Sunbeams and Instant Potatoes

You know that picture perfect image you have of motherhood? Nursing a child in a rocking chair,  bathed in the light from a sunbeam, filtering into the window through gauzy curtains? Making idyllic flower chains, catching tadpoles, curling up in a comfy chair to read fairytales?

Cut to pregnant back aches, 2 days of a strong willed toddler on nap strike, gall stones. She’s cranky,  been short on sleep but tall on independence and meltdowns. I’m cranky,  tired as f@*k of trying to choke down turkey meatloaf (how unappealing the texture of ground turkey is to a pregnant woman) in an effort to avoid fatty foods/gall attacks. Exhaustion abounds, as I try to tempt the child into watching Paw Patrol so I can scramble together a pretty lacklustre meal (it included instant mashed potatoes). Said child was having no part in being hypnotized by television, for she insists upon helping with all meal prep. This is a great ambition and a wonderful skill to foster, and I’m keen to help it flourish.  But, sometimes I’m interested in the easiest route.

Distraction: Mr sketch markers and a coloring book

Cut to me putting meal prep on hold to attend to her sudden need to decorate….my kitchen floor


After a brief chat, a stern reminder of the fact that colors belong on the paper, not the floor, and Pepper’s excited foray into magic erasering the floor, dinner resumed, helper in tow.

Baby bump gave me a huge karate chops as if to say, hey mom, you’re building another one, remember? To remind me, soon,  well be adding one more to the crazy tribe.

Baby bump danced until dinner, during which Pep ate 3 helpings of freeze dried potatoes (what?!). I couldn’t help feeling like the little gal was chuckling, saying to herself, Let the Wild Rumpus Start.

Really,  no idyllic sunbeams, but I’m pretty sure this is the natural flow of parenting,  anyway. How boring it would be without the madness.


Art work for baby bumps room




Searching for worms in the rain



Stuffies tucked into beds everywhere

Beautiful chaos,  right?

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The Detour

3 years ago tomorrow,  I suddenly stopped being 17 weeks pregnant  with my first baby.  It altered my entire life and changed my outlooks on nearly everything. Yes, there was pain, and there were tears, and complete abd utter anguish at times. Soon after, I began this blog, pouring my soul into the air, and starting to heal.


I’ve reread old posts,  tonight,  and felt the need to scrape,  just a little, at old wounds, invisible now.  Just a little hurt to honor the life lost. But, reading deeper, the pots became more hopeful, a little more sunny. The future began to have light and the pieces began to return to their places. So, not just a scratch to recall hurt, but I want to honor that life by remembering the hope and, eventual, happiness that emerged,  that could not have been without her.

I have my rainbow, 2 years old. She’s an utter gem and my world.

And, while 3 years ago, I stopped being 17 weeks pregnant, this year, I find myself 16 weeks along.

I haven’t made this entirely public. If you know me in my personal life, keep that in mind, please.  It’s not that I’m not happy,  I am just instantly overwhelmed by baby talk and I shut down

So, this June,  at 16 weeks pregnant, I am living a strange mirror image of that time,  those years ago. Instead of November 11th, my baby is due about a week later. All the seasonal milestones hit at the same time. Spring break, track meet, summer vacation (milestones become even more obvious when one works at a school). These markers are things I had come to associate with loss.

And now I’m living the alternate path, to that mournful walk I once lead. This road, today, while, oh so familiar, feels like my road less travelled. It’s a route, with the very same weather, seasons, markers and signs.


But one in which my baby’s heart, on June 3, is still beating.

I am hopeful. I am not cocky.  I don’t think I can ever have an innocent pregnancy again, certain a baby will be here before it is, but, for now, this second rainbow baby is here. And alive.

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So Nice

This mother’s day, in northern alberta, moms are hoping for flowers, chocolates, cuddles and breakfast in bed.

And rain.


Just a glimpse of the recent wildfire smoke

As wildfires rage across the province, including the massive blaze in Ft. Mcmurray that, to date, has spread to 156,000 hectares and spurred a mass exodus of some 90,000 evacuees, many of us are forced to think about losing everything and facing what, if it were us, would we take, would we leave behind.

Luckily, we are far from this particular blaze, though smaller ones encroach nearby counties. Living in a home situated in the midst of a quarter of bush, I,  for one, am eager for a downpour.

I’ve been told I’m not to get out of bed in the morning until instructed to do so.

Here’s hoping for coffee, cuddles and a chill and distracted day.

