Over at Work It! Mom: Who stays home when the kids are sick?
I worked four days last week and it looks as though I will be doing the same schedule until the end of April. On Friday at lunch I wandered down to the kitchen to grab a Diet Coke out of the fridge. There was nary a DC to be found, so I did the unthinkable; I ventured outside of my office in search of my beverage of choice. Shocking, I know.
I was surprised at how much heat the sun was exuding and took my scarf and jacket off to: 1. Prevent having lovely pit-stains on my work shirt and also 2. not look like an idiot for wearing a scarf and winter coat when others were walking around sans outerwear.
Upon acquiring a DC and arriving back at the office I called Matthew to check in on him and exclaim my excitement about the lovely weather. I did not have to work on Saturday! We could play outside all day! He then told me that the forecast was for rain and/or flurries. Oh. Well. I guess that means I could get some house/writing work crossed off of my list, which always helps this Type A girl feel a little less frazzled.
Friday night is “Pizza Night” at our house. I am not a huge pizza fan (Don’t judge me) so I picked up some sushi for myself on the way home. If you are a Twitter/Facebook/Flickr friend, than you know that I had the distinct pleasure (if you can call it that) of having Friday night’s sushi dinner exit through the very orifice in which it entered my body. I will spare you the details, but it involved me, the porcelain throne, and my husband holding back my hair. All in the middle of the night.
I found out via Facebook that someone else had sushi from the same place on Friday and was also sick. Turns out food poisoning was the culprit. I’m not sure if I should file a complaint or leave a flaming bag of poo on their doorstep.
I managed to eat some toast for breakfast with no more spewing and then promptly went back to bed for nearly three hours. So much for “getting stuff done.” I had some cheese and crackers for lunch and was feeling better. I went outside with the family for a bit to inhale some fresh air and was on my way to being “normal.” As normal as I get, I guess. At least I managed to snap a few photos of my insanely adorable children.
(Side note: The connection between these two is something that words could never quite convey.)
(Heck. All three of them play together so well that it is borderline ridiculous.)
We have had plans for weeks to go out for dinner with friends on Saturday night in honor of Matthew’s birthday. He was more than willing to cancel (I am the social one) but as the day wore on I knew that I would be fine. I got all dolled up and out we went. One part of our plans for the weekend was actually happening the way that we thought it would.
The plan for Sunday was to go to church and then the boys were to spend the afternoon at the birthday party of one of their friends (Son of one of our friends who we dined with on Saturday). Before we left the house on Saturday night Graham had mentioned that his one eye was itchy. Come Sunday morning both eyes were itchy, red and oozing green goo. Pink-eye was rearing its ugly head. Matthew went off to teach Sunday School and I traipsed to the Walk-In Clinic with our three children in tow.
(Click on the photo to read the whole story. Also. Highly infectious condition = Birthday party in close contact with other children is TOTALLY NOT AN OPTION.)
What to do, what to do?
We discussed bumping up the outing to go to the theatre to see Monsters vs. Aliens to this weekend instead of next, but thought better of infecting the theatre with Pink-eye. We contemplated a trip to the park down by the lake but Graham told us that his eyes hurt and he wanted to stay close to home. The only option left was to venture into the yard to soak up the sun that had so graciously decided to appear. Miss Emily was kind enough to “bake me a cake” in her outdoor “kitchen.”
She’s rocking her “Fierce” pose.
After approximately ten minutes outside Nathan told us that his tummy hurt. I brought him inside, handed him a bucket…and he filled it immediately. With the contents of his stomach.
Emily spent all of Wednesday morning barfing and was then back to her chipper self. Nathan followed her example with the chunk (Ha!) of time spewing. He told me that he felt better before bed but we will see what the night holds. It appears that this bug is a quick one, so here’s hoping it goes OK.
Before the day was done, Emily’s right eye started going red and oozing green slime. To quote Graham, “This has not been a fun day.”
Sorry for all of the barf talk but it has been my world this weekend. Well, that and the eye crap.
Please tell me that your weekend was better than ours was.
The ever-lovely Sweetney (and crew) have set up their web design shop. You can sheck them out over at Sweet Blog Design.
First of all, you guys are all sorts of amazing. My shy, introverted husband is floored by the outpouring of birthday wishes. This has literally saved my arse as all I gave him for his birthday was a card. A CARD. It included a promise of a night away, at a hotel, without the kids but yeah. NOTHING HE COULD OPEN. We will save the opening for a later date (and here is where my parents cringe).
For his birthday supper (Canadian word. Dinner for you Americans. And also us Canadians; WHY ARE THERE SO MANY WORDS FOR THE LAST MEAL OF THE DAY?) we decided on steaks, pan fries and a fruit-and-vegetable filled salad. I managed to get the steaks marinating and the fries prepped. However. With me working four days a week I totally dropped the ball with making dessert. I called my sister-in-law to see if she could bail me out and mere minutes later Matthew called me from the grocery store. I told him that I had dessert covered but he would have none of it. He wanted his favorite cake and would make it himself thankyouverymuch.
