speaking with our hands

Boy and I are back at it, learning ASL. He has absolutely perfect hearing in his left ear but we finally received confirmation this spring that his right ear is just there for show and to keep his head from looking lopsided. There is no indication that he will lose the function of his left ear (especially since we don’t know what happened to his right) and he has adapted so well that it’s simply amazing. However, we are working with him to learn American Sign Language because a second language is so valuable to kids and when I try to speak French it is kind of like Joey from Friends.. (“Je m’ blah blah blah”), though I can read it.

We’ve been going at our own pace, using the awesome videos from My Smart Hands and this fab video below from Patty Shukla. I’ll often hear Boy wandering around the house, humming Patty’s songs and practicing the signs from this video. We start each lesson with two songs, one from Patty and the animated My Smart Hands Alphabet. I really like this alphabet song for two reasons. One, it features “zed” for “z” and it does the letter sounds as opposed to “a is for apple”, that way Boy can get a sense of the letter sounds.

An unexpected benefit of us learning ASL, particularly the alphabet, is that it has helped Miss N with her spelling and when they are writing letters and stories and need help spelling the words, I’ll say the letter and do the sign for it. Two birds, one stone and all that.

I’ve included Patty Shukla’s song of commands and basic words, Boy’s favourite from this video is “come here”. Imagine that, he always has something to show us.

 

My goal is that we will be fluent and at some point I would like to take a formal class with Boy (and Miss N) but for right now, this is working really well for us and there is a little less pressure on the kids. Plus, they’ll have their own secret language. At this year’s holiday concert, Miss N flashed me the “I love you ” sign from the stage, and I’ll bet there was no one else – or at least few- who noticed or knew, but I did.

Poetry and the elusive word

Today marks the beginning of National Poetry month. This is where celebrate those elusive combinations of words that paint a story or crash down the wall’s of the master’s house. Love, death and seekers of endangered species soup (will trade green grass and the sky for said soup) find there soul in poetry, so why not a whole month devoted to it?

It is now nearing my bedtime where I will lay in bed reading until the eReader smacks me in the nose and Mr reaches over to put it and my glasses away for me. Each night he chooses a new perch because apparently he likes listening to frantic rustling at 7 each morning and panicked obscenities whispered in the dark. Before you go, check out the National Poetry month site (it’s the American one, I presume there is a Canadian version but I’m tired). There are a plethora of interesting activities that I’m looking forward to doing. I might just suck it up and post some of the results in this space or on the other space.

taking a break…

…because the assignments for school are piling up and I’m spending hours on schoolwork with little time left to play with my children, relax and devote the kind of time this blog deserves. I hate to do it but I also don’t like this feeling that I’m failing pretty well everything I’m doing and the obligations I’ve established for myself. The next two weeks are the worst two weeks of any semester, the weather is beautiful and I have approximately one zillion projects due and though I want to scrap them all and play in the sun, I can’t. It’s only two weeks and I’ll survive. I won’t be posting anything here for the next two weeks. I know I’m not the most diligent blogger but an unexplained absence, and each day that ticks by without putting something  in this space irks me. But, I will be back in two weeks. Until then, enjoy yourselves and these blogs for your own enjoyment, inspiration and thought-provoking articles.

Always Always Something local activist and she writes the student life, feminism and Allison is damn smart.

Maya*Made gorgeous photos and she is an incredible talented sewist and crafter.

Notes from the Cookie Jar because everyone needs to drool and find a great recipe.

But I Don’t Blog don’t let the title fool you, Alex writes very well about being a very caring mum and she really does blog. And it’s good.

And, the best video ever.

Until next time, kids. As an afterthought, since a hiatus should always be followed by some new interesting content, anything new you’d like to see around here, something old should come back? Let me know in the comments.

word filled wednesday: a writing prompt

Last night I wrote on the importance of using writing prompts to shake loose the cobwebs and fog. Before you go looking for it, you won’t find it on this blog. It’s over at my writing blog and you can find that post here. So, for all of that I have a goal. It’s not a big one, usually the goals that have the biggest impact are small and through perseverance they grow. I’m going to post a writing prompt here, each Wednesday morning, and in the evening I will post the writing that came out of it. And, since I just figured out the Mr. Linky widget, if you feel like participating in a word-filled Wednesday, link the resulting piece of writing in the widget, because all us writers can use the support, can’t we? Without further ado:

hush(ed)

If, like yours truly, you are a bit of a procrastinator or life is extra wrangy today, don’t feel limited by the Wednesday timeline. Link up anytime between now and Friday morning (I apologize for the new window opening for this linky thing, it appears to be my only option). Mr. Linky also has a permanent home at the bottom of this page and so you can link to your post whenever you feel like it, because if you know the rules, you know how to bend them.

