clear enough readings. My water was broken by the nurse ... and that's when the uncontrollable shivers started. I was taken to a room and told to lie on my left side, and to not move. The baby's heartbeat just kept on slowing down after each contraction. A warm blanket was placed on me to stop the shivers. I was starting to show signs of a fever. Every hour or so, whenever a nurse had the time to stop in, I was examined. "You're at about 3 cm" was hardly encouraging. I was already asking for an epidural, but it was too soon for that. The contractions were painful, and since I couldn't move, they were all I had to think about. The doctor finally came in (not my usual doctor; it was her day off), and looked at the machine that was measuring my contractions. "They're not really that painful, yet" he said with a smile as he saw me screw up my face as another one was coming on. Did he think he was being helpful?
Finally, at around midnight, since the baby's heartbeat was not improving, I was told I would have an emergency cesarian. We all waited as the anestheologist made his way to the hospital. I was asked to sign some papers; I was shivering so much that I was hardly able to provide a decent signature. I was then wheeled to the operating room, where my husband was not allowed to follow. Between contractions a catheter was placed in me (ew, definitely do not want to experience that again!) and finally I was told that I was going to sleep. Honestly, I was happy. Labour had not been a good experience for me. I just wanted to stop feeling the pain of the contractions.
I woke up later, heavily drugged and, for some reason, feeling like singing a song. I was wheeled into a bedroom and was left alone until a while later, when a nurse came in to fiddle with my IV. She let out a loud fart as she was doing so, probably imagining that I was asleep and wouldn't notice. Out of politeness, I pretended not to have noticed. When she came back later I asked how my baby was. "Oh! They haven't brought her to you yet?" She left the room and about thirty minutes later my husband came in with our baby. I wanted to cry when I saw her, but couldn't because it was too painful.
I spent five days in the hospital, continuously attached to an IV that was pumping me full of antibiotics because of the infection it was discovered had spread to my uterus (this had been ascertained during the cesarian). My baby's heartbeat and my own temperature were measured constantly. I had to do so many blood tests I began to bruise. I especially remember how, as soon as the baby and I would finally get to sleep, a nurse would walk in during the middle of the night, turn on the lights and chirp: "Ok! It's time to check those vital signs!" Was I ever glad to go home at the end of that bloody week.
***
Now, I have experienced childbirth in two enormously different ways. And it's obvious which of the two was most pleasant. My stay at the birth house lasted no more than twenty hours. The room was comfortable, charming, and the atmosphere was calm. After the birth, I was given a wonderful fruit plate, and we were left alone to sleep through the entire night. During labour, I had no machines tied to me; my baby's heartbeat was monitored every now and then by my midwife, who had a hand-held fetal doppler. I had tested positive for step-B, just like last time, and technically should have been given antibiotics, but since my water had broken before I went to the birth house, and it would have been pointless by then, I asked my midwife if we could dispense with the f***ing IV. She smiled and I never saw it again. I had absolutely no desire to have an epidural; the contractions were intense, but I could get through them on my own. And after my water broke (on it's own!) there were no weird shivers. In other words, this childbirth felt as normal and as natural as going to the bathroom! And that's the difference between giving birth with a midwife, rather than at the hospital: you realize just how natural childbirth is - and that you really have it in you to get through it.
Would my first baby have been in distress had my water not been broken so soon, and had I been allowed to eat, walk, or do whatever felt natural? I will never know. But I do know what it's like to give birth to my baby. Finally.
Yes, I said it. Giving birth was easy.
At least, for me it was. I won't speak for anyone else. I'm convinced that many women in labour must have felt more pain than I did. Then again I was once witness to a friend actually texting a woman who was at that very moment in the middle of the second stage of labour (the pushing stage).
It was actually quite interesting. My friend decided to text her friend who was overdue to have her baby. It turns out, from the reply, that the woman in question was at that moment lying on a bed in the hospital, and in between texts was pushing! I cannot imagine how she managed it, but she literally had the time and the leasure to take her ipod in her hands and text: "Labour started this am, baby will be here soon!" (Not sure if there was a smiley face after that). My friend then texted "So, are you thinking about having another baby after this?" At which her friend texted: "F*** you!" The baby was born twenty minutes later.
Anyway, back to my birth story. I must admit I would not have been in any mood to text anyone, but the entire process was so much less painful than I had imagined. The contractions started in the early morning, and by the afternoon I was in active labour. Only I did not know how advanced it was. I called my midwife and she said she would check on me sometime after supper. I made myself as comfortable as I could, sitting on a chair and leaning on the backrest. I forced myself to breathe deeply during each contraction. I ate when I was hungry; I had lunch, and later pasta for dinner at around 5:00. I would eat between contractions, then pause when I felt one coming on. I would close my eyes, breathe, and after it had passed, smile at everyone sitting at the table around me, and continue to eat.
My midwife came at 6:30. I put myself in a position where she could examine me, and that's when my water broke! She told me I was already dilated to 6cm.
We obviously made our way to the birth house after that. My baby was born at 9:00.
I wanted to experience a natural childbirth more than anything. I am convinced that having a midwife by my side helped me do just that. After the birth of my first baby, I had to force myself to believe that I was even able do it.
My first baby was born by cesarian. It was an emergency; she had been in distress. The doctor wanted to get her out quickly so I was given general anesthesia instead of an epidural. I was asleep when she was born, and I only saw her for the first time four hours later. I made myself be grateful to the doctors for saving her life, but I felt like something had been taken from me. It's hard to explain, but when you carry a baby for nine months, and you don't give birth to her yourself, you feel like something's missing. It took the birth of my second baby, nearly three years later, for me to finally be able to get over it.
I don't want to criticize, or be ungrateful. But I wonder if any of the interventions performed at the hospital almost as soon as I arrived worsened the problem. Could my first baby have been born naturally?
When I arrived at the hospital, I had not had dinner, and I was already hungry. But I was not permitted to eat. My midwife told me later that women who give birth in a hospital are not allowed food because they are being prepared for a cesarian (if one should ever be needed). But a woman in labour needs to eat! Contractions last for hours; imagine if you were running a day-long marathon; wouldn't you need to pause for nourishment?
I was given a narrow bed in a wait-room and told to lie still while I was being monitored. Because I had tested positive for strep-B, a needle was inserted into my hand and I found myself permanently attached to an IV, which I would, for the remainder of my labour, have to wheel with me to go anywhere.
About an hour later, it was suspected that something was a little off with my baby's heartbeat, and I was told that my water had to be broken because a more precice heart-beat meaurement system than the one they had strapped to my belly had to be attached to the top of my baby's head. The machine they had on now just wasn't giving clear enough readings. My water was broken by the nurse ... and that's when the uncontrollable shivers started. I was taken to a room and told to lie on my left side, and to not move. The baby's heartbeat just kept on slowing down after each contraction. A warm blanket was placed on me to stop the shivers. I was starting to show signs of a fever. Every hour or so, whenever a nurse had the time to stop in, I was examined. "You're at about 3 cm" was hardly encouraging. I was already asking for an epidural, but it was too soon for that. The contractions were painful, and since I couldn't move, they were all I had to think about. The doctor finally came in (not my usual doctor; it was her day off), and looked at the machine that was measuring my contractions. "They're not really that painful, yet" he said with a smile as he saw me screw up my face as another one was coming on. Did he think he was being helpful?
Finally, at around midnight, since the baby's heartbeat was not improving, I was told I would have an emergency cesarian. We all waited as the anestheologist made his way to the hospital. I was asked to sign some papers; I was shivering so much that I was hardly able to provide a decent signature. I was then wheeled to the operating room, where my husband was not allowed to follow. Between contractions a catheter was placed in me (ew, definitely do not want to experience that again!) and finally I was told that I was going to sleep. Honestly, I was happy. Labour had not been a good experience for me. I just wanted to stop feeling the pain of the contractions.
I woke up later, heavily drugged and, for some reason, feeling like singing a song. I was wheeled into a bedroom and was left alone until a while later, when a nurse came in to fiddle with my IV. She let out a loud fart as she was doing so, probably imagining that I was asleep and wouldn't notice. Out of politeness, I pretended not to have noticed. When she came back later I asked how my baby was. "Oh! They haven't brought her to you yet?" She left the room and about thirty minutes later my husband came in with our baby. I wanted to cry when I saw her, but couldn't because it was too painful.
I spent five days in the hospital, continuously attached to an IV that was pumping me full of antibiotics because of the infection it was discovered had spread to my uterus (this had been ascertained during the cesarian). My baby's heartbeat and my own temperature were measured constantly. I had to do so many blood tests I began to bruise. I especially remember how, as soon as the baby and I would finally get to sleep, a nurse would walk in during the middle of the night, turn on the lights and chirp: "Ok! It's time to check those vital signs!" Was I ever glad to go home at the end of that bloody week.
***
Now, I have experienced childbirth in two enormously different ways. And it's obvious which of the two was most pleasant. My stay at the birth house lasted no more than twenty hours. The room was comfortable, charming, and the atmosphere was calm. After the birth, I was given a wonderful fruit plate, and we were left alone to sleep through the entire night. During labour, I had no machines tied to me; my baby's heartbeat was monitored every now and then by my midwife, who had a hand-held fetal doppler. I had tested positive for step-B, just like last time, and technically should have been given antibiotics, but since my water had broken before I went to the birth house, and it would have been pointless by then, I asked my midwife if we could dispense with the f***ing IV. She smiled and I never saw it again. I had absolutely no desire to have an epidural; the contractions were intense, but I could get through them on my own. And after my water broke (on it's own!) there were no weird shivers. In other words, this childbirth felt as normal and as natural as going to the bathroom! And that's the difference between giving birth with a midwife, rather than at the hospital: you realize just how natural childbirth is - and that you really have it in you to get through it.
Would my first baby have been in distress had my water not been broken so soon, and had I been allowed to eat, walk, or do whatever felt natural? I will never know. But I do know what it's like to give birth to my baby. Finally.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Moms mother; dads ... babysit?!
Why is it that almost every time I go out in public lately, and I mention the fact that I have kids, the first question that comes up is: "Oh? Where are they now?"
"Oh, you know, I kind of lost track of them while I was looking up the fat contents for two tablespoons of Nutella in the breakfast aisle at the groceries a couple of hours ago, and then I forgot all about them, but I'm sure they'll turn up eventually."
That should be my response to the next person who asks me that question. If I only dare ...
My actual response is usually the same: they're either a) at home with grandma, or b) at home with their dad.
The first answer receives an approving nod and a smile. The second one is followed by another, and even more infuriating question: "Oh! So Dad's watching them?"
"Watching them?" as in, "Babysitting them?!"
My husband becomes infuriated by people who use the term "watching" when describing Dad's role in his relationship with his kids. We were discussing the topic while having coffee together this morning (here I feel obliged to point out, because I just know someone will wonder: he's on parental leave), and he mentioned how it's not only in real life, but also in the media that there seems to be a general consensus that whenever a dad is alone with his kids, he is in fact babysitting.
"But it's 2013," I pointed out quite pointlessly, "not 1955."
At this moment I would like to say that I in no way blame the men for this viewpoint. All the people who have asked me if my husband was "watching" our kids were women. I have even known women who would not leave their kids alone with their father for anything, because, according to them, "he can't handle it." I feel sorry for those men - their wives must think they're idiots.
Now, as for me, I need time for myself. And I have complete faith in my husband. When our first baby was born, it quickly became obvious to me which of the two of us was more at ease with her: and it wasn't me. For the first week, my husband had to keep reminding me that it was in fact impossible to break the baby into a million pieces, and would I please stop worrying that I would accidentally do so every time I changed her diaper? But as any mom does, I quickly got the hang of it, and became a pro in no time. I believe I did my husband proud.
Anyway, as I was saying, I am one of those radical moms who actually needs time for herself - and doesn't feel guilty about taking it. I have taken an afternoon now and then to go out for a coffee and read a book. I have even (gasp!) left my husband alone with our first child for an entire weekend to spend some time with my brother and his wife in the next city.
We may not like to admit it, but when it comes to dads, time to do your own thing is normal. A beer with the guys, what could be more natural? But when it comes to moms, we need to justify it. "I've been up all night with the baby, I need some rest!" Of course, if it's not for sleep, what good is time alone?
I'm going to say something shocking: my baby has started sleeping full nights a week ago (she's two months old - pause for exclamations of "how unfair is that?!? from other parents), and yes, I still need time for myself. Just because I have children doesn't mean I should feel guilty about taking time to do the things I love, the things that define me. Like right now. Am I writing this while my baby's sleeping? No. My husband is with her. Spending quality father-daughter time with her. Not "watching" her.
"Oh, you know, I kind of lost track of them while I was looking up the fat contents for two tablespoons of Nutella in the breakfast aisle at the groceries a couple of hours ago, and then I forgot all about them, but I'm sure they'll turn up eventually."
