Lately, I have been dreaming of Paris.

It’s not your typical “I need to escape my reality” type dreaming.  I dream of a happier life and a wish come true.  A softer reality finally come to fruition…for someone else.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now don’t get me wrong.  If my life looked differently than it does, or if I had chosen a different path, I’d love to be in France myself.  Italy.  England.   But it’s not my place right now, and I love my life enough not to mind.  But someone I know and dearly love recently made the enormous decision to uproot and move to Paris to fulfill a lifelong dream.  And it’s been an unforgettable experience to be on the sidelines, cheering her on.  Do I miss her?  Wholeheartedly.  But I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

With every photo she sends along, every little update, every email…I feel a weight lift.  For we all feel weight when our closest friends are suffering, don’t we?  Well, this friend had walked a difficult enough path that to see her glowing in photos in Paris – well, it’s heavenly.

My husband and I make bets on how long she will stay.  Will it be a few months as originally planned?  Or will it evolve into a new life?  No matter what happens going forward, it won’t change the fact that she actually did it.  She will always have the glow of Paris, and a lighter step than had been hers for many months before she left.

I sent her a note to check out a museum where Monet’s water lilies can be found.  My son studied Monet in his preschool last year, and has even practiced some watercolours and reproductions of Monet’s work.  (You haven’t met a serious four year old until you meet one who tells you “Claude Monet died in 1846.  And I miss him.”)  And in a lovely coincidence, she had just been to the museum in question, and sent us a few photos of Monet’s water lilies.  My son was amazed.

I love what this trip is doing and will do for her.  I love what it does for my life by association.  Although I may not be there to see it with her, our shared road will always include this amazing experience.  And when she shares it with my son, she helps me teach him that the world is a small place after all, and everything he is curious about is right there for him to see.  He will grow up knowing that he can go anywhere he wants.

And that’s a priceless lesson for us all to learn.

This piece was later published by The Yummy Mummy Club, a great website created by Erica Ehm.  It’s a true resource for moms:  articles, blogs, contests and ways to connect with other yummy mummies! 

http://www.yummymummyclub.ca/dreaming_of_paris_jen_taylor

Midnight.  Another anniversary of 09/11 over.  What could I possibly say that would add anything to today’s conversation?  Of course I remember it.  Of course I was impacted by it.  Who of us will ever forget the images we saw on television, the words heard over and over on our chosen television or radio stations.  It was surreal, and remains so to this day.

I have been reading snippets all day of people sharing where they were or what they were doing when it happened.  I could do the same – awakened by father-in-law’s telephone call making sure my husband was not flying anywhere that day on business.  We hurried to the television, watched in horror.  Eventually tore ourselves away, made it in to work where we huddled over CNN.com and other websites, unable to think of anything else.

But to go into more detail seems hollow, for I did not lose anyone I knew, did not lose the security of my city, my country in a mere moment that day. 

However, there is one thing I can add.  Where I was and what I did was not nearly as significant as something else I saw that day. 

At that time, we lived about 90 minutes outside of Vancouver, BC.  We each had a commute, but to different points outside of the city.  My drive every day took me along a little road that ran for a long way along the Canada/US border.  I used to choose this route because it was a peaceful country road, more suited to contemplation and coffee drinking than the major routes.

We will never forget the images we saw on television.  They were nightmares come true, and they imprinted themselves upon a generation.  However, as I drove to work that day I had the occasion to drive by one of the border crossings located near Vancouver.  It was perhaps three hours after the strike had occurred, and the border had been completely closed.  A large number of police cars and barricades blocked any access to the area.  As I realized what was happening, and tried to make my way around the snarl of cars, I also became aware of something else.  

It was the first day I ever realized, all the time I had been driving only 20 feet from another country, that they might ever consider us an enemy.  And what my life might look like if that day had suddenly occurred.

If you’re joining me for the first time, I would strongly advise scrolling down and reading the previous post (one, because then you’ll know why I’m talking about cab drivers, and two, because it has a bunch of f-bombs in it.  Oh, yes it does.)  For those of you who enjoyed the story of my son exploring some very grown up language for a few days after my hubby’s livid exchange with a cab driver, here is the part that I didn’t tell. 

