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RA, TB and Me

Photo by freestocks.org 

I slowly walked the length of the mall, exaggerating the shallowness of my breath, as I attempted to inhale deeply.  My body and I had been at odds for years, but this was different.  Something felt wrong.  

Google confirmed it. I typed out my symptoms as I always did, the diagnosis was as clear as the screen I had typed them on, slightly blurry. I had tuberculosis.  The obscurity of catching tuberculosis, while living in a first world country, made me quite confident it was indeed what I had contracted. My life and my body do not often choose ordinary, and Google had never yet steered me wrong.

I worried I would be a headline in the local newspaper.  Several years earlier, I read about a man who had died while using an outhouse, it seemed like an unfair thing, to publish the details of such a death, adding unnecessary insult to fatal injury.  I worked at a butcher shop and volunteered in two kindergarten classes, while attending university.  I was a public health risk; it would be unwise not to alert the community. 

I remembered the commercials, listing tuberculosis as a common side effect, among many, of the drug I injected into my body twice a week. I had to have both a TB test and chest x-ray before it could be prescribed.  The piles of paper work required to be approved for it almost persuaded me from pursuing it, but I needed it.  

I was sixteen when I began to feel achy and was soon diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.  Too old for it to be juvenile arthritis, but too young for this to be common, my body fought hard against the usual. 

Upon meeting with a physician, I received a slightly less exciting, much more mediocre diagnosis, pneumonia.  I took the antibiotics.  After a week my breathing eased and I had nearly forgotten it all, when it happened again, the difficult breathing.  As a precaution, I was sent for x-rays which revealed something unidentifiable inhabiting my lungs.  A CT scan revealed something still undetermined lurking in my lungs, so a bronchoscopy was ordered.   

A few days later, a panicky phone call revealed I had tuberculosis.  My faith in Google was restored.  I realized the seriousness of this communicable disease as three more calls, in quick succession, pleaded with me to surrender myself to the Centre for Disease Control. 

I had to stop the medication I was taking, immediately.  I was scared, this medication had made existing less painful, almost comfortable.  It was the last step in a long line of medications I had tried, the only drug that could mask the pain I was in while protecting my body from itself.  

***

My mom cried when I received my RA diagnosis.  To be fair, she frequently cried at heart-warming Tim Hortons commercials too, but this was different.  She cried more as she watched my body slowly deteriorate, the swelling caused my wrist bones to disappear, my thumb to no longer bend and my hands to become permanently disfigured.  She was there when the doctor told me I was bleeding internally.  It made sense.  For months I had been taking an extra dose of my medication, the one that advised to not take it on an empty stomach.  I took it on an empty stomach, in the middle of the night, because the pain that radiated every joint in my body made sleeping painful.  I had to stop that medication, my body had become accustomed to it and it hurt. 

My mom, preparing to attend nursing school, seemed a little too excited when I was prescribed my first injectable medication.  I reluctantly indulged her, I wasn’t ready to do it myself.  She prepared my first injection with gloved hands.  The instructions, she had very carefully read, made the gloves sound very important. The medication entering my body was too toxic to come into contact with her skin.  I’m not sure I gave that drug a fair chance, when I nervously reported it wasn’t working and moved onto the next one.   

***

Perhaps I didn’t quite understand the serious implications of having tuberculosis.  I announced my arrival at the Centre for Disease Control and took a seat in the waiting room.  It was ten minutes before they realized just which patient I was.  In that time I had had a lengthy conversation with a newly landed immigrant.  I shook his hand as I welcomed him to Canada and we chatted about his first weeks here.  

And then they called my name, passed me a mask, and asked me to continue waiting in the exact same area I was hoping to hide my now-masked face from.  Suddenly, all conversation came to halt.  People glanced uncomfortably in my direction, careful not to lock eyes with mine. 

I was brought into a back room.  They asked so many questions.  They wanted to know where I had contracted it, but nothing I said met any of their expectations.  Given a variety of requisitions, several back up masks and a paper bag filled with pills, the next six months were mapped out for me.  

I was sent for x-rays, conveniently just down the street.  I left the building and walked down the busy city street, feeling ridiculous, but I remained responsibly masked.  Free from the confines of the Centre for Disease Control, I tried to pass myself off as one of those mostly-regular paranoid individuals, afraid of contracting some sort of airborne disease, rather than the infected and possibly contagious individual I most definitely was.  Safely inside the door, my masked face bought me a precedent place in line.  

