Raising Tomatoes

Imagine if you will the following scenario. You’ve always loved tomatoes. They are juicy and delicious and the best part of a salad. You’re at a store in early spring and you notice a tomato plant amidst the plethora of gardening options. You think “Hmmm... I do enjoy tomatoes... maybe I should grow my own. How hard could it be?” So you buy the tomato plant and stick it in some dirt in your backyard. Since you’ve never grown tomatoes you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing. The abundance of gardening books and fertilisers and advice from old ladies seems overwhelming so you settle for an apathetic approach, watering the plant occasionally and feeling guilty when you forget to protect it from the frost. Then, out of nowhere, you go into your garden one day to discover the most beautiful, round, red tomatoes have sprouted on your semi-neglected plant. Are you proud of the tomatoes? Of course. But you feel a little guilty. You invite your friends over for dinner and offer up dish after dish of tomato-based goodness. Your friends are in awe. “Those are the most beautiful tomatoes I have ever seen” they gush, “you simply must tell me your secret.” Part of you longs to shout “Secret? What secret? There’s no secret you fools! These tomatoes are a fluke! A FLUKE!” That same part longs to confess you have no idea what you’re doing but a bigger part of you relishes the attention and loves that by some chance of fate you managed to grow the most beautiful tomatoes in town. So you say nothing and smile politely and thank everyone humbly for admiring the fruits of your (apathetic) labour. When you go to bed at night you are consumed with thoughts about the tomatoes. You live in constant fear that any future gardening failure might out you and people might find out the truth – you have no idea what you’re doing. Worse still is that you might lose the tomatoes forever and that, well that must be avoided at all costs.

See, that’s how I feel about parenting. I know there are a lot of people whose experience differs from mine but I got pregnant with Gaia out of nowhere with no plan and no experience with infants. Did I like infants? Sure! Who doesn’t? But did I have any idea what I was getting myself into? Not entirely. Here’s where I think our society fails new mothers. When you get pregnant you’re overwhelmed with a barrage of advice about carrying the baby and its eventual eviction. There are nutritional guides and hospital tours and birthing classes and specially made vitamins in pink bottles with a glowing pregnant woman on the front (you can’t miss ‘em). Frankly, if you’re informed enough to avoid the big no-nos chances are the cells in your womb are going to grow into a healthy baby (barring what I believe to be unavoidable tragedies like miscarriages). An even greater sure bet is that once the baby’s ready to come out it’s going to do so, regardless of whether your prepared with labour mix tapes and breathing techniques and the perfect scented candles. Yet all the educational focus for new mothers is on the before without any assistance in the crucial after (which if you ask me you need a lot more guidance for). Just like the gardener and their tomatoes with little effort on my part I woke up one day with a perfect baby girl. Am I doing the best I can? Absolutely. Do I have any idea what it is I’m supposed to be doing day by day? Not a chance. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here and it’s terrifying. In fact, if not for Google and my solitary mommy friend I’m not entirely sure I’d be equipped to problem solve at all.

Last night is a perfect example. Gaia had her four-month immunizations yesterday afternoon. They are for the same diseases and in the same doses (in proportion to her higher weight) as her two-month immunizations which had absolutely no effect on her at all. Still, from the time I put her to bed at 9:00pm to 1:00am she woke up crying on the half-hour and needed to be soothed back to sleep. Finally I realised she felt a little hot and took her temperature. It was just over one hundred and one degrees. I didn’t panic. I reached for the unopened Infant Tylenol and gave it to her as directed. Then I tried to get her back to sleep and waited. Over an hour later when she hadn’t gone to sleep and her fever hadn’t gone down I realised I had no idea what to do next. The photocopy I’d been given claimed the Tylenol was a fix-all and offered no advice beyond that. Add to the situation that Gaia was getting alarmingly overtired and her nose and throat were so mucusy she was breathing in laboured, raspy breaths and I was at a complete loss. Eventually I stripped her down to her diaper and bounced her on the ball for two hours straight while she slept with her hot face curled into my neck. If I shifted her in any way or stopped bouncing for a second she was wide-awake and crying again. By 5:00am her fever was down to what seemed like a more manageable ninety-nine degrees, but she was still tired and cranky and clingy and I ended up spending the rest of today trying to manage her fever and my exhaustion without falling apart while my heart broke for her.

