Earth wobble, zodiac kerfuffle

What? I’m a Libra???

Apparently the zodiac signs most of us associate with our birthdates are wrong. The moon may have wobbled. Or is it the earth? In any case, there has been some shift in the stars’ alignment by about a month. That, and you may be an Ophiuchus, although good luck finding that horoscope in the paper.

Now, I don’t seriously read my horoscope. I don’t think all other people born within the same few weeks as I share a closed set of characteristics and prescribed future. I also know that given general personality descriptives, people will tend to remember those which apply to them and forget those which do not.

All that said, I, among 2,824 other voters on CBC’s site think that my ‘old’ astrological sign is more like me (as opposed to those 358 who side with their new sign).

Take the following example: “Scorpios are fiercely independent. They are able to accomplish anything they put their mind to and they won't give up. They are perfectly suited to being on their own. They are not social butterflies”. Compare this with “Libras like to be around other people, they are all about partnerships and groups. They are happiest when other people are around and when other people are doing their work. They are lazy but like posh surrounding and nice decor.”

Have we met? How can you think I’m a Libra?? The earth would have to do more than a little wobbling to turn me from the introvert hermit I am into a social butterfly who would want other people doing my work!

Luckily for me, and any of the horoscope-faithful, “self proclaimed psychic and astrologer Walter Mercado confirmed that the traditional dates of the Zodiac ‘remain the same’.'' What a relief.

Seriously though. This is some story that broke in Minnesota. It’s made a bit of an internet viral buzz, as these things do. But my guess is that in a few weeks it will be forgotten about. Newspapers and tabloids will continue to print their horoscopes, citing the same dates they always have, and I can go back to being the uninformed, disengaged, independent Scorpio I’ve always been.

Waiting for Wii

My friend reports on Facebook that there is to be a Wii game based on Samuel Beckett’s play “Waiting for Godot”.

There is nothing to be done about such things.

I’m beginning to come around to the opinion that the Wii is everywhere and will capitalize on all. All my life I have been trying to avoid the Wii, saying to myself, Self, you must maintain the struggle.

So here I am again, struggling against Wii.

But am I?

I thought it might be gone forever. But I see that it is back.

Should I embrace it? Not now, not now.

One may inquire how I spend my time?

In a ditch. A ditch over there. A ditch where they cannot beat me with wiimotes.

I am beaten at tennis. I am beaten at Rock Band. I am beaten at yoga. All is futile. Zelda....

I am nothing more than a heap of dull bones. No doubt about it. It is too much for one woman.

On the other hand, what is the good of resisting Wii? I should have given in years ago, in my youth, in my metroid prime. Now it's too late. Now they won’t even let me play.

I want to play? What is the point? Perhaps I would be relieved... yes, relieved. Yet, at the same time.... appalled.

There is nothing to be done.

There is the story. The two men. They are plumbers. They go to the ends of the earth, the seas, the worlds, the clouds. (This is not boring you, I hope.) They seek a princess. She is never in the castle. Never. Always in another castle. So they can’t save her. They never can.

I can’t accept it. They perplex me. They leap on clouds.

I will sit under a tree. A better way to pass my time, I am sure.

But is it this tree? Is this actually a tree? Or is it a bush? It is winter. There are no leaves. How am I to tell? Shall I slash it with my sword? What are these items? Items of what?

It is useless. I should go. But no. I am waiting. Waiting for Wii.

Spam purchasing

I’ve never been one to follow a crowd. Usually I avoid them. And yet somehow I got sucked into the whole group-buying phenomenon. My inbox is now cluttered with daily deals from LivingSocial, as well the emails about “this great deal I just got!” from random friends and acquaintances.

I’m quite a newbie to group buying, as I think many of us are. Sure, Groupon has been around since 2008, but the whole group buying phenomenon exploded in 2010.

When I first heard about group buying, I thought it was the last thing I need. I am not an impulse buyer, and don’t intend to become one. I also don’t tend to make my purchases based on what most people are buying. And one of my criticism about “deals” is that they tend to make you buy something you weren’t already going to buy. Thus, instead of saving 50%, you are actually spending 50% that you would otherwise have not. I figured I didn’t want to be tempted into making purchases I didn’t need.

But then a parent sent out an group buying offer for a discounted annual membership to the Museum of Civilization (including the fantastic Children’s Museum and the War Museum which I still haven’t visited). I signed up and yes, I am guilty of sending out those “deal” email to friends (in my defence, I knew some of them visit these museums regularly).

Well, a month of group buying later and we now have annual memberships to 5 museums/galleries in town. You could say this only proves my point that I have may have saved on discounted membership, but ended up buying a lot more than I would have otherwise. I would argue that you probably don’t have an energetic toddler and those memberships will quickly prove their worth, but this doesn’t mean I’ve been won over to the wonders of group buy.

It’s too much like an on-line Walmart to me. Sure the deals might be good, but there are a lot more things which influence how, and on what, I spend my money than simply the biggest bang for my buck. And seriously, don’t we all have enough spam already?

My 20-month old could draw that

The Ottawa arts community is abuzz with the recent opening of an exhibit of Miya Nagaraj's latest work.

These bold, colourful pieces - praised by critics as a striking combination of innocence and bravado - are set to move quickly.

The paintings are a mixed media of water-soluble paint and dish soap on paper.

The artist, famously reticent in talking about her art and influences, has simply titled them 'paintings'.

Naked people have little or no influence on society ~ Mark Twain

It is a nice thing to have fashionable friends.

It is an even better thing to have fashionable friends who are much the same size as you and who are generous in lending.

I have an interview on Thursday. I don’t have a good interview outfit and I hate clothes shopping.