I had been for many x-rays before.  The uncomfortable positions, the lead lap belt, protecting my reproductive organs from the radiation the rest of my body was frequently exposed to, and the awkward small talk with the technician, were all too familiar. X-rays were how the doctors tracked the progress of the disease that was slowly eating away at my joints, my own body vindictively attacking itself and now my own lungs were turning on me.

Then blood work.  Fully masked, they ushered me into a private room and asked another series of questions as they drew vial after vial of blood.  Still stunned, the medical community wanted answers.  While I explained about the medication I was taking, they wanted something further and tested for a gamut of conditions. 

I was also familiar with blood work, and needles.  A well-worn monthly requisition resided in my wallet and the medication I had been on for the last couple of years required that I give myself twice weekly injections.  I always knew what to expect and yet somehow I always put it off until the very end of the day and always hovered a long while before bracing myself and burying the needle into my already bruised thigh.   

I took a test home with me, to confirm whether I had the infectious type of tuberculosis, or the dormant non-infectious type.  The test required me to collect saliva over three days, to submit the collection and to wait.  My birthday was on day three.  

My mom, now a nursing student working part-time, was torn on whether she should risk her health visiting me on my birthday.  She decided that eating cake outdoors would be a small enough risk, that she was willing to expose herself and my two younger sisters to it.  On my birthday, I answered the doorbell to three masked individuals.  No unnecessary chances were to be taken.  We sat outside while my sisters and I mockingly laughed at my mom, at the absurdity of attempting to wear a mask while eating birthday cake.   

I ended my quarantine by delivering my sample to the lab.  I later learned I was not infectious.  I celebrated the good news with a sigh of relief and my fear of being an alarming headline subsided.

The good thing about non-infectious TB is that it is straightforward.  Six months of several antibiotics and a B12 vitamin, no deviating.  

When I was newly diagnosed with arthritis everyone thought they should weigh in, sharing opinion after opinion, treatment after treatment. I politely listened to a range of suggestions.  It was exhausting, and yet I was hopeful something simple would work.  I eventually learned to say “no thank you,” and later to say it bluntly.  Living with chronic pain, I had become slightly irritable all the time and more easily irritated by useless suggestions from people not also suffering from crippling, bone altering conditions.  Exhausted and in pain I needed something strong and something effective.  

I had been to an arthritis support meeting, held in the hospital.  I left despairingly.  I had shaken hands with crippled hands and listened to their daily plights, this was likely the direction that my body was heading.  Only a few years later I too, would have the bent hands indicative of rheumatoid arthritis, I would lose ninety percent range of motion in my wrists and I’d grow accustomed to the constant aches and pains.  A body in constant pain with many restrictions would become my home and I would grow comfortable there, weirdly grateful it was not a harsher more formidable disease.  

After weeks without taking my medication, I realized that my arthritis was in a partial sort of remission.  The inflammation and pain were minimal without the drug that I had relied on for years.  The TB was eventually shelved and added to the growing stack of anomalies.  

And now, 10 years later, I recount my visit to see the rheumatologist, back to my mom, a recent graduate and registered nurse.  At my first check up in years, I asked him, “When do you think it will come back?”  He replied, “If I was a betting man, you’d already have it back.”  And so I wait, every day evaluating my body, checking in with my knees, wrists and feet, enjoying each day where the pain is minimal.  This feels like borrowed time and for once I’m happy with by body’s choice to be unique.

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The Hand Mold

A week after Christmas, our home had resumed a level of near normalcy we felt comfortable with.  Presents had mostly found their way into closets and toy bins.  But one item remained on the counter, unopened, constantly attracting the attention of our four-year-old.  We had said enough “laters.” She was clearly onto us.  Knowing we had little to no intention of opening it anytime soon, she pleaded that we open it immediately.

Removal of the packaging attracted our two-year-old daughter, who pulled up a chair so she could partake in the action.  My husband, occupying the tiny space between both chairs, very wisely intercepted a small but dangerous amount of glitter, and threw the contraband straight into the garbage.  With a bit of warm water, they prepared the hand-molding, memory-making kit.  

They poked, then kneaded, then stretched the dough-like substance.  Excitedly, the girls stretched out their fingers as their dad worked to flatten it, stretching the dough to accommodate three hands, on a dough that was meant for one.

It was meant for our youngest to commemorate just how tiny she was on her first Christmas.  Just two weeks old now, I held her as I comfortably sat on a bar stool on the other side of the counter.  I observed my husband using all sorts of patience to complete the task, kindly accepting help from the very persistent hands begging to take part.  