When I first got the idea to write about the f-bomb free-for-all, I first went to my husband to see if he would mind.  This is the answer I got.  “Sure.  You can write about that.  But then you should write about how I once punched that cab driver.  I mean, to be fair, I probably have issues with cabbies, right?”  I mentally cheered sat down to write.

Before I permanently f— up muddy up my husband’s good name, I should clarify a few things.  First, he works in an industry where the language used is abysmal at best.  Second, he was not used to driving in downtown rush hour traffic with our son in the truck with him.  (Never mind me, anyone who’s shared a vehicle or late night cocktail with me knows my ears aren’t that tender!)  And third, the cabbie he punched in this story was really, really looking for it.  (My husband takes cabs often and usually talks about how helpful the drivers are.)  As an added bonus, he thought I had already written about it and mentioned it to someone at work, who then looked at him like he was crazy.  “It doesn’t say anything about a cab driver.  You punched a cabbie?”  He’s dug his own grave.

Years ago, we were visiting family and friends in another city.  The phone rang in the middle of dinner at my parents’ house.  My mother-in-law had been in a serious accident; she was unharmed, but very shaken.  We left immediately to go meet her at the scene and wait for the police. 

We met up with my mother-in-law, made sure she was okay and settled in to wait for the police.  We were all upset.  My mother-in-law was still shaken from the accident, and we had been worried that she’d been hurt and wasn’t telling us over the phone.  We were still on edge when a cab driver drove toward us, and stopped his cab.  He surveyed the scene for a minute, then started telling us to move her car (against police instructions I might add), that it was a danger where it was.  In his mind we were being irresponsible.  We assured him we were fine, police were on their way, and thanked him (probably a little curtly).  He drove a small distance away, then pulled a U-turn to come back alongside us.  Again, he kept insisting we move the car.  This continued on and on.  We told him again, look, keep driving, we’re fine, the car is fine as is.  I remember telling him flat out “You aren’t involved here.  Please leave.”  A few more circles and U-turns, and he started getting louder.  And swearing.  Why?  Who knows.  My husband told him off a few more times, then finally walked over to the cab and told him to, well, you know (oh, just go read that other post, would you?)  At this point of the storytelling anyone who knows my husband is already laughing because hubs was mad the first time the cab driver lipped him off.  By this point the cabbie was lucky he still had legs.

I remember being worried that he was being so erratic, wondering why he kept harassing us.  As it turns out, I was right to worry.  He exchanged a collection of obscenities with my husband, then started yelling, waving his arms and started to get out of the cab.  Hubby was incredulous and lost it.  He yelled back at the cab driver, and enraged, grabbed the hat off the cab driver’s head, ripped it in two and tossed it on the road.  Did I mention hubs has a Welsh temper?  Oh, yes.  We’ll revisit that in a later post, I’m sure. 

Everything that happened next happened so quickly.  The cab driver was furious, got out of the cab and came at hubs, arms already up as though to fight.  Fight?  We were parked on a quiet neighbourhood street with my mother-in-law watching.  They’ve never met, hubs was perhaps 35 years old, the cabbie might have been 40.  It was like that scene from Sex and the City where Sarah Jessica Parker’s character is yelling at her two would-be suitors “You’re MIDDLE-AGED!” as they roll around fighting in the mud.  The cabbie took a swing at hubby.  Hubs, in a moment of hilarious cartoon clarity, realized he was wearing a new watch.  He started trying to take it off, while he held off the shorter cab driver.  I remember yelling my husband’s name (because I’m such a pansy good cheerleader.)  Hubby managed to get his watch off as the cabbie swung at him again.  I’m in shock.  POP!  Just like that, hubby connected a punch.  The cabbie stopped, and and in what has become a famous line in the story “did a little shimmy” before taking a step back. 

Ridiculous.  The cab driver got back into his car and hubby picked up the offending hat and threw it in the cab.  He then took out his wallet, tossed the guy a twenty dollar bill and told him to buy himself a new hat.  (This always cracked me up later on, and he could never explain why he did it.)  We regrouped, and the cabbie sulked in his cab until the police arrived.  I remember thinking, what the hell just happened?