Then my friend stepped in to rescue me. She invited me over this evening, offered a few options and before leaving I had a great outfit – and even accessories to go with. How lucky am I!

I remember getting a lot of hand-me-downs as a kid. But unlike when a friend steps in to provide a much needed smart, professional outfit, the clothes I got were simply outgrown by my cousins and older sister. And I don’t think I was ever very grateful. Begrudging acceptance was probably more like it.

I do wonder though how much the clothes I was handed down could have been passed on after me since I was a bit of a tom-boy and regularly wore holes in my clothes. Good thing I was the youngest.

Maybe it was growing up with these hand-me-downs, but on into high school, college and university I would have a few girlfriends with whom I would regularly swap clothes, or at least we would borrow freely from each others’ closets. When I lived in dorm we would organize clothes swap nights where everyone would put outside their room things they wanted to trade. It was a fantastic way to overhaul a wardrobe without spending a penny – although certainly CDs and other items were thrown in to sweeten deals.

I suppose it’s part of growing up - moving out of communal living into solitary or marital quarters. There aren’t the closets to raid close by, there aren’t the friends dropping by to borrow a sweater or try on your new pair of jeans. So perhaps my gratitude to my friend tonight is about more than simply having something professional and suitable to wear to my interview, it’s also about a nostalgia for those years of living and sharing with friends – sharing clothes, books, food. It’s nice to realize to realize I haven’t completely lost that.

The magical Roll O Puzz (or as Doug would call it, pimping a product)

This Christmas my husband gave me one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. Okay, unconditional love, a child... all that aside, I’m talking about the Roll O Puzz.

To quote from Lee Valley (and yes, I still get to count the words): “These ingenious holders solve the problem of partially completed jigsaw puzzles monopolizing table space.”

You start to build a puzzle on the felt fabric. Then when your child wakes, or it is time for dinner, or you need to leave the house and you just know that you cats will be on the table the minute the door is closed, you simply roll the felt around a tube and the pieces stay more-or-less in place till next time you are able to unroll the felt and puzzle away some more.

There are many people who see puzzles as a ridiculous waste of time. I can see their point. One spends hours putting tiny pieces together to form an image which you already can see simply by looking at the box. And then, having completed the image, you break up the pieces and put them back inside said box.

But for some people, this ridiculous piecing together is relaxing and thoroughly enjoyable. Ever since I was little I have loved building puzzles and as an adult a holiday doesn’t quite feel like a holiday if I haven’t had the chance to build one.

Of course this all changed when we had a child – a child whose change table is also the dining room table, which is also the only puzzle-able surface in the house. Puzzles were relegated to the basement where they sit and collect dust.

Until the Roll O Puzz. And now, my world has changed. New vistas have unfurled before me. Well, at least a new puzzle can unroll before when I have the time to build it.

V not only gave me the Roll O Puzz for Christmas, he also bought me a new puzzle. A puzzle which I have been able to build over the last few weeks, put away as needed, and return to when I have the chance. Oh the joy!

Temporarily sold out at Lee Valley.

conversations with my daughter

Ever since Miya first started using words, I’ve been having little conversations with her.

At first, these conversations mostly consisted of a lot of word repetition. “Duck” she’d say, pointing at a duck in a picture book. “Duck,” I would repeat.

I would ask her to name things. “Miya, what’s this?” I’d say, pointing to a picture of a cow. For awhile cows were “boo.” “That’s right, moo,” I’d say. “It’s a cow and cows say moo.”

About a month ago I got pretty excited when I realized that Miya was actually starting to tell me things – albeit in response to some very leading questions. Usually at dinner time we talk about her day.

“Did you go to playgroup today,” I’d ask.

“Yeah!” she’d say. Then after a pause she might add something like “Beth”, the name of her facilitator.
“Did you see Beth?”
“Yeah!”
“Who else did you see? Did you see Zach?”
“Yeah!.... hand”
“Did you hold Zach’s hand?”
“Yeah!”

And so our conversation would go. She’d supply words which I would expand on and use to prompt her with more questions. What was neat was her offering new words like “hand” to tell me something I didn’t already know.

These days our conversations are still a lot of leading questions, with me filling in the blanks. But her memory is getting better, so now she refers to things that may have happened a few days or even weeks ago, making it harder sometimes to guess what she is talking about. Like when she came home today and said, “Pooping!” and I needed to remember that she is referring to seeing a cow poop a few days ago. Or when she says “Sheep sniff” it is in reference to a game we once played with puppet sheep at the library.

But sometimes I am a little stumped when it comes to filling in the blanks. Take, for example, a conversation we had tonight which went something like this:
“Daddy cooking,” Miya said.
“Is Daddy in the kitchen cooking? What is he cooking?”
“Baby.”
“Um... what kind of baby is Daddy cooking?”
“Miya.”

And then I just don’t know where to go with that.

thesis abstract

Still laid up with the flu, so for today’s blog I’m shamelessly taking from my thesis abstract. So in case anyone is interested in what my thesis is on:

The prevalence of urban violence is seen as one of the most ominous threats to local, national and international development. There is a pressing need to better understand it in order to assist in the design and implementation of effective interventions.

This research contributes the assessment of such violence by developing the category of organized urban violence (OUV), defined as that which is generated by urban non-state organized armed groups (OAGs) who exert territorial and social control in urban areas. Through detailed examination of academic and policy literature, this thesis explores the types of non-state OAGs involved in urban violence – such as private security companies (PSCs), vigilantes, gangs, and organized crime groups – their characteristics and their impacts on urban environments.

The category of OUV is further developed through two case studies: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and Cape Town, South Africa – cities which have a proliferation of urban non-state OAGs and high levels of urban violence.

