Everyone who has ever met Russ says the same thing about him – that he is “such a good guy”. Some of his female coworkers have even confessed that all of the women he works with have a total crush on him. If he were any other man, this might worry me. And I truly can’t blame them. He’s extremely attractive, with boyish charm and a definite twinkle in his gorgeous green eyes. When you talk to him, he listens with his whole self, fixing the aforementioned eyes on you and murmuring assurances like “I can understand that” or “I don’t blame you for feeling like that”. And he really does and he really doesn’t. Because besides being ‘a really nice guy’, he is also truly the most nonjudgmental person I have ever met. And did I mention the smartest? His mind works so quickly that there’s no subject he can’t engage in a conversation about – even if he knows absolutely nothing about it (which is rare). In the event, he’ll ask probing questions, defer to your knowledge, and seek your wisdom. And when he loves you – ohhhh does he love you. Once you have a place in his heart there is pretty much nothing he won’t do for you, although he won’t walk around trumpeting about it. He’ll just quietly say yes when you ask him for help building, moving, fixing, listening, caring, etc, etc.

When I first met him over 10 years ago now, he was a solitary kind of guy. Although a natural introvert, he had lots of friends, many of them women (which he could never see was because they all were secretly hoping that one day he’d want more) and many gay (see women comment). Remember – this is ‘no judgment guy’ and despite coming from small town Winnipeg, he embraces people simply for who they are and was never threatened in any way. But, he was solitary. And when I fell for him – hard, he told me that he wondered whether he could ever be a family man because ‘alone time’ was so important to him.

Cut to today. This man who was once driven solely by his career and the titles that went along with, a former Deloitte & Touche consultant who travelled the world for work, and COO at various tech start-ups is now the epitome of a family man. He works as a Business / IT consultant and regardless of how he feels about the opportunity, he’ll go to the highest bidder simply so he can bring home the extra bacon for his family. And still he lies in bed at night worrying about our futures, planning for all of our comfort.

And then there is the father Russ. The sweet, tender, patient, affectionate and consistent parent. This is a man who, despite at one time really wanting biological children (and who could blame him), deferred instead to my desire to adopt, even though I was capable of having children. After our first adoption, when we discussed how to further grow our family, he said simply “I realize my daughters are Chinese.”

He tirelessly drives our eldest to piano, karate, swimming, you name it. And then he passes the waiting time listening to audio books on some erudite subject like nuances in the global economy or how genetically engineered food is processed in the body. And when he twirls our baby in the air, cuddles her in the crook of her arm, or patiently tries to cram at least one mouthful of food into her resistant mouth, I am nearly overwhelmed with love for him.

And he chose me. Of all the women who pursued him (granted I was the most relentless), I got him. I won the big prize. From the moment he turned that love light on me, I have been the luckiest woman in the world. If you asked him, he’d probably tell you that I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He touts me to his friends, tells stories of my accomplishments. My God, he is so proud of me and he makes sure to remind me on a regular basis. When I travel for work, sometimes a week at a time, he doesn’t bat an eyelash. He just gets on with it, instead calling me every day just to ask how it all went.

With him, I am heard, supported, encouraged and celebrated. No matter how hard I am on myself, he is gentle with me. When I cry, he just holds me. And on the rare occasions that we fight, he takes the wind right out of my sails by asking me “Babe, we’re on the same side. How can I help you?” Who could keep yelling at that? Once, when I was working myself up into some typical stressed out lather, he gently took me by the arm, walked me to the back door and pulled me out into the pouring rain. He stood there, arms wrapped tightly around me and quietly said “It’s all good Babe, just be…”

With him, I can be. With him, I am invincible. With him, I am truly complete.

What do you get the man who claims to have everything? You give him the gift of knowing he is everything to you.

Russ – my husband, my life. I adore you. Merry Christmas.

Russ and Bexie

Bexie’s in bed. Bexie has dried shnartz in nose. Bexie knuckles nose like a prize fighter. Nose trickles blood. Bexie doesn’t LIKE trickle feeling. Bexie repeatedly knuckles nose in an effort to stop trickle. Trickle becomes flow. Blood tap is turned on. Bed soon resembles crime scene and screaming ensues. Mama comes running and tries not to freak out. Bexie is laid on change table. Sodden PJs swiftly removed. Mama places her arm between Bexie’s arms and face so she can’t continue to punch herself in the face. Bexie screams like she’s being eviscerated. (Note: Bexie also does not LIKE to have her wrists held so forget that one). Mama sings ‘Happy Birthday’ 400 times in an effort to calm screaming baby. In the other room, Lotus awakes and starts to cry in sympathy. One hour, 2 bottles of stain remover, 1 load of laundry and a hoarse voice later, Lo and Bexie go back to bed. Repeat scenario as needed.