That should be my response to the next person who asks me that question. If I only dare ...
My actual response is usually the same: they're either a) at home with grandma, or b) at home with their dad.
The first answer receives an approving nod and a smile. The second one is followed by another, and even more infuriating question: "Oh! So Dad's watching them?"
"Watching them?" as in, "Babysitting them?!"
My husband becomes infuriated by people who use the term "watching" when describing Dad's role in his relationship with his kids. We were discussing the topic while having coffee together this morning (here I feel obliged to point out, because I just know someone will wonder: he's on parental leave), and he mentioned how it's not only in real life, but also in the media that there seems to be a general consensus that whenever a dad is alone with his kids, he is in fact babysitting.
"But it's 2013," I pointed out quite pointlessly, "not 1955."
At this moment I would like to say that I in no way blame the men for this viewpoint. All the people who have asked me if my husband was "watching" our kids were women. I have even known women who would not leave their kids alone with their father for anything, because, according to them, "he can't handle it." I feel sorry for those men - their wives must think they're idiots.
Now, as for me, I need time for myself. And I have complete faith in my husband. When our first baby was born, it quickly became obvious to me which of the two of us was more at ease with her: and it wasn't me. For the first week, my husband had to keep reminding me that it was in fact impossible to break the baby into a million pieces, and would I please stop worrying that I would accidentally do so every time I changed her diaper? But as any mom does, I quickly got the hang of it, and became a pro in no time. I believe I did my husband proud.
Anyway, as I was saying, I am one of those radical moms who actually needs time for herself - and doesn't feel guilty about taking it. I have taken an afternoon now and then to go out for a coffee and read a book. I have even (gasp!) left my husband alone with our first child for an entire weekend to spend some time with my brother and his wife in the next city.
We may not like to admit it, but when it comes to dads, time to do your own thing is normal. A beer with the guys, what could be more natural? But when it comes to moms, we need to justify it. "I've been up all night with the baby, I need some rest!" Of course, if it's not for sleep, what good is time alone?
I'm going to say something shocking: my baby has started sleeping full nights a week ago (she's two months old - pause for exclamations of "how unfair is that?!? from other parents), and yes, I still need time for myself. Just because I have children doesn't mean I should feel guilty about taking time to do the things I love, the things that define me. Like right now. Am I writing this while my baby's sleeping? No. My husband is with her. Spending quality father-daughter time with her. Not "watching" her.
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
Losing Weight Post-Partum
For any woman who has given birth, you will have become familiar with the excrutiating ordeal of losing the weight you have inevitably accumulated during pregnancy (except for those of you out there whom fortune has quite unfairly smiled upon, and who can miraculously fit into your best pair of jeans two days post-partum).
With my first pregnancy, I had gained ten extra pounds. I then lost twenty pounds, to my own utter bewilderment - indeed, just before my second pregnancy, I was able to fit into my prom dress; a feat I had never in my wildest dreams believed I could accomplish (it was a tight fit, but still). And it's not even one of those awful frilly pink dresses - this one is a classic a-line, halter top, satin dress in a pretty shade of green, one I could actually wear again (you know, at a formal military ball or something).
Anyway. This time, after the birth of my second baby, I must redo everything, having gained back every last one of those twenty pounds. I have decided that, for good measure, I will lose thirty. Or at the very least twenty-five.
And I am not wasting any time doing so. Today I spent one hour kickboxing in my basement. I generally find that if, after a workout, my face is a deep shade of red, bordering on purple, I have really accomplished something. I told my husband (who is presently on parental leave) that I was taking a shower, and that if he should hear a loud thump, it was just me passing out.
But it's not so bad. Any exercise routine takes some getting used to, when it has not been done in a while. A good, long while.
I have also begun using My Fitness Pal. It is really quite brilliant, and works very well. Assuming, of course, that you are repelled by the - 450 calories that shows up bright red in the top right corner of your screen at the end of a not-so-good day. Not that I'm a nut who enjoys counting every last calorie. I don't mind ballparking it. Plus, I tell myself that as long as I generally don't go over 100 extra calories in a day, I'm doing just fine.
I used to write down what I eat; that is how I managed to lose weight after my first baby. But this is so much better. This app really makes you aware of what you eat, and helps you develop better habits. For example, I will no longer be having take-out pad thai - did you know it's actually healthier to eat four Mcburgers? I found that out by looking up the calorie content before deciding on a last minute I-don't-really-feel-like-making-supper binge on fast food. So it's been proving really very useful.
Plus, I love the bar code scanning function.
Only a small 30 (min. 25) lbs. later and that dress will once again be within my reach.
With my first pregnancy, I had gained ten extra pounds. I then lost twenty pounds, to my own utter bewilderment - indeed, just before my second pregnancy, I was able to fit into my prom dress; a feat I had never in my wildest dreams believed I could accomplish (it was a tight fit, but still). And it's not even one of those awful frilly pink dresses - this one is a classic a-line, halter top, satin dress in a pretty shade of green, one I could actually wear again (you know, at a formal military ball or something).
Anyway. This time, after the birth of my second baby, I must redo everything, having gained back every last one of those twenty pounds. I have decided that, for good measure, I will lose thirty. Or at the very least twenty-five.
And I am not wasting any time doing so. Today I spent one hour kickboxing in my basement. I generally find that if, after a workout, my face is a deep shade of red, bordering on purple, I have really accomplished something. I told my husband (who is presently on parental leave) that I was taking a shower, and that if he should hear a loud thump, it was just me passing out.
But it's not so bad. Any exercise routine takes some getting used to, when it has not been done in a while. A good, long while.
I have also begun using My Fitness Pal. It is really quite brilliant, and works very well. Assuming, of course, that you are repelled by the - 450 calories that shows up bright red in the top right corner of your screen at the end of a not-so-good day. Not that I'm a nut who enjoys counting every last calorie. I don't mind ballparking it. Plus, I tell myself that as long as I generally don't go over 100 extra calories in a day, I'm doing just fine.
I used to write down what I eat; that is how I managed to lose weight after my first baby. But this is so much better. This app really makes you aware of what you eat, and helps you develop better habits. For example, I will no longer be having take-out pad thai - did you know it's actually healthier to eat four Mcburgers? I found that out by looking up the calorie content before deciding on a last minute I-don't-really-feel-like-making-supper binge on fast food. So it's been proving really very useful.
Plus, I love the bar code scanning function.
Only a small 30 (min. 25) lbs. later and that dress will once again be within my reach.
Tuesday, 19 February 2013
New Mom at Home - Second Time Around!
The last time I posted in this blog was over a year ago. But then I was no longer a stay-at-home mom - I was working full time as a teacher! My daughter had started daycare, my husband was still in Afghanistan, and the only thing I might have found time to write would have been "Gaaaaahhhh! Ok, think positive, serenity now, etc. etc. I'm going to have a glass of wine (after M's bedtime, of course)."
That fall was the most hectic I have ever known. Even completing a Master's degree seemed like a breeze compared to this. I preserved my sanity by simply not thinking, watching "Sex and the City" in the evenings, and enjoying the occasional glass of wine. A few months later my husband's mission was over; he came back from Afghanistan just in time for Christmas, bringing along with him an interesting exotic strain of the gastric flu, and life was more comfortable (after the flu passed, of course). I continued to teach until the summer, when we moved to a new city and I looked forward to the birth of our second daughter in December.
Oh, and, FYI, I am definitely thinking about not teaching again. It is an honorable, rewarding job, but it has its risks. I mean, I think it may not be an exaggeration to point out that my job was more high-risk than my husband's. Even when he was in Afghanistan. And there were rockets sailing over his head on a daily basis.
There was this one time where we were Skyping, and he was sitting at a computer in a small cubicle set up for that very purpose. Suddenly I heard a rather alarming-sounding alarm (a cheap pun, I know, but I really couldn't help it) coming from his end of the connection.
"Ugh. Not again," he said.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It's just a rocket attack." (Seriously. That was his response. Of course I panicked right away.)
"Well - do something! Hide!"
"Where?" He had an exasperating grin on his face. "The bunker's too far away. Technically I'm supposed to get under this desk, but there's really no room."
"Um, ok. Soooo ... what do we do now?"
"Keep talking. How was your day?"
A minute later the alarm stopped, and we continued our attempt to have a normal conversation. Not long after, I noticed my husband seemed distracted by something.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I heard it go off."
"You WHAT???"
That's when he explained to me that this was indeed an everyday occurence. I asked if the rockets ever hit anything. Sometimes, he explained, but no one had ever died. Someone had lost a finger once, if he remembered correctly.
I could not help having this vision of a group of rather annoyed Taliban, hiding in their cave in the mountains, their leader standing next to a hastily mapped-out sketch of the military base on a tiny blackboard, hitting it with a long stick and looking mildly cheesed-off:
"Now, this time I want you to try really hard to hit something. Anything at all. It doesn't need to be something big, even a toilet would be acceptable. Preferably with someone in it."
Now, I may have been too hasty in making fun. My husband did inform me, after he had been home a month, that someone in Kandahar had told him that a rocket landed right in his office two weeks after he had left it.
But I digress.
I have two daughters; my first is almost three years old, and my baby, who for the purpose of this blog I shall name G, is two months old. She was born just before Christmas, on December 15, on her due date (she is quite punctual). She was born at a birth house, and I was accompanied by a midwife. By the way, I fully intend on writing a post about the merits of choosing to give birth with a midwife rather than doing so in a hospital. More about that later.
So now I am a mom at home again - and very much looking forward to writing about it.
That fall was the most hectic I have ever known. Even completing a Master's degree seemed like a breeze compared to this. I preserved my sanity by simply not thinking, watching "Sex and the City" in the evenings, and enjoying the occasional glass of wine. A few months later my husband's mission was over; he came back from Afghanistan just in time for Christmas, bringing along with him an interesting exotic strain of the gastric flu, and life was more comfortable (after the flu passed, of course). I continued to teach until the summer, when we moved to a new city and I looked forward to the birth of our second daughter in December.
Oh, and, FYI, I am definitely thinking about not teaching again. It is an honorable, rewarding job, but it has its risks. I mean, I think it may not be an exaggeration to point out that my job was more high-risk than my husband's. Even when he was in Afghanistan. And there were rockets sailing over his head on a daily basis.
There was this one time where we were Skyping, and he was sitting at a computer in a small cubicle set up for that very purpose. Suddenly I heard a rather alarming-sounding alarm (a cheap pun, I know, but I really couldn't help it) coming from his end of the connection.
"Ugh. Not again," he said.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It's just a rocket attack." (Seriously. That was his response. Of course I panicked right away.)
"Well - do something! Hide!"
"Where?" He had an exasperating grin on his face. "The bunker's too far away. Technically I'm supposed to get under this desk, but there's really no room."
"Um, ok. Soooo ... what do we do now?"
"Keep talking. How was your day?"
A minute later the alarm stopped, and we continued our attempt to have a normal conversation. Not long after, I noticed my husband seemed distracted by something.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I heard it go off."
"You WHAT???"
That's when he explained to me that this was indeed an everyday occurence. I asked if the rockets ever hit anything. Sometimes, he explained, but no one had ever died. Someone had lost a finger once, if he remembered correctly.
I could not help having this vision of a group of rather annoyed Taliban, hiding in their cave in the mountains, their leader standing next to a hastily mapped-out sketch of the military base on a tiny blackboard, hitting it with a long stick and looking mildly cheesed-off:
"Now, this time I want you to try really hard to hit something. Anything at all. It doesn't need to be something big, even a toilet would be acceptable. Preferably with someone in it."
Now, I may have been too hasty in making fun. My husband did inform me, after he had been home a month, that someone in Kandahar had told him that a rocket landed right in his office two weeks after he had left it.
But I digress.
I have two daughters; my first is almost three years old, and my baby, who for the purpose of this blog I shall name G, is two months old. She was born just before Christmas, on December 15, on her due date (she is quite punctual). She was born at a birth house, and I was accompanied by a midwife. By the way, I fully intend on writing a post about the merits of choosing to give birth with a midwife rather than doing so in a hospital. More about that later.
So now I am a mom at home again - and very much looking forward to writing about it.
Sunday, 24 July 2011
A Scene Out of Edgar Allen Poe
My baby gave me a laugh first thing this morning. It was completely unintentional on her part - she certainly did not think it was in any way funny.