Urban non-state OAGs typically achieve social and territorial control in areas of the city that have been marginalized or neglected by the state. While their control of urban territory is often related to illicit economic goals (such as controlling drug markets), they use social control to establish themselves as authorities within the community, such as by enforcing codes of behavior and limiting the mobility of residents.

They also restrict access by state services (such as police) so as to maintain their position and protect their activities. Both territorial and social control are enforced through violence and the threat of violence, such as physical punishments for violations of behavioural codes and armed defence of territory from the threat of rival groups and the state.

The impacts of these groups extend beyond the territories which they control. Their presence and control contributes to territorial and social divisions of urban space, to high levels of crime and homicide, the normalization of violence and widespread fear. Their impact is particularly severe on young males who are disproportionately the actors in, and victims of, urban violence.

showing up

Ah. The flu has come to test my resolve. I heard most new year’s resolutions don’t make it past 6 months (I would have thought 1), but it seems I am being tested just after the first week.

Yesterday I started feeling a bit ill during the day and by evening I was huddled up in bed with a fever. Not helped by a night in which both V and I were up with our daughter from 4 to 5 a.m., I’ve spent the day in the fog of what seems to be some sort of stomach flu. It’s the kind of day when you’d really like to just stay in bed, dozing and reading, nibbling on crackers and drinking tea.

But these are not options one has when looking after a toddler. Even if I slump on the couch, Miya will start saying ‘wake-up! wake-up!’ and pull at my hands.

At least she ended up sleeping in a little, which meant we missed her first gymnastics class of the year. (I wasn’t quite sure I was up for it anyway.) We did make it to the seniors though (‘deniors’ my daughter calls them since she has trouble with words beginning in S). Every Friday we spend about an hour visiting with seniors with advanced dementia in a long-term care facility. It is pretty easy gig as far as volunteering goes, since all they ask is that we are there and that the seniors can watch Miya playing. That’s about all I can say for what I accomplished today – I showed up.

That’s the way it is. Some days we rise above. Some days we simply show up. Funny how just showing up sometimes takes as much effort as those days when we scale to the top.

And so, on this 7th blog of the year, I have simply shown up. I have made my 365 word count without writing much of value, creativity or interest – not to say that my other blogs are so fantastic, but at least I try to put a little thought into them. My apologies to anyone reading this. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed.

Writing to size

When I trained as a journalist, one of the skills we had to develop was producing articles to specified length – usually provided as word-counts. As a freelancer, you may pitch a story and, if given a green light, you’ll be told how many words you can write. A typical news article is 300-400 words. At first it was very abstract, the idea of writing 400 words – but it didn’t take long to develop a feel for what could, and couldn’t be said in that space.

We also had to get over a common tendency to save some pithy quote or insight for the end. Instead of ending with a bang, journalists are essentially taught to let their stories peter out, filling in information of decreasing importance the further in you go. This is because the vast majority of readers only read the first few paragraphs of news stories. Also, if the editors need to make any cuts, it’s easier for them if they can just chop off the end to bring the article down to size.

It’s a strange way to write – working with the assumption that most people won’t read very far in to what you’ve written. You get everything important out right at the start. But then your article gets more boring and you’ve just offered incentive to stop reading...

I did my undergrad in English and philosophy, where we were rewarded for the use of big words, and complex sentences. Especially in philosophy, so much of the reading material was dense and convoluted.

To put it mildly, I had a steep learning curve when I started print journalism. My first assignments were handed back to me covered in red. I quickly had to learn to shorten my sentences, get rid of the clutter, the excess, the pretension. It wasn’t easy at the time but I came to appreciate clear, direct prose and realized that perhaps the most intelligent writers were not those who used the biggest words, but those who could communicate their ideas as succinctly as possible.

And so it is that I added this extra challenge of a precise 365 word count. It’s fun trying again to write to size.

knitting

I need to get this blogging done quickly since I am off to my favourite café to meet some women for knitting. This is one of two knitting circles I belong to – this one is once a month and was organized by a woman in my neighbourhood. The other is every two weeks, hosted by me here at home.

When I first sent out an email in August inviting women to a knitting circle, I wasn’t too sure what kind of response I would get. I invited those whom I knew knitted or enjoyed crafts, and whom I would enjoy spending an evening with.

I was pleasantly surprised when about 10 women expressed interest and our group began meeting in September. Our house is actually much too small for 10 women to comfortably sit together in the living room with elbow room to knit, but since everyone has busy lives (and most, like me, are mothers of young children) very few can make it to every circle. So each circle has been a different combination of women.

Some knitters arrive with a bottle of wine or a box of goodies; I usually put on a kettle for tea. And I’m proud to report that some women who accepted my invitation though admitting they could not knit, have now learned or are learning. Certainly knitting is not obligatory and sometimes women have come just to hang out and chat.

I’d heard about knit graffiti (also known as urban knitting) and in October I convinced a few other knitters from the group to join me a knit graffiti project of our own: we made up about 30 little knitted ‘Christmas lights’ and one of the knitters crocheted a chain to link them all together. Then two of us went out late one cold, snowy night for a stealth installation of our handiwork (strung with the aid of a broom and a step stool).

The lights hang outside my favourite café, the one I went to almost daily to work on my thesis, the one I will be going to tonight to knit some more – boring ol’ dish clothes tonight. Every time I walk by them I smile.

Christmas

Christmas must be very strange to you when you are only 20 months old.

One day, you wake up from a nap and come into the living room. There is a tree. Not just any tree, but a tree with lights and little things hanging in the branches like snowmen, angels and stars.

And parents, children do not have an innate affection for hairy strangers dressed in red. In fact, these men with their bright outfits and jingling bells are terrifying. Why on earth would one want to sit on his lap and smile for a camera? Miya much preferred to keep a safe distance.

