Unicorn Rainbow Sprinkle Baby

About a week ago Gaia finally found her feet. She caught hold of one of her toes and hasn’t willingly let go since. I, of course, beamed with pride and gushed “Ooooooo! Good job baby girl! You are the smartest, most wonderful, most talented baby in the whole wide world!! You. Are. A GENIUS!” It’s true. Minutes later when she managed to roll to her side unassisted I thought the neighbors might come over to check I wasn’t having a mild seizure. The sheer volume of my praise sent the dog into a barking fit that lasted almost five minutes. Am I logically aware that these are pretty average milestones in the life of an infant? Yes. Did that stop me from documenting the occurrences with hundreds of photos in mere hours and passing the momentous news on to my husband, my parents, my in-laws and Gaia’s Godmother? No.

Working in a variety of childcare settings I’ve grown to hate those parents. You know, the ones who chalk every instance of good/bad/ugly behavior up to the belief they cling to blindly…

“Oh,” they proclaim proudly “my child is gifted.”

Alas I can feel myself quickly becoming one of them. I have visions of Gaia standing at the corner of the stage during a ballet recital sucking on her tutu and picking her nose while the other little girls pirouette around her.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” I’ll say to no one in particular. “I’ve always said she had her own sense of rhythm that’s just sooo above the other girls.”

I hate myself already. Or, you know, I would if my daughter wasn't genuinely gifted. Obviously. Ahem.

To make matters worse it’s not just milestones met that send me into a frenzy. At numerous points throughout my day I find myself consumed with staring at Gaia in awe. “There’s just no denying it,” I think to myself “I have given birth to the world’s most adorable baby.” Desperate to maintain to my last shred of sanity I’m always quick to give my head a shake and remind myself that all mothers feel the same about their children. Still today I woke up to a message from a friend that made me feel slightly less crazy. Apparently she’d been showing a friend pictures of Gaia when the mere sight of my baby caused him to proclaim “SHE’S SO FUCKING CUTE IT’S LIKE SHE FELL OUT OF A UNICORN’S ASS AND IS MADE OF RAINBOWS AND SPRINKLES!”

HAH! I KNEW IT!

A Mental Vacation

Consider this an apology for three whole days without a single post. I have a lot to say but as yet have not found the appropriate words to say it. Soon. Or maybe I just need a few days to not have the appropriate words so I can just pick up where I left off and leave these last three days a mystery. We'll see. I'm fine. Gaia is fine. Jose is fine. My family and friends are all fine. Well. More or less. My life? My life is beautiful. Still I wait for the other shoe to drop. I'm always waiting. I teeter on the edge of having everything I never knew I always wanted while I cling to the fear that it could all be taken away. Just like that it could all be taken away. I like to think of myself as a pretty realistic person. Good and bad. Black and white. Right and wrong. I'm big on fairness. On karma. On the golden rule. A number of things have happened this week that have reminded me that life isn't always fair. Bad things happen to good people. Good people who don't deserve the sadness or shock or loss. Good people who don't deserve the struggle. I'm taking a week off from the news, from the media, from the gossip magazines and CNN and from the fiction. It's become clear that now is not the best time to read My Sister's Keeper. I'd say it's apparent the movie can wait awhile too. I'm taking a week off from the deaths and the injustice and the broken hearts and publicity stunts and tragedy that seems to be taking over my mind this week. I'm taking a break.

Come Here Often?

Today while waiting with Gaia for a friend at a Starbucks the following exchange took place:

Moderately Attractive Man : Your baby is adorable.
Me : Thanks.
M.A.M : No really. She has your eyes. They are beautiful.
Me (looking away awkwardly) : Oh. Um. Thanks.
M.A.M : How old is she?
Me : Three and a half months.
M.A.M : Oh WOW. She’s only a few months old? You look great.
Me (still avoiding eye contact) : Oh. Um. Thanks.
M.A.M : So, um, Daddy’s at work?
Me : Yup.
M.A.M : And you and Daddy are...
Me : Married.
M.A.M : Alright then. Have a good afternoon.
Me : Will do.

I’m not sure what’s more shocking, the fact that there’s a man out there who trolls Starbucks looking for potential single mothers to scam on or the fact that apparently my no makeup, messy ponytail, wedding ring, baby spit-up on shoulder combo screamed “CHOOSE ME! HIT ON ME!”

Baby Fat

Although Gaia was average at birth she quickly dropped to a dangerous weight. The Public Health Nurse was alarmed, friends and family made jokes about how “she definitely doesn’t take after her mother” and even I had to admit my newborn was a tad gangly. Instead of a plump, rosy baby, I had one who was long and lean without a discernable ounce of fat on her. Her skin even sagged like that of an anorexic actress, bones jutting from her hips, ribs clearly visible. At her four-week check up she was in the fifth percentile for weight. I was more then a little concerned. Of course she made her way to a healthy weight eventually and now it appears she’s on track to tip the scales in the other direction. Just last week I noticed her BabyLegs were cutting off circulation in her ample thighs. I simply shimmied them down below her knees and didn’t think much of it. Of course I’ve noticed she’s getting harder and harder to lug around and that she’s rapidly growing out of her three to six month clothing but it wasn’t until last night that it really hit me. I put her in the Bumbo while I made myself dinner, as I always do. I was shocked when I went to pick her up a few minutes later and found her baby thighs firmly wedged in the Bumbo leg holes. That’s right ladies and gentleman, her thighs have grown to such an glorious size she’s getting stuck in a baby seat designed for infants exactly her age. Turns out she takes after me after all.

Gaia's Thighs - Four-Weeks Old (in a Premie-Sized Onesie)

Gaia's Thighs - Fourteen-Weeks Old

Birth of the Narcissist

On the shortlist of Gaia’s favourite things to do looking at herself in the mirror comes a close third to licking inanimate objects and making fun of babies in strollers. She comes by in honestly, Jose and I spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror ourselves. But I digress. Vanity aside I find it fascinating that simply seeing her reflection causes Gaia to calm regardless of her emotional state. More interesting still is that everything I’ve read claims there is no way she connects her reflection to herself. Initially I just wondered why seeing another baby on the street doesn’t have the same effect as the mirror but now my musings have become more complex. If it’s true that a) Gaia does not recognise her reflection and b) Gaia does recognise me and c) I’m holding her ninety percent of the time she is exposed to a mirror then I can’t help but wonder the following:

1. Does she ever get jealous of the baby in the mirror being held by her mother?
2. Does she think said baby is a sibling? A friend’s baby? An apparition? Does she wonder why the baby doesn’t try to play with her?
3. Does she ever wonder how I can be holding both her and the other baby simultaneously? Does she think I’m magic?
4. Does she assume I have a clone or identical twin or the like and if so does she ever wonder why this other mother is only with us when we’re in the bathroom (the lone place in my house where I have a mirror)?
5. Will her mind be totally blown when she meets Jose’s identical twin? Will she wonder why this duplicate Daddy lives outside of the mirror? What will happen if all three of them look in the mirror resulting in four Daddys? Will it cause her baby brain to short circut? Should we avoid this possibility at all costs?
6. Does she ever notice that the baby in the mirror makes the same gestures as her or does she think “Wow, that baby sure spends a lot of time sucking on her hands, what a moron”?
7. Since she talks and laughs most when we’re looking in the mirror I can only assume she finds the mirror baby hilarious. Is that the case or is she just observing social norms and laughing to be polite?
8. When she finally does realise the reflection is her will she feel silly for not making the connection for so long? Will the realisation cause a little baby existential crisis that will result in her questioning her reality for the rest of her life? If so how might I prevent the inevitable breakdown?