All in all, a much more eventful night than we had planned.  The cabbie threatened to press charges, but had a hard time explaining what on earth he was even doing at the scene or why he had stayed around and harassed us for so long.  As the police officer said the next day when he called us, “Don’t you worry about it.  Just get on with your lives.”  And we did.  You know, after we went and told everyone we knew about the hubby, the cabbie and the shimmy.*

*Amusingly, every guy we tell this story to, family or friends, has only one question.  “Was it a good punch?”  Boys.  Sheesh.

The funny thing is that I didn’t go spontaneously deaf, which is what I had thought might happen if I ever I heard my young son say this word aloud.  Maybe it was because this wasn’t the first time.

Rewind a few days.  My husband, four year old son and I are driving downtown in rush hour traffic.  G is chattering away in the back, vying for attention, we’re all hungry and on edge.  Let’s just say the vibe isn’t exactly relaxed. 

Brakes squeal.  A cab driver cuts us off unexpectedly, nearly causing a serious accident.  Hubby honks, steaming, and the cabbie has the nerve to make a rude gesture and yell an obscenity.  You can see where I’m going with this, right?  Hubs is livid, flips the bird right back and out it flies:  “Yeah?  Well, f— you too, pal!” 

So the F-bomb flies out of hubby’s mouth before he can stop it, full volume and the world stops spinning for a moment as I hear it echoing around the truck.  Silence.  Then from the backseat, a small voice rings out.  “Daddy?  What does ‘F— you’ mean?”  Hubs is still fuming and quickly tries to cover it up.  “It’s just another way of saying hi, buddy!”  Indignant, I burst out, “NO!  No, it’s not; it is a grownup thing that grownups say when they are very angry or upset!”  (I’m right, but it comes out a little more self-righteous than I mean it.  After all, he has just never caught me saying it!)  My son considers this; we all fall quiet and make our way home, minds racing.  I cross my fingers and hope we are finished with it.

Only, of course we aren’t.  We get home and G keeps asking why grownups can say it, why is it bad?  So I sit him down and we have ourselves a long chat about most words being good to use to say what we mean.  And some words are strong or serious words that we only use if we have thought about what we’re saying and really need to use them.  Words like stupid, hate, kill and die all fall under this heading for me.  Tell me you killed a mosquito today, not that you killed your friend at school.

Then we talk about swear words, or what we have called bad words in our house before.  Why are they bad?  They are bad words because for a very long time, as far back as people can remember, they have been used in ways to hurt people or to make them feel bad.  Because of this, anyone that overhears them could feel bad or have their feelings hurt just from hearing them.  So kids aren’t allowed to use them.  Grownups are allowed, but most of the time we try not to-or try to use them only in private when we know we won’t hurt anyone who might hear. 

He takes it all in.  This is a lot of information for one small boy.  But he’s a sensitive little guy, concerned with the feelings of others.  He still wants to know we can talk about it more, and what other words there are, and which ones are swear words.  Sigh.  So I make him a deal.  As long as he understands I do not want him ever using this kind of language, he won’t get in trouble if he wants to come ask me a question about a word he has heard.  I tell him to make sure we are alone and then if he wants to ask about a word, we can talk about it.  (I feel a little rush-such a good, modern parent, not censoring my kid, not closing the communication channels.  Mm hmm.  I feel good in smug.  Smug feels good.)

An hour later:  “Mommy, I want to talk about the word F—.”  After supper.  Before bed.  Four times the next day:  “Mommy, I want to talk about the word F—.“

And the day after that:  “Mommy, I want to talk about the word F—.“

Oh. My. God.  I couldn’t take it.  I couldn’t take hearing him say it.  So I finally cracked and sat him down, and kind of desperately said “G, I’m sorry.  I know I said you could come to me and ask about any of those words and we’d talk about it, but I can’t hear your sweet voice say it over and over again.  It hurts my ears.  If you want to ask me about that word again, you have to call it the F-word from now on, okay?” 