Then come the gifts. Everything that a child receives is gift. New clothes, new toys - they usually just appear. But for an inexplicable reason, on Dec 24 and 25 these things are wrapped up in paper or put in fancy bags. Although Miya soon got into the fun of ripping wrapping paper, not surprisingly the whole idea of gifts was lost on her.

And then, one day, the tree disappears and all that remains are the new toys and some scattered pine needles.

Tree, part II

Days passed. Pines were taken and carried out of the fenced enclosure, but tree remained, waiting for what he did not know. Till one day a young woman came to where he stood and after a brief discussion with the man who worked in the enclosure, she chose him.

The woman picked him up, handed something to the man and carried tree to a car which was parked nearby. The man helped lift tree inside. Before long, tree found himself in a house. It was a bigger space than inside a truck, but unlike the fenced enclosure there was a roof over his head and he couldn’t see the sun or feel the snow. How strange.

There was some unpleasant manhandling as the woman screwed a plastic stand into his severed base and propped him in a stand. But then she filled the stand with water and tree had a long refreshing drink. And what a relief when she cut the strings that bound his branches!

With his branches free and full, tree was beginning to feel like his old self until to his surprise the woman began stringing little lights all around him. Then she began to hang ornaments here and there – stars, hearts, angels, snowmen, teddy bears and a funny looking elephant. She capped his top branch with a silver star. This was all quite amazing, though not a little disconcerting.

A little girl came in to the room where tree was standing in his new, shimmery outfit. “Wow!” she said and began walking around him, touching his branches and the ornaments hanging there. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

Tree was soon enjoying his new home. There was a skirt around his feet on which a fat cat liked to sit. Colourful presents piled up underneath his branches and daily the little girl would admire and touch him. In the dusky mornings and the dark nights, his white lights sparkled and glowed. He even heard a song especially about him playing on the stereo. He may be a little uncomfortable, and sometimes he missed the fresh air, the earth, the sun, but he felt special. Tree had become a Christmas tree.

Tree, part I

There once was a little tree who grew up closely surrounded by many other pines like himself. He spent his summers growing taller, sprouting new needles that turned from bright to dark green and new branches that stretched out to his friends and up to the sun.

One day, when he had grown to about 7 feet tall, men came in among the trees and began trimming branches on him and the other trees around, making their silhouettes sleeker and chopping off any irregularities. At first surprised and taken aback by the sting of the cuts, he nevertheless thought the makeover suited him and his friends and was settling in to enjoy his new look when a horrible pain sliced his trunk close to the ground, severing him from his roots and sending him crashing to the ground. The world turned black.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he became aware that he was still alive, although weak and parched. He tried to move his branches but found they had been squashed together and tightly bound. He was again surrounded by many other pines, but this was not like before. They too were all severed and bound, strangers pressed painfully tight against each other.

Over the next few days, tree and the other pines where tossed onto a big truck, strapped in tightly and driven over miles of hard, grey ground. He choked on gas fumes and unfamiliar smells.

Tree ended up in a big parking lot, inside a fenced enclosure with over a hundred other pines propped against the fence and against each other. Tree was feeling weak and thirsty. He didn’t know how many days had passed since he had stood rooted in the earth, fed by the nutrients and water in the soil.

Standing inside this enclosure, tree soon noticed that people were coming in and walking among the bound pines. They would sometimes pull one pine to standing and turn it around, discuss it and perhaps put it back. Or, more surprisingly, they would wrap their arms around it and carry it away. Where were they being taken? tree wondered. Would someone take him too?

To be continued...

A year in books

For over ten years I’ve been keeping track of the books I read, noting the total at the end of each year. My highest was 53 - the year I was in a book-reading contest with a friend. This last year was my absolute lowest: 6.

In my defence, I read many, many books last year. But because I only record a book if I read it cover-to-cover, few of them actually ‘count’. Many were for my thesis and I would read select chapters or skim through the pages. I also read endless journal articles, policy papers, reports, etc. So 6 doesn't really give the right impression.

Last night, for the first time in months, I finished a novel. It wasn't a particularly fantastic book -The Help by Kathryn Stockett about Black domestic servants in Mississippi during the 60s. But it was so nice to read a novel and let the words drift by casually without stopping to take notes. Like talking to a friend vs. listening to a lecture.

During the year of the reading competition our challenge was not only to read as many books as possible, but to read books from 40 different categories. I filled several by reading books by and about Jean-Paul Satre and Simone de Beauvoir – their correspondence, novels and plays as well as biographies and other books set during their lifetime. Each book offered insight to the others and this integrated method has since become one of my favourite ways to read.

Among the unfinished books of 2010 were several about Virginia Woolf – her diary, her letters, a biography and an early novel. But I never had time to finish most of these books before they were due back at the university library – and now that I am no longer a student I can’t take them out again. Oh well. While it was interesting reading about the development of such a keen and unique writer, I didn’t feel a real affinity with Virginia and so have decided to move on to another cluster topic: Iris Murdoch, a writer whose novels are deep and intricate and whom I look forward to learning much more about in the coming year.

365 words each day, 365 days

This seems odd to say for someone who has just finished a 52,900-word thesis, but I miss writing. Well, I miss free-flowing and creative writing. Academic writing scratches a certain itch, but doesn't quite satisfy the desire.

I’m also a sucker for new year's resolutions - not the go the gym more or eat better kind - but something that gives me a focused challenge. So V helped me out and suggested that for each day of this year I post to this blog. He sweetened the deal by promising that for each month I make good on this resolution, he will give me some small gift. I was the one who suggested the 365 word-count total for each day, just to add that extra little challenge. And thus I have the perfect 2011 resolution - a motivation to write more + anticipated rewards.