When he deemed it large enough, he took our four-year-olds hand and pressed it into the white material, carefully pressing each finger to make a deep enough indent.  Our two-year-old spread out her fingers as wide as she could, her hand overtook the remaining space.  It took several attempts to position her hand appropriately, only to find she had blue marker all over her hand, that was now a part of the commemorative hand mold.  Now it was time for our youngest daughter, the one it was intended for.  Her hand barely fit in the tiny remaining space, he struggled to unclench her fist, jostling her around, while he pressed her hand gently but hard enough to make an impression. Both older sisters crowded in even closer.  

And then she spat up.  A big one.  All over the whole project.  Our four-year-old was heart broken, our two-year-old cried loudly.    

It was salvageable, just like most of these moments that go awry.  After he wiped it clean, he etched in their names and the year with a fork.  He laid it flat to dry, still somehow it curled.  Maybe it needed the glitter, maybe it needed to not be spat up on or maybe it didn’t like being washed. 

This curled, stained, spat up on commemorative hand mold, perfectly represents our imperfect family.  Normally this happens when we attempt “nice” family photos, someone is doing something ridiculous, isn’t looking or is facing completely backwards.  I love those photos, always laughing at how accurately the camera is able to capture all of our personalities or our particular moods that day.  Like most of our attempts at anything we do as parents, this didn’t go as we had envisioned and all we could do was laugh and carry on.  

And now this beautifully tiring season in our lives is solidified in a weird piece of foam that hangs on our four-year-olds bed.  

It’s perfect.

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the island

Photo by Dan Stark

The first time I went there I was nine.  It was paradise.  

We arrived on a barge brimming with building supplies.  On the perfect sunny day, I lay amongst the materials, basking, dreaming of adventure.  As I watched the waves the sea breeze put salt in my hair, on my skin and my lips.  The hum of the motor and the sound of the barge cutting through the water lulled me to sleep.  I awoke to excited cheers from my siblings as we neared our destination.  Soon, metal scraped rock and we waded to the shore of the bay.  We stood together and took stock of our surroundings.  Beyond the barnacle covered rock and the driftwood lay unexplored wonder, inviting us to take notice.  

The arbutus warmly welcomed us ashore, with twisted knotty branches and peeling auburn bark.  A meadow on one side swayed in the breeze, tall trees on the other mysteriously shaded the ground beneath them.  A sea pebble path beckoned.  We had arrived. 

My great uncle bought an island.  Lucky for us, an island requires many work trips and my dad, a builder and contractor, got the call.  And we, my parents, my three younger siblings and I, were allowed to explore it, all twenty-four, thrilling acres.  

We carried our belongings to the other side of the island and settled into what would one day be deemed “the green cabin” unimaginatively so, as the name simply matched the paint.  After choosing a bed, we were free to explore, as long as we kept our life jackets on, mom’s rules.  We didn’t mind, my brother and I, the bright orange vest was a small price to pay for a great deal of freedom.

We hiked the perimeter.  We explored derelict cabins.  We followed every path and created our own.  We hungrily devoured every inch of that island, taking in everything she would share with us. 

Twice a day the shores would transform themselves, leaving even more to be discovered. Furious crashing waves overtook the shore on one side, on the other side the waves were gentle, steady, almost deceptively so, sneaking up on us digging clams. She left behind her a sandy swimming oasis. She completely recreated her shoreline, a timeless ever changing beauty. She formed endless tide pools as she made her retreat, a tiny glimpse of the life she contained within herself.

We studied them, enjoying the aliveness.  We’d stir the water to see what was hiding. Crabs skittered while other unknown creatures made their presence known before quickly disappearing.  We’d let the gentle arms of the anemones wrap around our fingers, pulling us in like the island itself was drawing us in.  

It was magical.

After a full afternoon exploring we all settled in, exhausted.  Big black ants interrupted our sleep as they rained down from the ceiling, really big, winged, black ants, that chewed through boards with little effort.  We snuggled in a little tighter, lying awake imagining all of the other insects the daylight had hidden from us.  

We would return to the island at least once a year.  Family reunions were relocated there and my brother and I made sure to tag along on as many extra trips as possible.  Over time island stories have blended into one large story in my mind, spanning many years.  