Maybe they don’t prepare you because there’s no way to prepare. After over ten years of work experience and university and travelling and challenges so great I felt like nothing would ever be that hard again this is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I have never taken on anything I put my mind to that I wasn’t instantly good at. When the doctor handed me Gaia it seemed simple enough. Bluntly put, my job is to keep her alive. Like the Tamagotchi I had in elementary school I feed her and change her and keep her clean. I give her lots of love and attention and do my best to make sure she’s reaching all her milestones. Unlike the Tamagotchi I can’t press reset and start again at square one if I make a mistake and that is terrifying. The pressure I put on myself, like the pressure I’m sure every mother feels, is immense.

See...

... it's not just me.

Although I've been firmly pro-natural childbirth since my teens it was Your Best Birth and The Business of Being Born that sealed the deal in the months before Gaia was born. Seriously. If you're pregnant or may ever (EVER) be pregnant in the future please at least consider alternatives beyond the induce/epidural/vaccum-my-baby-out-of-me route. I did it au natural and it was awesome.

Need a little more encouragement? A friend was blogging through labour yesterday and posted this quote on her Facebook: "There is a secret in our culture. It is not that childbirth is painful, it is that women are strong." -- Linda Stavoe Harm

Unfinished Thoughts

I’m sorry I’ve been so lame on the blogging front lately. In Vancouver I simply didn’t have time. Since I’ve been home I’ve been feeling so gross I actually thought I might be pregnant again... which I’m not... unless the three tests I took today are wrong. Add to the lack of time/energy the fact that Gaia is struggling pretty hard to give up naps entirely and I’m longing for blogging time. Still, I have so much on my mind. Here are a few things that may or may not get written about if I can ever find the time again:

• How it seems that even if I were dress my daughter up in a pink tutu she’d still get mistaken for a boy. It’s not that I mind so much just that I’ve been spending an extravagant amount of time obsessing over why everyone thinks my daughter is so butch.
• How I was a little sad when I got married that I’d never get fall in love again (well, you know, ideally) and how wrong I was. Since Jose and I got hitched I have not only gotten to fall in love with our baby girl, but also with Jose again and again in so many ways. I don’t think there’s anything else in the world like falling in love with your husband as a father. It’s pure magic.
• How rattled I am by the whole Jon and Kate divorce. I hate myself for caring, but I do. Last week I imposed an official ban on gossip magazines to not to participate in feeding the media fire. Today at the grocery store I noticed Michael Jackson has officially taken over the headlines but frankly I’m not interested in feeding that fire either.
• How amazing Gaia is in her new Jolly Jumper. I know a lot of people think they’re death traps but it makes her so happy it’s insane. I swear she thinks she’s learned to walk and jump and dance free of outside intervention but with a snappy new belt (obviously a big girl accessory).
• How Gaia and I slept in separate bedrooms on Wednesday night for the first time ever and how she did so well that I moved her into her big girl bedroom permanently which has resulted in me making over a hundred paper cranes to hang from her big girl ceiling. Crazy? Slightly. But also beautiful.

And those are just a sampling of the things I’ve been itching to write about should I ever find the time. Anything in particular tickle your fancy? Let me know and maybe it’ll give me the motivation to expand on it.

Free For Chubbies

I had planned on writing about how everytime we go out everyone thinks Gaia is a boy, but then I was alerted to THIS and decided it deserved some attention. Enjoy.

(OK... the truth is I'm tired from spending all day turning my house into a home but truly, the link above made me laugh and feel uncomfortable in equal measures. You'll like it. I swear.)

Dear Vancouver,

I know in the past I might have given you some reason to hope that someday I’ll leave Saskatchewan and settle here with you. I’ll admit it’s tempting. You are the very picture of a perfect place to live, all ocean and mountains and tall trees blowing in the breeze. Amazing shopping and eclectic neighbourhoods and an arts community I would give my right arm to be a part of. I had a good six years with you. Please don’t ever think I won’t cherish those memories forever. The last month, while a brief affair, has been a whirlwind of fun and excitement. I’ll give you that. Still, when it comes right down to it Regina is just better for me. I’m sorry. Really though, it’s not you, it’s me.