I had just got out of bed and wanted to check on my daughter to see if she was still sleeping. I put my ear to her door and thought I discerned a very soft sound. Careful not to wake her, should she still be sleeping, I very slowly and quietly opened her door, just wide enough to fit my head in. She was curled up on her bed, her back to me. I watched her for a minute. I still wasn't sure if she were awake or dreaming, when suddenly she sat up, and, two seconds later, turned around. When she saw me, her mouth opened in a short, silent shriek, her arms went flying into the air, and her eyes grew to twice their size. My first reaction was to laugh out loud at her reaction; that's when she knew it was me. She looked like she didn't know whether to cry or be angry with me. No wonder, and who can blame her? Poor kid's relaxing in her bed, when suddenly she turns around and sees a head peering at her from a crack in her door, which is in fact very reminiscent of the scene in The Tell-Tale Heart, where the creepy murderer very quietly opens the door to his master's chamber and just stands there in silence, watching the old man as he sleeps.
That was the first time I saw her frightened. It was real, genuine shock she experienced, poor girl. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. She forgave mommy pretty quickly though when she felt herself being picked up by a nice comfy pair of arms.
I had just got out of bed and wanted to check on my daughter to see if she was still sleeping. I put my ear to her door and thought I discerned a very soft sound. Careful not to wake her, should she still be sleeping, I very slowly and quietly opened her door, just wide enough to fit my head in. She was curled up on her bed, her back to me. I watched her for a minute. I still wasn't sure if she were awake or dreaming, when suddenly she sat up, and, two seconds later, turned around. When she saw me, her mouth opened in a short, silent shriek, her arms went flying into the air, and her eyes grew to twice their size. My first reaction was to laugh out loud at her reaction; that's when she knew it was me. She looked like she didn't know whether to cry or be angry with me. No wonder, and who can blame her? Poor kid's relaxing in her bed, when suddenly she turns around and sees a head peering at her from a crack in her door, which is in fact very reminiscent of the scene in The Tell-Tale Heart, where the creepy murderer very quietly opens the door to his master's chamber and just stands there in silence, watching the old man as he sleeps.
That was the first time I saw her frightened. It was real, genuine shock she experienced, poor girl. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. She forgave mommy pretty quickly though when she felt herself being picked up by a nice comfy pair of arms.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
She does everything but stand alone and walk
My daughter is now nearly 16 months old - and does not yet walk, nor does she even stand unsupported. But, strangely, she can do practically everything else.
That kid will climb upstairs in less than a minute. She will reach over the table and counters, her little hand coming dangerously close to the towel on which stand an unstable mountain of drying dishes (I wonder what would happen if I pulled on this? she must wonder, before mommy sprints towards her and prevents a disaster). An explosion of vocabulary erupts from her mouth, as she attempts to repeat every word I teach her. She can even point to her diaper and say caca. She can also pretend to be speaking on the phone: she puts her fist up to her ear (as though holding a receiver) and says hello? then mumbles something, says bye bye, and "hangs up." The other day, I was amazed at the fact that in reply to my question: what does a cow do? (incidentally, I had no pictures of cows handy, nor were there any in a nearby field, as we were, in fact, in the middle of the city) she replied, without hesitation, moooo! I had taught her that with the help of a book, only a few times before, but did not believe for one second that she would remember it, out of context!
But this is not all - she has also shown some inclination toward eating with a spoon (though she still generally insits that mommy feed her - it gets food to her mouth faster, after all). She will, once in a while, at the end of a meal, pick up her spoon and try to direct whatever food might happen to be on it towards her mouth. She is not always on target - sometimes she will get a cheek, chin, or nose-full of yogurt. She even understands that the napkin that is presented to her afterwards is for wiping her face. Sometimes she will grap it and pass it over her mouth - then insist on wiping the chin of the adult who has been feeding her.
So if she can climb stairs with perfect confidence, reach over tables and counters, learn new words each day, pretend to talk on the phone, make associations between animals and the sound they make, attempt to eat with a spoon, and wipe her own mouth, why cannot she walk, or at least stand on her own? I watch her, always thinking it's going to happen, but then at the last minute she always finds something to grab onto. She only once let go of a little table that was giving her support, and that only for a few seconds. She never attempted this feat again. There must be a reason for her being adventurous in so many other aspects of her life, but not this one.
Perhaps, because she is tall for her age, she thinks she is too far from the ground when she stands? I suppose it would be scary. Wow, that floor sure looks far away, she must be thinking. I think I'll just get closer to it before I attempt any sort of movement.
But then, how do you explain the stairs? Ooh, look, stairs, stretching up seemingly indefinitely. Wow, that sure looks high. I think I'll climb them! Hmmmm ...
That kid will climb upstairs in less than a minute. She will reach over the table and counters, her little hand coming dangerously close to the towel on which stand an unstable mountain of drying dishes (I wonder what would happen if I pulled on this? she must wonder, before mommy sprints towards her and prevents a disaster). An explosion of vocabulary erupts from her mouth, as she attempts to repeat every word I teach her. She can even point to her diaper and say caca. She can also pretend to be speaking on the phone: she puts her fist up to her ear (as though holding a receiver) and says hello? then mumbles something, says bye bye, and "hangs up." The other day, I was amazed at the fact that in reply to my question: what does a cow do? (incidentally, I had no pictures of cows handy, nor were there any in a nearby field, as we were, in fact, in the middle of the city) she replied, without hesitation, moooo! I had taught her that with the help of a book, only a few times before, but did not believe for one second that she would remember it, out of context!
But this is not all - she has also shown some inclination toward eating with a spoon (though she still generally insits that mommy feed her - it gets food to her mouth faster, after all). She will, once in a while, at the end of a meal, pick up her spoon and try to direct whatever food might happen to be on it towards her mouth. She is not always on target - sometimes she will get a cheek, chin, or nose-full of yogurt. She even understands that the napkin that is presented to her afterwards is for wiping her face. Sometimes she will grap it and pass it over her mouth - then insist on wiping the chin of the adult who has been feeding her.
So if she can climb stairs with perfect confidence, reach over tables and counters, learn new words each day, pretend to talk on the phone, make associations between animals and the sound they make, attempt to eat with a spoon, and wipe her own mouth, why cannot she walk, or at least stand on her own? I watch her, always thinking it's going to happen, but then at the last minute she always finds something to grab onto. She only once let go of a little table that was giving her support, and that only for a few seconds. She never attempted this feat again. There must be a reason for her being adventurous in so many other aspects of her life, but not this one.
Perhaps, because she is tall for her age, she thinks she is too far from the ground when she stands? I suppose it would be scary. Wow, that floor sure looks far away, she must be thinking. I think I'll just get closer to it before I attempt any sort of movement.
But then, how do you explain the stairs? Ooh, look, stairs, stretching up seemingly indefinitely. Wow, that sure looks high. I think I'll climb them! Hmmmm ...
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Playing with other kids
I can't wait for my little girl to start daycare - not because I'll be dancing around my living room with my hands in the air singing "Freedom! Freedom at last!" Not even one bit.
Ok, maybe a little freedom dance.
Actually, I can't wait for my daughter to have the opportunity to play with other kids her age. I cannot wait to see what skills she'll pick up. Though I'm hoping she'll at least be walking by the time she begins daycare. If not, I'm sure she will be soon after.
The point is, kids will learn from other kids. This weekend, we were at my aunt and uncle's house. My cousin was there, along with her husband and four-year-old daughter. My little girl played with their little girl the entire weekend, and by sunday, my baby stood on her own for the first time, for a full 4 seconds! She had been holding on to a small table, when she suddenly, and very much on purpose, let go! She teetered a bit, trying to find her balance, and just stood there, thinking nothing of it, while her mum watched, mouth agape and unable to move with shock. When my daughter put one hand back on the little table, I allowed the excitement I had withheld to burst out of me in the form of cheers and a profuse clapping of hands that got the little achiever rather confused. "Why is mommy so happy?" she must have been wondering as I picked her up in my arms and kissed her cheek several times.
I have not a doubt that this feat was accomplished simply because she had been watching a slightly taller child walk and dance around her.
Speaking of my little cousin, I would like to share a few of the stories I have picked up relating to her this weekend; some of these moments struck me as particularly surprising or amusing. As my only child is not yet four, I have no idea if some of the stories I have to tell will strike more experienced parents as typical of this particular age. I know that, to me, my little cousin appeared surprisingly old for her years.
First I must mention that I have a difficulty understanding most four-year-olds. I have had very short conversations even with six-year-olds that consisted of unintelligle babble followed by an awkward "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying" (this comment is always received with an indigant look on the part of the child). But my little cousin's words are as clear as day (pardon the cliché - I usually hate these, and only use them in the case of an emergency). She spoke so well, that I actually offered to let her read a story to my daughter. "That is ... can you read?" I asked uncomfortably, realizing my mistake. Of course she can't read. She's four. Actually, her mum assured me, she has been starting to sound words out. "Oh, of course. Well, she can sit with us and I'll read to them."
On our first evening, I stepped out to the balcony to join my cousins outside. I found my little cousin in the middle of quoting Harry Potter, in a very Hermione-esque voice. And in her very best Brittish accent.
"Wow, that's very good," I said. Then added, very honestly, "I've always wanted to be able to do that." I tried to speak to her in my best Brittish accent which, honestly, couldn't hold a candle to her perfect imitation of Hermione, Harry and Ron.
Later, after she had watched me change my daughter's diaper, she pointed to a picture of elephants on the bathroom wall and said how much she loved it. "And what are those?" I asked, suddenly and stupidly thinking I was talking to someone younger. "They're elephants," she told me, eyebrows raised in a I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-me-that look. "I am four, you know."
Ok, maybe a little freedom dance.
Actually, I can't wait for my daughter to have the opportunity to play with other kids her age. I cannot wait to see what skills she'll pick up. Though I'm hoping she'll at least be walking by the time she begins daycare. If not, I'm sure she will be soon after.
The point is, kids will learn from other kids. This weekend, we were at my aunt and uncle's house. My cousin was there, along with her husband and four-year-old daughter. My little girl played with their little girl the entire weekend, and by sunday, my baby stood on her own for the first time, for a full 4 seconds! She had been holding on to a small table, when she suddenly, and very much on purpose, let go! She teetered a bit, trying to find her balance, and just stood there, thinking nothing of it, while her mum watched, mouth agape and unable to move with shock. When my daughter put one hand back on the little table, I allowed the excitement I had withheld to burst out of me in the form of cheers and a profuse clapping of hands that got the little achiever rather confused. "Why is mommy so happy?" she must have been wondering as I picked her up in my arms and kissed her cheek several times.
I have not a doubt that this feat was accomplished simply because she had been watching a slightly taller child walk and dance around her.
Speaking of my little cousin, I would like to share a few of the stories I have picked up relating to her this weekend; some of these moments struck me as particularly surprising or amusing. As my only child is not yet four, I have no idea if some of the stories I have to tell will strike more experienced parents as typical of this particular age. I know that, to me, my little cousin appeared surprisingly old for her years.
First I must mention that I have a difficulty understanding most four-year-olds. I have had very short conversations even with six-year-olds that consisted of unintelligle babble followed by an awkward "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying" (this comment is always received with an indigant look on the part of the child). But my little cousin's words are as clear as day (pardon the cliché - I usually hate these, and only use them in the case of an emergency). She spoke so well, that I actually offered to let her read a story to my daughter. "That is ... can you read?" I asked uncomfortably, realizing my mistake. Of course she can't read. She's four. Actually, her mum assured me, she has been starting to sound words out. "Oh, of course. Well, she can sit with us and I'll read to them."
On our first evening, I stepped out to the balcony to join my cousins outside. I found my little cousin in the middle of quoting Harry Potter, in a very Hermione-esque voice. And in her very best Brittish accent.
"Wow, that's very good," I said. Then added, very honestly, "I've always wanted to be able to do that." I tried to speak to her in my best Brittish accent which, honestly, couldn't hold a candle to her perfect imitation of Hermione, Harry and Ron.
Later, after she had watched me change my daughter's diaper, she pointed to a picture of elephants on the bathroom wall and said how much she loved it. "And what are those?" I asked, suddenly and stupidly thinking I was talking to someone younger. "They're elephants," she told me, eyebrows raised in a I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-me-that look. "I am four, you know."
Monday, 20 June 2011
Muffled Bangings in the Closet and Other Instances of Lack of Foresight
As my husband and I prepare for a family trip to Prince Edward Island tomorrow, my father offers to lend us his cooler. I put my daughter to bed and my husband and Dad head out to the garage. A few minutes later, I hear muffled banging noises, as though something is hitting the side of the house. My mother and I share an expression of puzzlement.
"Actually, it sounds like it's coming from inside the wall," I say.
My daughter, whose bedroom is right by the wall in question, starts wailing. I go outside to check out the source of the racket. My father has a ladder leaning into the garret, and he is handing down the cooler, lawn chairs and a beach mat to my husband.
"The attic is right by Baby's room!" I hiss. "You're keeping her awake!"