Ahhh, censorship is sweet.  And I did try.  Hey, maybe someday he’ll brag that his mom let him say F— for three whole days.

Catherine Newman’s book Waiting for Birdy has become one of my all time favourite books.  Newman used to write for a magazine I liked called Wonder Time.  I stumbled across this book in the parenting section of my bookstore one day, recognized her name and bought it.  I adore it.  It’s been in my possession for just over a year, and in that time I have read it probably half a dozen times.  As soon as I finished my first read, I set it down, then picked it back up and started rereading.  Yes, it’s that good.

Waiting for Birdy is touching, hilarious, heartbreaking and hysterical all at once.  I laughed out loud and also wiped tears.  Here’s the sort of subtitle from the front cover:  “a year of frantic tedium, neurotic angst, and the wild magic of growing a family.”  It charts the year she was expecting her second child, while raising a toddler-and it hits every note perfectly and honestly.  It’s so well written and witty it would be enjoyed by any reader, but in my opinion the real draw is for moms of one or more kids.  I read this while expecting my second child and the truths written by Newman will knock you flat. 

The inside cover lists her accomplishments at time of printing:  “Catherine Newman is the author of the popular childraising journal, “Bringing Up Ben & Birdy” on BabyCenter.com.  She is a contributing editor for FamilyFun magazine, and her work has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, including the New York Times bestselling The Bitch in the House and Toddler.  She lives in Massachusetts with her family.”

Reading this book is like having someone see inside my own brain as a parent…and it’s amazing and bizarre all at once.  She writes in the exact romping, leaping, funny yet more than mildly crazy way many of we moms think.  How comforting.

Get it, get it, get it.

My sweet baby girl, you are smiling, laughing, cooing and squealing your way through life.  At only nine months old, you haven’t seen much, but you are tickled by it all.  I joke that you must dream of unicorns and rainbows, because I can put you to bed giggling and you will go to sleep that way.  I pray that it’s true.

I remember worrying, how would we make sure you would feel special?  I worried because I had found it challenging in the first months of your brother’s life, trying to console a baby and myself through long nights and days.  How could I make you happy?

And then, the day came when we would no longer be a family of three, but of four!  Oh, the excitement.  And what an entrance!  Ten days late, everyone on pins and needles, doctors muttering dire warnings of induction.  It was unnerving, but so exciting. I kept feeling as though if I could just talk to you, I could let you know it was time, that we were so happy the day was finally here.

It took us a few days to notice, and in truth a couple of weeks before we could really put our finger on it.  I had made you a safe little place to lay on blankets in our family room, and lay there you did, eyes bright, just watching.  I tried to remember if your brother had done the same.  Both of you were very alert and bright-eyed from birth, but you seemed so calm.  You didn’t fret to be left alone; it was as though you already knew you were safe and that we were close by. 

Time passed, and you smiled early, and giggled.  You slept well, ate well and grew like a beautiful wild weed.  I started calling you the happiest baby on the planet.  I told people I could have three babies like you in the house and be perfectly content.  I was proud that you slept “like you were going pro”.  It was all true.  You learned to laugh, to play, to watch, to explore.  You got excited over everything, and started greeting us with a smile when we came to rouse you from sleep.  You were happy.

Now I start to see the little girl you will soon be, my sweet baby.  You are ticklish, silly and love when we try to make you laugh.  You squeal when you are excited and you giggle and chortle when we play.  You are delighted by your big brother, and he is already devoted to you.  You charm anyone who gives you a smile when you are in the carseat or stroller, giving easy grins to strangers and showing off your double chins.

And I have come to realize that it is my job to make room for your happiness, to encourage it, to love it and celebrate it…but that it is not my responsibility to create it.  You do that all by yourself.  All I need to do is get out of the way.  You are happy.

I love you, my sweet sunshine girl.  Your happiness has allowed me to become the mom I so badly wanted to be the first time around.  We laugh together all day long.  And that makes you the most special, happy baby around.

That’s what your grandma calls you.  And there are times when the light hits your hair just right and I wonder if perhaps the light is coming from inside you.  For you are certainly our golden boy; you are the one who brought the sunlight in. 