Seriously. I think these things and more every time we’re looking in the mirror. Perhaps this is a sign that I need to go back to work or further my education or at the very least start reading books that aren’t about babies again. Or maybe we should just stop looking in the mirror so often? It's a tough call.

Oh and I thought I should explain why Gaia makes fun of babies in strollers... I’m convinced she thinks she’s moving of her own volition when she’s strapped in the sling, the smug look she gives stroller babies says it all.

Daddy's Girl

My father is one of my favourite people in the world. He is the standard I set for myself. How I know that a quiet soul should never be mistaken for an empty mind, that being powerful is not the same as being feared and that everyone is flawed but deserves the right to be accepted. I like to think I was born understanding him. Knowing he is funny and caring and generous if you just have the patience to see it.


My father is lazy mornings in the water bed when I was a baby. Days spent reading stories and getting groceries and eating cheerios (mostly me) while we cooked (mostly him). By all accounts I was bossy and demanding and always in his arms. I have memories of colouring books and games of checkers and walking across the road to visit him in the shop. Elaborate birthday cakes and handmade wooden toys and custom bedroom furniture and lying on the floor while he cut my toenails. He is quiet in the chaos, time with my father like the stillness in the eye of the storm. He’s goodnight whisker rubs that replaced goodnight kisses and left me with tingling rosy cheeks from his five-o-clock shadow. He’s the smell of wheat and gasoline that will always make me feel safe. His is a pride in me that hides behind gruffness and awkward hugs but that shows every day, in every way, in all the ways he’s lived his life so that mine may be better.


When I got pregnant he was the family member I told first. I knew his calm would be reassuring. He opened his home to me and went out every day to get me Booster Juice because I was too nauseous to keep anything else down. When I didn’t know what to do he built a home up around me. Just another example of the way he’s spent a lifetime calmly helping me put the pieces of my world back together when the rug’s been pulled from beneath me. A father’s greatest trick. To say I’m lucky doesn’t begin to describe it.


I feel luckier still now that now that he’s a part of Gaia’s life. Her granddad is silly songs and sounds and faces when he thinks no one else is looking. He’s tirelessly bouncing her on his knee and cautiously knocking on our door when she’s been screaming for hours so he can help. He’s always there to help, has always been there, cannot imagine a time when he will not be there. I refuse to believe there will be a time when he will not be there.


Happy Father’s Day.

You are Brilliant, and the Earth is Hiring

I can't take credit for finding this as I justthissecond read it on a friend's blog. Still, when I finished I immediately printed it out to be put in Gaia's baby book. This is something she needs to hear someday and more than once. In fact, I suspect I'll read it to her in place of The Belly Button Book when she wakes up from her nap. I hope you feel as inspired as I did.

Commencement Address to the Class of 2009 at the University of Portland
By Paul Hawken, May 3, 2009
When I was invited to give this speech, I was asked if I could give a simple short talk that was "direct, naked, taut, honest, passionate, lean, shivering, startling, and graceful." No pressure there.

Let's begin with the startling part. Class of 2009: you are going to have to figure out what it means to be a human being on earth at a time when every living system is declining, and the rate of decline is accelerating. Kind of a mind-boggling situation... but not one peer-reviewed paper published in the last thirty years can refute that statement. Basically, civilization needs a new operating system, you are the programmers, and we need it within a few decades.

This planet came with a set of instructions, but we seem to have misplaced them. Important rules like don't poison the water, soil, or air, don't let the earth get overcrowded, and don't touch the thermostat have been broken. Buckminster Fuller said that spaceship earth was so ingeniously designed that no one has a clue that we are on one, flying through the universe at a million miles per hour, with no need for seatbelts, lots of room in coach, and really good food—but all that is changing.

There is invisible writing on the back of the diploma you will receive, and in case you didn't bring lemon juice to decode it, I can tell you what it says: You are Brilliant, and the Earth is Hiring. The earth couldn't afford to send recruiters or limos to your school. It sent you rain, sunsets, ripe cherries, night blooming jasmine, and that unbelievably cute person you are dating. Take the hint. And here's the deal: Forget that this task of planet-saving is not possible in the time required. Don't be put off by people who know what is not possible. Do what needs to be done, and check to see if it was impossible only after you are done.

When asked if I am pessimistic or optimistic about the future, my answer is always the same: If you look at the science about what is happening on earth and aren't pessimistic, you don't understand the data. But if you meet the people who are working to restore this earth and the lives of the poor, and you aren't optimistic, you haven't got a pulse. What I see everywhere in the world are ordinary people willing to confront despair, power, and incalculable odds in order to restore some semblance of grace, justice, and beauty to this world. The poet Adrienne Rich wrote, "So much has been destroyed I have cast my lot with those who, age after age, perversely, with no extraordinary power, reconstitute the world." There could be no better description. Humanity is coalescing. It is reconstituting the world, and the action is taking place in schoolrooms, farms, jungles, villages, campuses, companies, refuge camps, deserts, fisheries, and slums.

You join a multitude of caring people. No one knows how many groups and organizations are working on the most salient issues of our day: climate change, poverty, deforestation, peace, water, hunger, conservation, human rights, and more. This is the largest movement the world has ever seen. Rather than control, it seeks connection. Rather than dominance, it strives to disperse concentrations of power. Like Mercy Corps, it works behind the scenes and gets the job done. Large as it is, no one knows the true size of this movement. It provides hope, support, and meaning to billions of people in the world. Its clout resides in idea, not in force. It is made up of teachers, children, peasants, businesspeople, rappers, organic farmers, nuns, artists, government workers, fisherfolk, engineers, students, incorrigible writers, weeping Muslims, concerned mothers, poets, doctors without borders, grieving Christians, street musicians, the President of the United States of America, and as the writer David James Duncan would say, the Creator, the One who loves us all in such a huge way.

There is a rabbinical teaching that says if the world is ending and the Messiah arrives, first plant a tree, and then see if the story is true. Inspiration is not garnered from the litanies of what may befall us; it resides in humanity's willingness to restore, redress, reform, rebuild, recover, reimagine, and reconsider. "One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice," is Mary Oliver's description of moving away from the profane toward a deep sense of connectedness to the living world. Millions of people are working on behalf of strangers, even if the evening news is usually about the death of strangers. This kindness of strangers has religious, even mythic origins, and very specific eighteenth-century roots. Abolitionists were the first people to create a national and global movement to defend the rights of those they did not know. Until that time, no group had filed a grievance except on behalf of itself. The founders of this movement were largely unknown -- Granville Clark, Thomas Clarkson, Josiah Wedgwood — and their goal was ridiculous on the face of it: at that time three out of four people in the world were enslaved. Enslaving each other was what human beings had done for ages. And the abolitionist movement was greeted with incredulity. Conservative spokesmen ridiculed the abolitionists as liberals, progressives, do-gooders, meddlers, and activists. They were told they would ruin the economy and drive England into poverty. But for the first time in history a group of people organized themselves to help people they would never know, from whom they would never receive direct or indirect benefit. And today tens of millions of people do this every day. It is called the world of non-profits, civil society, schools, social entrepreneurship, non-governmental organizations, and companies who place social and environmental justice at the top of their strategic goals. The scope and scale of this effort is unparalleled in history.