No. I’m not kidding.

How often you ask? Too often, despite an ever running humidifier, moisturizing gel up the nose and the constant caution to “be gentle with your nose Bexerella!”. It’s these little farkakta Chinese noses, you see. Apparently they are just too stinkin’ small to work properly, as evidenced by Lo’s years of nosebleeds. Only difference was that Lo was such a placid little thing that you could actually DO the prescribed nose pinch for five minutes and it would stop. Crisis over.

But Bexie? No such ruck.

But want to really understand who Bexie is at her core? Here’s what happened a couple of weeks ago…

Insert scenario above. Typical nosebleed event except this time I had raging PMS. Nuff said. So after 45 minutes of Bexie screaming like she was on a meat hook, I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and broke down. I’m was sitting on the floor with her in my arms, trying to stop her from getting at her face for the 50th time and I lost it. Started sobbing – a good ugly cry.

Bexie’s scream stopped right in its sound track, mid scream. Her eyes widened and locked on mine. Her little mouth opened and what came out? “Happ Birdie do yoooo, Happ Birdie do yoooo…” as her tiny bloody hand reached up and started to rub my arm in comfort. Of course this only made me cry harder, now out of absolute adoration for this empathetic little soul. She just kept on singing and rubbing, totally unconcerned about herself and intent on making me feel better. So there we sat. Crying, rocking, singing and rubbing. Only now, our roles were reversed.

This is reason 2,369 why I love this baby.

Since last we met Bexy-boo, she has grown into a scarily long & tall critter with a full set of teeth – all of which she likes to bite with and HARD! We’re considering using her to loosen stubborn bolts. Her stoic sister has been pulled, pinched, punched and prodded by this little badger’s tough little digits. “Gentle, gentle” we say over and over and OVER again. She just grins her goofy grin…and pokes you right in the eye.

Almost everything is mouth-worthy. Hair clips. Check. Carpet fluff? Yum! Shoes? Delish? Socks? Even better! Cardboard? A delicacy! Pennies? Delightful. Homemade spaghetti sauce with precision cut noodles? GAAAGGGGGG. SPUTTER. EJECT! I am beginning to despair. This child has a gag reflex like, well, like a Jewish girl. Feed her a pea and she’ll suck the pea innards out and daintily eject the pea-skin. I didn’t even know that peas HAD skin. Even pureed baby food is too chunky for her delicate sensibilities. And so I grind, pound, squish and squeeze everything into oblivion before I dare offer it to her. But give her a cookie? She’ll stuff the entire thing into her mouth and chew happily. Go figger.

Now let’s move on the the issue of attachment. There. Is. None. This child is so bonded with me you’d think we used freakin’ super glue. My sister and mother find it hysterically funny how Bex howls with utter despair the moment I leave her side but instantly shuts up the moment I’m back. I swear she can go from Jacobean tragedy to Three Stooges comedy in 2.3 seconds flat. Hyuk hyuk. Very funnnny. I’m finding it a wee tiny tadpole cloying myself. Don’t get me wrong, I am so thrilled that she loves and feels safe with me. But I would like to either a) pee alone for a change or b) not be made to feel like I’m sticking hot needles into her whenever I try to pee alone. And Russ doesn’t have it much easier. He’s running a poor third in her affections despite being eternally gentle, patient and on-demand. She’ll smile, coo and get excited when she sees him but if he leaves the room with her – well, let’s just say if babies could wield Magnums, he’d be a dead man and she’d blow the smoke off the barrel without glance down. Lo, on the other hand, is a baby genius. Or is it idiot savant? She can entertain the baby for hours by being totally nonsensical and unintelligible. I finally had to step in and enforce a ‘no babbling’ rule. “She needs to learn how to SPEAK Lotus. Help me out here!” For the record, she’s totally ignored the request but what else is new. Ahh what the hell, they’re happy.

I am happy to report that she now knows where her head is (useful when putting a hat on), has a general idea of where her toes and tummy are located (although you need to ask her about 15 times first), knows how to give a solid ‘high’ five, waves – but only to a favored few so don’t get your hopes up folks, and punches her little fists into the air when you shout “SUPERBABY” (except when its her birthday, the video camera is running, and her entire family is yelling – then she just looks and smiles mockingly. “Buncha idiots’ she must be thinking “look what I can make them do!” And perhaps my favorite trick is her Linda Blair a la Exorcist impression. She does this when she is approving of food. Just watch the video til the end and laugh.

