Notes from the Blue House

~There is no greater misery than false joys~ -Bernard of Clairvaux Well, interwebs, here we go. I'm sitting in front of this blank screen, cracking my knuckles and sipping my lukewarm coffee. The time has come to look at that heaping plate of spaghetti in my mind and pluck out another strand to face and do battle with.  In my last writing, I told you that I never quite fit in. That I was always aware of some level of force or extra effort when elbowing my way into a social group. The people in my world who have known me over the past decade may find this hard to reconcile because, genuinely, I love people. I connect with others easily and I've honestly never been shy. What my friends and family can't know is that I've lived my life as a shape shifter. A chameleon. I've been so wholly desperate for a sense of belonging with others that I've abandoned myself entirely. After years of stifling myself, I no longer have a grasp of who I really am.  I've spent the ...

 You ever stare at a blank page and have no idea where to start? The emptiness lending itself to so much possibility that it's paralysing? I have so much to say and it's been so long. It feels like I have a plate of spaghetti in my mind and I need to tell you about each and every strand of pasta but it's all just such a saucy mess and I don't know where to start picking at it. Which piece of this slippery mess should I extricate and hold up for you and say "See this one? This one is important because...." ? You see, I've been feeling like a bit of a mess.  Actually if I'm honest, and I've promised myself  I won't be anything else, I've always been messy in different ways and at varying levels of fucked-uped-ness. Hey, that's probably true for you too.We're all walking around in these meatsacks on this giant rock, trying to have experiences that really mean something. I turned 40 last June, I'm considered to be mid-life at this ...

In 1986, I lusted after a doll named Cricket. I begged, I pleaded, I whined. This doll was the shit. You put a cassette tape into her back, and she would talk. Her lips moved, her eyes rolled around in their sockets and her face was permanently cheery. I know now that my parents debated, agonized over the purchase of the doll as it was a hefty $98 and by 1986 standards that was certainly an investment for a child's toy. Roll forward to Christmas 1986 and I unwrap THE gift, a brand-spanking new Cricket doll of my very own, dressed in a striped sweater. She was perfection, until she was out of the box. Once the cassette tape clicked into her back and she began to talk, 5 year old me realized, in a fraction of a second, that she was terrifying. She was creepy as hell and I instantly thought that Santa must not know me after all. Or maybe he was hammered. My parents beamed at me, thrilled to see me finally holding Cricket on my lap. Of course, I can't recall my exact reaction but ...

This one isn't easy to talk about. It's not funny, it's not charming or endearing but there's a chance that you'll get it and then you'll know you're not the only one....and so will I. I've known for many years that mental health issues have reared their ugly heads in my family history. I've known that depression, anxiety and addictions have laced their way through generations of my family but that knowledge has always been something I kept at arms length. "Oh, that's a sad history, good thing it's not my personal story. Good thing that won't happen to me." Aside from spending a week under the duvet after a high school boyfriend dumped me, I have enjoyed a pretty stable and resilient mind. All through my 20's, I navigated all the joy and stresses that a new marriage, new home, new career and new found motherhood brought me without falling apart. I never saw it coming, that black blanket that would wrap itself over my sho...

I am swimming with strong, vigorous strokes, cool water all around me. I'm flying through the clear water, like a human torpedo, which is funny because I'm really only capable of a leisurely breast stroke. The crowd is screaming and clapping while I glide along my lane and then a hand pushes on my upper back. It pushes again, shaking me. "Suzie...Suz...the dog wants something. He's downstairs." "hm? wha? I'm winning." "Suz.Berkley wants something" Shit. Now, I'm awake. "Well, he's not breastfed! Why am I awake for this?" I calmly  asked. "I got up with him 2 hours ago." "Really? Maybe he's got the trots, maybe he's really sick!" "Nah, I just took him by the collar and brought him back to bed" I roll out of bed, step on a f**king lego piece, and head for the stairs. I find Berk in the laundry room, growling and groaning at his bone-dry water dish. I fill it for him and...