I go upstairs and take my daughter in my arms. She gives me a grateful hug, then, with under lip curled in a pout, looks to the closet, where a muffled banging has just ceased.
"There are no monsters in the closet," I soothe.
My daughter is now sleeping, and I find myself thinking: parents usually make every effort to keep monsters out of the closet, and here we are putting them in. What other instances of lack of foresight are we guilty of?
There are of course the classic cases of putting the wine bottle not enough out of her reach, and taking it away just in time to avoid catastrophic consequences; or putting her in her first miniature toddler car ride and asking the fraught-with-dire-repurcussions question: "What's that button for?" and watching your child whimper in panic as the vehicle begins to make weird rocking motions.
But I would have to say that my crowning moment of lack of foresight was the time I took my two-month old baby on her first airplane ride to visit her new family in New Brunswick. I hadn't wanted to be "encumbered" with a stroller, so I left it with my husband just before crossing the security checkpoint. There I was, with my very small baby in my arms, attempting to take off my jacket, shoes, bag, etc., all the while making sure I didn't drop her. I passed the metal detector, and thought everything would be a breeze from then on. But have you ever tried putting on a jacket, bag and shoes while carrying a baby? Not possible. Finally I had to resort to asking one of the security guards to hold my child for me while I put my things on. From that time, I take my stroller with me every time I leave the house.
But then, there are instances where fate is dead set against you. When I came back from Rome, my stroller apparently decided to take a break in Paris after weeks of rattling over cobblestone streets. It was nowhere to be found as I exited the plane; I had to walk through a mile of Charles de Gaulle airport with my 25-lb daughter in my arms, and quickly, to make our connecting flight. The stroller was returned to me a few days later, well rested and in a state of perfect nonchalance.
"Actually, it sounds like it's coming from inside the wall," I say.
My daughter, whose bedroom is right by the wall in question, starts wailing. I go outside to check out the source of the racket. My father has a ladder leaning into the garret, and he is handing down the cooler, lawn chairs and a beach mat to my husband.
"The attic is right by Baby's room!" I hiss. "You're keeping her awake!"
I go upstairs and take my daughter in my arms. She gives me a grateful hug, then, with under lip curled in a pout, looks to the closet, where a muffled banging has just ceased.
"There are no monsters in the closet," I soothe.
My daughter is now sleeping, and I find myself thinking: parents usually make every effort to keep monsters out of the closet, and here we are putting them in. What other instances of lack of foresight are we guilty of?
There are of course the classic cases of putting the wine bottle not enough out of her reach, and taking it away just in time to avoid catastrophic consequences; or putting her in her first miniature toddler car ride and asking the fraught-with-dire-repurcussions question: "What's that button for?" and watching your child whimper in panic as the vehicle begins to make weird rocking motions.
But I would have to say that my crowning moment of lack of foresight was the time I took my two-month old baby on her first airplane ride to visit her new family in New Brunswick. I hadn't wanted to be "encumbered" with a stroller, so I left it with my husband just before crossing the security checkpoint. There I was, with my very small baby in my arms, attempting to take off my jacket, shoes, bag, etc., all the while making sure I didn't drop her. I passed the metal detector, and thought everything would be a breeze from then on. But have you ever tried putting on a jacket, bag and shoes while carrying a baby? Not possible. Finally I had to resort to asking one of the security guards to hold my child for me while I put my things on. From that time, I take my stroller with me every time I leave the house.
But then, there are instances where fate is dead set against you. When I came back from Rome, my stroller apparently decided to take a break in Paris after weeks of rattling over cobblestone streets. It was nowhere to be found as I exited the plane; I had to walk through a mile of Charles de Gaulle airport with my 25-lb daughter in my arms, and quickly, to make our connecting flight. The stroller was returned to me a few days later, well rested and in a state of perfect nonchalance.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Hot Summer (or, The Day My House Began Falling To Pieces)
June 1st. I love June. At the start of June I look forward to the coming summer. There is a promise of warmer days whispered in the wind.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Is it ok to let your baby eat off the floor at Starbuck's?
Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds. Ok, maybe a little.
We did a family outing this morning at Starbuck's. I love their low-fat banana chocolate chip cake. Doesn't sound very low-fat, though, does it? I'm not even going to start on the whopper I had later at Burger King. Well ... maybe I will talk about our outing at BK in a bit. But first, Starbuck's.
My husband is having coffee, I am chowing down on my banana cake, and our baby is sitting on the floor, having given warning that if she wasn't taken out of her stroller soon, a fit might very well be eminent. On the floor she goes, and while she's down there, I give her little pieces of banana cake in her hand. I don't much like feeding her when she's on the floor, because I have the impression of giving scraps to a dog, or throwing crumbs at a pigeon, or whatever. But she doesn't seem to mind.
Of course I hadn't thought this through, as usual. A little piece of banana cake rolls to the floor, and way beyond the 5-second rule, my daughter decides to pick it up and, before I can say anything, pops it in her mouth. I know at this point some parents may be cringing. But I would like to share with you some words of wisdom that my grandmother used to share with her kids:
"You have to eat two buckets of shit before you die."
Well, if that's true, my daughter is well on her way.
I don't believe in the lysol-everything solution to germs that has become some sort of fad lately. In fact, I strongly believe that exposure to germs are good for you. I mean, how else do we develop immune systems?
But when I saw my daughter go for another piece of some thing or other on the floor that had been left there god knows how long and by whom, I let a loud "no!" burst forth so suddenly and with so much force she actually flinched. Needless to say, she didn't try to eat that particular morsel of food she had found so inviting.
Now for Burger King. By the way, I am aware of the fact that I am on a fast track to gaining back the 5 lbs. I have lost last month in Rome. But I will compensate by having hummus and a green salad for dinner. Yum.
One of the first things we noticed was the noise. The ceilings were very high, which was perfect for letting the 40-some kids' screams bounce around the vast space. This is a place with family-friendly convenience parents cannot resist. Get food fast, let the kids run around the play-park. By the way, when did those fast food restaurant play-gyms turn into a three story contraption the likes of which one would expect to find at the Family Robinson treehouse in Disneyland?
These places are never just filled with happy kids who run around in their socks. There was one little boy who, for a reason unknown to me, decided to have a crying fit. His mother, a heavy lady who, had she been in a movie, would have likely been wearing a mu-mu and curlers in her hair, was carrying him to the bathroom, holding him firm against her chest by his shoulder and left leg, while he kicked and screamed, gradually turning purple in the face.
Oh, the joys of parenting!
We did a family outing this morning at Starbuck's. I love their low-fat banana chocolate chip cake. Doesn't sound very low-fat, though, does it? I'm not even going to start on the whopper I had later at Burger King. Well ... maybe I will talk about our outing at BK in a bit. But first, Starbuck's.
My husband is having coffee, I am chowing down on my banana cake, and our baby is sitting on the floor, having given warning that if she wasn't taken out of her stroller soon, a fit might very well be eminent. On the floor she goes, and while she's down there, I give her little pieces of banana cake in her hand. I don't much like feeding her when she's on the floor, because I have the impression of giving scraps to a dog, or throwing crumbs at a pigeon, or whatever. But she doesn't seem to mind.
Of course I hadn't thought this through, as usual. A little piece of banana cake rolls to the floor, and way beyond the 5-second rule, my daughter decides to pick it up and, before I can say anything, pops it in her mouth. I know at this point some parents may be cringing. But I would like to share with you some words of wisdom that my grandmother used to share with her kids:
"You have to eat two buckets of shit before you die."
Well, if that's true, my daughter is well on her way.
I don't believe in the lysol-everything solution to germs that has become some sort of fad lately. In fact, I strongly believe that exposure to germs are good for you. I mean, how else do we develop immune systems?
But when I saw my daughter go for another piece of some thing or other on the floor that had been left there god knows how long and by whom, I let a loud "no!" burst forth so suddenly and with so much force she actually flinched. Needless to say, she didn't try to eat that particular morsel of food she had found so inviting.
Now for Burger King. By the way, I am aware of the fact that I am on a fast track to gaining back the 5 lbs. I have lost last month in Rome. But I will compensate by having hummus and a green salad for dinner. Yum.
One of the first things we noticed was the noise. The ceilings were very high, which was perfect for letting the 40-some kids' screams bounce around the vast space. This is a place with family-friendly convenience parents cannot resist. Get food fast, let the kids run around the play-park. By the way, when did those fast food restaurant play-gyms turn into a three story contraption the likes of which one would expect to find at the Family Robinson treehouse in Disneyland?
These places are never just filled with happy kids who run around in their socks. There was one little boy who, for a reason unknown to me, decided to have a crying fit. His mother, a heavy lady who, had she been in a movie, would have likely been wearing a mu-mu and curlers in her hair, was carrying him to the bathroom, holding him firm against her chest by his shoulder and left leg, while he kicked and screamed, gradually turning purple in the face.
Oh, the joys of parenting!
Friday, 27 May 2011
New Blog
I knew I was jinxing myself with that last post! Because, of course, the moment I wrote that my daughter was an absolute, perfect angel, marked the beginnings of screaming through breakfast, pulling of hair and scratching of face, refusing, positively refusing, to let mommy change her diaper, spinning this way and that and insisting on going around with her bum "au naturel."
Sigh.
Ok, so I'm sticking with this blog. I need it, after all. It serves as therapy.
But I did start a new one. A second blog. How did I get from one blog to two? Oh well, never mind. My second blog, which I will write with as much love and devotion as I have been writing this one, is on, well, writing. It is not a practical, step by step guide to how to get published. I would never presume to take such a liberty with my readers. No. This is a blog about me taking a first dip into the world of writing and publishing. And then seeing what happens.
If you would like to check it out, go to http://www.aspiringwriterdiary.blogspot.com/. Or follow the link at the end of my profile: Just Write. I think you have to go to "complete profile" to get to it.
Sigh.
Ok, so I'm sticking with this blog. I need it, after all. It serves as therapy.
But I did start a new one. A second blog. How did I get from one blog to two? Oh well, never mind. My second blog, which I will write with as much love and devotion as I have been writing this one, is on, well, writing. It is not a practical, step by step guide to how to get published. I would never presume to take such a liberty with my readers. No. This is a blog about me taking a first dip into the world of writing and publishing. And then seeing what happens.
If you would like to check it out, go to http://www.aspiringwriterdiary.blogspot.com/. Or follow the link at the end of my profile: Just Write. I think you have to go to "complete profile" to get to it.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Back from Rome
Baby and I are back home - and feeling euphoric! I believe my new template reflects my mood: hummingbirds, little purple flowers in a green forest - speaking of which, everything is so verdant here! It's like, while I was away, the world seemed to wake up and don a new, beautiful, colourful dress it just couldn't resist buying as it presented itself, gorgeous and flowing, in a storefront window.
Rome was beautiful, extraordinary, unbelievable. But nothing beats hearing a robin singing a spring tune to the early dawn, trees, garbed in their fresh, new, pale-green leaves, fragrant blossoms just opening their rosy petals, and a warm evening wind carrying the aroma of grilled burgers on a barbecue.
I'm suddenly having a craving for a burger.
Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I missed it. I missed my kitchen. Yay! I have a kitchen counter again! And four, yes, four burners! Oh, and my dishwasher! How I've missed you!
Still. Rome was wonderful. I realize I have not written very often in this blog during my month in Rome. But when one is too busy seeing, well, everything ...
This puts me in mind ... I am seriously thinking of changing the title of my blog (and consequently the address). I will let my readers know, in a future posting, if I decide to do so.
I am a new mom. I adore my daughter. My wonderful, perfect daughter. So wonderful, in fact, that she never gives me so much as a headache. Except when she's pulling my hair - hard. I'm sure we'll kick the habit one day. I have read other "new mom" blogs. The women who write these seem to be able to stick to their chosen topic. I, on the other hand, appear to have some amount of trouble doing so. I could write about my daughter every day. But what would I write? "Today, she has taken two naps, 1h30mins each, and outside of these naps, played happily on the floor with her toys." I don't have to deal with tantrums. I don't have to deal with fussiness. Or endless crying, or painful teething, fevers, rashes, or even sleepless nights. They just don't exist here! I know I might sound like I'm bragging. I'm not. I'm not complaining either, mind you. I'm just grateful.
But here's the thing. People need to suffer to write. Or so I've heard. Actually, I don't believe that, not one bit. But I do believe that a writer needs something to write about. So far, in this blog, I've written about a Tempo car shelter, my ex-dog, ex-boyfriends, handsome (or not) Italians, and how to lose weight (by the way, I lost 5 lbs in Rome! Living almost exclusively on pizza, pasta and gelato! Ok, now I'm bragging). Actually, looking back, it was only in March that I wrote faithfully to the topic of motherhood.