She is one happy baby. And I am one grateful Mama. And we are one thrilled and complete little family.  Its just more fun to bitch, moan and complain. But it would be nice if someone asked about ME again for a change *looks around*. I’m RIGHT here people.

Kisses to all and enjoy the little vid.

For any reader that has never struggled with their weight – you need to look away now. But not too quickly. Your head may fall off your skinny ass neck and I sure as hell won’t pick it up for you. Oh. Did I say that out loud? Inside voice Les, inside voice.

Here’s what I thought would happen. I thought that when I came home from China, I’d have the same gorgeous resolve I had when I brought Lo home. She and I walked mile after mile, I virtuously snacked on edamame instead of making meals, and I started running. Before I knew it, I’d lost 10, then 20 and eventually over 50 pounds. This time, I went to the gym religiously for months before the trip, lost a few pounds and got pretty tight. Then work stress exploded like a popcorn maker on steroids and so did my ass. Glasses of wine, baked chips and comfort eating in general. Oy. By the time we left for China, I was a few pounds up.

Once in China, things equalized. Between the barfies and the baby, I dropped a fair few pounds while there and came home with that ‘anything is possible’ feeling. This lasted about five minutes. Between jet lag, no discenrable schedule and new baby and yes – you guessed it – stupid work stress again, the pounds crept up, the exercise was non-existent and the pants got tighter and tighter.

So here I am. Heavier than I’ve been in years and a little paralyzed about the whole thing. My body feels old. Knees ache. Back throbs. Morning feels like I’m unfolding an origami of muscles. Much as I would like to spend the rest of this post bitching and moaning about how I need to get my focus back (duh), that’s not actually why I brought you here.

Why I brought you here was to regale you with some amusing insight as it relates to control freakiness. When a control freak (exhibit A – moi), loses control in one area of life (exhibit B – the inability to PUT THE CHIPS DOWN), she begins to compensate in other often unusual ways.  For example, I am suddenly very aware of wrinkles. Instead of looking down at my increasing muffin top, I stare into the mirror, examining every line and droop. My crow’s feet squawk and my smile lines laugh back at me. “Old” they chant “it’s happened. You got OLD”. My turkey neck gobbles for good measure. Why did I not notice these before when I still had a chance to do something about them? Why? Because I was too busy trying to run the fat off my ass!! And so I buy collagen cream, wrinkle smoother, fillers and wishful thinking potions and dutifully slather them on every night despite the fact that I know they’ll do absolutely nothing.

And then there’s my toes. Suddenly, the lack of a good pedicure seems distractingly important. The soles of my feet are like freakin’ Velcro and I find myself attached to the carpet on a regular basis. My heels are cracked, my toenails uneven and the cuticles…well – let’s not even go there. You might be eating while reading this. So I buff, I scrape, I cream and I fixate. I don’t actually GO for a pedicure because I don’t have time. Besides, if I solved the problem, what would I fixate on?

And then there’s cooking. What better thing for a foodaholic to fixate on? I am suddenly Holistic Kitchen Goddess, able to whip up iron-rich, fibre-richer gourmet treats and then baby grind it with one hand tied behind my back. The pleasure of watching Bex (she of the major gag reflex) eat my homemade fare with only a few near barfs is heaven. I make matzoh balls and soy spaghetti sauce, carrot cake and beef stew…and then I eat it. Umm isn’t this where we started?

This post may be a cry for help or it may just be a confession. But good reader, I beg of you, should pass me on the street and see me holding a muffin, intervene. A nice brisk ‘HEY LARDY – BACK AWAY FROM THE BAKED GOODS’ (said with compassion of course) will do. 

It’s not that I care about the weight, but all this crap about my wrinkles and toes has GOT to stop!

Every morning, I hear her squeak her call and I roll out of bed and go to her. She seems less surprised to see me every day. And every day I reach my arms out to her and wait for her to reach back. This week, she reached back. I lift her out and she wraps her little arms around my neck and holds me close. She breathes me in, literally – snuffling like a pig after truffles. And as she smells me, I smell her, letting myself be filled up with the baby morning smell. We rub noses.  She mimics my facial gestures – her features alive with expression. 47 days ago she was almost vacant. All she could do was look. But now, we share this kooky grin thing. I smile a super wide smile, my eyes slits and my lips turn up. She returns it with interest. Her ever increasing teeth reveal past her beautiful lips and her arms bobble up and down with joy. Besides the expression alone making me laugh, I am so aware of that birth of joy. I am more aware of when it was absent.