Someone told me once that if you can read, you can sew. Liar. I promise you I can read, I can not, however, sew. Before Christmas, I took a sewing class and came home all puffed up, showing off my brand new pillowcase. Look! It's got a decorative trim! I'm amazing! I might start whipping up all kinds of cute and creative wares, I might get a booth at Farmer's markets and sell out of my stuff every week! No, every day! I might need to hire people! I might need a factory! I might be featured in Canadian Living! I mean, look at this pillowcase-it has puppies on it! Everyone likes puppies. When level 2 was offered, I signed up, ready to continue on my path of creative awakening and success. Before the first class had started, it was evident that I actually suck at this. We were asked to lay and cut our pattern before showing up on the first week; I unfolded the tissue paper pattern and stared at it. What in the what? I turned it every which way and it still didn't make a li...

In October 2014 we bought a swoon-worthy house. With 4 bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen and a massive yard, we were pretty excited. We signed on the dotted line and held our breath for the home inspection. While waiting, I proudly sent photos of the shiny new place to our friends and family. Then the home inspection happened. It wasn't good. In fact, it was disastrous. The chimney was leaning away from the house. The basement was chronically wet and was furiously running 2 massive sump pumps without success. The entire thing needed to be rewired and only half of the windows were even functional. We had bought the Fergie Duhamel of houses, it only looked stellar because of all of the "make-up" slapped on it. At one point, our trustworthy home inspector pulled us aside and said "Guys, everything you like about this place was just done to make it look better, there's a lot of trouble here". Feeling like I'd been kicked in the guts by an angry mule, I left to get...

Last week, I was hit with a virus sent from Satan. This virus was crafted by the devil in the bowels of hell and then sent to render me a sniveling, useless twat. To say that it "hit" me is an understatement. It bludgeoned me. One minute I was sipping Merlot, engrossed in Piper Chapman's prison life and the next I was lying on the cool bathroom tiles wondering what the hell was happening. I went from 0 to 100 in seconds and, as a result, I confess that I panicked. The room was spinning and my chest felt tight, the walls seemed closer than they had a few minutes before. I hyperventilated and not in the cute way they do in the movies where a character gasps into a paper bag for a couple of minutes. Here's something they should teach you in grade 9 biology: when you hyperventilate severely enough, your body will shut down your limbs in an effort to protect your core. From the knees and elbows down, I felt a painful tingling sensation. Panicked, I put my hand on Tim and ...

I'm sure it wasn't like this for my mother. Mark Zuckerberg was merely a twinkle in Mr.Zuckerberg's eye when my mom was raising young kids. When she mingled with groups of other mothers, it was in the flesh. A book club, or the office lunch room. I imagine they made polite small talk about soccer fees and math tutors. They probably complimented each other on their cute kids and smiled politely. Fast forward 25 years. Social media exists and offers a venue for information sharing. Oh, and information shoving and information smearing and information induced gagging. We have a vehicle for people to judge others and congratulate themselves from the safety of their laptops or cellphones, not forced to stand in the palpable stench of awkwardness that these posts would emit if they happened face to face. Can you imagine someone walking up to you and saying "Gee, I'm so glad I'm doing THIS and not THAT! Here's a mediocre st...

My 6 year old has taken an interest in God. His mind is abuzz with questions and thoughts about this seemingly magical invisible man who made us. Some of these questions are funny ("Can he see me when I poop?") and others are insightful ("But if lots of people are talking to him at the same time, how can he hear me?!") He's asked me more than once if God is 'real'. Cue the sweaty palms and stuttering. Amazingly, I'm more comfortable talking to him about private parts than this. My son, my innocent and curious child, is causing me to do some soul searching. There was a time, about 15 years ago, that I would have been able to talk to him about this with confidence. At that time, I thought I knew where I stood. I would've called myself a Christian. I joined a youth-group led by a cool, young minister who played guitar and had a ponytail. Ok, the video quality is garbage but Tim and I were killing ourselves laughing when we saw this episode. It...