I have a confession to make. You know how some people say that when they have a baby, parenthood becomes their whole life, and their child takes up 100% of their time? Their entire lives have changed, and their baby has become their only priority. Well, that's just not true with me. Sure, my daughter gets everything she needs, including her mother's undying and deepest love. But mommy needs her own life, too. I could never be a stay-at-home mom. Right now, that's what I'm doing, but that's only going to last another very few months. My daughter is going into daycare in the fall, and even now she is spending the mornings with my neighbor, who is, incidentally, a stay-at-home mom. With four kids.
I am a mom. But I am also a writer. A new, just started emerging into the scary world of query letters, submissions and, of course, rejections, writer. I am also working on a first book. An intimidating, 530-pages manuscript that I began 8 years ago. This monster is taking my every last bit of courage to edit.
So there it is. I need a steady topic for my blog, one to which I will write, or else I will just keep going all over the place. Why not let it be: Confessions of a New Writer (or something like that)?
I'll keep you posted.
Rome was beautiful, extraordinary, unbelievable. But nothing beats hearing a robin singing a spring tune to the early dawn, trees, garbed in their fresh, new, pale-green leaves, fragrant blossoms just opening their rosy petals, and a warm evening wind carrying the aroma of grilled burgers on a barbecue.
I'm suddenly having a craving for a burger.
Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I missed it. I missed my kitchen. Yay! I have a kitchen counter again! And four, yes, four burners! Oh, and my dishwasher! How I've missed you!
Still. Rome was wonderful. I realize I have not written very often in this blog during my month in Rome. But when one is too busy seeing, well, everything ...
This puts me in mind ... I am seriously thinking of changing the title of my blog (and consequently the address). I will let my readers know, in a future posting, if I decide to do so.
I am a new mom. I adore my daughter. My wonderful, perfect daughter. So wonderful, in fact, that she never gives me so much as a headache. Except when she's pulling my hair - hard. I'm sure we'll kick the habit one day. I have read other "new mom" blogs. The women who write these seem to be able to stick to their chosen topic. I, on the other hand, appear to have some amount of trouble doing so. I could write about my daughter every day. But what would I write? "Today, she has taken two naps, 1h30mins each, and outside of these naps, played happily on the floor with her toys." I don't have to deal with tantrums. I don't have to deal with fussiness. Or endless crying, or painful teething, fevers, rashes, or even sleepless nights. They just don't exist here! I know I might sound like I'm bragging. I'm not. I'm not complaining either, mind you. I'm just grateful.
But here's the thing. People need to suffer to write. Or so I've heard. Actually, I don't believe that, not one bit. But I do believe that a writer needs something to write about. So far, in this blog, I've written about a Tempo car shelter, my ex-dog, ex-boyfriends, handsome (or not) Italians, and how to lose weight (by the way, I lost 5 lbs in Rome! Living almost exclusively on pizza, pasta and gelato! Ok, now I'm bragging). Actually, looking back, it was only in March that I wrote faithfully to the topic of motherhood.
I have a confession to make. You know how some people say that when they have a baby, parenthood becomes their whole life, and their child takes up 100% of their time? Their entire lives have changed, and their baby has become their only priority. Well, that's just not true with me. Sure, my daughter gets everything she needs, including her mother's undying and deepest love. But mommy needs her own life, too. I could never be a stay-at-home mom. Right now, that's what I'm doing, but that's only going to last another very few months. My daughter is going into daycare in the fall, and even now she is spending the mornings with my neighbor, who is, incidentally, a stay-at-home mom. With four kids.
I am a mom. But I am also a writer. A new, just started emerging into the scary world of query letters, submissions and, of course, rejections, writer. I am also working on a first book. An intimidating, 530-pages manuscript that I began 8 years ago. This monster is taking my every last bit of courage to edit.
So there it is. I need a steady topic for my blog, one to which I will write, or else I will just keep going all over the place. Why not let it be: Confessions of a New Writer (or something like that)?
I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
What's with all the Nutella?
Here are a few odd bits and pieces of my observations on Rome, having been a "resident" here for two weeks now.
Where have all the good looking Romans gone?
Seriously. They must all have been deported. Someone some day had the brilliant idea of shipping off a considerable portion of Rome's men to different countries around the world, for the greater good of civilization.
Following my last stay in Rome, I would tell people that in the three weeks I spent here, I saw two ugly Italian men. That was it. I felt very sorry for them.
I am reading a book - many people may be familiar with it - Eat, Pray, Love, an excellent book in which the author tells numerous tales of her voyages abroad. She spent four months in Rome, and writes that the men here are "achingly beautiful" (or something to that effect). I know what she's talking about; I saw them repeatedly the last time I was here. So what happened in the last very few years? I just don't see them anymore. They have mysteriously vanished.
When I was 17, I met a very handsome military man in Rome named Carmine. I bet Carmine is now pot-bellied and balding.
It is a fact commonly known that Western women are gawked at and whistled at and flirted with continuously in Rome. When I was 17, it was very, very true. Now, obviously, this fact has been transformed into myth. Is this true only for me? Because I am 32 years old and traipsing around Rome pushing a baby stroller? Or is it because, as Elizabeth Gilbert mentions in her book, Roman men have decided to fight against their stereotype and prove to the world that they can be gentlemen as well? Perhaps. And yet, there is the odd one or two who refuse to change and proudly flaunt their talent for awkward flirtation. Like the typical middle-aged man who, moving aside to let me cross the street with my stroller, says behind my back: "Ciao bella!" Or the man behind the counter at the gelato place who asks me where I'm from and tells me I am very beautiful (unfortunately, I could not say the same for him. Poor man.)
So, to recap, the head-turningly handsome men in Rome I remember appear to have vanished. Or, perhaps, as I do have the most good-looking man in the world for a husband, every other man, whether he be Canadian or Italian, now looks to me like he has scrambled eggs for a face. Or something like that.
Why all the ugly little dogs?
Everywhere you go, you come across someone walking a little dog. Most times, it's an ugly little dog. With short legs, hopelessly tangled and greasy, brownish grey fur, and sometimes even a touch of mange; this is an accurate description of most dogs I have seen here. Why? And where do they come from?
Tourists are, after all, the very worst.
And they have single-handedly ruined Rome. I mean, there are more tourists than Romans in Rome, I am sure of it. The Fontana di Trevi has been turned into a veritable Disneyland, the Piazza di Spagna is a haven for people selling fake jewelry, fake purses, and pointless, very noisy toys for all the annoying tourists' kids. Finally, visiting Saint Peter's Basilica has become about as fun as wandering around an airport, with guards, gates, and security checkpoints everywhere.
Rome does not look like itself anymore. Where, for example, are all the pickpockets and gypsies? The professional purse-snatchers? The children walking around with a board that they put in tourists' faces to distract them while they relieve them of their belongings? They have probably given up any attempt to make a living in this city, thinking that if they were to try their hand at stealing someone's purse or wallet, they would risk the common indignation of a mob of tourists. Suppose that their intented victim is part of one of the very many tour groups that dominate the streets of Rome. If a member of such a group was to be targeted for the riches on his person, the result would certainly be a concerted effort of some twenty or thirty men, women and children wearing matching hats or handkerchiefs, to come to the rescue of their fellow vacationer and collectively fall on the head of his attacker.
Finally, what's with all the Nutella?
It is everywhere. Stuffed inside croissants, smothered between layers of cake, piped into the center of cookies, or proudly displayed in huge containers in shop windows, Nutella has taken Rome by storm. It is even featured as a gelato flavour. At the grocery store, you have your pick between three or four different kinds of Nutella. Every café, bakery, or patisserie has a great big tub of nutella sitting on a top shelf, often right by the window, as if to say to every passer-by: "Look! We have Nutella here!" It is even used in carefully contrived plots of deceit. Chocolate croissants and cookies are actually Nutella croissants and cookies. You may think you're ordering a piece of chocolate cake, when what you're actually paying 7 euros for is Nutella cake. At least I haven't seen a Nutella tartuffo. Yet.
Needless to say, I do not think I will be ordering any hot chocolate. I just might get a hot Nutella.
Where have all the good looking Romans gone?
Seriously. They must all have been deported. Someone some day had the brilliant idea of shipping off a considerable portion of Rome's men to different countries around the world, for the greater good of civilization.
Following my last stay in Rome, I would tell people that in the three weeks I spent here, I saw two ugly Italian men. That was it. I felt very sorry for them.
I am reading a book - many people may be familiar with it - Eat, Pray, Love, an excellent book in which the author tells numerous tales of her voyages abroad. She spent four months in Rome, and writes that the men here are "achingly beautiful" (or something to that effect). I know what she's talking about; I saw them repeatedly the last time I was here. So what happened in the last very few years? I just don't see them anymore. They have mysteriously vanished.
When I was 17, I met a very handsome military man in Rome named Carmine. I bet Carmine is now pot-bellied and balding.
It is a fact commonly known that Western women are gawked at and whistled at and flirted with continuously in Rome. When I was 17, it was very, very true. Now, obviously, this fact has been transformed into myth. Is this true only for me? Because I am 32 years old and traipsing around Rome pushing a baby stroller? Or is it because, as Elizabeth Gilbert mentions in her book, Roman men have decided to fight against their stereotype and prove to the world that they can be gentlemen as well? Perhaps. And yet, there is the odd one or two who refuse to change and proudly flaunt their talent for awkward flirtation. Like the typical middle-aged man who, moving aside to let me cross the street with my stroller, says behind my back: "Ciao bella!" Or the man behind the counter at the gelato place who asks me where I'm from and tells me I am very beautiful (unfortunately, I could not say the same for him. Poor man.)
So, to recap, the head-turningly handsome men in Rome I remember appear to have vanished. Or, perhaps, as I do have the most good-looking man in the world for a husband, every other man, whether he be Canadian or Italian, now looks to me like he has scrambled eggs for a face. Or something like that.
Why all the ugly little dogs?
Everywhere you go, you come across someone walking a little dog. Most times, it's an ugly little dog. With short legs, hopelessly tangled and greasy, brownish grey fur, and sometimes even a touch of mange; this is an accurate description of most dogs I have seen here. Why? And where do they come from?
Tourists are, after all, the very worst.
And they have single-handedly ruined Rome. I mean, there are more tourists than Romans in Rome, I am sure of it. The Fontana di Trevi has been turned into a veritable Disneyland, the Piazza di Spagna is a haven for people selling fake jewelry, fake purses, and pointless, very noisy toys for all the annoying tourists' kids. Finally, visiting Saint Peter's Basilica has become about as fun as wandering around an airport, with guards, gates, and security checkpoints everywhere.
Rome does not look like itself anymore. Where, for example, are all the pickpockets and gypsies? The professional purse-snatchers? The children walking around with a board that they put in tourists' faces to distract them while they relieve them of their belongings? They have probably given up any attempt to make a living in this city, thinking that if they were to try their hand at stealing someone's purse or wallet, they would risk the common indignation of a mob of tourists. Suppose that their intented victim is part of one of the very many tour groups that dominate the streets of Rome. If a member of such a group was to be targeted for the riches on his person, the result would certainly be a concerted effort of some twenty or thirty men, women and children wearing matching hats or handkerchiefs, to come to the rescue of their fellow vacationer and collectively fall on the head of his attacker.
Finally, what's with all the Nutella?
It is everywhere. Stuffed inside croissants, smothered between layers of cake, piped into the center of cookies, or proudly displayed in huge containers in shop windows, Nutella has taken Rome by storm. It is even featured as a gelato flavour. At the grocery store, you have your pick between three or four different kinds of Nutella. Every café, bakery, or patisserie has a great big tub of nutella sitting on a top shelf, often right by the window, as if to say to every passer-by: "Look! We have Nutella here!" It is even used in carefully contrived plots of deceit. Chocolate croissants and cookies are actually Nutella croissants and cookies. You may think you're ordering a piece of chocolate cake, when what you're actually paying 7 euros for is Nutella cake. At least I haven't seen a Nutella tartuffo. Yet.
Needless to say, I do not think I will be ordering any hot chocolate. I just might get a hot Nutella.
Monday, 2 May 2011
Viva La Cucina Italiana!
As I sat indulging in homemade Minestrone soup yesterday evening, slowly allowing my senses to fully experience the flavours, I could not help being amazed: I created this? Actually, it had everything to do with Italy. I really had no hand in it.
Before I left home, a friend who comes from Algeria and is now studying in Montreal said to me: "You’re so lucky to be going to Rome. You get to eat Italian food! I miss the flavours of the Mediterranean..."
I understand what she means. The last time I was in Rome was seventeen years ago, and I have never forgotten the flavour of the fresh tomato and basil combination in a pizza margherita. Food just tastes better here. The flavours are more intense. Probably because most of the food one buys in Rome is fresh.