I longed for this baby. I dreamed of her. And out there in the world, forces conspired. When would our paperwork be finalized? When would the Chinese bureaucratic wheels turn? How would the Chinese Center for Adoption Affairs person’s hand reach from one file to another? How would she reach me?

But she did. And again the magic of adoption overwhelms me. I watch Lotus sleep – her 8-year old body like a gangly puppy now. Long gone are her baby days. Now she’s a teen waiting to happen and she reminds me of it at every turn. She is so like me and so not. We share ideals and some physiology (the short gene) and tons of attitude, but not a single strand of DNA.  They gave me this baby too. My first girl, my life.

You know this is magic. Anyone who has ever doubted the existence of magic needs to stand a moment in my heart – to witness what 47 days of loving someone profoundly can do. Me her and her me. This osmosis of love turns solid. It bonds us. Beckett and I. Now, today, she cries if I leave the room. She reaches those arms out for me before I reach for her. She sleeps in my arms, the shrieks no longer, the trust apparent in her heavily and peacefully lidded eyes. She holds my finger. She breathes me in. I breathe her in.

They gave me this baby. But she has always been mine. This girl was born for me. And I was born for her. Still I thank them, whomever they may be, for allowing me to find her, just now, just like this. Because what they gave me is the most beautiful thing in the world.

PS – A lot of you have asked how you can subscribe to the blog. It took me a while but I finally got it together and added a ‘subscribe’ link. Look top right and you can click on the link, add your email address and you’ll be updated whenever I post something new. 

Because now I’m home. And its the holidays.

Here’s the low down. I’m Jewish. Russ is not. (To this day, we don’t know what he is. When we ask him, he just replies “smart”). My girls are being raised Jewish (and when I say Jewish, it means they are being raised to know that Montreal bagels are superior to big doughy ones, that Passover has the best food and that its cool to say the four questions for a few years and then it sucks, that the raison d’etre for every holiday is ‘they persecuted us, we survived, let’s eat”, and that Chanukah is a legitimate present hoarding holiday). But – because their father is ‘not’, we celebrate both Chanukah and Christmas. I have to admit that Russ’s non-Jewishness is only half the excuse. I fell in love with celebrating Christmas (or Xmas as its informally known in the UK) when I lived in London. And let me tell you, the Brits know how to throw down an Xmas. It’s all ‘ye olde this and ye olde that’. Very Dickensian and charming. What’s not to love.? Besides, I recall feeling sorely ripped off as a kid when our parents shlepped us out to the country to live in a community where our Jewishness was such a novelty, my sister and I were known as “la Grande Juif” and ‘le Petite Juif”. For you anglophiles, that’s “The Big Jew” and “the Little Jew”. So not only did we have to suffer humiliation, they wouldn’t even get us a fucking tree. I’m in therapy still.

Which brings me to the challenge of the season – and the particular hoo-ha of this year. Chanukah usually starts a week or two before Christmas. Which means that I’m in planning mode oh, by November 1st. Oh yeah, this year I was in China on Nov. 1st. So you can imagine my scrambling come the end of November when I finally emerged from my new baby, jet lagged stupor. OK – Chanukah. I’m on it. Buy presents. Get a new Menorah (the old one was, well old. How a religious icon can become dated I don’t know, but it did). Candles to go in Menorah – check. Dig out “How to Be a Jewish Parent” book. (Yes I have one. You can mock all you want but you try remembering all the stupid prayers. All I can conjure up is Baruch atah adonai…and the rest is a blur). Find the fabulous quilted menorah that my mother-in-law quilted for us with little  velcro-backed lights that you attach to the candles – so smart!!! Buy presents, find Chanukah wrapping paper (a challenge in my white bread hood) and then pick a date that works for everyone. This is always an interesting challenge and usually goes something like this:

My email: Hi Family – how’s Dec 12th for Chanukah?

Replies flood in: ‘Erica’ – no can do, I’m flying to Vancouver to shoot a tv show, then I’m speaking at a conference and then my kids have three birthday parties that day. ‘Mommy’ – Ohhh I so wish I could but I’m going to be in Yemen and Jordan. I’m writing a story for my website and then working with the Canadian government on a program for safe traveling for women in the Middle East. How about the week after?” ‘Cousin Robin’: The kids both have Bar Mitzvahs that weekend, Steven is going to a football game and I’m skiing. How about 2 weeks later’.