See, while you provide an exciting escape from the ordinary, Regina has always been there like an anchor keeping be grounded. While Regina might not be as attractive or fun or charming, it’s got a lot of really wonderful qualities that grow on you and grab hold when you least expect it. While you and I have overpriced martinis and overpriced shoes and an epic university experience together, Regina and I have shared so much more. I hesitate to go into the details that would only hurt you but you have to admit, you always knew this was coming. I was born on the prairies and grew up there and I hope Gaia will too. While you hold the majority of my urban family, Regina holds Gaia’s grandparents and her fun Uncle Cody and our friends who have babies just her age. I know it almost doesn’t seem fair when I put it like that. Regina is friendly and pleasant and easy to get around. I’m learning to love the Riders almost as much as I love the Canucks and someday soon I plan to learn to bake a Saskatoon Berry Pie. Now that I’m a mother my vast list of martini recipes just doesn’t seem as practical as it did three years ago.

Really though, it’s been great, it has. But if we’re gonna get right down to it. I hate the traffic. There, I said it. I hate sitting in the car for forty-five minutes with a screaming baby in the back seat while I wait to get onto the Lions Gate Bridge. I hate that it takes me over two hours to visit some of my friends. See, it’s not that they live two hours away, just that the insane traffic congestion means I’m idling for hours. How can people live like that? And seriously, would it kill you to improve your mood a bit? I mean, the sun shines everywhere else in Canada, do you think it’s a coincidence that dark clouds always hang over you? I’ve had it with the rain. I’ll take blistering cold winters in exchange for breezy, beautiful springs and blazing hot summers and crisp, colourful autumns any day. And another thing, are your Cheerios really so superior they need to be almost a dollar more expensive then on the Prairies? How can anyone afford to live here? How can anyone afford to raise their family here? I’ll tell you one thing. It’ll be a cold day in hell when I pay three hundred dollars for a pair of jeans for my twelve-year-old so she can fit in at school. Just like those jeans sometimes I feel like you’re all flash and no substance. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Plus, I know it’s vain, but it’s been bothering me all month that my new haircut has been hanging limply in my face and my skin is breaking out in protest to your summer humidity. Frankly, in contrast to Regina, I’d have to describe you as balmy. You’ve got to do the best with what you have and I’m sorry, I just can’t do balmy.

But I digress. I didn’t write this letter to point out all your flaws or make you feel like less of a city. For some people, people I know and love, you’re just the right fit. Still, I’m the type that likes to root for the underdog and find the magic where very few see it. And you know, sometimes I want to get groceries in my sweatpants and not stick out like a sore thumb. I want to build snowmen with my daughter in the winter and take pictures of her lost in a field of wheat and watch the way her face lights up the first time she sees a prairie sunset. I’m afraid if I stay with you I’ll miss all that and more while I’m leaning on the horn stuck in another traffic jam. The bottom line, if I can find one here, is that Regina makes me want to be a better (wo)man. It reminds me that life isn’t about how much you own or how much you spend or how big your condo is. When I’m with you I get all wrapped up in the details and forget the big picture. When my daughter is twenty she won’t care that her first lip gloss was Bonne Bell and not MAC or that we bought her clothes from Superstore instead of Aritzia or that she drank her first beer in a pickup truck in some field instead of sneaking into an overpriced club. She’ll remember that her family had a house full of big dogs that she chased in the back yard and looking out the window on a White Christmas and the vacations we’ll be able to afford because we won’t be living from paycheck to paycheck.

Oh Vancouver, you’re all glitz and sparkle and you get me every time but I’m a grown up now and I need to stop being distracted by shiny things. So there it is. I’m sorry. I hope we can still be friends. If not, well, you still have the Olympics and you know, that’s cool I guess.

All the Best, Risa

If They Could Just Spend One Day With Us...

Of everything I’ve done this year there is one thing I am especially proud of. It’s not growing a baby, or successfully helping that baby exit through my body or caring for her on my own once she was out. If I had to narrow it down to my single greatest accomplishment in the last year it would be that somehow, inexplicably, I’ve managed to stay positive through the back and forth of mine and Jose’s struggles with immigration. I hesitate to write about it, fearing it might result a verbal avalanche of self-pity and pure hatred towards the government. Still. With every disappointment we’ve found hope.