We had his brother and family over for dinner. Since they were absolved of dessert duty, they brought beer instead. They branched away from Canadian Beer and bought a sampler pack of Belgian beer. I am not a beer fan so I drank wine.
Don’t judge me.
The first round was the Stella. This is the favorite of my in-laws and it is amazing. Or so I am told.
For the next round the “Strong Beer” was brought out. It had a whopping 6.6% alcohol content (Uh, wine is 11%. Vodka is 40%; BEER IS FOR PANSIES. Especially if you are American for your beer tastes like watered down urine. Or so I am told. (Has anyone ever verified this? I sure know that I have never tasted urine…))
The consensus around the table was that the beer had an odd flavor. Must be due to that “high” alcohol content.
Lightweights.
While we were discussing the beer they were drinking (labeled “Strong Beer” by the brewery) Matthew noted something humorous on the back of the bottle.
They had printed a 1-800 “Help Line”
How much fun would that job be? Answering calls from people who are drinking your beer and in need of help.
“I need some fries. And possibly, some nachos.”
“Can you courier Tylenol to me?”
“I have had six of your beers. Should I stop now, or keep going?”
“I am feeling woozy.”
“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”
I have thought about dialing the helpline but have resisted. So far. Anyone want to call it and tell me what transpires?
*I had hoped that the actual 1-800 number spelled something cool, but it was not to be. Unless 1-800-pit-grok is cool. This is entirely possible; I have not been cool in, well, forever.
You’re The One True Thing Know I Can Believe In
Date: Thursday March 26, 2009Posted in: Honey, twue wuv
Last summer I was driving down to the Coast to shoot Hillary’s wedding and I popped in a Sarah McLachlan (LOVE HER) CD that I had not listened to for a very long time. I was cruising along and the song “Push” came on. As I sang along I was reminded how I had often thought that these lyrics were a perfect description of the dynamic between Matthew and I. I would have totally written Push if I could, you know, write songs. And play an instrument. And sing.
The other cool thing about it is that I think that every line applies to God as well. Awesome.
The lyrics:
Every time I look at you the world just melts away
All my troubles all my fears dissolve in your affections
You’ve seen me at my weakest but you take me as I am
And when I fall you offer me a softer place to land
You stay the course you hold the line you keep it all together
You’re the one true thing I know I can believe in
You’re all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me
You’re the one true thing I know I can believe
I get mad so easy but you give me room to breathe
No matter what I say or do ’cause you’re to good to fight about it
Even when I have to push just to see how far you’ll go
You wont stoop down to battle but you never turn to go
You stay the course you hold the line you keep it all together
You’re the one true thing I know I can believe in
You’re all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me
You’re the one true thing I know I can believe
Your love is just the antidote when nothing else will cure me
There are times I cant decide when I cant tell up from down
You make me feel less crazy when otherwise I’d drown
But you pick me up and brush me off and tell me I’m OK
Sometimes thats just what we need to get us through the day
You stay the course you hold the line you keep it all together
You’re the one true thing I know I can believe in
You’re all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me
You’re the one true thing I know I can believe
I sang it at the top of my lungs and my eyes welled with tears. I then realized that I had never told him that this song meant so much to me in that it seemed to so perfectly portray the two of us. I was already sensitive due to that fact that I had left him and the kids behind. WHAT IF I DIE? WHAT IF THEY DIE?
HOW COULD I HAVE NOT TOLD HIM ABOUT THIS SONG?
I sniveled and sobbed about it all which, well, probably would have contributed to the whole “ME DYING WHILE DRIVING” scenario if I had not realized the stupidity of trying to drive through a cloud of tears.
Thankfully for all of us, I made it to the Coast and back in one piece. Upon arriving home I sat my fair husband down and had him listen to the song that seemed to capture us so perfectly.
It has been nearly a year since this all transpired, but when trying to think about what to write in honor of his birthday I could not help to write about it.
Happy Birthday, Honey. You are that man that I always dreamed about but never thought could be a reality.
You are loved by your family and friends, respected by people in our community, and small children who are not our own flesh and blood are drawn to you. This all speaks volumes.
You are the best Daddy that any child could hope for. You splash in the bath, you host tea parties, you wrestle like none other. Our children gaze upon you with a love that is fierce beyond description.
As for me, I cannot ever convey the depths of gratitude I have for the fact that I get to call you mine. In nearly nine years of marriage you have done nothing other than love me, cherish me, take care of me, spoil me rotten. You have never once hurt me or disappoint me. This says more than I could ever say here but you know of which I speak.
I love you more than mere words could ever express.
I am looking forward to forever with you.
*Please wish him a Happy Birthday, if you could. He also thrives on words of affirmation and has actually started reading my site lately. Please heap some love on this man I get to (Get to!) call my husband. The fact that he has to put up with me on a daily basis is reason enough to shower him with birthday love.
If you have been around here for any length of time, you know that my Love Language is “Words of Affirmation.” What does this mean exactly?