When Owen was a blob, just a slobbery, wriggly infant happy to lie on the floor and stare at a light fixture, I discovered that I was a terrible mother because I'd overlooked the 'must-have' toy for his age group. "He doesn't have a Sophie?!" a girlfriend gasped with concern. A glorified dog toy at a whopping $20, it even made a pathetic squeak not unlike Berkley's toy bone. Ah, but Sophie is crafted with love in some ramshackle French factory. A beautiful giraffe hand painted with healthy, non-toxic, vegetable based paints sure to nourish your growing blob while he gums sweet Sophie's face off. I knew I was a sucker for the hype as I placed it in my shopping cart. I knew I was a dork when I put it on the cashier's conveyor belt and handed her my debit card. I felt like a schmuck when I put it in the car and brought it home, but I couldn't have the rest of the mamas at our "mommy & music" playgroup see that poor Owen was going wit...

I've been reluctant to write about Maggie's birth for a couple of reasons. Mainly, I don't want to come across as a sanctimonious twat, looking for a big ole' pat on the back for birthing naturally. Let me reiterate my position on birth: to each their own. Every experience is unique and there are countless reasons for making one choice over another. What's best for me may not be best for you, let's agree to remove all judgement from this incredibly personal experience. How you birth doesn't make you a good or a bad mother. It's my hope that a pregnant woman might stumble upon this birth story while searching "home birth" in Google. We all know there's no shortage of terrifying, negative tales of surviving birth and I hope to toss one positive story into the blogosphere to counter them. Heads up, this post contains a photo of Maggie's birth. Don't worry, it's not a photo of my hoo-haw-I'm not insane in the membrane. However, ...

I thought it was kind of cute. Albeit a strange place for a dimple, but dimples are cute no matter where they're found. Am I right?! Tim was the first to notice the small dimple on her lower back. It's possible that his family's history with spina bifida and pilonidal disease made him hyper aware, his keen eyes were the first to spot that cute little dimple just minutes after her birth. I was just snuggling into my bed and praising the universe for the miracle of my daughter's safe, speedy, wonderful arrival on the planet. I was in a state of euphoria when I heard Tim mention the dimple casually to our midwife. She assured us that it was nothing. It's shallow so it's nothing more that a cute lil butt dimple and with that good news, we settled into what would be days of endless cuddling. Two months later, I took our girl to her first visit with our family doctor. In the waiting room, I met another mom and her lovely, happy, bouncing baby girl. This woman told...

To whoever compiled this slideshow of crap, I don't like you. We wouldn't be friends. http://www.parentdish.ca/2013/09/02/10-parents-we-all-recognize-and-might-want-to-avoid/#!slide=992036 I assume you don't have kids because if you did, you'd get that parenting opens you up to the quiet judgement and side-ways glances of others. Thanks for this mean-spirited, judgmental slideshow. By trying to pigeon hole us into these categories, you've displayed both nastiness and a false sense of persecution in just 10 juvenile slides. Congratulations, I guess. I'm a mixture of these parents that you suggest others should avoid. I'm the "Earth Mother" because I rocked a drug-free homebirth and I don't feel I need to justify that choice to anyone. I'm the "Pop-Psychologist" because I love me some Barbara Colorosso. You're suggesting that we shouldn't even try to educate and improve ourselves by reading parenting books because it...

It's been awhile, eh? In all honesty, life's been busy and I couldn't bear to open up a startlingly white blank page without having an idea of what I wanted to say. Then I read this article...and I had shit to say. Check it out, otherwise my ramblings won't make a lick of sense. Go ahead, click on the link. I'll wait here. http://nymag.com/news/features/retro-wife-2013-3/ Done? Great. Here goes. Firstly, there's nothing wrong with a woman choosing to leave her career to stay at home with her children. Just as there's nothing wrong with eagerly handing your wiggly, poop soiled child off to a daycare provider so that you can return to what feels good to you-work. When will we stop judging each other for choices that are personal and unique to each family? Being in a position to opt-out of working is very fortunate, not all families can swing that. The subject of this article, Kelly, makes some pretty broad assumptions about men and women. I say "bro...