Today is new year’s day. Ever since I was about 12 years-old I have been writing a letter to myself at the new year and opening it at midnight on Dec 31. It always gave me something to look forward to, no matter what else was, or was not, going on. Each letter was a mix of anticipation, reflection, and hope. Reading them always brought a sense of nostalgia, a recognition of who I was and still am. Things may have changed over the course of the year and yet I was the constant throughout.

I still have these letters. Often the envelopes would include other papers with such records as goals, significant events from the previous years, lists of friends and favourite things. When I was about 13 I wrote out the titles of the radio’s Top 20 hits. Later on I would list the boys I’d kissed. These letters sketch out the highs and lows, the dreams and regrets of more than 20 years.

My life in the last few months has revolved around thesis and Miya. Everything else has been tossed into cluttered piles. It is not surprising that I can’t find the letter to Anita of 2011. So I maybe should be adding another new year’s resolution – organize the clutter and find that letter before Dec 31.

our little volunteer

Miya spends her mornings, Monday through Thursday, at the playgroup. For Fridays she found another kind of activity to fill her morning. She takes her mom to the Glebe Centre, a long-term care home for seniors, where she is a volunteer visitor to residents with advanced dementia.

Miya is a fantastic volunteer. Her role is simply to play in the common room where residents can watch her, since people with advanced dementia will often respond to small children in ways they don't with adults. Already through her play she is engaging with them.

It truly is amazing to watch. She is able to do what I cannot - interact with no preconceptions, no judgement. She does not stop to wonder what someone's disability is, what they are or are not capable of. She takes them as they are. If they want to sing to her, she listens. If they mumble or stutter, she listens too. No judgement. Pure engagement.

By our second visit, she was sharing her board puzzles with residents- taking them little pieces that together they would work to put into place. The facilitator was over the moon watching the ease with which Miya interacts with them - and the way in which residents respond to her. And I couldn't be more proud of our little volunteer.

Miya's movie

After starring in her debut film, A is for Apple, Miya has been seeking another cinematic opportunity - but so far has been disappointed by the lack of depth and dialogue in roles for toddlers.

No longer willing to wait, Miya recruited her nanny to assist her in making her first feature-length film, a riveting documentary in which Miya goes undercover in a community playgroup to get to the heart of such questions like 'What happens in gym time?' and 'Is there snack?'

Halloween

Halloween is a time for spooks, goblins and ghoulish surprises.

It's hard to be scary when you are less than 3 feet tall. You can't exactly bare your fangs if your little teeth are still working their way up through your gums.

But Miya defied these odds on October 31st was transformed from an adorable toddler into a ferocious tiger. Animals tucked their tails and ran at the sight of her. Dogs howled. Babies cried. A kitten fainted.

Thankfully, at midnight, the coach became a pumpkin to be tossed in the municipal green bin and the tiger was tamed. Peace is restored.

fall hats

Miya's mother loves to knit.

Miya's mother loves to knit hats.

Miya's mother knits Miya hats.

Miya does not like to knit.

Miya does not like to wear hats.

Miya does not like to wear knitted hats.

Miya's mother has to take pictures very quickly.

cafe office

I'm late coming in to the office today. Most of my colleagues are already here - the guy who designs guitars, the stylish blonde with a hot pink computer case, the pair of elderly ladies who perhaps have a dozen teeth between them, the owner of a used book store who wears a grubby jacket and an old green toque... I don't see Mr. Leather yet. He's one of the regulars I actually talk to most often and he has some, um, colourful stories to tell.

These are the other regular customers at the local cafe where I spend nearly every day working on my thesis. The staff know my drink of choice - and one of them jokes that I ask for a code and she gives me a punch (That would be a code for the internet and a hole punch in my coffee card).

This is a great place to work - I can concentrate really well here but at the same time it feels a bit like a social outing. I started chatting with one young woman and we both discovered we have little girls the same age at home, are here working on our thesis (she on her PhD, me on my MA) about urban issues! Turns out I had actually met her daughter already at play group.

There is another woman who I've known for years but we had rarely opportunities to see each other. Now since I'm always at this cafe when she stops in to get a coffee she'll sit and chat for a few minutes. She's one of those people who just leave you feeling happier and inspired after talking to her.

There was another regular here -a very friendly, chatty fellow who was here every day and knew the names of all the other regulars. He was the first regular whose name I knew. Ron, a man in his late 50s, loved to run and was always talking about his next race, teasing those of us stuck at our computers that we should be out joining him. It was a shock when I came in one day and guitar guy told me that Ron had died of a heart attack on the weekend. I only knew him as a friendly face at the cafe, but I was surprised how much his death touched me.

So this is my office. I spend my days here in the buzz of conversation, the clatter of cups, the whir of the espresso machine and the aroma of fresh coffee. Sometimes the office is invaded by babies and young mothers, a reminder of who is waiting for me when I get home.

The thought of trading this for some bureaucratic cubicle... not appealing.

the long thesis trek

When I was on the Camino I would walk almost every day, for weeks on end. I became very aware of the ebbs and flows in my energy. Some mornings the kilometres passed as smooth as water, on other days each step was a challenge. But I kept moving forward, step by step, through driving rain, beating heat or gentle breezes.

My life has changed oh so much since then. But as I am in the last stretch to finish my thesis, I'm struck by the similarities between walking 1,500+ km and researching and writing 100+ pages.

For one thing, just as my strength each day was not the same, my mental clarity seems to vary from day to day. Some days I get on a roll. I don't notice the hours pass. Ideas fall into place, reading is a pleasure and words come easily.