Our great uncle taught us to fish.  He led us to a shed full of old rods and passed us a tackle kit complete with rusty hooks and a knife.  It was our job now to feed the crab traps.  Left to our own devices we untaught ourselves and created our own sport, which would not be fair to call fishing.  We needed bait.  We plunged our hands into the water, scraped the side of the dock and raised up fistfuls of mussels.  We began saving money for fancy lures, they paled in comparison to mussels scraped from their shells by our thumbnails and loosely attached to a hook by filthy fingers.  If we were lucky a biting sea worm fell out from the clump.  We only learned about the biting part when my youngest sister, so curious, held one too long.  We caught tiny fish with just a hook on a line, no rod meant more of us were contributing to the excitement.  We used the small fish to catch bigger fish and the bigger fish fed the crab traps.  In the process the sea devoured many lures, many hooks and at least one fishing rod.  

Many rock cod fell victim to our hopeful lines, each one smugly marched back to the adults. We felt like champions. We gloated, a highly regarded skill in our family and we were honing it well. Our success despite lack of expertise and equipment only added to the size of our fish tales, but more importantly to our already swelling egos.

Our great uncle taught us to trap crab and later to cook and eat them. We baited the trap and optimistically lowered it into the water. It was the best watched trap in the Pacific Ocean, as we eagerly hoisted it onto the dock several times a day. We learned which crabs we should release and which crabs we should risk our fingers to bring back for lunch. Large fearsome pincers, meant many were spared only to be recaught the following day.

While on one of our daily perimeter walks, my brother and I stumbled upon a pair of kayakers peacefully eating their lunch on the shore.  Baffled that anyone either missed, or chose not to adhere to, the very large private island signs, we shouted out from behind a large rock, “this is a private island!”  As if we owned the place, at the very least we felt we had a duty to protect it.  Probably out of concern for the young, very dishevelled kids in bright orange life vests they shouted back, “where are your parents?”  We scuttled away.  Later we learned that while the island itself was private, the beaches at low tide, were not. 

Showers were hard to come by, not that we wanted to slow down long enough to be bothered with one.  Our cabin didn’t have regular plumbing or electricity.  Showers were heated over a propane stove, poured into a bag and hoisted into a shower stall in a make shift bathroom on the deck.  It was a fine balance between adding enough water of a decent showering temperature, being able to hoist it high enough and having the water last long enough to get the soap off, all while avoiding the large number of even larger spiders that seemed to be drawn to the warmth of the water.  

We spent our days exploring, fishing, or visiting the different cabins filled with different grandparents, aunties, uncles and cousins.  Our favourite cabin was always Eagles Nest, where an auntie or grandma always greeted us with a warm hug.  It seemed to be the hub of all the island action and if you looked just past the bay, you would see two adult eagles raising their young.  Eagle’s Nest always hosted happy hour, nightly suppers and crib tournaments, organized by us kids.  Two dollars to play, a small price to pay to learn from the older generation, who we believed to be the greatest crib players who had ever played the game.  Lead with what was cut, never split a run and be a gracious winner with just the right amount of smugness.  The laughter each night carried on far past our bed time, and echoed across the bay as we settled into our beds.  We were lucky to be a part of this.  

With at least two to a bed my cousin and I often chatted, ate Rolos and listened to mixed tapes until we were too tired to hold our eyes open any longer.  

There were jobs to do each day, but we were happily occupied by the tedious tasks.  We pulled endless amounts of thistles from an unused corner of the island, noticeably far from where the adults were working.   During high tide we would drag driftwood out of the bay only to see it returned with the following high tide.  We received payment in large fistfuls of jujubes, not that we needed to be paid.  The work was fun and the company even better.  During low tide we scoured the beach for the marbles we had shot earlier, gathering the next days ammunition and possible bragging rights if we hit our target.  We toiled alongside our cousins, happily joking and constantly teasing each other.  

We regularly tried to con a ride on the gator, a small lime green tractor with a box on the back.  Meant to transport aging family members and luggage, seeing how many of the younger members could fit in the box became a source of entertainment for us.  At age twelve, around the same time as we were allowed to remove our orange life vests, we were upgraded from back seat to drivers seat.  We very courteously offered to drive everybody and everything wherever they wanted to go, priding ourselves on how fast we could handle the corners. 

The ocean, a mysterious beauty, scared me, in a thrilling terrified sort of way.  Sure of a very slow torturous death, I tightly held my cousin’s hand each time we decided to make the jump into the bay.  Hysterical screaming ensued each time I imagined my foot brushing a shark or some other fearsome creature.  Admittedly, this happened often and the swim was often short.  

We laughed all day long, lovingly poking fun at one another.  Good jokes voiced loudly were even more loudly appreciated and often repeated, until they became immortalized as a part our of island speech.  