I shit you not. This is my family.

After 85 emails back and forth, we finally settle on a 3 hour period on an agreed date. Meanwhile, my in-laws finally agree to come and visit for the holidays this year. En masse. Staying with us. Yay. Ok – that’s coming across as cynical. I love my in-laws and my sister and brother-in-law. They are absolutely delightful and we’re thrilled they’re coming. But you know how it is. More people, more cooking, more shlepping, less bathroom. The extra-fun part is we’re doing a whole family Christmas (or Frame-mas are we’ve started calling it so not as to confuse it with the 3 other celebrations on schedule) but we’re doing it a week BEFORE Christmas because they’ll be returning home for the actual holidays. (One of many challenges around that is that my oven is barely big enough to hold a roasted chicken – forget an 18 lb turkey. And if anyone has recipes for all the Christmas fixins done solely on the stove top, please do pass them on.)

Are you still with me? So now we have Chanukah, Frame-mas and then real Christmas which we’ll start at home and then have Christmas dinner with our friends Joe and Darsh as we always do.

So now we’re looking at 2 turkeys, 47 presents, 4 present openings, 18 candles, a Christmas tree, 12 holiday outfits, 10 potatoes worth of latkes and a partridge in a pear tree. Oh, and Lotus wants me to make potato latkes for her Brownie troupe’s Christmas party. (That should go down so well. I can see it now – the pile of oily, smelly, little crusty brown discs nestled among the Christmas cookies and marshmallow treats. This could make her a social pariah. Brownies is not a ‘Jewish’ thing…)

So this is Bex’s first holiday season. I’m sure she’s going to end up with a very warped sense of reality. Her first take on life with us was that we lived in a giant building with elevators, chandeliers and endless buffets. Now she thinks that she’s landed in the middle of party central, where friends come and go as if on a conveyor belt, we’re always drinking wine and eating snacks (ok – that part at least is true), where everyone brings a present or two and there is party after party where everyone vies to hold her for a second or two.

Man – is she ever going to be disillusioned come January. I, on the other hand, am going to lie down…til February.

Happy holidays everyone. May you party your Christmas socks off and dance your dreidels away. And may you and yours be healthy and happy.

They persecuted us, we survived, let's eat!

Before I get into this post’s topic (half the fun of this is coming up with a title btw. It’s the equivalent of writing headlines!), I wanted to send a shout out to all my peeps. (This use of slang is my pathetic attempt at clinging to my hipness – which we’ll dive more deeply into in a mo). I’ve been so absorbed in all things Beckett of late that I’ve been ignoring many of your comments and emails. So to you, friends of Ehm, the steadfast and true, the always there, the ever forgiving (you know who you are if you’ve not yet gotten a response to your messages yet), I say thanks for still hanging around. I blame it all on my second child who, as soon as she sees me entering into any form of external communication, throws a total wobbly fit OR will risk falling out of a chair to reach and fuck with said communication device. As we speak, I’m hiding in a closet while typing. My life has become – well, unexpectedly interesting.

On to the subject matter at hand. Since hanging out at home with the Bexter is a recipe for no sleep cranky disaster, every day becomes an exercise in banal planning. One day its a 1.5 hour walk to a friend’s house just so she’ll nap en route and home, another its going in to the office to make a few calls just so Andrea can distract her (read: me) for a while. But usually, it’s shopping. Shopping is my new job.

Sobey’s, Toys R Us, Indigo, WalMart, Zellers, Baby Gap, Gymboree, Children’s Place – you name it, I’ve shopped there. And I’m not talking Christmas prezzies either. I’m talking time killing, indulgent, gift card redeeming, fashion frenzying shopping. I’m talking hours of strolling, perusing, considering, buying, returning. My wallet is stuffed with coupons, offers, 2 for 1 tickets and receipts. I know which days are 30% off where and when, and where you can get half off if you buy what (but only on full price items).  The shop assistants are starting to know me by name and I now officially know which aisles I can navigate my gigantor stroller through and which are no go zones. I am efficient, brisk, focused,  patience and conniving all when I need to be. “Oh – I thought this coupon let me get my 20% off? Not on this item today? Well what if I buy it full price today and return it tomorrow and then rebuy ith with the coupon? Yes. Excellent” (Meanwhile, my brain gets all excited, knowing I officially have a reason to shop again the next day AND get my 20% off). I am on a mission to…well…nothing. 

Beckett gurgles happily in her stroller, napping on occasion and eating Mum Mum crackers when peckish. We frequent the food court at lunch time – mine’s an apple and beet salad from Cultures (YUM) and her’s is a delightful prune and apple concoction that keeps things..umm…moving.