The next time you are at the grocery store, take a good look at the fruit and vegetables you buy. Where are they from? Most of our food is imported. This, of course, is not surprising when Canadian winters last approximately half the year. We don’t have the time or weather to grow much of anything.
I found the recipe for my Minestrone soup online from Ricardo.com. I omitted the bay leaf (for the practical reason that none could be found), and the celery. I used shallots in lieu of a plain, yellow onion. I of course bought the vegetables at a local fruitteria. The shopkeeper even gave me fresh basil for free. I also put real parmigiano reggiano on the table, as a garnish. None of that pre-shredded parmesan, of course.
Shopping for food in Rome is fun. Not to mention an excellent way of practicing one’s Italian. The vendors are very friendly and most will speak to you in Italian, granting you their patience and meeting you half-way to make sure you understand each-other.
In Canada, shopping for food is not something most people enjoy doing; rather it is generally considered a dull and often tiring chore. Most people go grocery shopping once a week. We plan our meals in advance and fit a trip to the supermarket in the slot of time we have set aside in our rushed and busy lives. Some people even prefer ordering fast food to cooking at home, something I am sure most Italians would find unbelievable. I myself am only very rarely part of the “order at home” set, but I do have a large freezer where I store meat I buy on sale. I also pre-plan my meals.
In Rome, shopping for food is quite a different experience. The supermarkets here are, by all definitions, tiny. They are no bigger than our convenience stores. In preparation for dinner, one does not purchase food in an oversized, “we-have-everything concept,” chain superstore. To shop for one meal in Rome, I need to make several stops. And I will walk to each of them.
For example, in preparation for my minestrone dinner, I walked to the “supermarket” (which has a grand total of 2 ½ aisles) for canned beans and pancetta (which, incidentally, I could also have bought at the local cured meats shop). I then walked to the fruitteria, where I bought green beans, carrots, tomatoes, garlic and fresh basil. After that, I walked back to the supermarket, where I bought dried oregano (because the fruitteria didn’t have any that was fresh). Finally, I went to the Casa di Pane (House of Bread) for a homemade Italian loaf.
The result? The most delicious minestrone I have ever eaten, made with fresh ingredients I had carefully picked out that very afternoon. The carrots tasted very much like carrots, as did the green beans, and the fragrant basil, of course. And the tomatoes ... well, no words can do justice to their divine flavour. This is Italy, after all.
Before I left home, a friend who comes from Algeria and is now studying in Montreal said to me: "You’re so lucky to be going to Rome. You get to eat Italian food! I miss the flavours of the Mediterranean..."
I understand what she means. The last time I was in Rome was seventeen years ago, and I have never forgotten the flavour of the fresh tomato and basil combination in a pizza margherita. Food just tastes better here. The flavours are more intense. Probably because most of the food one buys in Rome is fresh.
The next time you are at the grocery store, take a good look at the fruit and vegetables you buy. Where are they from? Most of our food is imported. This, of course, is not surprising when Canadian winters last approximately half the year. We don’t have the time or weather to grow much of anything.
I found the recipe for my Minestrone soup online from Ricardo.com. I omitted the bay leaf (for the practical reason that none could be found), and the celery. I used shallots in lieu of a plain, yellow onion. I of course bought the vegetables at a local fruitteria. The shopkeeper even gave me fresh basil for free. I also put real parmigiano reggiano on the table, as a garnish. None of that pre-shredded parmesan, of course.
Shopping for food in Rome is fun. Not to mention an excellent way of practicing one’s Italian. The vendors are very friendly and most will speak to you in Italian, granting you their patience and meeting you half-way to make sure you understand each-other.
In Canada, shopping for food is not something most people enjoy doing; rather it is generally considered a dull and often tiring chore. Most people go grocery shopping once a week. We plan our meals in advance and fit a trip to the supermarket in the slot of time we have set aside in our rushed and busy lives. Some people even prefer ordering fast food to cooking at home, something I am sure most Italians would find unbelievable. I myself am only very rarely part of the “order at home” set, but I do have a large freezer where I store meat I buy on sale. I also pre-plan my meals.
In Rome, shopping for food is quite a different experience. The supermarkets here are, by all definitions, tiny. They are no bigger than our convenience stores. In preparation for dinner, one does not purchase food in an oversized, “we-have-everything concept,” chain superstore. To shop for one meal in Rome, I need to make several stops. And I will walk to each of them.
For example, in preparation for my minestrone dinner, I walked to the “supermarket” (which has a grand total of 2 ½ aisles) for canned beans and pancetta (which, incidentally, I could also have bought at the local cured meats shop). I then walked to the fruitteria, where I bought green beans, carrots, tomatoes, garlic and fresh basil. After that, I walked back to the supermarket, where I bought dried oregano (because the fruitteria didn’t have any that was fresh). Finally, I went to the Casa di Pane (House of Bread) for a homemade Italian loaf.
The result? The most delicious minestrone I have ever eaten, made with fresh ingredients I had carefully picked out that very afternoon. The carrots tasted very much like carrots, as did the green beans, and the fragrant basil, of course. And the tomatoes ... well, no words can do justice to their divine flavour. This is Italy, after all.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Our Apartment in Rome
We live just outside the Vatican walls - on a street with impossibly narrow sidewalks called Via Aurelia.
The first time I walked on this street, I nearly experienced half a dozen heart attacks. The sidewalk is just wide enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. It winds down a hill, where cars, buses and trucks appear without warning from just around the next curve, driving a little too fast for my comfort. To make matters worse, the city has planted light posts in the very middle of the sidewalk, thus necessitating my circumnavigating them as skilfully as possible, driving the stroller on two wheels until I've made it past these infuriating obstacles.
On our seconde day in Rome, I found another street, with very wide sidewalks, that safely takes us down the hill. There is only one small downside to this seemingly wonderful find: a four-flight set of stairs at the end of it.
Unfortunately these stairs are the only way to get, well, anywhere. If it's between the stairs and the panic-provoking sidewalk, I choose the stairs. Especially as each step is conveniently large enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. If I take it one step at a time, I can easily avoid a scene similar to that in the movie "The Untouchables," where a stroller makes its way, unrestrained, down a flight of stairs, making anyone watching want to scream: "The baby! Save the baby!" (though this scene was set in the middle of a gun fight, which is unlikely to happen here).
The street that leads to these stairs is the loveliest around our place. It is lined with trees, and here and there a plump gathering of rambling roses set along the edge of a stone wall fill the air with a musky scent. Iron gates offer a glimpse into courtyards graced with potted plants and laundry drying on a line. The most beautiful I've seen is one where a flight of stone steps, remisiscent of antiquity, leads up to a terrace.
One of my favorite buildings along this street is one of red and yellow brick, with green shutters and tall, narrow doors leading out to balconies with wrought iron railings.
Further down the street we are greeted by an awe-inspiring sight: behind the Vatican wall rises the cuppola of St. Peter's Basilica, shining like silver in the afternoon sun.
Our apartment building, with white walls and dotted with balconies, stands nearly at the top of the hill, almost directly behind the Vatican. Glass doors open from the living room and one of the two bedrooms onto a balcony overlooking a courtyard. Scenes of Italy, painted on canvas or represented on colourful prints, adorn the walls inside. An old red wood cabinet with blue shelves and glass doors that lock with a vintage key is set against the wall by the kitchen. Pale blue and yellow, or royal crimson and gold curtains bestow on each bedroom either a Romantic or antique look.
Hardly a sound and rarely more than a breeze and the beautiful, rich song of a bird reaches us through our open windows. The area around our apartment is quiet and peaceful. At the very beginning of the street that leads to our building, an arched gateway looks into a small courtyard where on a pedestal stands a white marble figure of the Virgin Mary. Above the gate, carved on the arching wall, are the latin words "pax et bonum."
Peace and happiness.
The first time I walked on this street, I nearly experienced half a dozen heart attacks. The sidewalk is just wide enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. It winds down a hill, where cars, buses and trucks appear without warning from just around the next curve, driving a little too fast for my comfort. To make matters worse, the city has planted light posts in the very middle of the sidewalk, thus necessitating my circumnavigating them as skilfully as possible, driving the stroller on two wheels until I've made it past these infuriating obstacles.
On our seconde day in Rome, I found another street, with very wide sidewalks, that safely takes us down the hill. There is only one small downside to this seemingly wonderful find: a four-flight set of stairs at the end of it.
Unfortunately these stairs are the only way to get, well, anywhere. If it's between the stairs and the panic-provoking sidewalk, I choose the stairs. Especially as each step is conveniently large enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. If I take it one step at a time, I can easily avoid a scene similar to that in the movie "The Untouchables," where a stroller makes its way, unrestrained, down a flight of stairs, making anyone watching want to scream: "The baby! Save the baby!" (though this scene was set in the middle of a gun fight, which is unlikely to happen here).
The street that leads to these stairs is the loveliest around our place. It is lined with trees, and here and there a plump gathering of rambling roses set along the edge of a stone wall fill the air with a musky scent. Iron gates offer a glimpse into courtyards graced with potted plants and laundry drying on a line. The most beautiful I've seen is one where a flight of stone steps, remisiscent of antiquity, leads up to a terrace.
One of my favorite buildings along this street is one of red and yellow brick, with green shutters and tall, narrow doors leading out to balconies with wrought iron railings.
Further down the street we are greeted by an awe-inspiring sight: behind the Vatican wall rises the cuppola of St. Peter's Basilica, shining like silver in the afternoon sun.
Our apartment building, with white walls and dotted with balconies, stands nearly at the top of the hill, almost directly behind the Vatican. Glass doors open from the living room and one of the two bedrooms onto a balcony overlooking a courtyard. Scenes of Italy, painted on canvas or represented on colourful prints, adorn the walls inside. An old red wood cabinet with blue shelves and glass doors that lock with a vintage key is set against the wall by the kitchen. Pale blue and yellow, or royal crimson and gold curtains bestow on each bedroom either a Romantic or antique look.
Hardly a sound and rarely more than a breeze and the beautiful, rich song of a bird reaches us through our open windows. The area around our apartment is quiet and peaceful. At the very beginning of the street that leads to our building, an arched gateway looks into a small courtyard where on a pedestal stands a white marble figure of the Virgin Mary. Above the gate, carved on the arching wall, are the latin words "pax et bonum."
Peace and happiness.
Friday, 29 April 2011
New Mom in Rome
You will have noticed that I have temporarily changed the title of my blog. I am writing this from an apartment on Via Aurelia, close to the Vatican wall. For the next month, I will be writing from Rome.
My mother is doing research at the Vatican's Secret Archives, and she and my father have rented an apartment in Rome for one month. I was invited to come along; all I had to pay was my airline ticket. I figured, with no husband at home and having 24 hour charge of our baby, why not do in Rome what I would be doing at home? Except that in Rome, I can dine al fresco at a trattoria, see the Coliseum, climb the Spanish steps, and walk in Piazza San Pietro. In the past three days, I have already done these things, and more.
Before I go on, I would first like to apologize to those among my readers who think I may be bragging. I do not wish to brag. What I would like to do, is take you along with me.
Imagine, if you will, a busy street in Rome, lined with 18th century palaces, the façades of which have been blackened by time, dirt and diesel. Now, take a left turn on a narrow, not-so-busy, cobblestone street, which leads to the small Piazza San'Ignazio. Here it is quiet. Around you stand apartment buildings with shutters on the windows and baskets of flowers hanging on the window sills. A trattoria - pizzeria, where tables and wicker chairs are set under white parasols, quietly awaits the dinner hour. Before you rises a 17th century church, the church of San'Ignazio, imposing in its size, beggin the question of how it manages to be tucked away, seemingly hidden, in this quiet Piazza.
We enter the church and slowly make our way down the nave, admiring the detailed illusionist ceiling, which looks like a dome but was in fact painted on flat canvas. While we stand in silent contemplation, my baby, who is in her stroller playing with her feet, suddenly purses her lips together and emits a very loud fart-like "Pppprrrrrrr" sound.
"Thank you for your opinion," my mother says, and I try not to laugh.
When we once again step outside, I take another look at the buildings surrounding the piazza, at the cobblestone and the trattoria, and I feel that I am really in Rome.
That feeling would very soon fade. After a few minutes' walk, I suddenly found myself in Disneyland.
Actually, it was the Fountain de Trevi. I have read that one can hear the fountain before one sees it. All I could hear, and indeed see, were the crowds. Hundreds, perhaps a thousand, people were piled around the fountain. Wives were being photographed about to throw a coin over their left shoulder with their right hand into the fountain. Teenagers were climbing over and under railings. Romans carrying polaroids were trying to cash in on the fountain's popularity by offering, for a small price, to take tourists' picture as they tossed their coins. Big as well as skinny men dressed as Roman legionnaires charged 3 euro to take a picture with them. Vendors called on the crowd to buy their pictures, jewelry and toys.