surprises

I was not much of a “baby” child. I played with Barbies as much as I did Lego, I had a favourite doll but she was for snuggling not caring for in a psuedo motherhood role. As a teenager I kind of figured I wouldn’t have children, I simply didn’t picture them in my future. Perhaps a surprise child when I was in my mid to late 30s, a misguided tortured artist ideal. For the most part though, I did not gaga over a single baby. Obviously, I love my children but I’m not much of a little people person. The littles attached to me in a varying number of ways (familial and friend-wise) are sacred but I’m not going to be opening an in-home daycare any day soon. I am woefully awkward with other people’s children, I have the habit of viewing all children as intelligent creatures capable of conversation and thought and for this reason have always spoken to my  own children at their level. Baby talk does not exist in our home. This is why the boy has stumbled through the word “fantastic” since he was 2 years old.

This past fall has been difficult for our family. It’s been four months of staggering amount of upheaval, something that we managed to come out of in the end and though we are stronger, there are a few raw pieces to us now, particularly Mr and I. Something we were not expecting to do in this time was expand our numbers but that is exactly what were are doing. Miss N cleverly narrowed her eyes at Mr when he told her and said, “Oh. The book. Ohhhh” in reference to the embarrassingly helpful kids’ book “Where Did I Come From?“. If ever you wondered how to start explaining the birds and the bees to your kids, I recommend that one. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination; it’s clear, concise and when you have to tell your kid she’ll be a big sister to not one but two siblings, she’ll get it.

I dare say we are as nervous as we were when we learned of Miss N’s existence nearly 7 years ago. I finish school this semester  and had big plans for that shiny new degree that will have to be put on hold. Mr is in a frantic state trying to figure out where we will put a third little person and how we will provide for him or her – we figure her considering how miserably sick I’ve been the last few weeks, the same thing happened with her sister. I’m not one for learning the sex before birth, it’s not medically necessary and there is something charming and oh so very sweet about my husband cutting the umbilical cord and revealing our child to me. He’ll be an old hand at it come September.

I’ve made some very personal decisions about how we will handle my bipolar disorder and its associated medication. I ask only for respect in regards to our decision that I keep taking it. I am very aware of the risk but I stand a much greater risk mentally than ever before and the latest medical research is well, not as terrifying as I once believed.

It figures that once I start to make a dent in that last bit of pooch left over from Boy that I’m set to expand upon it again.

schooling mom: sacrifices

Monday is my long day at school. It follows after a day of frantically finishing those last nagging tidbits of homework  while the boy plays and bathes away the stink of being an active 4 year old. Last week, it was a bit of a bust on the parenting front. I wasn’t feeling my chipper self in the morning and Mr was kind enough to get up with the kids and get Miss N off to her bus, but this meant that I would not see her, not something I took into consideration when I gently shook him awake mere hours after tossing my cookies in the middle of the night thanks to my medication.  I caught the bus out to school at 2:00 and while she was home only 40 minutes later, I was sitting on the floor in front of my classroom eating an apple and scouring that last bit of reading. At 8 pm while I was heading out for a 5 minute break from my night class, she was going to bed. I would not be home for another 2 hours. I may have snuggled in next to her last night (in my bed, I might add) to peck at the computer and work on just one more assignment, but it’s not the same. I didn’t see her eyes or talk to her at all.

This is what happens to a lot of student and working mothers. We are doing our best to better the lives of our children but in the present there are numerous sacrifices. I’ve been in university since Miss N was 14 months old, intermittent breaks, both long and short have prolonged my time at the institution and the inspiration for continuing is currently sleeping. Again, in my bed (it really is comfortable). This doesn’t make it any easier, because kids have a hard time understanding that I need to sit with the computer on my lap on movie night and that I cannot always play with Lego, no matter how cool they are.

Today I had the opportunity to speak with a woman who has fought her entire life for her education. I think it’s pretty easy for a number of people to take their education for granted. I know I did, when I was naive and just presumed I would head off to university post-high school. I knew it was coming and for that reason I didn’t want to do it and I didn’t really value it. This is partially why I am still in university, seated next to 19 year olds who can devote an entire day to watching television or an entire day spent in the library, head bent over the books and surreptitiously sneaking glances at their Facebook wall.

When I am feeling positive I know that my kids see me working hard and that it is a really good example. It’s the same as when you are trying to encourage your children to read, they need to see you reading also. When I’m not so positive, when I feel bogged down by the weight of assignments and professors with stringent deadlines, I resent those hours spent away from my babies. The next time I feel this way, the unbearable weight of my textbooks and the financial burden of being a student I will remember that inspiring woman who has plugged along at her education for years, even when there was maybe only one person rooting for her. Because I have more than just one person behind me. I have a bunch.