On other days, I can read the same paragraph 4 times and still not be sure what it says. I stare at my open document and can't figure out how to untangle the mess of words. If time was not an issue, it would be nice to spend such days away from the computer, to tidy my house instead of my text, to bake muffins for my daughter or unwind with some knitting. But as with the pilgrimage, each day I moved forward, despite the weather, despite the variations of my strength.

So this little blogging break aside, I will continue on today. Step by step, word by word. And one day, I will arrive.

Gymnastics!

Having mastered walking, Miya has been looking for new challenges.

Given that her feet aren't quite long enough to reach the stirrups, horseback riding was out. Seeing as how her parents don't have a piano, she couldn't sign up for piano lessons. And although briefly considering para gliding, she recognized that with winter coming, it probably wasn't the best time.

So when her mom presented her with option of a gymnastics class, Miya (literally) jumped at the chance. Her mother watched in awe as, in the first class, her 16-month old hung from the bars and rings, bounced on the trampoline and did headstands and somersaults.

Miya is now working on convincing her parents to refurnish the house in foam padding, trampolines, tunnels and swings.

Summer at the Park

The other day Miya was watching leaves falling from the tall trees surrounding our neighbourhood park. "Uh-oh," she said, pointing at them. Uh-oh indeed. Not only is the tree dropping its leaves (anything being dropped or thrown is 'uh-oh') but our warm summer days at the park are coming to an end.

The park has become practically a second home for Miya this summer. Often upon waking from a nap her first word will be 'park' - and sure enough, after a quick diaper change and a gathering of sun hat, snacks, water and other random toddler accoutrements, we are off to the park - not even five minutes from home.

Miya is never lacking in ways to amuse herself - pushing around one of the park push toys, splashing in the wading pool, digging in the sand, climbing on the play structure, swinging, running and roaming - or simply sitting on a bench to have a snack and watch other kids.

The lazy summer hours have slipped away and as much as I love fall, we will certainly miss our summer at the park.

She speaks

After a long period of contemplative silence, Miya has stepped forth and begun to share her message with the world.

It is a message of identification - baby, dog, duck, pea, bird, ball, milk...

And of shared communication - neigh, baa, meow, roar, hoot...

And of love - 'hug' is a popular word often accompanied by a demonstration.

Sometimes she engages her audience by making them guess at her intent. 'Duck', for example might mean truck, stuck, a yellow bird, an ostrich, or, of course, a duck.

Perhaps acknowledging her parents' initial indecision over her name, she calls herself both Miya and Maya. Daddy she says often and with varying degrees of insistence, sometimes adding a yay at the end, especially at the end of the day as she anticipates his return from work. "Daddy-yay!" And for her mom she alternates between Momma and Mommy and proudly identifies various objects around the house as belonging to either 'Mommy' or 'Daddy'.

Miya promises to continue to share her message with those around her, engaging passing people, dogs, squirrels, cats and birds with an enthusiastic 'hi'. We look forward to hearing what she has to say next.

A is for Apple

Big A, little a, what begins with A?

Adorable apple-eater, A a A

Big M, little m, what begins with M?

Miya munching merrily, M m M

once more appalled

I haven't watched much television or seen many movies in the past few months - time is too precious or I'm just too tired in the evenings. So this last week when I found the time to watch a couple of romantic comedies, I thought I would find them mildly amusing, a pleasant way to relax. Instead, I find myself wanting to rant and rave.

Maybe it's because I'm a mother now. Maybe it's that I that I'm less inured to Hollywood drivel having separated myself for awhile. Maybe I just think too much. But seriously, the way women are portrayed in these movies drives me mad!

The first I watched was an oldie (1998) - I'd seen it before and remembered being mildly offended by the ending. You've Got Mail is in many ways your run-of-the-mill rom com: couple meets but has apparently insurmountable barriers and spend much of the movie hating each other, only to realize at the end that they really love each other after all. In this case the barrier is that the guy (Tom Hanks) is putting the girl (Meg Ryan) out of business. What's so infuriating in this case is that in the end, when she decides she really loves him after all, no mention is made of the fact that he ruined her professional life. Ok, there is a suggestion that since losing her business (a children's book shop) she has taken up writing and is about to be published. But this is such a passing comment (reach for the popcorn and you might miss it) so as to be apparently insignificant. Lesson here, my professional life may be ruined but, the guy who seemed like a jerk really loves me so that is all I need.

At least You've Got Mail had some redeeming qualities - I'm a sucker for the ever-adorable Meg Ryan and there was a cute hidden-identity theme. But the second movie I watched - The Ugly Truth - had no such redeeming qualities. In this movie the woman (Katherine Heigle) starts off strong. We see her as a tv producer who runs the show, smooths egos, calms worries and stares chaos in the face. Intro the guy - super alpha-male misogynist (Gerard Butler) and presto, she turns into a brainless, desperate child who lets him reconstruct her image (telling her to perk up her boobs, put extensions in her hair so a guy "has something to grab" etc). Completely offensive. I won't even bother to explain the rest. Obviously, being a predictable rom com the oddly-matched couple get together at the end. And the lesson in this one is that successful women are really in need of a domineering man to turn them stupid and slutty - and only then will they be fulfilled and truly happy. Absolutely appalling.

What makes these movies all the more frustrating and perplexing to me is that they are written by women. And it's not just these two, thinking about mainstream movies, (not some indie movies which are almost always refreshing exceptions) women are immature characters who are just waiting for a man to come and direct them, teach them, control them (i.e. The Proposal). Or they may be the quirky ingenue who role is simply to heal, redeem, comfort or cheer the guy (i.e. Garden State, Elisabethtown). Often she sacrifices herself for the guy (i.e. Autumn in New York, A Walk to Remember), saving him through her death. Again, appalling.