The living world is not "out there" somewhere, but in your heart. What do we know about life? In the words of biologist Janine Benyus, life creates the conditions that are conducive to life. I can think of no better motto for a future economy. We have tens of thousands of abandoned homes without people and tens of thousands of abandoned people without homes. We have failed bankers advising failed regulators on how to save failed assets. We are the only species on the planet without full employment. Brilliant. We have an economy that tells us that it is cheaper to destroy earth in real time rather than renew, restore, and sustain it. You can print money to bail out a bank but you can't print life to bail out a planet. At present we are stealing the future, selling it in the present, and calling it gross domestic product. We can just as easily have an economy that is based on healing the future instead of stealing it. We can either create assets for the future or take the assets of the future. One is called restoration and the other exploitation. And whenever we exploit the earth we exploit people and cause untold suffering. Working for the earth is not a way to get rich, it is a way to be rich.

The first living cell came into being nearly 40 million centuries ago, and its direct descendants are in all of our bloodstreams. Literally you are breathing molecules this very second that were inhaled by Moses, Mother Teresa, and Bono. We are vastly interconnected. Our fates are inseparable. We are here because the dream of every cell is to become two cells. And dreams come true. In each of you are one quadrillion cells, 90 percent of which are not human cells. Your body is a community, and without those other microorganisms you would perish in hours. Each human cell has 400 billion molecules conducting millions of processes between trillions of atoms. The total cellular activity in one human body is staggering: one septillion actions at any one moment, a one with twenty-four zeros after it. In a millisecond, our body has undergone ten times more processes than there are stars in the universe, which is exactly what Charles Darwin foretold when he said science would discover that each living creature was a "little universe, formed of a host of self-propagating organisms, inconceivably minute and as numerous as the stars of heaven."

So I have two questions for you all: First, can you feel your body? Stop for a moment. Feel your body. One septillion activities going on simultaneously, and your body does this so well you are free to ignore it, and wonder instead when this speech will end. You can feel it. It is called life. This is who you are. Second question: who is in charge of your body? Who is managing those molecules? Hopefully not a political party. Life is creating the conditions that are conducive to life inside you, just as in all of nature. Our innate nature is to create the conditions that are conducive to life. What I want you to imagine is that collectively humanity is evincing a deep innate wisdom in coming together to heal the wounds and insults of the past.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once asked what we would do if the stars only came out once every thousand years. No one would sleep that night, of course. The world would create new religions overnight. We would be ecstatic, delirious, made rapturous by the glory of God. Instead, the stars come out every night and we watch television.

This extraordinary time when we are globally aware of each other and the multiple dangers that threaten civilization has never happened, not in a thousand years, not in ten thousand years. Each of us is as complex and beautiful as all the stars in the universe. We have done great things and we have gone way off course in terms of honoring creation. You are graduating to the most amazing, stupefying challenge ever bequested to any generation. The generations before you failed. They didn't stay up all night. They got distracted and lost sight of the fact that life is a miracle every moment of your existence. Nature beckons you to be on her side. You couldn't ask for a better boss. The most unrealistic person in the world is the cynic, not the dreamer. Hope only makes sense when it doesn't make sense to be hopeful. This is your century. Take it and run as if your life depends on it.

I took the speech from the Charity Focus blog. To find out more about Paul Hawken check out his website here.

Poo Fountain

I hesitate to write anything more about my ongoing struggle to find a formula that doesn’t make Gaia

a) fussy
b) gassy
c) have excessive diarrhea
d) constipated
e) break out in a rash
f) all of the above

until we’ve finally locked down a bonafide solution. For the purposes of this post all you need to know is that our current formula seems to have solved the majority of our concerns save for the fact her diarrhea is so excessive it’s like her baby bum is a rusted tap in an old farm house that persistently sputters out brown water. Don’t worry, you don’t have to thank me for the visual. Today she was sitting in her Bumbo, happily playing, when she let out a series of farts. As I always do post fart I stopped what I was doing and approached her to survey the scene. The smell seemed to confirm a poop, but I picked her up to be sure. Instantly my hands felt wet. I turned her around to see a gigantic skid mark that traveled up her back and culminated in a diarrhea splatter on her neck. I can only surmise that the force of her farts caused her brown water poo to shoot up and out of her diaper like a glorious, disgusting baby poo fountain. Needless to say the damage control was extensive and included anti-bacterial soap, a washing machine, no less the twelve wipes, a shower nozzle, a wash cloth and an entirely new outfit. On the plus side the dog saw fit to lick the Bumbo clean for me while I was washing myself and Gaia. Like a revolting and hairy Mother’s helper she is. Now if I can just remember to be extra diligent in my attempts to keep the dog’s mouth away from the baby for the next few days we’ll be just fine.

Oh and if reading this post made you feel uncomfortable or cause you to mutter a serious of judgmental “ewwws” at any point please take a moment to remind yourself… this is my life.

Baby Weight? (An Update)

On Saturday I posted this.

A few hours later I got an email from my official Mommy Friend enthusiastically outlining an idea she had for losing her own "baby weight" and suggesting I get onboard so we could support each other. I was going to write about it today but she beat me to the punch. Check it out here.

While my meals aren't becoming uber-healthy I am considering portion control. So far I have resisted the temptation to snack on multiple occasions. Eating a bag of Doritos at 8:00am seems less cute when I have to take a picture of it and send it out for public scrutiny. I know, I know. My Mommy Friend isn't exactly the public en mass and would never judge but still, she's holding me accountable for my choices. Antoher good thing about this new experiment? Last night at 11:00pm I was exhausted and moody and so ready to eat icing straight from the jar but I didn't. Why? I'd already emailed out my food dairy signaling the end of my daily munching of course.

Anyway, I'll let you know how it goes.

Planet G

Two days before I found out I was pregnant I bought two pairs of the most indulgent six-inch heels. I traded them in exchange for over three hundred dollars, my entire bank balance. I fell in love with them the moment I slid them on my feet at danced around the store with glee. One pair was outrageous in purple patent shine and smooth grey suede with a stripper-worthy platform. You know, a classy stripper of course. The other pair was only slightly more wearable. Luxurious caramel leather with multiple wide straps that crossed well past my ankles. They were finished in the perfect teak without a hint of that shine that makes a wood heel look cheap. Oh. My. Goodness. I’m drooling just thinking about them now. They were exquisite. The evening I bought them was spent trying them on with every article of clothing in my closet, stopping periodically to bat my eyelashes at them admiringly.

The first thing I did when I found out I was pregnant was return them both. Before I told Jose or my family or saw a doctor or dealt with the news in any emotionally mature way I did a final lap of my house in the gorgeous shoes, placed them delicately back into their boxes and took them back to the store. If you’re not a shoe person this may seem ridiculous to you, but that was the first time in my life I had ever returned a shoe. It was like giving away a child (my two hundred and forty seventh born). I think about those shoes every day. Not because I miss them or because I wish they were in my closet today, but because those shoes will forever represent the moment I became a mother. For a girl like me those shoes were my first act of sacrifice and I didn’t think twice. I had no idea what I was going to do after I returned those shoes, but I had an inkling that three hundred dollars might come in handy.