Anytime someone sighs wistfully and says they wish they could go back I smile and genuinely tell them: Do it. Whatever it is you want to study will make you stronger, smarter and you will learn so much more than anything you may find in the numerous textbooks you will buy. School isn’t just about the hours spent in the classroom and that’s the real lesson.

Safe from the floods

If ever destruction were to course through my life and leave charred remains or water logged bits of life in its wake, there are a few things I would choose to save. This list favours my father’s artefacts but that is because my mother is thankfully still counted among the living. Provided Mr, the kids and my furbabies are safe I would choose to save the following list of treasures:

1. My Dad’s clothes. These were not his every day clothes. That’s not entirely true, he found a way to wear these brightly coloured dress shirts, his baby pink button ups and the numerous gold lamé dress shirts with the Chinese dragons roaring almost every day. These were the clothes that he felt most comfortable wearing. He had colour combinations that he loved  (pink, black and gold or red, black and gold) and they are evident in so many of the shirts. There is the brilliant red cape that prompted my brother to hold it up and mutter, “What the hell is this?” but I was there when he picked out satin the same shade of red as crushed cherries. I couldn’t possibly let that box go, most importantly because when I gingerly pull the flaps apart, his scent is still trapped in the fibres and in a way, my dad is still here.

2. My Mom’s painting. I’ve always thought of the painting of a wine jug, partially peeled oranges and wine glasses to be my mom’s best work, even though there are seven years of work between its creation and now. It has travelled with me to the small house in Windsor Ontario where Mr and I fell in love and all the way across the country to Nova Scotia. It is currently on my dresser in the space that is usually reserved for a mirror. I don’t mind scurrying to the bathroom down the hall to fix my hair, I like the painting being this close each day.

3. My father’s Yuletide Teapot. An avid collector of fine china, my dad sipped his tea each night from a fragile tea cup, the potent tea poured from a well-loved pot, each from his beloved Tulip Time collection. The Yuletide pot is one of his one-offs, two tea cups replete with saucers trail after it in the cabinet. I remember when he bought this gorgeous piece of work at Shanfield-Meyers, an institution in our family and most definitely in my father’s life. I remember the feel of the picnic table against my skinny legs at dusk while he poured tea into a teacup for me, out of this quintessential Christmas teapot in the middle of summer.

4. My computer and the external hard drive: This one is not as silly as it sounds. The external hard drive and my computer collectively hold all the photographs and videos of my children since they were born. Certainly we have some hard copies but the video of Miss N dancing for her Nanny who was on vacation and the photos of both children dressed in ball gowns and my heels cannot be replaced.

5. My tattered copies of The Edible Woman and Jitterbug Perfume. Each of these books transformed my life and helped me realize that there are approximately one hundred million ways to look at life. Each is valuable in their own right and we ought to question everything, even whether or not these books are valuable. (They really are, you can question it but don’t doubt it.)

6. My wedding ring. I don’t wear it around the house; with two kids in need of booger-wiping, food preparation and general aptitude for making their mother pick up gross things I wash my hands a lot, and when I do I take off my wedding ring.

7.My Laura Secord Cookbook. Another gem I inherited from my father, his name and the date he received or bought this class is scrawled on the front page in pencil. His handwriting is so eerily similar to my own that I can feel the curve of the pencil in my own hand.

8. My leather bound journal from Italy. This book holds the first clues that I was going to take my writing seriously. Honest and brutal, the cream coloured pages, thick enough to be vellum hold many of my secrets. It also has the charm of being bought in a small leather goods store on a side street in Florence, a treasure from one of the afternoons my father and I parted to enjoy our own exploits while we were on vacation.

Tell me, what could you not bear to have soaked with buckets of rain water or charred to miserable crisps? I sometimes think of it, particularly since my mom’s childhood home lost its second storey to fire in the 1960s. The part of the story I’ve always loved, besides the part about the farming community coming together to put out the fire or my grandfather’s refusal to sue the fire department for not knowing how to work their own fire truck, “You don’t sue your neighbour”, is that there are still photographs in my mom’s photo albums that have charred edges.

In the future I will say…

Dear Self,

Chill out. Your kids love you. Your husband does, too. Your family is proud of you and all that time you spent stressing about imagined slights and your failings was time wasted. Mightily so. Life is supposed to be complicated, it’s why underneath those dye jobs for fun you started sprouting curly silver hairs at 20. You don’t have to like them consistently because you won’t, there are days you still contemplate dyeing/not dyeing/shaving the whole mess off; but they are a reminder that you’ve kept going. Even when you didn’t think you could anymore and you were scared about what others would think and that nagging bitch of a voice in your own head would say.

In short, relax. If you play and dance with the kids it’s okay if you have another piece of chocolate when no one is looking. Your kids are happy and you cannot cajole, bribe or entice them to be someone they are not, Miss N will eventually talk to people other than family and restaurant servers though you may want to eat out less. She is simply put, fantastic.