Yesterday was particularly fabulous. I picked up my trusty Andrea (she has become a noun in my life) and off we went to Sherway. OK – so we did some of the usual spots; buying, returning, combining and indulging. (Thanks BTW to the folks at Russ’s office. We spent the Gap gift card on a fabulous pink and orange number for Beckett – including LEG WARMERS. Oh yeah. She’s stylin’) But then we hit the grown up girl stores. Beckett decided this was her time to nap and Andre and I were able to raid the shelves and cram everything into changing rooms as she snoozed obliviously. And something came over me…

I was looking at the racks of clothes. My eyes flitted from thing to thing. My conscious brain scanned for items that would fit a very clear set of criteria. 1. HIDES BARF. 2. CAMOUFLAGES SNOT SMEARS. 3. HAS A NECKLINE THAT CAN BOUNCE BACK FROM BEING PULLED ON BY TINY HANDS. 4. HAS NOTHING THAT CAN BE REMOVED AND CHOKED ON. 5. MACHINE WASHABLE – A LOT. 6. IS RELATIVELY CHEAP.  ”Uh huh” I said to my brain. “Gotcha. Check”.  And then I saw them. Tops bedecked with sequins. Sparkly and alluring. T-shirt covered in studs. Soft loose knit sweaters, ripe for being pulled apart by probing hands. A sparkly vest. Sooo pretty. with large, chokeworthy buttons that looked virtually impossible to clean. I couldn’t help myself. I reached my hands out (noticing how badly i needed a manicure) and stroked the shimmering material. I couldn’t possibly…

Oh yes I could. The 28 year old, single and childless chick in me (yes – she’s still in there only now covered with a lovely protective ‘coating’) went for it. Sparkles, studs and knits. Dry clean only, delicates and rayon. Shrinkable, bleedable, shredable. I wanted it all. And damn, it looked good. So what if I have no idea when or where I’ll wear it. Who cares that I can’t make it to a single holiday party this year. Who gives a shit if I’m not going into the office for god knows how long. If i have to strut around the house in my sparkle wear and get barfed on – so be it. I did a damn fine job of buying the stuff and I’m going to wear it.

So back to all of you friends of Ehm. My work is done. Now your job is to invite me to come somewhere that required sparkles, studs or fine wool.  (And if i suggest we go shopping – remind me I’m CUT OFF!)

PS – If anyone wants to know where to get what, when and where – just ask….

 Let me explain. Yesterday was a tough one. Lotus, my ‘big’ girl, was home from school with a cough, cold and fever. Crap! All I could think about was her getting the baby sick. I banished her to the warm basement with a giant glass of juice and a couple of doses of Motrin (and the company of my ever ready Training Coordinator Andrea – AKA ‘she who can handle anything’). With her taken relative care of, I bundled Beckett up and hustled out to Sick Kids Hospital where she could have blood drawn by the real experts.

As I walked the halls looking for the clinic, I was in awe of the sheer hordes of people there. I did the mental math and realized that for every parent I saw, somewhere there was likely a sick child. In the clinic there were kids in wheelchairs, gaunt faces in worried arms and a small, translucently pale boy who had the thin remainder of his chemo’d hair gelled up into a spiky Mohawk. “Nice Mohawk” I smiled. “Thanks” came the weak reply, followed by a gentle and slightly pained smile from his exhausted looking father. I held Beckett to me tightly and thanked all the forces that be for her well being.

Into the room we went where a chirpy and efficient nurse prepped her for the procedure. Beckett regarded her curiously but coolly and didn’t even flinch when the nurse tied the elastic tightly around her arm and probed for a vein. “Cool customer” she remarked “most babies would be freaking by now”.  In went the needle and the freaking began. She howled and struggled. I cried. I’m not sure who was more upset. But it was over within a couple of minutes and within seconds of the needle coming out, she was hiccupping and regaining her composure. All that was left was to collect a urine sample, which proved to be a more lengthy and challenging event. My little camel would NOT give!! The nurses tried all the tricks, which included putting ice on her tummy, and alcohol wipes in her diaper (who knew??). Finally we had action and we were gratefully released.