I'd like to think I'm going to raise my daughter in a world where women and men are equal, but if listening to the news (i.e. threatened stoning of Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani) isn't enough to show me how far we have yet to go, 'relaxing' with a movie is certainly not going to ease my concerns.

Mother's Day

It's an amazing privilege to get to celebrate Mother's Day - not only because I am grateful to have a wonderful mother, but also because I am truly blessed to be a mother myself.

I'd heard it said that one can never understand the love a mother feels for her child until she has a child, and I know now how true this is.

Mother's Day isn't only a celebration of mothers, it's also a celebration of Grandmothers.

In April Miya got to see both her Grandma Bev and her Ajji (Grandma) Padma. Lots of love, cuddles and kisses - and not to mention a fair number of new toys and outfits! A very lucky little girl!

Dorris da Door Worm

Miya has many adorable toys. Plush teddies, a cuddly Eeyore, stuffed animals and soft blankets. So far, most of these have received only a passing interest. The teddy introduced to Miya as a bedtime 'lovey' is more likely to be bashed against the crib rails than to be cuddled with.

Indeed, Miya has generally been quite indifferent to all her soft toys - that is, until she met Dorris.

Dorris actually isn't even a toy. She is a door worm - something her mother knitted with scraps of yarn to block the light and noise at the big gap under Miya's bedroom door.

But Dorris da Door Worm does not have to spend her days alone on the floor. One of Miya's favourite past-times is to take Dorris on walk-abouts around the house. She holds Dorris up and walks a ways, drops her, stoops and picks her up, holds her high and takes a few more steps, drops her, picks her up, takes a few more steps.... you get the picture. Apparently this is widely entertaining. Both Dorris and Miya are able to do this for great lengths of times, multiple times a day, every day of the week.

Never underestimate the potential of a door worm.

Sleepy, sick baby

Poor little Miya has her first real nasty cold. Her cute little nose has become a spout of runny snot. Her thick, wet coughs frighten the cats.

On Friday I had to go in to work for a meeting, so V came home early to look after her. She hadn't been able to nap well during the day due to her congestion and coughs, so by 4:30 she was tuckered out. Our little baby, who is usually rather particular about how and when she naps, fell asleep in her daddy's arms.

I came home to a quiet house. Well, not entirely quiet - poor congested baby with her little snores.

It's obviously quite exhausting having a cold when you're only 9 months old.

there's just something about tags

Parents often make mistakes when selecting toys for their children. They look for bright colours, cutes faces and funny sounds.

But the most important part of a toy is how it tastes and feels in the mouth.

And the second most important part is the tag. Nothing beats a nice long tag. Really good toys even have several of them.

Miya takes her tag play very seriously and puts a lot of concentration in it. She usually holds the toy in her left hand while the fingers on her right hand grasp, tug, flip and twist the tag.

After a few minutes of this the tag is usually brought to the mouth for the compulsory taste-check. Then it is tossed to side the search for the next tag begins.

so this is love

When Miya was first born I didn't feel love for her, at least not in the way that I had ever felt love for someone before. What I did feel was fiercely protective and absolutely amazed. I marveled at her and everything she did, from her tiny sneezes to the strong grip in her little fingers. I even marveled that she was breathing.

And while it may not have felt like love, I have never been so able or willing to sacrifice myself for someone before. In the first few weeks breastfeeding was difficult; my breasts were raw and bleeding. Each time she fed I gritted my teeth and curled my toes with pain. But she wanted my breast and I wanted to give it to her. When she couldn't settle I walked countless circles in our house, holding her little body in my arms as I sang to comfort and soothe her. When she would cry in the night, no matter what the hour or how tired I was, I responded to her.

Most of the people in my life whom I love, I love by choice. With my daughter, there is no choice. I have been committed to her since the first time I heard her heart beating inside me. With other people I wait to see if we will get along. But Miya and I get along, not always smoothly and not always without misunderstandings. But from dawn to dusk to broken nights, we get along together, moving in a dance that I am only just learning the steps for.

I don't love her for what she says or does. Yet at the same time I love the little sounds she makes, the way she experiments with her voice. And I love the little things she does - the way she chews on her toes when lying on the change table, the way she presses her cheek against mine when I pick her up after a nap, the way she tilts back her head to look up and me and give me a gummy grin...

I have never loved like this before. Because I do, because I can, and because I will, I feel so incredibly grateful.

You are what you eat

Miya is working on a new look. It involves mixing a bit of cereal with some fruit or vegetable and then applying liberally to the face, hair, neck, hands and arms. For an extra flair she will sometimes dab it on her eyelashes. Who needs mascara when you have sweet potatoes?

Miya is also happy to share her fashionable accessories with our cats. It did not take long for Bogey and Bacall to realize that by hanging out under the high chair at mealtimes they get drops of cereal and the occasional spoon to lick. They also often come away sporting Miya's style with gobs of cereal on their fur and whiskers.

Thus far Miya has been generally preventing from taking her fashion to the streets as her outmoded mother usually wipes away each application before taking her daughter outside. But if you look closely you can usually find traces (hint: check behind the ears).

teddybear ears

The problem with not being able to dress yourself is that other people get to choose your clothes for you.

Miya has the additional indignity of having a mother who also likes to knit for her.

So it is that as the weather turns colder, Miya finds herself being carted outside with shoes that make her feet look humongous (her mother says she'll grow into them) and a hat that gives her teddybear ears.

finally a real meal!

Miya's been working hard to convince her parents she's ready to spice up her diet. Sure, breastmilk is great, but a little variety from time to time would be nice.

To prove her intent, she's been reaching for their food and grabbing at coffee mugs, glasses of water, spoons, ... anything to get the message across that this baby is ready to mix things up a bit.

So finally they gave in and on Oct 17th let her try some rice cereal.