Each time we prepared to leave, we would do a final perimeter tour.  We’d stand on the farthest point, close to where we had seen the orcas play earlier, and study the vastness of the water, the mainland barely visible on the horizon.  The rest of the world was unaware of the island’s magic and yet here we were observing it, a part of it and it a part of us.  

Each stay was never long enough, I missed it before I had even left, the people and the island itself.  Even now, years since my last visit, every time I smell the ocean, I’m transported back there, sweet reminiscing.  The island meant something different to each of us, but to me, she was freedom.  She was exploration.  She was family. 

She was everything.

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Baby Loss: Our Story

October 15th is here, baby loss and miscarriage awareness day. The day that I wonder if this is the October that I will share my story. The 6th October since losing our sweet first baby. So here it is, the story and the feelings that have been lingering in my thoughts and my soul, that I have long anticipated writing for myself, and for you.

We became pregnant quite quickly and waited the obligatory twelve weeks before announcing our expected bundle. It was an uneventful pregnancy that consisted of routine doctor appointments and ultrasounds, We were always relieved to hear the word “normal” at every visit, the word all parents hope and pray to hear throughout pregnancy and continue to hope for as their children grow.

Each week as my pregnancy progressed I checked the baby loss statistics, comparing the percentage of survival to the week before it. I felt secure in the numbers as they surpassed the 99th percentile. We did some light research, followed by some shopping and we prepared a nursery.

At week 35, in the very early morning of my husband’s birthday, my water broke, while lying in bed. We were anxious as we headed to the hospital, unsure of what to expect in labour and delivery and only slightly concerned about our baby coming a little early. Upon arrival we were shown through the NICU, just in case our little one would need a week or two of breathing help and monitoring. Walking through the NICU I saw tiny babies who presented quite well and I knew we were in the right place.   If these little little ones were doing alright, a 35 week baby would be just fine.

He wasn’t.

Labour did not progress, and I was induced. With each contraction our little one’s heart would slow down, but would pick up again after the contraction had subsided. After awhile it was decided that a caesarean would be a wise choice for our circumstances.

In surgery my uterus was very contracted, our little one’s head was stuck in my pelvis and the cord, up by his ear, had a great deal of pressure on it. They couldn’t get him out. Panic filled the room as all of the medical professionals available tried everything they could think of. Amidst all of the panic, I was calm because I knew, I just knew, that they could figure it out. My husband was removed from the room and right before I went under general anesthesia I heard from a doctor, “I don’t know what to do.”

I woke to very somber medical staff, their faces displaying the gravity of the situation, and still I was completely ignorant of just how wrong things had gone. Staff broke protocol and wheeled me into the NICU to see my little one. There he was; I got to lay eyes on the one that I had dreamed about, the one that had kept me up at night, the one that had made me so uncomfortable, the one I loved so fiercely from the moment I first felt him, and I was proud. There is nothing quite like meeting your first baby, the one that makes you a parent, the incredibleness of it all as you study their tiny body and marvel at the mystery that is life. Aside from all of the wires and tubes, he was breath-taking and incredible, he was perfect.

A medical transfer via helicopter should have been my first clue that things were not going well, but it wasn’t until we arrived at the children’s hospital a few hours later and saw my sweet baby, looking very unhealthy that I realized that this story wasn’t going to end the way I had dreamed that it would.   This day wouldn’t be just a story we told him each year on his birthday, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.

His head was so swollen. There was a bleed in his brain, caused by the pressure from the vacuum the medical staff needed to use to get him out.   Medical staff was busy, wracking their minds and trying everything they could think of to save his life. Unfortunately the trauma his tiny five pound, five ounce body had received was too great, and he passed away after eleven hours of life, surrounded by love and in our arms.

Confused, exhausted and broken we left our little guy in the hospital and returned to the quietest house in the world. Empty body, empty arms, empty nursery. I was so lucky to have a husband that I was able to cling to through all of it. Thankfully our home was soon filled with family and friends and flowers and food, everyone took such great care of us, we will be eternally grateful for the kindnesses we were shown after losing our son.

If you are brave enough, determined enough and fortunate enough to get to do it all over again, the stats are refreshed and your chances at heart break are just as likely as they were the last time around, except they feel overwhelmingly like 100% because I lost 100% of the babies I carried. It feels like life should owe you a pass, because when you’ve been one in one thousand, that feels like enough.

And you’re aware. So. Much. More. Aware. Of every single thing that can go wrong. In order to feel normal you seek out people that are like you, that understand you, that get you completely and you surround yourself with them. I was so fortunate to connect with a supportive community of women online, who had all lost their babies within a few months of us losing our sweet son. We helped each other through the hurts and the healing and we have remained friends over the years.