The Boy’s hearing, or lack thereof, is not your fault. Shit happens and he is a spectacular little boy. You know this already and have always known this, don’t lose sight of it.

And remember, any decision that you make out of love is not wrong. Your mother had it right with that one.

Have fun, be kind and play with your friends. You can tell your kids that as much as you want, but you should really pay attention.

You.

I blog therefore, why?

I’ve spent many a night with the computer in my lap, fingers tapping at keys while the babies sleep nearby. The boy snuggles into his oversized lion pillow, his own comfort and luxury. He’ll make room for Miss N when she crawls in next to him and slings one arm across his waist, though she will deny that she is ever this affectionate with her little brother. I wonder while I take pictures of menorahs and squint at the computer screen and run my finger along the lines to catch the mistakes. Why am I doing this? I no longer write recipes, my focus shifted as I started to feel uncomfortable in my former blogging skin. If anything my posts are observational monologues. But why?

I certainly don’t blog for money. I’m not one of the cool kids with droves of people looking to read my blog. Dooce I am not. My own concepts of privacy stand in the way of me being a typical mommy blogger who spills all of her children’s secrets across the computer screen. They’ll embarrass themselves enough as teenagers, they don’t need me doing it now.

I blog because I don’t know what to do when words are not melting and electrifying out of my fingertips. In text I am articulate, or at least I like to think of myself as such. It’s the confidence of the written word giving strength to my voice. In real life where we open our mouths and the words should tumble out I am terribly inarticulate. Prone to trailing off at the ends of sentences, I flail my hands and have short bursts of laughter. When I write, it’s not as awkward. I don’t second guess myself in the strangulating way that I have while speaking.

I blog because writing is what I know best. I have a writer’s bump on the middle finger of my left hand. Years of having a pencil or pen pressed against the tender space has created a hardened callous and flattened the edge of nail. I do it because over the past two years my voice has sharpened, nestling into its own and I didn’t have someone handing it all back to me with a show of disgust and disdain at my carefully crafted words. I do that to myself quite well and in these couple of years I’d like to think I’ve grown at least partially more confident in my writing.

Take yer meds!

Image courtesy of The Mind's Endless Mirror.

Last night, in the dark of night with babies snoring softly and intertwined in my limbs, my eyes snapped open. There is little difference in the amount of light in a room at 3 am and the back of your eyelids.. I had fallen asleep with the kids. It’s not such a bad way to catch up on sleep but it is not something that ever works out for me. Because I don’t plan on falling asleep with them snug in their warmth, it also means I don’t take my medication and it never ends well when I do it this late. Over the past two years I have worked out an uneasy method for swallowing those four little pills. A piece of toast, a glass of soy milk and a full glass of water must be imbibed before I stand before my dresser and shake 4 pink and white pills into my palm from the impossibly huge pill bottle. Printed on the side of each is Lithium 300 grams and each of those grams goes to controlling my serotonin and dopamine. We think. Lithium works but the docs don’t know how, which is reassuring.

It’s easy not to take it. It’s always easy to not to do the things that make us well. It’s easier to eat the potato chips, stay on the couch instead of exercising and not take a medication that causes migraines, nausea (and 4 am vomiting) as well as acne vulgaris that rivals your teenage kid’s face plight (sexy).

Not being on my meds equals mania, which is fun until it is not. Lithium controls the happy chemical, more commonly known as serotonin so it’s my theory that although Lithium can suck the mind-blowing ecstatic brilliance out of manic life, it replaces it with an even kiel of serotonin so that my brain won’t be starved of it later, plunging itself into a down period. My brain is a binger and Lithium doles out the serotonin in a most fastidious way.

There’s a pretty high incidence of people with mental illness going off their meds. If you spend a lifetime as your “crazy” self, it’s kind of hard to adapt – my psych told me I needed to adjust when I said the meds didn’t really really feel like they were working and he was right.  But, I did it. I went off my meds. And it wasn’t pretty. I have a partner and two babies (plus countless hangers-on known as family and friends) that love me and need me not to be nuts or dead. And that can be the alternative when the mania party shuts down.

A life was recently lost in our community to suicide. This is a tragedy but more over, it is preventable. Of the 3705 individuals who completed suicide in 2008 in Canada alone, not one needed to happen. So if you have a bottle of medication in a drawer somewhere that you are avoiding, start taking those pills again (you should check with your doc first). If you don’t have a bottle of neglected pills but think you may need one, get a hold of your doctor and ask for a mental health referral. It’s free and all you will have to pay for is your prescription. For a 2 month supply of Litihium (I take 1200 mg every night), it costs me $30. Not bad for something called wellness, now is it? I can deal with the migraines, the (occasional angry red) zit and the vomiting. I won’t deal with the alternative. If you have a loved one you’re worried about, call them or go see them and help them get help.