Since Gaia was born we’ve gotten pretty much everything we’ve needed with the help of a variety of generous friends. I can’t stress enough how lucky we are to have so many amazing and generous people around us. It chokes me up to think about it. Still there was one thing, however unessential, I felt we were missing. I wanted a baby gym and I wanted one bad. One sure sign of Gaia’s maturity seems to be that we’re finding it harder and harder to fill the gaps between feedings and naps. The bottom line? She’s been getting bored. Today after a quick look at my finances it appeared I could afford diapers, food and a little something extra so we headed to the mall. Gaia was fast asleep when we arrived so I figured I could sneak in a little shopping for myself. I perused Vancouver’s finest. Shoes and handbags and dresses and more. I should have been in shopping heaven, but like growing apart from your best friend in high school, my favourite old stores just didn’t hold their same appeal. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but somehow shopping just didn’t seem satisfying and I didn’t buy a single thing. Gasp!

When Gaia started to stir I steered us full speed ahead for Babies-R-Us. There amongst the aisles was the very thing I’ve been coveting while struggling to keep Gaia entertained for the past few weeks – a Fisher Price Precious Planet Deluxe Musical Activity Gym. I scooped it up and I felt that familiar stir. On my way out I grabbed some three to six month bottle nipples to replace the newborn ones we’ve been using and a Spanish speaking Baby Einstein Octoplush. Paying for my purchases I felt it. The supreme satisfaction of buying something you really, really want. When we got home Gaia watched me eagerly from her Bumbo as I constructed her new world (a world I’ve appropriately coined Planet G). We spent the next hour lying on the floor together listening to a plastic Polar Bear sing us songs as we swatted the dangling animals above our head. At one point Gaia caught a glimpse of herself in the sunshine mirror hanging above her and regardless of whether she recognised it or not she promptly welcomed the reflection with a barrage of coos and giggles. My heart swelled with the same consumer satisfaction I’d felt eleven months earlier with the shoes.













Becoming a mother wasn’t as jarring as I was expecting. I was ready for the sleepless nights and often overwhelming responsibility and letting my whole world revolve around someone small enough to fall asleep tucked comfortably in my arms. But the fact that I’ve happily given up designer duds and six inch heels for Fisher Price baby gear, well I don’t think anyone saw that coming.

I'm With The Band

When I was a teenager I thought I was pretty rad. I had black hair with ruby tips and pencil thin eyebrows and a tattoo in senior year. In the way only a teenager can I decided who I wanted to be and committed to it. My persona? “I’m with the band.” And I was. For a whole decade of my life I only dated pseudo wannabe rockstars. I started with guitarists (too shy) and moved on to drummers (too crazy). In the end I settled exclusively on lead singers. I revelled in the idea that I was their muse. I established an air of superiority as I sat, casually disaffected, in a corner booth at some local Battle of the Bands. “That song... it’s about me” I’d say. And it was. Of course the inevitable drama of screaming late night fights and tearful wordy apologies and the rampant infidelity eventually got to me and I moved on from tortured artists to a little more stable fare. As I grew older it seemed obvious that there was only room for one diva in my relationships and clearly I preferred that diva be me. Still, before I saw the light I spent the entirety of my formative dating years drinking beers at band practice and imagining my name in liner notes. It wasn’t all wasted time though. If I got anything from my rockband boyfriends it was an absolutely amazing musical education.

I used to be that girl. The one who isn’t quite a groupie because her knowledge of all things rock and roll is so extensive you don’t dare whittle her commitment down to some childish desire to sleep with someone famous (or, you know, almost famous). I didn’t come by it honestly. Instead, I listened. I poured over CD collections and read music magazines and mentally noted every observation made in casual conversation. When I moved to England at sixteen my musical education deepened. I became consumed with Nirvana. I wanted to play guitar and be Courtney to someone’s Kurt. I listened to the Foo Fighters on repeat for weeks. Dave Grohl was my soulmate. That much I was sure of. Concerts were my cocaine and I attended them en mass and collapsed into bed each night exhausted from mosh pits and stage dives. You’d never know it look at me now but there were two weeks of my life where I dropped everything to follow Weezer and the Foo Fighters as they toured the West Coast. I frequented music stores and diverged from band guys only once, for a crush on a guy I still call HMV Phil. I can recite the lyrics to every song from the alternative/grunge era with ease. On a good day I can tell you the year songs were produced, original line-ups and the realities of the rise and fall of fame. I will never know anything as well as I knew that particular era of music and that’s the way it should be. It’s the only it way it can be when you fall in love with something in high school.

Somebody told me once that the bands you listened to when you were seventeen will remain your favourite for life. I didn’t put much stock in it. Still, this morning I got in Robin’s car and was happily surprised when I stumbled upon a plethora of mixed CDs I’d made in senior year in the glove compartment. Somewhere along the way I’d left my vast collection of CDs behind and being the scavenger he is Robin simply adopted them all. Driving through downtown Vancouver at 9:00am singing along to Blind Melon I felt like my old teenage self.

“I just want suh-uhm-one to say to me... oh oh oh oh... I’ll always be there when you wa-ake....”

You couldn’t pay me to trade in my happily-married-career-and-mommy-life for the crushing awkwardness and angst of those days but I can’t deny I loved the little piece of it. For a minute it felt like dancing with my eyes closed in the middle of Jenks (my favourite Blackpool club) with a Strobe (a delightful combination of strawberry vodka and caffeine) in one hand and a mohawked manchild in the other. Like the first time I lined my eyes with black or peeling off the eyelash glue I used to stick craft store glitter to my lids. Like catching a lift from some guy I just met because I spent my taxi money on 4:00am pizza. I may be ten years older now and infinitely wiser. I may have been driving out to explore the Ladner market on a Sunday afternoon with my baby asleep in the backseat. I may have given up on backstage passes and guys with ironic facial hair. I may never feel exactly like I felt when I was seventeen and got so close to the stage I could smell the rocker sweat. But this morning, this morning I got close.

Baby Weight?

I can’t remember a time when I wore a single digit size. In fact, part of me suspects I was born a size ten and the numbers have been slowly climbing since then. I know why I gain weight. I have a passionate love affair with good food. I blame it on my father who introduced me to a world of culinary delights as a child. Plus I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like. When I started university in 2001 I thought I was gigantic. Looking back I was actually on the healthier side of average. My jeans were a comfortable size ten which is nothing to scoff at for a girl with hips like mine. By the time I completed my six-year-degree and finally graduated (finally) I was going through a gymnastics routine every morning to get my size sixteen jeans to do up. I refused to bite the bullet and buy a size up. At size sixteen I could still shop at The GAP, if I gave in and went to a ‘big girl store’ I was afraid it’d be a slippery slope to Mom-Jeans and muumuus. I knew the fact my jeans left permanent impressions in my belly was a little ridiculous, I just pretended not to care. I left university sixty pounds heavier then I’d arrived and I’d finally pushed the scale over two hundred pounds. Things were getting excessive.

Leaving for university in 2001

Leaving for ships in 2007

When I came home from my first contract on ships I was inextricably fifteen pounds lighter. I chalked it up to a strict diet of Corona and controversy. Sustenance was placed on the backburner as I became consumed with living a life of excess and melodrama. Somehow I managed to keep the weight off during my two months of vacation. Even more shocking was the additional thirty pounds I lost during my next contract. Having gotten a promotion, it wasn’t a beer and drama diet that did it this time, it was sixteen-hour workdays and repeatedly jogging up ten flights of stairs to get from my cabin to Adventure Ocean because I’MJUSTTOOBUSYTOWAITFORTHEELEVATOR. Neither strategy was the healthiest but I felt good. I was still fifteen pounds away from where I’d been completely healthy and thirty pounds from my ultimate goal, but I took pride in my size twelve jeans. In my last months on the ship I started eating well (not just eating very little) and Jose and I went to the gym almost every day. I even found myself turning away dessert (my favourite part of any meal). I had big plans.