She chirped and smiled all the way home and within a few hours, I decided it was time to get her to nap as she hadn’t slept a wink since about 6:30am. I’m not ashamed to admit that I was ready for a break at that stage too. So down she went and despite her being clearly exhausted, the screaming started. I turned the sound off in the monitor and instead watched the red bars rise and fall as she screamed and screamed. I listened every few minutes and her distress was so palpable, I couldn’t bear it. I lasted about 15 minutes and by then I was sure she was going to burst a blood vessel from the intensity of the screaming. I ran upstairs and into her room. She was sobbing so incoherently that she barely noticed me at first. I had to call her name a few times and then she focused on me. I picked her up and starting cooing and rubbing her back. She could barely breathe and was shaking from head to toe. I held her to me and she promptly threw up all over both of us – buckets of the stuff. Fresh tears from me this time.

As I  changed her clothes and calmed her down, I had a realization. What the hell was I trying to accomplish with this schedule I was imposing? Was it for her or for me? If she was tired, she’d sleep. She was telling me with everything she had in her little body that she didn’t want to be away from me and I wasn’t hearing her. Instead, I was hearing some other voice that was trying to be efficient, ordered and structured. I was trying to create a schedule that I could adhere to so that I knew when to make business calls and respond to emails, to get things back in ‘order’, to have some certainty. But loving a newly adopted baby is the antithesis of that – loving ANY baby is. It’s ALL uncertainty. It’s ALL upside down. It’s ALL new and learning and adapting. And it’s a full time job.

Now here comes the challenging part. I like order. I like certainty. I like structure (“When did I become this person??” I continually ask myself. I am a certified former WILD CHILD!) But it’s true. I’m also extremely ambitious and love my work and I crave security (again…”WHO ARE YOU?” says the kid who ran off to London when she was 19 to pursue her musical career and didn’t come home for – oh 15 years). Dilemma. Conundrum. Struggle.

So it came down to a single question. “Who do you want to be?” Do you want to be the woman who looks back on her life and says “yeah – really whipped those kids into a schedule fast like a Nazi cheerleader” or “wow – I really made some bucks that first year I adopted Beckett. Shame about the facial tic she’s developed” or “Beckett? She was the second kid – right? Yeah, we hung out for a few days when she came home from China but then, you know, she was pretty independent from then on…”. Sorry. Not for moi. I want to be the woman whose daughters remember the time devoted to them. I want my second daughter, like my first, to evolve from a timid little bunny into a full blown butt kicker. I want my kids to know that I’m their she-lion, their protector and their champion. I want them to be proud of me, but first I need to be proud of myself for the choices I’ve made and continue to make. 

And so, finally getting it through my thick head, I chose to just ‘be’ with Beckett today, her sleeping in my arms and me being her love slave. And the same plan for tomorrow. And hopefully the next day. And I’ll continue to choose to be with just her as long as she needs just me. And every time it gets hard, I’ll think first of my rock solid elder daughter and then I’ll think of the kids in the halls of hospital and I will thank God that the worst of my time is long days, short naps and some uncertainty.

This I can live with. This I can even learn to love.

I’m about the what – 4 millionth mother to complain about her kid not sleeping? I know I’m no different but when my kid lies in her bed screaming herself to sleep, all I can envision is a room filled with cribs, babies lain head to toe – two to a crib, all crying for attention and care, and all feeling abandoned and bereft. This is what I hear in my daughter’s cries. And it utterly ruins my heart.

According to her ‘operating manual”, Beckett had two solid naps (2 hours each) and then woke twice in the night and had a bottle at each waking. Huh? This made little sense. That would mean she had 8 bottles a day! At that rate, her eyeballs would have been swimming in formula. And when she slept through much of the first night we had her (with minimal squeaking), we knew we couldn’t trust the paperwork.

So here I am back at square one – pretty much done with jet lag but on to a whole new form of torture. She wakes at about 5am after falling asleep around 7:30pm. I search for signs of tiredness at around 10am (she does that head rubbing, eye squinching, rolling her head back and forth thing). I watch. I examine. I am as vigilant as a vigilante. Nuthin’. Then, around 11:30, a head roll. An eye rub. AHA! So i snuggle her into my arms, sing a little song to her (it used to be a pure lullaby but now its a basterdization of a lullaby I learned at camp that goes…”Go to sleep, little creep….) and then gently sway her upstairs. I’m not even at the top step when she’s on to me. She spies her bedroom door out of the corner of her eye – an eye which immediately fixes on me with great accusation. And then the mouth opens and out comes that wail. I ‘shshshshshshs’ her, carry her in, put on her obscenely expensive and seemingly useless white noise machine (ok – i was desperate) and lower her into the crib. The volume increases on the wailing. I lay on the bed next to the crib and start with the ‘shushing’ again (for the record, i am testament to the fact that 2 hours of solid ‘shushing’ makes the inside of your mouth completely raw and meaty – yuck). Nadda. She rolls on her side (a feat getting of that flat head) and fixes her giant eyes on me as she screams. “BETRAYER.” the seem to say “MOMMY CHARLATAN. PERSON WHO PRETENDS TO CARE. PICK ME UP IF YOU ACTUALLY DO. GO ON. AND DO IT FAAASSSSSSTTTTTT”.