This means that if you say anything kind to me, my heart will fly. A comment, a statement about my personal being, or how cute my kids are will have me walking on the clouds for hours (Or possibly days) on end. Kind words are like air to me; without them I feel like I cannot breathe.
The opposite is also true. If anything negative is said to me, or I even think that someone has negative thoughts about me, the air is sucked from my lungs. My stomach turns and churns and I lose all appetite. I hate to disappoint people, to let them down, to have anyone think negatively of me. “People pleaser” is an understatement.
I have learned over the years to temper this a bit. I do not act in order to please others, but to be content in my own behavior. I know what my strengths and weaknesses are and do everything that I do to the best of my ability. In turn, I have been heaped with praise in many aspects of both my personal and professional life. This is not the reason that I work as hard as I do, however. I work hard because it is who I am. I want to do the greatest job that I can so that I can sit back and know that I have given one hundred percent of my effort. If that is not good enough, it is out of my hands; I have done all that I could.
Without getting into details that could give me further repercussions, yesterday was one for those days that blew up in my face. Despite my best efforts, hard work and work ethic, it was not good enough. I found out that someone I have known and respected for years has thought ill of me for months. It would be tough enough to hear it from the source, but I had to hear it from a third party.
The situation is one in which I had done no wrong, but it was perceived that way. I know this, my husband knows this, the third party knows this. And yet, despite the knowledge of all that I have done right, and good, and fine I was smacked upside the head with the knowledge that someone is disappointed with me.
Disappointed with me. This cuts my heart to the core.
The whole situation is stupid, ridiculous, unwarranted. This is not me being defensive; this is me speaking the truth. Regardless of this head knowledge, my heart was wounded. I cried harder and longer than I have in a very, very long time.
I, too, am disappointed. Disappointed in how I found out, in the behavior of others, in the slander of my character. But all I can come back to is the fact that my heart is hurting.
Part of me wishes that I could be tougher. Harder. More jaded. That I couldn’t give a rip about what people think of me and live my life with no cares.
But that is not who I am. I am a lover. A lover of life, of family, of friends. I do not want to become a hardened shell of a woman who builds up a wall to protect herself, only to realize that she is all alone.
I just want to get to the point where situations such as these do not take me out of commission for hours or days on end. That I can sit firm in my knowledge that it is not I who is at fault. That if people have issues with me that are unwarranted I can hold my head high and wait for them to see the error of their ways. That I would not care if they ever do see their transgression. That the actions of others could exist in another plane; in one that I can see, and understand, but would not be so negatively affected by.
It would be a much better alternative to sitting on my reading chair and succumbing to wracking sobs that come in waves and do not stop.
I am guessing that the ability to keep your emotions (relatively) in check while still keeping your heart soft is a sign of maturity. It appears that I have a bit of a ways to go until I get there. I know that getting to that particular point of maturity is a journey that does not happen overnight. On days such as these, however, I am tired of that journey. Tired of the walking, or the wrestling, of the heartache.
But I refuse to let my heart turn to stone.
I just need to get to that place where my heart is soft, yet firm.
*40 – U2. Of course. I will sing…sing a new song.
Back In The Saddle
Date: Tuesday March 24, 2009Posted in: Emily, Family, Graham, Nathan, Photography, me
As most of you know, I dabble a bit in photography. I have been feeling like a bit of a fraud lately when people refer to me as a “photographer” because I think that in order to hold that title you need to, you know, actually take photos.
My problem (if you can call it that) is that I like to take photos in natural light, preferably outdoors. Yes, I have fancy-schmancy lenses that allow me to take photos in low light as well as a fancy-schmancy flash for those situations that require one but…meh. There are only so many photos I can take of my kids sitting on the couch, you know?
The problem with living in the Great Canadian Tundra is that in order to take photos outside you have to be ready to freeze your tush off. I have done said butt-freeze in the interests of capturing photos of the kids outside, but those photos get stale as well. Oh, look! More sledding photos! And look! The kids are wearing the same toques and ski jackets in every. single. photo!
*Yawn*
Truth be told, I actually crave taking photos and editing them. Get me into Adobe and you’ll lose me for hours. Lack of photos taken equals creative outlet not satisfied which means that I have felt a wee bit frustrated. Throw in my well-documented hatred of winter in general and BOY HAVE I BEEN A TREAT TO BE AROUND.
I also find that a lot of my writing goes hand in hand with photography. Photos inspire words and words inspire photos. The two go hand-in-hand for me. If that doesn’t make me a “real” writer then I am OK with that. I’m technically an accountant anyway.
*Shrugs*
This past weekend was one that I needed more than I had thought. The sun was shining, its rays were exuding warmth, the snow was melting. For the first time in, oh, five months or so we were outside in hoodies instead of ski jackets. I put my favorite lens (24-70mm, f/2.8) on my camera and started snapping.
After two days full of taking photos and two evenings full of playing in Photoshop I have this sense of creative satisfaction that has been missing. I just feel good. Giddy, even.
I’m a little bit rusty but it is coming back quickly. I’m back in the saddle, baby.
Giddyup.