A few weeks after signing off of The Navigator of the Seas - Almost 3 Weeks Pregnant (who knew?)

Then I got pregnant. Determined not to succumb to the “I’m pregnant so I can eat what I want” trap I tried my best to stay on the healthy eating bandwagon. Sweets were my major vice, but I rationalised that eating an entire sheet cake in one sitting was probably not going to kill me. Right? I did everything I could to stay active. I did yoga three times a week and went on walks and never let the pregnancy be an excuse at my often active job. I felt proud at my six month check up when I’d only gained seven pounds. My ultrasound showed the baby was just the right size and developing perfectly. I decided all my best efforts must mean that I was losing weight while my fetus took all the nutrients. This suited me just fine.

Then I went to Peru. To this day I’m not entirely sure how it happened. It might have been the Inca Kola, the cookies or the ice cream bars I consumed in bed every day pre and post-nap. Or maybe it was the fries I had with every meal? Regardless when I got back to Canada and back to my doctor for my seven month check up I had gained a whooping ten pounds. “Okay. No big Deal.” I thought. “Seventeen pounds is nothing during pregnancy.” And it wasn’t.

Two days before Gaia was born.

Then I gave up. By the time I hit seven and a half months I was so sick of being pregnant I ate whatever I wanted, mainly to make myself feel better. I started sleeping through yoga and gave up on walks and I even took the elevator up one floor at work more than once. By the time Gaia was born I had gained a total of almost thirty pounds. I still weighed less then when I’d graduated university but just barely. I hadn’t expected miracles but when I weighed myself for the first time post-pregnancy I was down over fifteen pounds. “At this rate,” I thought “I’ll be back into my old jeans in no time.” Sigh. Not only have I not lost a single additional pound since then, I’ve actually gained five more. Not to mention the fact that my belly, which even at my heaviest had been reasonably flat, is now sad and droopy. Distantly reminded of squishing a sleeping bag into it’s too-small casing every time I tried to get into my jeans I began living in yoga pants.

Last night I went to dinner with I friend. We were chatting when I looked down and realised I was casually rubbing my belly. Even more shocking was that it appeared to be about the same size it had been at around the five-month mark of my pregnancy. Sure I haven’t been watching what I eat. The aforementioned meal had a caloric content I don’t dare think about. Still, I just had a baby right? Ummm... sort of. The’ just’ in ‘just had a baby’ is getting to be a bit of a stretch and somehow I don’t think the excuse holds much weight anymore. It’s gotten to the point that continuing to refer to my extra chub as “baby weight” is laughable. Instead of blaming the baby, perhaps I should face facts. I think the real culprit might be the gigantic cookie and frappacino I had for breakfast this morning. Or maybe it was the quesadilla oozing delicious cheese I just snacked on. Hmmm. It’s true that the moments I actually find myself able to cook are rare. Also true is the lack of opportunities to go to the gym. Still, I know I could be taking better care of myself. I’m choosing not to.

Weight is such a sensitive topic, one I’m especially aware of now that I have a daughter. The last thing I want is for my struggles with weight to have any impact of Gaia’s view of her own body. Still, she deserves a healthy mother. My husband deserves a confident wife. Hell, I deserve to feel what it’s like to zip up my pre-baby jeans again. I’m not planning on getting obsessive or anything but it seems clear that now that I’ve found myself in yoga pants on a Friday night, rubbing my belly while I casually eye the cheesecake at the table beside me I’m sliding down the aforementioned slope that ends in Mom-Jeans and muumuus. It may seem vain, but there’s no way I’m I going to nab MILF status if I keep wandering down that slope. And you can deny it all you want but don’t pretend you don’t want to be a MILF too.

Blog-Lazy and a Baby Birthday

The beautiful weather in Vancouver is officially making me blog-lazy. As in, I spend every spare second outside exploring my new summer neighborhood with Baby G so when we finally come home to sleep I’m far to tired to string together sentences in any coherent fashion. I promise I will try and rectify the situation tomorrow. In the meantime today is Gaia’s three-month birthday. How it’s even possible that I have a three-month old baby is beyond me. I wonder if I'll still feel like that when she's thirteen?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY G!

Homosexual Ties and Other Reasons To Be Friends with Robin

Lots of you know Robin. I’ve also blogged about him here. Being the fantastic guy he is he’s opened his home to me and Gaia for the next month or two. Just to make things crystal clear I’m talking single-guy-scrapes-pizza-crusts-off-floor-cleans-toilet-moves-out-of-bedroom-onto-couch-walks-to-work-so-we-can-borrow-his-brand-new-car-completely-shares-everything-with-a-ONE-for-me-TWO-for-mama-and-baby-attitude opens his home. His generosity knows no bounds, nor does my gratitude. I just thought I should put that out there.

Plus I'm pretty sure when we're hanging out each of us is just that much funnier. Case in point - last night Gaia fell asleep on my chest on the couch. Not only did I make Robin turn off the TV so she would stay that way, I shot him a series of death glares every time he made the slightest noise (baby sleep is not something I take lightly these days). Suddenly, devestatingly, I knocked the remote control off the couch with a shift of my ample ass and cringed as it crashed to the ground. The following transaction took place in barely audible whispers...

Roberge - WHAT!?! Are you serious?
Me - What?? It wasn't me. It was my big ass and you better believe I'm going to give it a stern talking to.
Roberge - Yeah man... you better cut that thing down to size... (cue rimshot)

I'm pretty sure we're the only people who think we're funny but I laughed so hard the baby almost ended up on the hard wood floor beside the remote control. I'm happy to report she slept through the hilarity.

PS. I decided the homosexual ties story might not translate thus omitted it from the post as originally written. The title stayed. Just trying to throw you all for a loop.

Tick. Tick. BOOM.

The way they locked eyes the minute they met and barely looked away until she was tucked into the backseat of the car. TICK.

The way I could see his heart breaking as she cried in her car seat on the way to the hotel. TICK.

The way he told her stories while he fed her a bottle and she smiled so wide the milk ran right out of her mouth. TICK.

The way he seemed to have a never ending supply of gifts for her, like a magician with a bottomless hat. Finger puppets, toys, a new alpaca sweater for every month of her infancy. The thought of him picking them out. TICK.

The way he never took his eyes off her as we walked with her in the carrier. How he put his arms around us to protect us from the world. TICK.

The way he took her from me when she fell asleep at dinner and how she relaxed against his body without protest. TICK.

The way they played in the hotel room for hours and she laughed and he laughed and I laughed. The way we finally got to laugh together. TICK.

The way she knew him, right away, and stared at him all night, enthralled by his face... his eyes... his voice. The way I know that feeling... how easy it is to love him. TICK.

The way they are the same. Their eyes... their noses... their toes. How they raise their eyebrows in matching expressions. The way he dances and she wiggles and the way they never stop moving. TICK.

The way they sat in the bathtub together and he pulled her through the water and washed the bubbles off her back. Our little naked baby against his chest. TICK.

The way he watched me put on her pyjamas. Goodnight feet... goodnight knees... goodnight belly... goodnight arms... goodnight Gaia. TICK.

The way he looked at us like we were his favourite people in the world as I bounced her to sleep. The way I know we are. TICK.