As I stood in mute amazement, I suddenly heard three sharp whistle blows. Police men and women were standing guard around the fountain. Apparently not achieving the results they had hoped for, the continued to blow into their whistles, this time with long, drawn-out breaths, making their faces turn purple in the process. Some of the fountain's patrons had decided it would be a good idea to stand on the very slippery, marble edge, over which water tended to run, thus making it very likely that they should slip and fall, thus polluting the work of the Baroque master.
I remember the last time I saw the Fontana di Trevi. It was nearly fifteen years ago. My family and I were the only people standing before the fountain.
In spite of the amusement park crowd, I squeezed my way to the edge of the fountain and threw in my coin. Except I did it wrong and had to find another coin to throw in with my right hand over my left shoulder (and not the other way around).
We left the fountain and made our way to Piazza di Spagna, where we sat on the steps and my daughter made eyes at the two men sitting behind us. Evening was setting in, so we decided to find a place to eat. Along the busy streets leading from the Piazza are innumerable trattorias, where a waiter tries his very best to usher you under one of his parasols and onto a seat. A rotund Italian was trying his luck with me, when my mother, who was a few feet behind, called out to me. The waiter, thinking she wanted me to stop at his trattoria, called out, in imitation of my mother: "Fera!" I laughed, and he was pleased, but the reason my mother had stopped me is because she had spotted a terrace hidden in a quiet nook down a short alleyway. This was perfect. Tables with green and white checkered cloths and wicker chairs sat under a leafy canopy, from which lanterns hung.
This is one of the things I love about Rome. What I believe my daughter loves about Rome, is the endless parade of handsome waiters to flirt with. They pinch her cheeks, wink at her, talk to her in Italian, and she grins and laughs, evidently fully enjoying herself.
My mother is doing research at the Vatican's Secret Archives, and she and my father have rented an apartment in Rome for one month. I was invited to come along; all I had to pay was my airline ticket. I figured, with no husband at home and having 24 hour charge of our baby, why not do in Rome what I would be doing at home? Except that in Rome, I can dine al fresco at a trattoria, see the Coliseum, climb the Spanish steps, and walk in Piazza San Pietro. In the past three days, I have already done these things, and more.
Before I go on, I would first like to apologize to those among my readers who think I may be bragging. I do not wish to brag. What I would like to do, is take you along with me.
Imagine, if you will, a busy street in Rome, lined with 18th century palaces, the façades of which have been blackened by time, dirt and diesel. Now, take a left turn on a narrow, not-so-busy, cobblestone street, which leads to the small Piazza San'Ignazio. Here it is quiet. Around you stand apartment buildings with shutters on the windows and baskets of flowers hanging on the window sills. A trattoria - pizzeria, where tables and wicker chairs are set under white parasols, quietly awaits the dinner hour. Before you rises a 17th century church, the church of San'Ignazio, imposing in its size, beggin the question of how it manages to be tucked away, seemingly hidden, in this quiet Piazza.
We enter the church and slowly make our way down the nave, admiring the detailed illusionist ceiling, which looks like a dome but was in fact painted on flat canvas. While we stand in silent contemplation, my baby, who is in her stroller playing with her feet, suddenly purses her lips together and emits a very loud fart-like "Pppprrrrrrr" sound.
"Thank you for your opinion," my mother says, and I try not to laugh.
When we once again step outside, I take another look at the buildings surrounding the piazza, at the cobblestone and the trattoria, and I feel that I am really in Rome.
That feeling would very soon fade. After a few minutes' walk, I suddenly found myself in Disneyland.
Actually, it was the Fountain de Trevi. I have read that one can hear the fountain before one sees it. All I could hear, and indeed see, were the crowds. Hundreds, perhaps a thousand, people were piled around the fountain. Wives were being photographed about to throw a coin over their left shoulder with their right hand into the fountain. Teenagers were climbing over and under railings. Romans carrying polaroids were trying to cash in on the fountain's popularity by offering, for a small price, to take tourists' picture as they tossed their coins. Big as well as skinny men dressed as Roman legionnaires charged 3 euro to take a picture with them. Vendors called on the crowd to buy their pictures, jewelry and toys.
As I stood in mute amazement, I suddenly heard three sharp whistle blows. Police men and women were standing guard around the fountain. Apparently not achieving the results they had hoped for, the continued to blow into their whistles, this time with long, drawn-out breaths, making their faces turn purple in the process. Some of the fountain's patrons had decided it would be a good idea to stand on the very slippery, marble edge, over which water tended to run, thus making it very likely that they should slip and fall, thus polluting the work of the Baroque master.
I remember the last time I saw the Fontana di Trevi. It was nearly fifteen years ago. My family and I were the only people standing before the fountain.
In spite of the amusement park crowd, I squeezed my way to the edge of the fountain and threw in my coin. Except I did it wrong and had to find another coin to throw in with my right hand over my left shoulder (and not the other way around).
We left the fountain and made our way to Piazza di Spagna, where we sat on the steps and my daughter made eyes at the two men sitting behind us. Evening was setting in, so we decided to find a place to eat. Along the busy streets leading from the Piazza are innumerable trattorias, where a waiter tries his very best to usher you under one of his parasols and onto a seat. A rotund Italian was trying his luck with me, when my mother, who was a few feet behind, called out to me. The waiter, thinking she wanted me to stop at his trattoria, called out, in imitation of my mother: "Fera!" I laughed, and he was pleased, but the reason my mother had stopped me is because she had spotted a terrace hidden in a quiet nook down a short alleyway. This was perfect. Tables with green and white checkered cloths and wicker chairs sat under a leafy canopy, from which lanterns hung.
This is one of the things I love about Rome. What I believe my daughter loves about Rome, is the endless parade of handsome waiters to flirt with. They pinch her cheeks, wink at her, talk to her in Italian, and she grins and laughs, evidently fully enjoying herself.
Friday, 22 April 2011
Losing the baby weight (or, Walking until the balls of my feet are touching pavement)
Losing the post-pregnancy baby weight is a challenge nearly every new mom faces. I consider myself one of the lucky moms: I only had ten pounds to lose, post pregnancy. I've heard of women who have gained forty, fifty, even sixty pounds of weight not related to actual "baby fat." They must have had a nasty surprise when stepping on the scale for the first time after coming home from the hospital.
When I took note of the weight I would have to lose, I remember thinking, "Well that's not too bad. It'll probably come off automatically, right?" I reasoned that, with my back-to-normal mobility, the weight that had piled on during pregnancy would just melt off.
I was wrong. Ten months later, I still had not lost a single pound. I knew I had to take action.
My baby is now 13 months old, and I have finally gotten my pre-baby body back. I can fit in my old jeans. I lost ten pounds in three months!
The fact is, I knew all along how to do it. But it was only in February that I decided to go ahead and actually make an effort. It worked.
I suppose some of my readers may be wondering how I did it. Let me first say, that I didn't do any Atkins, Dukan's (a new version of Atkins), South Beach, West Coast, whatever diet. I don't believe in diets, for the very practical reason that they are not sustainable. Ever.
So what, finally, is my secret to losing weight and keeping it off? Drumroll please ...
Eat well and exercise!
Allow me to elaborate:
I used to do Winsor Pilates. But this kind of exercise, as my husband kindly pointed out one day, is practically useless. Instead of working the entire body, one spends twenty minutes focusing on one muscle. And lying on the floor, hoping to get ripped abs, isn't going to burn fat; you'll just end up with hard abs hidden under a layer of flubber. And, if you're like me, you'll also end up feeling bloated. That's why I don't do a lot of abs exercises - just a few effective ones, and I always make sure to suck my belly in when I'm doing them.
My husband, who, as I have before mentioned, is in the military, explained to me that it's really quite simple: the best way to burn fat, get in shape, and most important, feel healthy, is to work on strength and cardio at the same time.
I was at Chapter's one day and I happened to notice a series of Jillian Michaels DVDs for sale. I bought one, thinking I would give it a try. It has two workout levels, 25 mins. each (which usually gives me more than enough time for a workout and shower while my baby naps), and incorporates weights into the workout.
Toward the end of the 25 mins., as I found myself doing jumping squats, feeling like my thigh muscles were going to fall off, sweating profusely, and listening to Jillian telling me I should be "gargling my heart in my throat," I knew I was getting a kick-ass workout. A few weeks later I bought other DVDs - it's important to vary your workout, to prevent your body from reaching a "plateau."
It's not easy finding the motivation to exercise. Instead of calculating how many minutes a week I "should" exercise, I ask myself, "how can I get some exercise today?" If I don't have time, I don't do it. But I always count it among my priorities. Today I spent the late morning, and most of the afternoon with my husband and daughter doing one of my favorite things: walking in downtown Montréal. By the end of the day, I felt like the balls of my feet had dug holes into the bottom of my shoes and were touching pavement. The muscle just above the back of the knee on my left leg felt just plain funky. My toes hurt. And when I got home, I noticed I had gotten a sunburn all over my face. In April. But I felt great! And isn't that what matters? Plus, I never for even one half-a-second felt guilty about the chocolate gelato I had had on rue Mont-Royal. I earned it!
I will finish by pointing out something I realized not too long ago: eating well and exercising shouldn't have an end-goal. In fact, one should never stop doing it. It's a lifestyle. I don't do it just to lose weight. I do it to feel good in my body. And if I do it for that reason, weight loss will naturally follow.
When I took note of the weight I would have to lose, I remember thinking, "Well that's not too bad. It'll probably come off automatically, right?" I reasoned that, with my back-to-normal mobility, the weight that had piled on during pregnancy would just melt off.
I was wrong. Ten months later, I still had not lost a single pound. I knew I had to take action.
My baby is now 13 months old, and I have finally gotten my pre-baby body back. I can fit in my old jeans. I lost ten pounds in three months!
The fact is, I knew all along how to do it. But it was only in February that I decided to go ahead and actually make an effort. It worked.
I suppose some of my readers may be wondering how I did it. Let me first say, that I didn't do any Atkins, Dukan's (a new version of Atkins), South Beach, West Coast, whatever diet. I don't believe in diets, for the very practical reason that they are not sustainable. Ever.
So what, finally, is my secret to losing weight and keeping it off? Drumroll please ...
Eat well and exercise!
Allow me to elaborate:
- Eating well means eating food that is good for you. Whole grain cereal? Good for you. Pop Tart? Not good.
- When I go grocery shopping, the only things I buy that are not part of the perimeter foods (fruits & veggies, bread, milk, eggs, yogurt, etc.) are whole grain cereal, high-fibre granola bars, low-fat pudding (a relatively rare treat), pasta, and spices.
- I listen to my body. I only eat when I'm hungry. When I feel full, I stop. Except in the case of soup for dinner, I never take seconds. The proof that this worked? I managed to shrink my stomach; I'm not as hungry now as I used to be.
- After unsuccessful attempts at trying to stop evening snacking altogether, I compromised: I only allow myself to eat fruit, yogurt, or a low-fat pudding after dinner.
- I eat fruit, yogurt, or a high-fibre granola bar if I'm hungry between meals. Incidentally, I don't force-feed myself raw brocoli for a snack. Gross. Those of you who enjoy it, you just go right ahead and indulge.
- I drink water whenever I'm thirsty. I only have one small glass of juice at breakfast, and a glass of skim milk for dinner.
- I cook at home nearly all the time.
- I read the labels to see what's in the food - instead of focusing on what the food does not contain. When I buy bread or cereal, I look at the ingredients and choose something that begins with whole grains or wheat.
- I never deny myself treats (surprise!) - within reason. Obviously I'm not going to scarf a chocolate cake every night. Fast food is a rare treat. Once every few months is ok. Once a week would make me gain weight. When I have guests, I prepare a dessert that is either healthy (ex: fruit salad), or that doesn't leave leftovers. Think chocolate mousse - it's relatively easy to adjust the recipe for the number of guests. When I am invited over to someone's house for dinner, I am not one of those women who beg for just a tiny sliver of cake. I'll take a regular piece, thank you. And make up for it the next day.
- I love chocolate. I don't believe in denying myself chocolate. I do, however, believe in real chocolate. A kit-kat bar is not chocolate. I allow myself one square of at least 70% chocolate or one low-fat chocolate pudding a day. I once bought myself a Lindt dark chocolate bar that lasted two weeks. And I wasn't the only one eating it.
I used to do Winsor Pilates. But this kind of exercise, as my husband kindly pointed out one day, is practically useless. Instead of working the entire body, one spends twenty minutes focusing on one muscle. And lying on the floor, hoping to get ripped abs, isn't going to burn fat; you'll just end up with hard abs hidden under a layer of flubber. And, if you're like me, you'll also end up feeling bloated. That's why I don't do a lot of abs exercises - just a few effective ones, and I always make sure to suck my belly in when I'm doing them.