This morning,  Pep happily jumped out of bed, threw her arms around me, patted me gently  and said, oh, mom, so nice, mom.

Right back at ya, kiddo.

Here’s to mom’s.  After another year of boogers and farts and giggles and love and rarely pooping alone, I know you wouldn’t change a thing.

After all, really, it’s ‘so nice’ to be mom.

I encourage you to read up on the wildfire disaster facing Northern Alberta, and consider donating to Red Cross in support of the thousands and thousands of displaced people facing a frightening and uncertain future.




To the moms without babies in their arms, if your year was filled with memories, sadness, hope and prayers, or missing someone terribly, my heart goes out.  You are a mama. Be kind to yourself.

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Around Us

In Honour of Now

Time marches, and, we its slaves
Must carry forth, and carry on
The road that, from this vantage
Seems infinitely long

But truth lies in the ritual
As days slip past like sand
We watch worlds  shift, take other forms
It was never in our hands

‘We could do more
We could be more
Have and give and mould
We can manufacture destiny’
But, always, we’ll grow old

And back, well gaze
Upon those days
Lost on discontent
We’ll think, ‘they were true
And we never knew’
Must we be hell bent

On change, on more, on looking on ?
On missing what is here?
For what’s here is now, what we’ll look back
Upon as golden years.

How good we had it then, well say,
It happens,  without fail,
But  in the moment, a seeming storm,
Do we only feel the hail?

The best years seem to lie ahead
We strive and reach and run,
But let’s rest a minute, take a breath
For herein lies the sun.

If we can breathe and look around,
And be happy where we be,
Maybe we dont have to grow old
For our golden years to see.


From the start, we’re taught to strive for the next stages in life.  School, high school, college,  career, marriage, parenting,  etc. Each stage one might wander through in his or her life has its sub sections. There are various educational levels, we prepare for each,  afraid to let a moment slide, lest we lose our hold on tomorrow. 

As parents, we inevitably prepare for our children’s evolution. We steer them where we must, teaching them the skills they require to succeed. 

We prepare ourselves to expand our families, feel pressure to fulfill expectations,  create an ideal family unit. Beyond that, we face the pressure to reclaim ‘post baby bodies’, to maintain work,  career. We feel stressed to prove that we are taking time for ourselves,  to illustrate that, as parents,  as mothers, we’re not lost to the world.

I’ve felt pressure my whole life to be better and to be more. To improve, instead of maintain. To change, rather than to embrace myself.

I admit,  much of this may be interpretation. Were I to confront the sources of these pressures, they’d surely recant, insisting that’s not what they meant.

But as I grow older, I become more myself.  I care so much less what others think I should do, what path I should be on. 

Of course, I’ll still raise my child with growth in mind, but I hope I can teach her to embrace each moment a little,  too.

This morning, she and I watched the sunrise. Pepper chattered happily,  inexplicably describing the shifting colors to curious George.  (Sure, why not?)

I tried to soak it in, because,  though maybe I haven’t reached all the goals I’ve aimed for, all the standards set for me, I think I’ll look back on these days, and think, how great we had things then.

So, out of shape,  messy housed, disorganized, high school educated me is choosing to invest my energy into loving now, loving today. My split ends abound, I have a hole in my pocket.  I dress a little ‘weird’, I cry a lot, I feel everything. I’m not tough, I’m not strong, I don’t stand up for mysekf like I should. But, today, I can see the greatest thing I’ve ever done,  and she’s my world, and, for this moment, at least, I’m hers. So, I can’t help but love today.

Because, time has shown us,  again and again, that it’s always better than we thought it was, and if we can love each day, even a little, as we are now, that, in itself is a worthwhile growth. That is evolution.

Not every day can be perfect. We will be wounded, hurt.  And I have been. The battles ive faced have shaped me. We may be shattered from time to time.  But, as our scars heal, we all find,  slowly, the moments of life that bring joy. And when our eyes reopen to them, sometimes,  what we’ve learned in the fray remains clear.

Let us strive for todays; golden days that build to years that blend into a life. If we think every stage is precious,  every stage is amazing. …..then won’t they always be?


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The Perks of Being Leftovers

Leftovers suck.

Forgive my ineloquence, but popping last night’s meal into the microwave and slapping it down on the table certainly conjures images of limp chicken breasts,  soggy green beans and the inevitable lump of cold in the middle mashed potatoes. Not the most appealing option.

Even as a child, I despised leftovers. Unless you were pizza, you had no love from me if you were cooked yesterday.