First her mom put a little on her finger to see how the taste would be received.

"More!" Miya bellowed. And com'on, give me a real bite.

Now that's more like it! Something I can really sink my gums into.

You know, this stuff is pretty good!

Now what's for dessert?

trip to Saskatoon

In September, Miya took her first plane trip - flying from Ottawa to Saskatoon. She was rather concerned about hurtling through thin air in a metal tube miles above ground, but soon resigned herself to the new state of affairs, especially when she realized that no matter the altitude, she could still nurse.

She met her 100 year-old Great-Grandma - a beautiful woman and whiz at Scrabble.

Got reacquainted with her doting Grandma - who gave her clothes and toys and lots of cuddles.

Hung out with her Auntie who introduced her to philosopher puppets.

And even met her little cousin - who very gently, and proudly, held her on his lap.

A few short days later was in the Saskatoon Airport waiting to catch a flight back home. What a busy week!

jolly jumping

Sure, walking would be fun. But there are still a few balance issues to iron out. So in the meantime...
Miya points out that jumping can be pretty swell.

You get to be upright without having to worry about falling over.

You can stomp your feet and kick around.

You can even spin in circles.

This really is something to celebrate.

Miya thinks she could do this for hours...

Until she realizes that no matter how much she kicks and steps, she always ends up in the same spot.

And that can be a bit of a drag.

playdates in the park

To her father's chagrin, Miya has decided she is old enough to date. She's even seeing an older boy (well, older by a week). They were spotted last week in a local park, sharing a blanket under the trees. They tried to hide under their big hats, but we knew.

Miya has admitted though that this relationship is not without its challenges. While she is eager to engage her young friend in conversation, he is easily distracted by toys and generally does not respond.

Additionally, Miya noted they find it embarrasing to always have to bring their mothers along, seeing as they are not quite ambulatory yet.

So sometimes, even when on a date, Miya chooses to spend some time just by herself, hanging out in the swing.

finger play

So many toys designed for babies! This neighbourhood is lousy with baby boutiques and they all have adorable little toys for babies and children - fluffy, noisy, wooden, plastic, knitted, woven... infinite choices.

But Miya isn't buying it.

Sure bouncy tulip man makes lying on the change table a lot more fun. And Sophie can be entertaining, for a few minutes.
But Miya would generally rather talk at her toys than play with them.

And besides, the best things to play with - and certainly the most fun to put in her mouth - are her fingers.

household disruptions

When we bought our house in 2006 we were assured the basement never leaked. But this spring, when we began taking the fake-wood paneling and Styrofoam insulation off the walls, we found some moisture. It wasn't pouring in, but the walls were definitely damp.
So we brought in some foundation repair contractors to take a look. Most of them told us the same thing - we'd need to excavate the exterior and wrap the foundation in a moisture barrier. Turns out our house was built before such things were required.
This in itself was a big, and expensive, proposal. But since we plan to finish the basement it seemed foolish to frame walls which we knew were damaged. We felt we had little choice but to bite the bullet and sign up to get our two walls excavated and covered.
We went with a company that came recommended - I'll call them Mr. F.
After they dug up about 40 feet around our north-west corner, the company said we had bigger issues than simple moisture leakage. What looks to us like a small gap in the mortar is to them a problem requiring the removal and repair of 15 feet of foundation.
The result is that for almost four months we've had a pit around our house. Mr. F. dithers and stalls - waiting for various engineering reports, crew availability etc. And we're been locked into a contract that doubled from its initial quote.
It's been an exceptionally rainy summer - which understandably slows construction work. But this has also led to a very wet basement here as water leaks in under the foundation and through the exposed cinder-block wall.

And if the pit around our house wasn't enough of a disruption, at the end of July we got robbed. Someone broke into our house and took most of our electronics - computers, recorders, camera, cds and a few other things. They ransacked the bedroom dressers and the dining room buffet, but luckily didn't spend much time looking elsewhere.
Oddly, the also stole one of our cloth diapers and the dirty diaper bag.

So while having a baby is in and of itself quite a significant disruption to a home - we've been given a few extra. But perhaps it's the maternal hormones racing around my body that help keep things in perspective - we're ok, our daughter is healthy and happy. That's what really matters. The rest is just inconvenience.

our baby's Baby Bjorn

Since becoming rather constrained in the wrap, Miya is stepping out in a new style.

Kindly passed on to us from another family, the Baby Bjorn is perfect for Miya's 3 month size.

She loves that she can look around - and often gives beaming smiles to people she meets. She also seems to like that the cloth is just the right height to gum on - yum, yum, nothing beats the taste of a Baby Bjorn.

walking in Westboro

Nearly everyday I take my daughter for a walk. For her first month, I used to wrap her up and carry her against my body. The rhythm of my footsteps, the sway of movement would inevitably put her to sleep.

Now, as she is older and heavier, I lay her in the stroller and push her all around the neighbourhood. Sometimes I wonder if there is any street in a 3 km radius of our house that I have not yet covered.

Yet even though the scenery may feel repetitive at times, I constantly feel fortunate to live in such a lovely part of town.

We live in an old neighbourhood, less than two kilometres from the river which separates Ontario from Quebec. Many of the houses around here, especially those closer to the river, used to be cottages. However, as the city expanded and this neighbourhood grew popular, many have been renovated and upgraded. Indeed, to walk around this area is to constantly pass construction sites, most of which are additions being added to old houses.

I also pass cafés and restaurants, boutique shops, lovingly tended gardens and many parks. Often I go down to the river where the breeze off the water is refreshing and urban noise is replaced with songs of nature.

Miya peers out from the stroller, captivated by the play of sunlight and wind in the trees. She'll nod off to sleep; I'll slow my step and lazily drift through another summer afternoon.