My husband, who, as I have before mentioned, is in the military, explained to me that it's really quite simple: the best way to burn fat, get in shape, and most important, feel healthy, is to work on strength and cardio at the same time.
I was at Chapter's one day and I happened to notice a series of Jillian Michaels DVDs for sale. I bought one, thinking I would give it a try. It has two workout levels, 25 mins. each (which usually gives me more than enough time for a workout and shower while my baby naps), and incorporates weights into the workout.
Toward the end of the 25 mins., as I found myself doing jumping squats, feeling like my thigh muscles were going to fall off, sweating profusely, and listening to Jillian telling me I should be "gargling my heart in my throat," I knew I was getting a kick-ass workout. A few weeks later I bought other DVDs - it's important to vary your workout, to prevent your body from reaching a "plateau."
It's not easy finding the motivation to exercise. Instead of calculating how many minutes a week I "should" exercise, I ask myself, "how can I get some exercise today?" If I don't have time, I don't do it. But I always count it among my priorities. Today I spent the late morning, and most of the afternoon with my husband and daughter doing one of my favorite things: walking in downtown Montréal. By the end of the day, I felt like the balls of my feet had dug holes into the bottom of my shoes and were touching pavement. The muscle just above the back of the knee on my left leg felt just plain funky. My toes hurt. And when I got home, I noticed I had gotten a sunburn all over my face. In April. But I felt great! And isn't that what matters? Plus, I never for even one half-a-second felt guilty about the chocolate gelato I had had on rue Mont-Royal. I earned it!
I will finish by pointing out something I realized not too long ago: eating well and exercising shouldn't have an end-goal. In fact, one should never stop doing it. It's a lifestyle. I don't do it just to lose weight. I do it to feel good in my body. And if I do it for that reason, weight loss will naturally follow.
Monday, 18 April 2011
Happy baby
My daughter has been very happy (and a bit hyper) lately. No surprises there, for her father is home this week. I also wonder, however, if her grandfather hasn't been secretly giving her a dose of his potent, turkish-style coffee in her sippy cup.
Actually, she's been just a bit more "awake" than usual for the past week. We've only spent the last two days with her grandparents. She's so excited to be here, she lets out these high-pitched sqeaks while rocking her upper body in fast and seemingly uncontrolled motions. I guess she's just a happy baby. And well she should be, for her grandfather spends most of his time carrying her around and playing with her. When he's in the house, she wants nothing to do with her mom, dad, and grandma. But that's ok, because we know she loves us just the same.
Here's a precious parenting moment: the other day, I picked my daughter up at my neighbor's house just before lunch; when she saw me, she said "Maamm!", and proceeded to pump her little fists in the air with so much vehemence she nearly struck herself in the face. It gives a mother such a wonderful feeling, when her baby is so excited to see her she nearly punches herself.
When my daughter gets really excited, she does the strangest things. One of the funniest is her head-banging move. I pick her up, and sometimes this will make her so happy she will rock her head forward and back in a very fast, brisk motion, just like some long-haired 80's rocker. I always have to move my head a bit to the side to make sure our faces don't get into what would be a very painful collision. Another thing she does is her "Ray Charles"; that's when she'll rock her body from side to side while looking up at the ceiling. I ought to put some sunglasses on her face when she does this and take a video.
She also loves to be applauded. Whenever she does something new, we let out a cheer and clap our hands. This makes her so happy, she bounces on her tush while clapping her hands, as though to say: "Look! Aren't I fabulous?" Of course, sometimes she gets carried away, and as one hand misses the other, she comes dangerously close to slapping herself in the face (just like with the fist-pumping thing).
My daughter is a happy baby. And with so many people around her who love her, why wouldn't she be?
Actually, she's been just a bit more "awake" than usual for the past week. We've only spent the last two days with her grandparents. She's so excited to be here, she lets out these high-pitched sqeaks while rocking her upper body in fast and seemingly uncontrolled motions. I guess she's just a happy baby. And well she should be, for her grandfather spends most of his time carrying her around and playing with her. When he's in the house, she wants nothing to do with her mom, dad, and grandma. But that's ok, because we know she loves us just the same.
Here's a precious parenting moment: the other day, I picked my daughter up at my neighbor's house just before lunch; when she saw me, she said "Maamm!", and proceeded to pump her little fists in the air with so much vehemence she nearly struck herself in the face. It gives a mother such a wonderful feeling, when her baby is so excited to see her she nearly punches herself.
When my daughter gets really excited, she does the strangest things. One of the funniest is her head-banging move. I pick her up, and sometimes this will make her so happy she will rock her head forward and back in a very fast, brisk motion, just like some long-haired 80's rocker. I always have to move my head a bit to the side to make sure our faces don't get into what would be a very painful collision. Another thing she does is her "Ray Charles"; that's when she'll rock her body from side to side while looking up at the ceiling. I ought to put some sunglasses on her face when she does this and take a video.
She also loves to be applauded. Whenever she does something new, we let out a cheer and clap our hands. This makes her so happy, she bounces on her tush while clapping her hands, as though to say: "Look! Aren't I fabulous?" Of course, sometimes she gets carried away, and as one hand misses the other, she comes dangerously close to slapping herself in the face (just like with the fist-pumping thing).
My daughter is a happy baby. And with so many people around her who love her, why wouldn't she be?
Sunday, 10 April 2011
I Once Had a Dog Named Jip ...
I once had a dog named Jip. Now, it appears, her name is "Chanel." That's what her new owners named her. Oh well. She belongs to them now. But to me she will always be Jip.
I have had Jip for eight years. I adopted her as a pup when I was living and working in China. I guess that very fact should have rung some alarm bells: People who like to travel might want to think twice before getting a dog. Still, I wanted a little Chinese dog, and I got one. For the next eight years we were firm friends. I brought her back to Canada, we lived with my parents for a while, I took her to live with me in an apartment while I worked on my B.Ed., and finally we landed in a suburb outside Montreal, where she learned that a dog will inevitably fall into the background in any family scene where there is a baby.
I suppose it was time for her to begin her retirement. I had been thinking about it for a long time and finally came to a decision.
I found the perfect home for her. A wonderful couple living in a small house in the country. The lady is retired, and both are exceedingly fond of dogs. Jip didn't even seem to mind my leaving her with them. Not even so much as a whimper escaped her as I bent to give her one last kiss on the nose. She seemed content.
Jip was a handfull. It took me a year to train her and even after all that hard work she would occasionally rebel. But I loved her and she proved to be a faithful companion. She also provided me with a lot of laughs. I will therefore share some of the most amusing "Jip stories" I have kept stored in my memory:
In the neighborhood where I now live also lives a tiny black dog named Snoopy. A very ill-behaved dog, as it turns out. One day as I was walking Jip in the park I noticed Snoopy playing with his owners. He wasn't on a leash, which is strictly against the rules. Jip found a shaded spot beneath a tree to do her business. As I waited and Jip squatted, I suddenly heard a man yell: "Snoopy! Snoopy! Here!" Oh no, I thought to myself. I knew what was coming. I had barely time to turn around when out of nowhere came Snoopy, teeth bared and snarling. Jip looked up in time to see Snoopy jump on her back just as she was mid-shit. As I made up my mind not to get involved and just let those two work things out on their own, Snoopy's owner came over, at a very slow pace, to retrieve his dog. "Sorry," he grinned. Sure. How would he like to have someone jump on him while he's sitting on the toilet? The man grabbed Snoopy and tore him off Jip, who by then was livid. I led her away; she no longer seemed interested in finishing her business.
From the first time my husband and I gave our newborn baby her bath, Jip was in the washroom with us. The second or third time, she got a special treat. As I held my baby over the tub while her daddy washed her hair, she suddenly decided to pee all over my hand. It trickled down my arm, onto the counter and down to the floor. Jip immediately pounced on it and drank - as I mopped my hand and cringed.
Only a few weeks after I adopted Jip I changed jobs; I was offered a teaching position at the Taizhou TV college in Jiao Jiang. Soon after we got settled in our new apartment at the teachers' residence, one of my colleagues invited me to her apartment for some tea. She seemed a little shy and embarrassed to be speaking with a foreigner - there were only about six of us in Jiao Jiang at the time, including two young children. I tried to show her that there was nothing scary about me, and eventually she seemed to feel more at ease. It was at this very point that Jip, who I had brought along with me, ran out of my colleagues bathroom, proudly brandishing a very dirty maxi-pad in her mouth that she had obviously just pulled out of the waste-basket. My colleague turned red with mortification and bolted after my dog, trying to grab the pad from her. But Jip was too quick, and I practically had to tackle her before we could relieve her of her treasure. "Bad Jip!" I scolded. My colleague never again invited me over for tea.
The first time I spent the night at my husband's house (he was then my boyfriend), I brought Jip along, as I could not leave her alone at my apartment. The next morning, as we were just waking up, Jip jumped on the bed and proceeded to make the most disgusting hacking and gagging noises. As she let out the last gag, followed by a magnificent cough, my husband said: "yaaah ... you're dog's sexy." He had no idea then that dogs in many ways resemble their owners ...
I will miss you, Jip!
I have had Jip for eight years. I adopted her as a pup when I was living and working in China. I guess that very fact should have rung some alarm bells: People who like to travel might want to think twice before getting a dog. Still, I wanted a little Chinese dog, and I got one. For the next eight years we were firm friends. I brought her back to Canada, we lived with my parents for a while, I took her to live with me in an apartment while I worked on my B.Ed., and finally we landed in a suburb outside Montreal, where she learned that a dog will inevitably fall into the background in any family scene where there is a baby.
I suppose it was time for her to begin her retirement. I had been thinking about it for a long time and finally came to a decision.
I found the perfect home for her. A wonderful couple living in a small house in the country. The lady is retired, and both are exceedingly fond of dogs. Jip didn't even seem to mind my leaving her with them. Not even so much as a whimper escaped her as I bent to give her one last kiss on the nose. She seemed content.
Jip was a handfull. It took me a year to train her and even after all that hard work she would occasionally rebel. But I loved her and she proved to be a faithful companion. She also provided me with a lot of laughs. I will therefore share some of the most amusing "Jip stories" I have kept stored in my memory:
In the neighborhood where I now live also lives a tiny black dog named Snoopy. A very ill-behaved dog, as it turns out. One day as I was walking Jip in the park I noticed Snoopy playing with his owners. He wasn't on a leash, which is strictly against the rules. Jip found a shaded spot beneath a tree to do her business. As I waited and Jip squatted, I suddenly heard a man yell: "Snoopy! Snoopy! Here!" Oh no, I thought to myself. I knew what was coming. I had barely time to turn around when out of nowhere came Snoopy, teeth bared and snarling. Jip looked up in time to see Snoopy jump on her back just as she was mid-shit. As I made up my mind not to get involved and just let those two work things out on their own, Snoopy's owner came over, at a very slow pace, to retrieve his dog. "Sorry," he grinned. Sure. How would he like to have someone jump on him while he's sitting on the toilet? The man grabbed Snoopy and tore him off Jip, who by then was livid. I led her away; she no longer seemed interested in finishing her business.
From the first time my husband and I gave our newborn baby her bath, Jip was in the washroom with us. The second or third time, she got a special treat. As I held my baby over the tub while her daddy washed her hair, she suddenly decided to pee all over my hand. It trickled down my arm, onto the counter and down to the floor. Jip immediately pounced on it and drank - as I mopped my hand and cringed.
Only a few weeks after I adopted Jip I changed jobs; I was offered a teaching position at the Taizhou TV college in Jiao Jiang. Soon after we got settled in our new apartment at the teachers' residence, one of my colleagues invited me to her apartment for some tea. She seemed a little shy and embarrassed to be speaking with a foreigner - there were only about six of us in Jiao Jiang at the time, including two young children. I tried to show her that there was nothing scary about me, and eventually she seemed to feel more at ease. It was at this very point that Jip, who I had brought along with me, ran out of my colleagues bathroom, proudly brandishing a very dirty maxi-pad in her mouth that she had obviously just pulled out of the waste-basket. My colleague turned red with mortification and bolted after my dog, trying to grab the pad from her. But Jip was too quick, and I practically had to tackle her before we could relieve her of her treasure. "Bad Jip!" I scolded. My colleague never again invited me over for tea.
The first time I spent the night at my husband's house (he was then my boyfriend), I brought Jip along, as I could not leave her alone at my apartment. The next morning, as we were just waking up, Jip jumped on the bed and proceeded to make the most disgusting hacking and gagging noises. As she let out the last gag, followed by a magnificent cough, my husband said: "yaaah ... you're dog's sexy." He had no idea then that dogs in many ways resemble their owners ...
I will miss you, Jip!
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