I cave. I can’t stand it. I’ve tried staying in the room and leaving the room. Keeping the monitor on and off. Drinking wine and scotch. Nothing works. And this happens morning and afternoon. My record, up to yesterday, had been about 7 minutes. 

How the hell can one kid stay up for so long? By 3pm, she’s still going strong and I’m about ready to collapse. And I know she’ll fade at 7pm if i don’t get her to sleep. And sleeping at 7 means waking at 4 am. Noooooooo.

So yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to bite the bullet. I got home from dropping off poop samples at the lab (yes – my life is that exciting these days) and she was exhibiting those signs. Upstairs I scampered, hoping this was finally a legit nap time. Uh uh. No way Jose. Spicy peanut yelling began. I lay her down, shushed her and left. I sat in the kitchen listening to the screaming. Three minutes. Four. My eyes filled up. I called Russ at work. “Turn off the monitor and go into the basement’ he said. HELLO? HAVE YOU MET ME????? This is tantamount to abandonment in my books. “Ok, but she needs to sleep” was his pragmatic reply. Then I heard typing, He was Googling solutions. “Stand your ground,” he read, “commit and follow through” he continued. “Nap time has to be established. Don’t give in. Drink wine.” “Does it really say that?” “All except the wine part,” he replied, “that’s just for you.” So he talked me through it and 20 whole, tortuous minutes of wailing like she was being eviscerated, a glass and a half of wine and three kleenexes worth of tears (mine), she finally hiccuped and was silent. 

One nap down, six thousand and eight to go. And I’m no closer to a plan. And so we’ll take it one nap at a time and hopefully, just hopefully, she’ll realize that I’m never going anywhere and I’ll realize that she’s safe. By then, we’ll both sleep a little more soundly.

Cut to me. For three mornings now, my eyes have opened at about 5am. This may be jetlag and will soon go away (and be replaced by my usual snorefest until CBC wakes us up with Michael Helenka’s economic smart talk) or it may not. But my reality bears no resemblance to the pictured perfection of this so called ‘me’ time. I drag my sorry ass into a pair of too big pjs, put on the fuzzy slippers and trudge downstairs. I make a cup of coffee and a Montreal bagel (ok – its Starbucks and a Montreal bagel – this is the poshest part of the event) and sit at the kitchen table feeling shell shocked. I try and flip through a few pages of Entertainment Weekly (the only mag i actually subscribe too. Should I be admitting to that? hmmm) while my brain literally whirrs. Truly. I can hear it. This is how it sounds from the inside…

“wonder what time the baby will get up ,does Lo have everything she needs for school, god this house is a fucking mess, i need to buy milk and mustard, i wonder if that agency is going to train and if they don i wonder what month its going to be because i’m going to need to plan for daycare but i don’t want to put Beckett in daycare too soon because she’s only just starting to really bond, oh my god she’s so cute, i need to take her for blood tests, iwonder if the clinic is going to have enough HINI vaccine for us this week, i hate those bottles they always leak, i wonder if you can return bottles, i need to go back to the gym, i wonder if the gym down the street has better caregivers at the daycare than they used to – those women were like Jabba the Hutt’s offspring, i wonder if i can jog with the stroller, i need a warm coat for Beckett, maybe I’ll to the good second hand clothes store this week, man are my nails a mess, how much money can i not earn til the end of the year and get away with it, i better cook something and freeze it or we’ll be eating take out all week, i need to go to the gym (oh yeah, i thought that already but its really true), i want a new sweater, the mommy wardrobe is different than the work wardrobe, guess that’s why god invented the Gap, i wonder when Russ’s parents are going to come and visit, i need to organize my home office, is that the baby squeaking….?”

By then, Beckett is often waking up and my official ‘me time’ comes crashing to an end. Alternately, Lo shuffles downstairs at 5:30, quickly followed by Russ. We have an early breakfast and then play with the baby who is usually in a fabulous mood in the morning and we watch her giggle and coo and copy us tilting our heads back and forth.

Screw you skinny, coiffed, lululemon mommy image. THIS is perfection…