And then it happened. TICK. I’d felt it coming. TICK. Through family hugs and family kisses and family cuddles. TICK. Through silly songs and tickles and Gaia soaring through the air in his arms. TICK. Through dinner time and nap time and bath time and bed time. TICK. We watched her sleeping. TICK. Could not tear ourselves away, we watched her sleeping. TICK. He held me close. TICK. He whispered in my ear. TICK.

“Me and Chancho-Mono, we are so lucky to have you." He said. "This is the best day of my life.”

Tick. Tick. BOOM. My heart exploded. Just like that... BOOM... my heart exploded.

Later when he fell asleep and I was surrounded with the sounds of their matching sleepy breathing... their matching sleepy snores... the sound of the ocean from her Sleep Sheep... her favourite thing to fall asleep to... his favourite thing to fall asleep to... they slept and I snuck around the room collecting all the pieces.

(Almost) Everything That Didn't Fit On Facebook

Like too many people I know I spend a large portion of my day pondering how to turn my daily experiences into interesting Facebook status updates. This is sad. I know. This is also why I refuse to join Twitter. I’m positive it would become all consuming. This morning I had so much going on in my head I had trouble nailing down just one status update. These were the frontrunners.

Risa is scraping little pieces of her heart from the ceiling… it exploded over how amazing Jose and Gaia were together…

Risa is pretty sure she has the most adaptable baby ever… in the last forty-eight hours she’s been on a plane, met a never ending supply of strangers, waited at the airport for a flight delayed for over an hour, met her father and fallen asleep in no fewer then eight locations (naps included)… and she didn’t break down once…

Risa is surrounded by a consumer’s utopia… the super stylish urban shopper in me is in heaven… the hippy-dippy, crazy broke, brand new mama in me is silently weeping…

Risa is drinking Inca Kola and watching 'Monstruos vs Aliens' en español... toxic yellow pop and pirated DVDs... I missed you Peru...

Risa just realized last night was a full moon… her mother says this is when all the crazies come out… her father-in-law claims amorous adventures under a full moon are how he ended up with four sons… we didn’t come across any crazies last night and somebody’s got to be right…

In other news yesterday was perfection beyond words. Still, I’ll try to put in into words soon. For now I’m exhausted and drunk with memories and planning on crawling into bed with Gaia for a nap.

Best Day Ever

After one hundred and fifty-one days apart I’m picking up my husband at the airport this afternoon. We have almost fourteen hours before he ships out (literally) to sail the Alaskan coast serving drinks to geriatrics. Fourteen hours to make up for one hundred and fifty-one days that included the birth of our baby girl and what seems like a lifetime spent chatting on Skype. Do I wish he was coming here for good? Of course. But today there’s nothing in the world that could make me as happy as those fourteen hours. As far as I'm concerned today is the best day ever. Seriously. Gaia’s excited too... obviously. As always she’s appropriately dressed for the occasion.


Like I said... BEST. DAY. EVER. Take it away Spongebob.



I’ve been singing this song all morning. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t one of my favourite songs of all time. I blame years spent working in childcare.

PS. Immigration Canada if you’re reading this please let Jose come here forever. Every second Monday is better than nothing but honestly, I want my husband please.

Baby On Board

In the list of things I love to do most travelling is close to the top. I don’t think there are many experiences more valuable than seeing the world. Of course I want Gaia to be intelligent and beautiful and kind, but most of all, I want her to travel. I want her to have a sense of adventure, a confidence in her independence and empathy that is deep rooted. I know that traveling is what brought those skills to life in me. There’s nothing like realising that there are landscapes dramatically unlike those you are used to and people whose experiences differ so greatly from yours. I want her to eat pizza with fresh buffalo mozzarella in Italy, to ride camels in Egypt, dance the night away at Carnivale in Rio, swim with the jellyfish in Palau, wander the Turkish market, visit every art gallery in New York and drive along the coast of South Africa. I want her to visit every place I’ve ever been and more and I want her to fall in love with them all.

They say every great adventure starts with single step. I helped Gaia take hers the day we applied for her Canadian passport. I felt like I was giving her a gift – the beginning of a lifetime of globetrotting at just two months old. Today we took step two as we boarded her very first flight. Sure it was domestic. Sure it was only two hours long. But it was a big deal. She immediately proved herself by facing a huge check-in line up with ease. She quietly hung from her carrier on my chest and sized up her fellow travellers. She brushed off the coos and tickles of strangers with polite indifference. She was on a mission. Security was a breeze once she charmed the surly guard searching her stroller. In the hour and half from the time when we got to the airport when we boarded she didn’t fuss once. As we slid into our seat I could see her survey the scene. The baby crying in the seat behind us was obviously not a kindred spirit. That much she could tell. When the flight attendant made me promise to hold her facing in against my chest for takeoff and landing I could see her balk but she took it all in stride. Obviously she has a sophisticated understanding of the fact that not all aspects of travel are pleasant. She silently looked out the window at takeoff every once in awhile glancing at the seatbelt sign to ensure I wasn’t sneaking extra cuddles. For the rest of the flight she bounced and giggled and laughed at all my jokes. She was the ultimate travel companion. She dozed straight through the landing, but woke up just in time to hear the accolades from our fellow adventurers.

“Wow,” they said “she did such a good job!”

“Thanks,” I replied, beaming with joy they probably misread, “she loves to travel.”

Yellow Poop and Other Reasons Why Life is Good

Given the horribly depressing mood of Thursday’s post I thought I should write a little something to perk things up around here. List format seems best as I’ve got a million and one things to do this morning.

1. I opened my email yesterday to find an amazingly supportive message from my official ‘Mommy Friend’. It made me feel like someone understood, like somebody cared and invariably made me feel like a better mother. Plus it made me laugh out loud. If you have a baby but don’t have a ‘Mommy Friend’ you should go find yourself one immediately. She won’t be as great as mine of course but we can’t all be so lucky.

2. I bit the bullet and started Gaia on soy formula yesterday to see if it made a difference to her demeanour, skin and poop (I’m a mama and an excessive portion of my mind space revolves around baby poop... deal with it). I know they say it can take up to two weeks to notice a difference but she drank the first bottle without stopping, without fussing and without tensing her entire baby body for the first time during a feeding in almost two weeks. She eagerly consumed three more bottles in the late afternoon and evening, each followed with a dainty burp, some big smiles and quick cat-naps. When I went to take her diaper off for her bedtime bath it was filled with the most glorious baby poop I have ever seen. Not only was it the perfect soft consistency but it was... wait for it... YELLOW! Gaia officially had her first appropriately coloured baby poop. I almost kissed the dirty diaper I was so happy, but I settled for kissing Gaia instead. She acted nonchalant but I know she was excited too. I also feel it’s important to note that the reason I hadn’t noticed she’d pooped was that she didn’t clench up, stop breathing, turn purple and grunt while pooping, but rather hummed the little BM song I’ve heard from all the breastfed babies I know. I still have a nagging worry that the fact the formula is iron-fortified might be a problem but overall I feel the experiment has been a success. Did I mention I put her to bed at 10:00pm and she’s still sleeping? It’s almost 8:30am. Yeah.