But then, I grew up.

And had a child to feed.

And a husband to make take to work meals for. It no longer seems feasible to make from scratch  meals every night.

Enter the concept of repurposing leftovers!

Imagine,  turning tuesdays chicken breasts into Wednesdays chicken Pasta into Thursdays chicken pizza?!

I get excited about cooing, it’s true.

So, what were we faced with, this week? Leftover porkchops, peas and mashed sweet potatoes. We had turned some of the meat and peas into an Alfredo pasta, which was well received,  but with another meal to make and too much remaining to justify tossing it, I was faced with a challenge.

A tour of the pantry left me with a can of coconut milk and another of pineapple,  and a bag of rice, and a container of bred crumbs. The gears began turning. Maybe a little smoke billowed from my ears.

The result??


Coconut fried rice with pork, peas and pineapple (the letter of the day is P) and parmasean and sweet potato fritters. A dollop of Greek yogurt for dipping (topped with pepper sauce for mom).

Is there a Nobel prize for leftovers?

On a barely related note,  anyone else watching this season of The Leftovers? Madness abounds.

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Auld Accquaintance

As it comes to a close, we’re,  most of us, lucky. More often than not, we reflect on the highs of the year, and unless plagued by life changing lows, we can often forget our woes.


2015. Like all the years before, we never emerge entirely unscathed, but the scars and wounds are structure, no?  Our trips and falls build next year’s you, someone who looks a lot like last year’s you, but, let’s face it, she’s a little wiser. One more year to grow,  and to age, to become, perhaps a little more tired and weary in body, but, hopefully, enriched in mind, soul and spirit.

Who among us can manage to meet this day without reflection? The very young, of course, because new years will come and go forever. Even 20 year old me felt excitement for the party of the day; drinks, dance, awkward sweaty selfies. Before, of course,  we called them selfies.

But as the years add up, and time lets us see that were not infallible, we must take more away than a hangover. A new year lies in wait.  Maybe this will be the year you read 50 books. Maybe this will be the year you lose 30 pounds. Maybe this is the year you get married. Or divorced. Maybe this is the year you make no promises, but time lets you grow wiser anyway.


If the only gain we wander out of 2016 with is another year under our belts and 365 more experiences, let us hope that in one year,  still, we can all find things to be grateful for.

In this year? This 2015? A list:
Baby steps,
Mountain lakes,
First words,
A dear friend’s wedding,
Flour,  sugar, kneading,  making,
Ink and art, expression,
Road trips, motels, diners and new paths,
Work (sometimes…. )
And home.

Maybe not so unlike the years before it, but another list of days, moments and experiences to warm the heart. Slow walks in the woods, Pep’s memorable trick or treating, my 30th birthday in the mountains, a lot of ground covered under foot and in heart.


To you, 2015, may your successor bring us joy and love and happiness.  Wishing all of us wisdom and peace, and a good book and a cup of coffee.

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Big kid, now

Today, I found the husband’s socks in the couch as I straightened up. 
‘Oh, socks.’ Said Pep.

‘Dad’s socks.’ I replied, balling them up.

‘Oh, Dad.’ She said.

‘Can you please put these in the hamper?’ I asked, handing them out to her.

Without question,  she took them from me and scampered purposefully away, returning quickly.

I thanked her and gave her a kiss, somewhat incredulous that my tiny baby is, fully, a kid. We’re having conversations (she chatters about colors,  shapes,  letters, puppies, kitties, ho ho aka Santa,  and a host of other topics).

Today, we painted. She declared ‘rainbow!’ and slathered streaks of color about,  then asked mom, ‘rainbow song?’ (Somewhere Over the Rainbow ).


She was playing at the table this morning, dropped a toy, grunted dramatically, declared ‘reach’ in a defeated tone (as in ‘can’t reach’). I suggested she pick it up. She gave me a cheesy smile, squinted her eyes and chirped, ‘ mom do it!’.

Christmas is coming, quickly,  and I’m busying myself daily doing as much handmaking and gift baking as I can. Every time I haul out the flour, Pep announces, ‘bread!’ and attempts to climb the counters to help.

She occasionally kisses the ornaments on the tree goodnight. 


She has figured out that cookies are plentiful right now.

She did not appreciate Santa.  She proclaimed, ‘oh no!’ But was excited to wave goodbye. ‘Bye, ho ho!’

This year, Christmas is going to be amazing.

She’s a full blown kid, alright. 

I wonder if those socks are in the garbage…..

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