Hope is a beautiful thing but today I felt a little bit of my hope slip away. I feel defeated.

“If they would only spend a day with us they would let him in” I think.
If they could see the way Gaia smiles at him. It’s a smile I see every morning when I get her out of bed. One not seen by the public and too precious to be photographed. A smile that wouldn’t be forgotten anyhow. That smile is the first time my daughter said she loved me. That smile says she loves Jose too. I wonder if she remembers him from the three weeks she spent in Peru in the womb. Does she remember the way he slept with his face right next to hers? The way he called her Gaia and kissed her and told her all of his stories through my bellybutton? I wonder if the way he smells has become a part of me, if he runs through my veins and she thinks of us as a set. Her parents.

How can we be somebody’s parents and still be kept apart by wait times and proof of relationship forms and immigration hotline numbers? Does that seem right to you?

I wonder if she knows why he’s rarely with us and if she cuts the desperation by living off a steady diet of hope. I wonder if maybe that’s just me.

For the last year we’ve always had something to buoy our hope. When he was denied for the first Visitor Visa we got through by perfecting the applications for our second shot. We rescheduled flights and consulted lawyers and crossed our fingers extra tight. The second denial stung the most, it was the rejection killing our hope, until we realised hope was the only thing we could count on and clung tight to the pieces we had left. Quickly decisions were made and I had a trip to Peru and Christmas with my in-laws and a marriage to focus on. Then it was applying for Permanent Residency. Complicated forms and letter upon letter and triple checking everything before our twenty pound package was on its way. Before I knew it there were the last months of my pregnancy. Prenatal yoga and nesting and fights over baby boy names. It was anything to avoid thinking of Jose not being there for the birth. Anything to not want to fly to Mississauga to let Immigration Canada feel the extent of my rage and distract myself from thoughts of burning that mother down. Anything not to think about how a country that preaches equality and fairness in opposition to the red-white-and-blue downstairs could take away that experience from us both like it didn’t even matter. Like we’d ever be able to get it back. When people ask if labour hurt I want to tell them that nothing could hurt as bad as not having the person you love there with you. Nothing could burn like that loneliness. I just say “nope” and smile instead. It’s the hope that covers the bitterness. Then it was the baby who became our hope in human form. It was two hours a day on Skype and stories about our child and learning to be a family when countries separated us. Didn’t I always say that there were all different types of families? Then it was a countdown to a new job for Jose, one that would bring him to us twice a month. It was packing and preparing and excitement. It was three days. Twenty-six hours of being a family. The best twenty-six hours I have ever spent. Every. Single. Second.

Today was our last day. Jose won’t be given anymore Vancouver days off. We have no plan for the future. No idea when we might see each other again. Ship work means two hour conversations are condensed into a ten minute phone call and one email a day. No one at Immigration Canada will talk to us and we know our paperwork sits near the bottom of the pile at the embassy in Lima. We have no end point. No magic date to count down to. We are exhausted from the hope. There’s only so long that you can let hope feed you in place of the dreams you rest it on. I hate myself for complaining. All my life I’ve known that nothing is ever as bad as it seems. That there are millions in far dire circumstances then mine. I try to save a little hope for them too and let the emotion I focus on myself be gratitude. I am grateful. For a husband who loves me and our healthy baby. For the way I know that nothing could make him as happy as watching me and Gaia for hours. For the way she smiles and him and he smiles at me and I smile at her. For the way that we share the smiles that no one else ever gets to see. Now that I’ve exhausted my hope I think I’ll focus on my gratitude. Maybe we’re just too lucky to be together every day. Like meteor shower or Canucks playoff victory maybe we’re lucky enough to have something so beautiful we can’t experience it every day because it’s rare and worth the wait.

That being said, if anyone has some connections with Immigration Canada feel free to pull a few strings for us. If you can get Jose into the country I promise we’ll make an effort to find something to fight about like who has to take out the garbage or why I refuse to change the toilet paper roll (I mean really, it’ll just run out anyway).

O Canada

Happy Canada Day from Me and Baby G!

(See Canadian government... we love Canada... can you let my husband into the country now please?)

We're roadtripping to Seattle for the afternoon to rescue Gaia's Fairy Godmother (currently en route from Miami) from the Americans and bring her back to the homeland to celebrate. WOOO HOOO!!