It goes excruciatingly slow. Agonizingly slow. Painstakingly slow. Each hour is torturous and there were countless times I wanted to ask my obstetrician for a medically induced coma, or a crystal ball. I could endure the 40 long weeks of pregnancy if I KNEW it would end in crying that would interrupt our sleep for years to come. She could provide nothing, besides a somewhat unsure assurance that what had happened would not repeat itself. But it should never have happened in the first place. They say lightening doesn’t strike the same place twice but whoever said that doesn’t understand my luck, and just uttering those words felt like challenging destiny.

So when we lost our second baby, another boy, at 15 weeks pregnant, after having a healthy ultrasound the day before, I wasn’t surprised. Because life. Because stats. Because history. Simply, because.

Determined to have a family, we gave it another shot. And the stats began again, we were at the mercy of the numbers. It’s a weird place to be, hopeful but detached, wanting to give this baby all the positivity in the world, yet preparing to announce another baby’s passing. There is a weird peace that comes from admitting powerlessness in circumstances where you would very much like to control the outcome.

But this time we were able to bring our baby home. Our little ball of sunshine, bright and beautiful, our daughter.

 

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Unstructured and Unsupervised: Attempting to Raise a (somewhat) Wild Child

I’m slow reading a book titled The Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv. It’s fascinating, but also long. Basically, due to a large number of factors, children are not playing independently and in natural settings as much as they used to, he believes this is having profound but unstudied effects on children today.

I grew up in the back of town on 8 acres with 3 siblings. We were free and encouraged to roam around and when my mom took a much-needed break (ie. shooed us outside, locked the door and ran herself a bath) that’s exactly what we did. I think back on my childhood with such fondness, but also with astonishment, partly that we all survived and partly because my parents encouraged our behaviours. I really wonder what they thought we were doing out there.

While she was bathing we were eradicating large wasp nests, with a barrage of both buckets of creek water and large rocks thrown from the safety of a very small embankment.

We laid out sticks on the street for cars to drive over, retreating to the woods for cover, triumphant when a car’s tire broke one in half.

We fished with sticks and buckets, bare feet precariously balanced on slippery rocks.

We built rickety fences with real hammers and nails, out of 1×2 pieces of wood and picked hay for the horses we wished to have.

We got blisters digging deep holes, imagining ourselves popping out on the other side of the world.

We lathered ourselves in mud, the thicker the better.

We threw clumps of dirt, handfuls of grass and rocks at each other. We learned to dodge them too, we learned to run fast and to throw back when necessary. We learned to negotiate, call truces and retreat.

We took turns riding our small dirt bike, which appeared small, but when full throttle could send 7 year old legs flying out behind it, while it’s rider continued to grasp the throttle, envisioning the inevitable crash, but hoping for the best.

We were allowed to attempt to sleep in our camper trailer, parked probably 100 meters from our front door. I say attempt because every single time, after the sun went down and our junk food supply ran low, we made that 100 meter dash, usually solo, for fear of wild animals breaking into the trailer. And later we actually slept in a tent, overlooking the trees, surrounded by empty bags of chips and candy wrappers.

When looking at my backyard my child eyes saw freedom, a place to explore to experiment and to build, to test boundaries and physical limits. We were explorers, conquerors and care takers; we were strong, we were brave and we were wild.

I just found out I’m a “millennial” parent, the cut off being the early 80’s, being born in ‘84, I am torn between my millennial thoughts and my desire to parent as my parents did. We were brought up in a different time, the age of double buckling and games of red rover, when we suspected my brother broke his arm, he was told to “sleep on it.” There was no google to tell my parents they were doing it wrong, so they just did. The only “mom group” my mom belonged to was literally a group of her three closest friends. Articles on social media didn’t alert them to the 1000 ways a child can die both in and outside of their home, forcing them to second guess every decision they made; they followed their instincts and their instincts served them well.

The millennial parent in me sees: a creek, filled with ankle shattering, wrist breaking, skull cracking rocks, ending with a drowning death pool, a busy road with fast dangerous cars packed with potential perverts, thumb bruising hammers and skin piercing nails, a perilous crash hazard, lurking bears, hungry cougars and angry wasps. I am so very fortunate to now live only 4 houses away from my favourite childhood property, surrounded by the forest, full of perceived potential dangers. It makes me anxious just thinking about my kids being outdoors without me, and yet I want that for them.