With baby number three only a couple of months away, I've been reflecting on what I've learned after spending five years in the muthahood. Admittedly, I'm no expert and I don't doubt that there are countless discoveries waiting for me as I start from scratch with another babe. I'm excited to see which moments have me thinking 'well, that's different' or 'I didn't see that coming.' That's what keeps life interesting. Here's what I've figured out so far. 1. You may very well poop while you push. No, it doesn't happen on T.V. sitcoms or Hollywood movies. Those coiffed and spray-tanned women are the picture of dignity and serenity as their babies are handed to them but it happens in real life. Here's the best part, you won't even care so don't worry about it. You'll be disheveled, delirious and triumphant despite having pooped yourself only moments earlier. 2. A baby's umbilical cord will make you wince. It...

"Wow. Yep, this is happening", I thought as I stared squinty-eyed at that faint second line on the dollar store pregnancy test. With each passing day, that second line got darker and the realization that we would be a family of 5 in 40 short weeks began to sink in. What an amazingly joyous little secret an embryo makes. What a tough secret it is to keep though, Mother Nature is one twisted chickita. You're supposed to keep your fertilized blob under wraps until at least 12 weeks, that seems to be the generally agreed-upon rule. Ah, but it's during those early weeks that you're most likely to fall victim to public barfing-I've been there. 5 years ago, I had to casually stroll away from a splatter of vomit I left on a subway platform during rush hour. It's when you need the understanding and support of those around you the most that you're least likely to get it because you're keeping your trap shut. How many times can a girl claim to be stricken by ...

Months before Tim and I tied the knot, we took a pre-marital course. We spent a few of our Saturdays sitting in a circle with a half dozen couples who would soon be married. We participated in a bunch of activities and discussions about making our marriage work, led by..ahem..a  divorced  social worker but I digress. We soon discovered that we were the only couple who'd voluntarily forked over the money to give up our Saturdays, every one else was there because their clergyman said so. What a pair of keeners we were!  I confess that it wasn't long before Tim and I were placing bets on which couples may not even make it to the altar, which ones would last a year, which ones would end up in the headlines for killing each other. We're mean like that. There's one activity I remember in particular. We filled out these questionnaires, individually, about how we envisioned the day to day workings of our family. I consider...

I'm ashamed to admit this: I had a fight with a Walmartian. If you haven't wasted 15 minutes laughing at  http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/photos/ , you should. You really should. I confess that Walmart is my one-stop spot for groceries and kids clothes. That said, I refuse to qualify for a photo on that website. I DO NOT, under any circumstances, wear pajamas to Walmart. I do not wear crocs. I do not wear t-shirts that make reference to bombs, farts or trailer park boys. I may shop there but I am not a Walmartian. The monster who hooked me into a verbal altercation in check-out lane #14 was a bonefide Walmartian. Her stringy, straw like, bleach blonde hair hung limply from her worn out baseball cap. She wore ripped yoga pants and a pink rain poncho. Her rough looks weren't the issue, her bat-shit crazy behaviour was. Here's what went down. I pulled my cart loaded with a weeks worth of groceries into the check-out lane. There she stood, ahead of me, with one, single ite...

Is there anything worse than rejection? OK, maybe a frontal lobotomy but I swear that's all. Rejection is a tough pill to swallow. Agreed? As if rejection in and of itself isn't sucktacular enough,  it's felt much more sharply when it comes from someone you adore. Didn't get asked to dinner with friends? Crappy. Didn't get the dream job? Terrible. Asked someone out and got the cold shoulder? Awkward. Tried to hug your kid and he smacked you in the face? Well, I can assure you that the latter is the worst. Simon's been putting me through the ringer since I've gone back to work. If he was a cat, he'd have pissed in my shoes by now. He's blatantly, and without apology, favouring Tim. When he's fallen down and scraped his knee, he'll push me away and bury his face in Tim's lap to cry. When Tim and Owen ducked out this evening for a quick errand, Simon clutched his little shoes and sobbed at the door; devastated to be left behind. I crouch...