3. I have amazing parents. I moved far away from home in my teens and while brief instances reminded me of this fact overall I think I grossly underestimated them. If they weren’t so fantastic there is absolutely no way I could be doing this all on my own. Plus they’ve been divorced for almost ten years and when I came home from running errands yesterday they we’re tag teaming a screaming Gaia, trying to get her to sleep. This is the kind of civilised behaviour everyone should expect from two people who chose to have children together, even if they later chose not to share their lives. Unfortunately I know lots of people who aren’t so lucky. Thank God for Grandparents. Especially Gaia’s.

4. In a few short hours Gaia and I will be boarding a plane to Vancouver. Not only is Vancouver my official ‘happy place’(the ocean, the mountains, the trees and the sky... oh my... not to mention the shopping) but it’s also jam-packed with some of my best friends in the world. I don’t care if it rains all summer... I love it there.

5. In just thirty-two hours I get to pick up my husband at the airport after one hundred and fifty-one days apart. Better still, he gets to hold his daughter for the first time. Words can’t express my excitement.

Mommy Guilt

I admit it. I have a serious and prolonged case of ‘Mommy Guilt’. I feel guilty when I take Gaia out without a hat on. When she wakes up in the morning hours before I’m ready to get up I feel guilty for wishing she’d just go back to sleep. I feel guilty when I choose to make myself supper and let her to amuse herself in her swing, even though she’s usually laughing. I feel guilty when I wish for extra-long naps so I can have a few hours to clean. I feel guilty if she sits in poop for more than thirty seconds. I feel guilty if I don’t anticipate she’s about to get hungry/sleepy/playful and haven’t got a bottle/nap/structured play prepared. I feel guilty that I miss working. I feel guilty when I call her chubby, lest she get a baby complex. I feel guilty that I bounce her to sleep every night instead of arming her with the skills to fall asleep on her own. I stay up at night with guilty dreams of a co-dependent three-year-old dancing in my head. Sometimes I feel guilty for considering how well I would handle the guilt if I stopped bouncing her to sleep at night and let her cry-it-out. I feel guilty when I take her out and I feel guilty if we stay in. I feel guilty about the fact I have to use the bathroom and shower and sleep. I feel guilty about just about everything I do and I can’t help it. I especially feel guilty for feeling guilty because by all accounts there should be no room for guilt amongst all the joy. Still, my guilt knows no bounds. Why is my guilt topical you ask? I’ll tell you. After twelve-weeks as the happiest baby I’ve ever met, Gaia has spent the last three days in the worst baby mood I have yet to experience. Tonight my guilt came to a head as she screamed herself hoarse and I lay beside her crying and repeating “I’m sorry... I don’t know how to help you...I’m sorry...” When she stopped screaming and put her hand on my chest I felt guilty that she’d noticed my breakdown. Like a loyal dog who lays beside their dying owner, Gaia quietly laid beside me like that for twenty minutes and all I could do was feel guilty.

I pulled myself together eventually, as I always do, and got her lulled into a fitful sleep. Since then I’ve been doing some research on the internet and am starting to suspect she might be developing a milk allergy (which coincided nicely with what I think was her twelve-week growth spurt). She’s got the inconsistent, greenish poop, the sudden fussy and erratic behaviour and the small dry patches on her cheeks have turned into full-on scaly rashes. My guilt knows no bounds. Did I mention I had to diagnose this myself on the internet because there isn’t a single family doctor or paediatrician in Regina who is accepting new patients? Inevitably I feel guilty about living in a province with a shortage of doctors. Now I’m faced with the predicament of finding a lactose-free formula that isn’t iron fortified (since the iron has given her rock-hard poop in the past). From what I can tell this might be impossible. Of course this whole evening just has me sinking deeper into the thing that gives me the most ‘Mommy Guilt’ of all.

The ugly guilt-monger who’s taken up residence in my head keeps repeating “if Gaia was breastfeed we wouldn’t be having these problems.”

I knew absolutely nothing about infants when I got pregnant but I did know this... I was going to breastfeed. My breasts have always been on the smaller side of average. Never in a place to flaunt them for fun breastfeeding was going to be their moment in the sun. Sure they’d never draw eyes the way some breasts do, but they were going to feed a baby and frankly, that’s what they’re there for right? Gaia took to breastfeeding like a pro. She latched in mere seconds only minutes after being born. The nurse watched in awe, ready to jump in and fix the inevitable problems that never came. It seemed I was a pro as well, if I do say so myself. I never experienced a single pain, crack or blister. Even as we made our way from the hospital to home and Gaia began cluster feeding my breasts never complained. I was worn out and sleepy and achy but my breasts soldiered on. They were the heroes in our epic first days. Unfortunately about a week later my milk still hadn’t come in. Gaia was undeniably starving. I made an appointment with Regina’s own ‘Nipple Whisperer’ – the crème de la crème of lactation consultants. We were all confident she would have me lactating in no time. She took one look at Gaia at my breast and determined we had a good latch and adequate suction. Save for a few pointers on positioning (which did make me much more comfortable) she didn’t have much to say. She told me to ignore the Public Health Nurse and her insistence I begin supplementing and wait it out. She assured me my milk would be in by the following day. By this point Gaia had dropped over fifteen percent of her birth weight. I gave it a day and began supplementing with formula, offering each breast for a minimum of fifteen minutes before giving her two ounces of formula per feeding. Nipple confusion be damned, Gaia accepted both with ease. In the moments I had my hands free I pumped at least fifteen minutes per breast. For over two months Gaia took both breast and bottle. Her weight improved and she began thriving. My milk never came in. At one point I went to see a doctor who prescribed me a stomach acid drug whose side-effects included an increase in milk production. I can count on one hand the times I’ve agreed to take pills for anything in my adult life and I took pills for this. I was breastfeeding regularly (day and night), pumping a minimum of five times a day and taking two pills every four hours for almost a month. My milk never came in. Gaia was a trooper but it soon became apparent my breasts were more soothing device then sustenance. About three weeks ago I gave up entirely.

In the time I was struggling I read a number of books and articles on breastfeeding. All of which inevitably made me feel like if I formula fed exclusively I would end up with a lethargic, obese baby who, would have serious trust and attachment issues, drop out of high school and have a string of abusive relationships as she searched for the love she never got from her mother. The mother who didn’t love her enough to breastfeed her in the first place. And that was just if she didn’t die of SIDS. But as everything I read warned me, she probably would. Every mother has their cross to bear and breastfeeding is mine. The guilt damn near crushes me and I find myself soul-shatteringly jealous of every breastfeeding mother I know. I tried to tell myself there was a time (AKA: The 1970s & 80s) when formula was thought to be superior to breastmilk and we all turned out okay, but I remain unconvinced. After weeks of searching I finally found a website that assured me that my loving attention, and not just my breast was the most important thing I could give my baby. I turned a blind eye to the fact it was a website written by makers of a name brand formula. My breasts may be faulty but love, I feel confident I’ve mastered that.

On Saturday Gaia and I are flying to Vancouver. Of course, I feel guilty for going ahead with the trip when she’s obviously distressed. If I didn’t worry about the wife-guilt I’d feel over not going we’d probably forfeit our ticket. I know, I know. With all this guilt piling up around me you’d think I was Catholic, but no, I’m just a mother.

For those of you who know where I live please don’t worry. You don’t need to put me on post-partum-suicide watch or anything. I’m fine. Gaia’s fine. We’re going to be just fine. It’s just been a bad week. We’re strong, hearty, Saskatchewanese women and if nothing else we’re both due for a pretty serious family hug on Sunday. I can’t imagine any better cure for ‘Mommy Guilt’ then a hug from a man who tells you every day how lucky he feels to have found the perfect mother for the baby who means the world to him.