I want my kids to find joy in the outdoors, to navigate this space independently together, to use their imaginations and to care for nature. Louv says in order for adults to want to protect nature they must interact with nature as children and this occasionally involves destroying it. Which feels contradictory, but I think back to my days of trail blazing, feeding bugs to spiders, stepping on slugs, catching fish in the inhumane way, breaking off trees to make marshmallow roasting sticks, uprooting plants and cutting worms in half, and I know he is right. I have a deep respect for nature and I feel incomplete if I haven’t had enough time outside. I shudder to think of my children following in my borderline sociopathic footsteps, and yet so hope that they do.

I want to raise wild children while still keeping tabs on them. But I fear that’s not possible, because it wasn’t until my mom actually locked the door that we were set free.

Thank goodness, I’ve got a few years to wrap my head around this whole independent outdoor play thing, since right now, I can’t trust them alone down the hall.

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One Cup, Two Cups

Dr. Seuss as an exasperated parent… At least I feel like he would have had days like this.

I also feel like this might reveal a little too much about how my mind works, after years of having Dr. Seuss read to me, then reading it to my sisters, to my classes and now to my girls, ridiculous rhymes float through my head all day.

So here it is, my Seuss-y take on parenting. (Don’t mind the “art”)

 

One cup two cups

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Why You Probably Shouldn’t Have 3 Dogs and 2 Kids

WARNING: A couple of these reasons contain poop, but if you were considering 3 dogs and 2 kids, I think it is important you have all of the facts. So here you have it.

If the dogs haven’t already wrecked it, the kids will. We got all 3 of our fur babies before having actual babies. Raising 3 puppies at different times and trying to have nice things seemed next to impossible. After having kids it seems as though they are conspiring together to destroy the remainder of our unchewed belongings. See our coffee table. The 3 year old put a piece of cheese into the drawer, closed the drawer unbeknownst to me, we left the house, ran some errands, all the while 1 or 2 or perhaps all 3 dogs, worked relentlessly and unsuccessfully to free the cheese.

Is this dog shaming? I only assume he is the culprit.

Water bowls become indoor water tables. In fact the allure of splashing in the water bowl enticed both of my kids to crawl. Any amount of toys can not persuade them to travel in a different direction, not even an actual water table, which ironically, now doubles as a dog water bowl.

Just when you think you are on top of your game, they will set things straight. I worked all day, completing my first week back at work after a 15 month maternity leave. I felt good, but I had had it easy, the hubby had been off that week and running the show at home. He, however, was rushing to leave on a manly camping trip for the weekend, and announces the dog has pooped on the deck as he races out the door. Not a problem, the dog has been sick and I clean up the mess. The kids and I venture off to the park have a lovely time, return home to cook a delicious and nutritious supper, that is happily devoured by both children. I wipe faces and hands and set the kids free to play and turn to tidy up. While washing dishes I reflect on just how great this day has gone. Working full time, enjoying my kids and maintaining the house with a hubby out of town was indeed possible. I had this. And then the 3 year old proclaims “The dog pooped on the deck” “Wait, What?! I cleaned that.” “The poop is on her diaper” I race on to the deck to discover the 1 year old was actually the first one to discover the poop, that had hidden itself behind some patio furniture, and she has covered herself, literally from head to toe, in poop. To make matters worse she hates baths, HATES hates, like screams while clutching the edge of the tub in an attempt to claw her way out sort of hates. She receives the fastest and the soapiest bath in history, and I realize I had brought this upon myself. I had already had it all, choosing to wash dishes was deliberately challenging fate.

Barking. Whether there is a very real threat, such as a package delivery, or a perceived threat such as a squirrel climbing a tree, the result is the same, an impractical amount of passionate yapping. They have no concern for nap time and feed off of each other’s enthusiastic infuriating energy.

“Gentle… I SAID BE GENTLE!” A lesson taught each day as the baby’s kind petting turns into furious fists full of hair. 

There is some confusion over whose toys are whose. Dogs chew the kids toys and kids have been known to return the favour.

Travel is not easy. 3 dogs at a kennel is roughly $100 a day (I’m not sure what they charge for 2 kids, joking- only partly), with one dog needing 3 pills 4 times a day and us determined to make this trip happen, we figured it would be easiest to bring them with us. 2 hours into a 3 hour drive, the hubby and I congratulate ourselves on our perfectly timed departure, both the 3 year old and 1 year old have slept for the large majority of it, allowing time for adult music, adult conversations and starbucks sipped in peace. Then IT happens. It creeps over the back seat, makes it’s way over my sleeping babies, and snakes it’s way into the front seat, settling deep inside our nostrils, the unmistakable, overwhelming stench of dog poop. At that point we have 2 options, pull over to deal with the poop and most definitely wake the sleeping kids or keep driving and bear with it.   Of course we keep driving, fending off the smell with the perfect balance of air conditioning and positive thinking. The hubby optimistically declares the poop is certainly just that, A poop, I however know better, but choose to believe in that too. 30 minutes later both kids wake up and my fears are confirmed. In a Walmart parking lot, we discard a dog bed and a full container of used diaper wipes, buy a new dog bed, air out the car and carry on.