How could we have known, back when you were just a spark of an idea, a barely whispered thought, that you would be the one that made us into a family?  That with your safe arrival into our arms, we would never be the same.  We were parents.  Mommy.  Daddy.  The names felt awkward, presumptuous on our lips.  I remember being so happy to be pregnant, feeling as though I had read so much and prepared everything I needed.  Then too soon it was day three and we were leaving the hospital.  I felt like asking the nurses “Are you insane?  We have no idea what we’re doing!  What if we can’t do this?” 

But you didn’t mind.  You didn’t mind all the fumbling, the clumsiness, the simple matter that everything we were doing was too foreign to be graceful.  You didn’t mind when we had to turn your carseat practically upside down at the hospital, with you in it, trying to figure out how to adjust the straps.  You didn’t mind that I brought an outfit for going home that managed to drown you.  You didn’t even mind when I left a tiny lamp on in your room all that first night because I couldn’t bear to leave you in the dark.  I knew it was ridiculous, after all, you’d never seen light until you’d been so rudely introduced to it a few days earlier.  But it was just a teeny lamp, and you slept anyway.

In two days you will be heading off to kindergarten.  We’ve had almost five years together.  In those five years you have become this whole person right in front of our eyes.  I had no idea how amazing it would be to watch you grow up.  I had no idea how quickly I would be able to see bits and pieces of the man you will grow up to be.

I brag about you, that you are sweet, smart, loving, strong.  Even during our struggles I see how frustrated you are to be angry.  You work so hard to be a bigger boy than you really are, to make us proud.  And you are smart.  I love watching you learn and listening to all the things you have figured out so far in this crazy world.  I’m afraid to ever tell you how crazy it really is.  I still like to pretend that I will be able to protect you from it.

I have such hopes and dreams for you.  I want you to see the world, and choose where you want to live once you have seen it.  I want to take you to all the countries that I can’t believe one small boy knows.  I know you will do something worthwhile, something meaningful…either for one or for many.  I love watching you concentrate, and wonder what will catch your attention when you are grown.  I hope you find the world a friendly place, and the people in it worthy.  And, oh, I try to remember when I’m setting limits for you, that someday I will want you to go beyond them all.  Just not today. 

I love you, my sweet golden boy.  You were the first to call me Mommy, and I will never tire of hearing it.

Reading and writing have always been an escape for me – I do both for fun, mostly unofficially.  I have bookmarks in about ten books in my living room and my coffee table is covered with stacks of magazines that I know I will end up hoarding.  When I need to get away and find some calm, you can usually find me wandering a bookstore with coffee in hand, stroking the book covers in what I promise is a completely non-creepy way.  It soothes me.  Mmm, coffee.  Mmm, books.

In a similar fashion, writing offers a chance to work through my day, my week, my life so that I may see more clearly.  I make lists, jot down goals, write letters.  Lately I have been tweeting up a storm on Twitter.  (If you don’t know what Twitter is, you’re probably the only one getting anything done in your office.  But you’re also having less fun.  Look it up.)  I am just as happy to write a long, chatty email to a friend as I am to receive one.  (Okay, that’s a total lie, I love the getting.)  There is something about thoughtfully going through what is on my mind, choosing my words one by one, that leads the way to clearer thinking…or the decision to break out the chocolate.  And sometimes when the parenting gets too extreme, or life gets ridiculous, the best solution is to share it with others and have a good laugh over it.

I haven’t come up with a theme for this blog, or some jazzy description of how it fits into the enormous and endless space of the internet.  I just know that it feels right to take my affection for the written word one step further and create a place of my own.  In all likelihood, it will be a little bit of everything:  my kids, my chaotic life juggling full time motherhood with owning a business and working from home, and maybe a little heckling of my husband (oh yes, I will).  Food, wine, things that catch my eye and anything that makes me laugh during an average day.  And probably a whole lot of me not taking the chaos too seriously.

Enjoy it with a generous helping of chocolate and coffee.  I will be - I am Little Miss Mocha, after all.  ; )