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If you’re having trouble breastfeeding there are a number of support systems available in the Regina area. To get started check out La Leche League Canada or call Linda Cheston (AKA: The ‘Nipple Whisperer’) at (306) 586-4930.

This is My Brain on Exhaustion

Apparently Gaia’s still growing. As a result I’m too tired to pee much less write a fully formed blog post. Instead I’ll leave you with this...

0-6 Months My Ass!

If anyone knows where to get a baby sun hat that meets the following criteria please let me know:

a) Does not include design elements such as flowers, happy faces, butterflies, bows, ruffles or lace.
b) Is not pink. Well definitely not baby pink, but frankly Gaia’s not into wearing pink’s rebel cousin fuchsia either. At least not on her head.
c) Is not more commonly seen on Little House on the Prairie (curse you bonnet... and all your frilly friends too).
d) Is not a ridiculous (if adorable) designer baby hat that costs thirty dollars or more. And yes, I have seen a number of these hats around the city.
e) Is actually made to fit a baby head. And not just those humongous baby heads (you know who you are) but an average three-month-old head. You would think there would be a size between teeny newborn and gigantic toddler... no?

Until then I’m that bad mother who takes my baby for daily walks in the sun hatless. I know. I should be shot on site.

Speaking of pee (and I was... just up there at the top). I love asparagus. It’s one of the only vegetables I choose to eat. I think I love it mainly because it’s like a wacky science experiment. You eat it for dinner and the smell of your evening pee leaves you initially puzzled until you realise the culprit. Oh asparagus... you got me again! I had asparagus for dinner the other night and finally took the time to learn just why it makes your pee stinky. Enjoy.

WHY DOES YOUR PEE SMELL WHEN YOU EAT ASPARAGUS?
Asparagus contains a sulfur compound called mercaptan. It is also found in onions, garlic, rotten eggs, and in the secretions of skunks. The signature smell occurs when this substance is broken down in your digestive system. Not all people have the gene for the enzyme that breaks down mercaptan, so some of you can eat all the asparagus you want without stinking up the place. One study published in the British Journal of Clinical Pharmacology found that only 46 percent of British people tested produced the odour while 100 percent of French people tested did. Insert your favourite French joke here______________.

From Why Do Men Have Nipples? Hundreds of Questions You’d Only Ask a Doctor After Your Third Martini by Mark Leyner and Billy Goldberg, MD, specific excerpt found here.

Speaking of Google (which I wasn’t directly although how else do you think I found the information above). What did people do before the internet? Seriously. I know I don’t have a book on asparagus pee in my house. Do you?

With that I really should go to bed. This is getting a little ridiculous. And yes. I’m aware it’s not even 9:00pm.

Growing Pains

I’m pretty sure Gaia is smack-dab in the middle of her twelve-week growth spurt. She was wide awake and starving yesterday morning at 5:30am. She spent the rest of the day alternating between pathetic whimpers and full-blown screaming. Too tired to calm down enough to eat and too hungry to get any sleep. We went through countless half-drunk bottles and I managed to get her to sleep upwards of forty times only to have her wake up less than five minutes later. Of course I felt for her. Her little baby body stretching to make room for the next version of her baby self... Gaia 3.0. But I also felt for me. Exhausted and frustrated and becoming increasingly prone to fits of tears as the day wore on. While she suffered through her baby growing pains I was dealing with some serious Mama growing pains myself. Finally in the evening before I put her to bed, she stopped crying long enough to indulge me with over an hour of lounging lazily on my chest.

That smile... oh THAT SMILE and the way she looks at me. It’s worth a million or more sleepless nights and years made up of three hundred and sixty-five exhausting days.

Regina Famous

About a month ago my friend Carey Shaw photographed and interviewed me and Gaia for the CityLife section of the Prairie Dog, a local alternative news and entertainment magazine. The interview, as published, is below.
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WHO: Risa, Arts Educator and Baby Mama to newborn Gaia. WHERE: Home. CLOTHES: H&M Top, 13 Euro, bought in Barcelona, Spain ; Blue Jeans, $79, The Gap (Cornwall Centre). SHOES: Steve Madden Gold Flats, $50, bought in Miami, Florida. ACCESSORIES: Wedding Band, $15, from a shop in Peru; Silver Rings, one from the MacKenzie Art Gallery Shop (3475 Albert St.), the other from a street vendor in Barcelona; Nixon Watch, a gift from Mom. HAIR: Fidela at Studio 13 Salon and Day Spa (2937 13th Ave.).

Peru, Costa Rica, Mexico, Venezuela, Italy, Spain, Portugal, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Bermuda, Caribbean Islands, and almost everywhere in North America. This long list proves that Risa definitely has a little bit of a travel bug inside her. Something passed down from her parents, perhaps – farmers from Rouleau who took the family on vacation for a few weeks every year. Start with a student exchange in England, add in working on cruise ships, sneak in an arts degree from Vancouver and Risa now has a Peruvian husband, is the new mother of a hermosa niña and sports a really big grin daily. Sounds like it all worked out.

Thinking about style in your travels, where has been the most inspiring?
I think going to England when I was 16 was really good for me, having grown up in a small town, because everyone has their own individual style. I definitely took that from being in England. Whatever you looked like was OK, and whatever you wanted to wear was great too. Lately I’ve fallen in love with Spain. In Barcelona the women take pride in the way they look, and that makes it such an interesting city.

Favourite thing you’ve picked up in your worldwide adventures?
Jose, my husband!

What in your life haven’t you done yet that you hope to do?
A lot of things. I think it is really important to have things in your life that you haven’t done but want to, because that’s what keeps your life interesting. I’ve done so many things for myself, and done so much travelling, that I’m pretty excited to have my daughter grow up and share experiences with her. I took every opportunity when it came. I don’t feel like I missed out on anything, so now I am excited to settle down and start my “grown up” life!

If you could hold on to something from your closet for Gaia to see what you were like when you were younger, what would it be?
When I was a teenager, I had this gigantic [hole-filled] t-shirt that had a roller skate on it. I thought it was so cool. I wore it all the time. So that, with my dad’s old work jeans, and skate shoes. When I was a teenager I thought I was Courtney Love. I wanted to be her. I don’t think I had any style but I guess that was they style. I had teeny short little bangs that were never even and really thin eyebrows. I thought I was just the coolest thing ever.

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What Carey doesn’t include is the fact Gaia screamed for the entire three hours she was at our house. I bounced Gaia on the exercise ball for the twenty minutes she interviewed me in an attempt to calm her for the photoshoot. The photo she eventually used was chosen simply because we felt Gaia’s screams could possibly be interpreted as squeals of joy as I lifted her into the air. Not to mention the fact her face is partially obscured because it’s in profile. In her brief history that day was the worst she’s had. Last week Carey sent me some of the photos that didn’t make the cut. Have a good look at Gaia’s face in all of them. That’s a baby that doesn't want to be photographed if I’ve ever seen one. Canada’s Next Top Model here we come I’ll let you know about baby number two?

After Carey left Gaia continued to cry for upwards of seven hours. She refused to eat and got alarmingly overtired. As her waking hours reached a consecutive sixteen I was reaching the end of my patience and tearfully at a loss as to how to help her. Suddenly Gaia let out a series of adult sized farts and pooped the most gigantic baby poop I have ever seen. She then promptly fell asleep.

Interview and all photos by Carey Shaw. Check her out at here.