Or maybe you should because…

You never have to clean up your food messes… ever. With a great deal of competition, sometimes crumbs don’t even hit the floor.

A baby excitedly feeding a dog their treat is one of the cutest things you’ll ever see… even when she’s not supposed to be feeding them the 28th one.

They both get equally tired while playing with the same stick. Seriously.

 When you hear barks of joy after the 3 year old managed to maneuver a squeaky toy, drenched with drool, out of the dog’s desperate grasp and you hear her feet drumming down the hall as he chases her, again and again, you admit that it is all worth it.

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How to Make a Pizza in 10 Easy Steps

  1. Look at clock, realize you do not have anything prepared for supper, take stock of things in the cupboard and fridge.
  2. Google pizza recipes online, find one with an acceptable number of approval ratings that promises a fast delicious pizza, assure your 3 year old that you are not looking at videos of her.
  3. Set children up with loud flashing toys, move fast, this will buy you exactly 37 seconds before the three year old realizes what you are up to and pulls up a chair to “help”. You will have an additional 89 seconds before the baby realizes what you are both up to.
  4. Remove baby from pantry where there is a large bag of open oats, while reminding the 3 year old, “please don’t splash the flour”
  5. Quickly and as accurately as possible measure ingredients into a bowl, while removing the baby’s fingers from the drawer that she insists on repetitively shutting her fingers into.
  6. Knead and roll out dough as quickly
    as possible, while dancing to avoid the now crying baby’s fingers from locking on to your pant leg, avoiding any expectation of a pick up.
  7. Show 3 year old how to roll a crust on onto the edge of the pizza, so you can distract the baby with raisins on the coffee table. Remind yourself, that this pizza is for eating, there will be no prize for the perfect pizza crust.
  8. Grate cheese, while the 3 year old spoons out the sauce. Remind the baby that the “raisins are for you, not the dog”. Yell at dog, “go lie down!”
  9. Put pizza in oven, turn on oven light, ask 3 year old to tell you when the pizza is ready, put baby beside her to watch the pizza. You now have 58 seconds to pick up raisins off the floor, throw ingredients back into the pantry and put a few dishes into the sink before they realize you have “free time”
  10. Slice pizza, serve pizza and sit down. Re-slice the three year olds pizza to match the baby’s pizza. Sit down. Get the three year old a sippy cup with water and ice. Sit down and enjoy.  
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Chili night

While filling bowls with hot leftover chili for tonight’s supper, I drop one.  A full one.  A full, cereal sized bowl, of chili, on the floor.

And as it falls I can hear myself yelling a very long, very loud, “NOOOOOOOO!!!” Scaring my 2 year old. Scaring the baby, who was on the kitchen floor and has hurled herself towards the mess. Both of which proceed to cry.

I remove the crying baby from the area and as I peel off my shirt, drenched in tomato sauce and wipe my face, I look around at the mess.   It’s bad, really bad. But it serves me right.  I cleaned my cupboards, fridge and stove a few days before.  Like really cleaned. Scrubbed, buffed, used a toothpick to get the crumbs out from the crevices kind of cleaned.  And like Icarus, who was overzealous, flying too close to the sun, my beautiful dream of having and maintaining clean cupboards came crashing down.

But most alarmingly there is tomato sauce on the ceiling!  THE CEILING!  The WHITE spackled ceiling.  And as I climb up on a chair to wipe off the ceiling I realize what I already knew to be true.  The spackle part wipes off, and I mean really wipes off, like easier than the tomato sauce, easy.  I stare at the previously spackled ceiling, still wet and still just a little saucy, and I wonder WHY didn’t I use a hot mitt to carry the bowl!?

I take a step back to truly appreciate the full effect of the drop.  I pull a bean out of my bra, tuck a saucy strand of hair behind my ear and sit down to eat what I salvaged from the floor (bonus of it being sparkly clean moments ago).

But, hey!  The bowl didn’t break, my three dogs were happy to help with clean up and I was wearing black.

Excuse me as I go scrape the tomato sauce out of my eyebrows.