The cooking show

Yesterday, L hollers from the living room where baby C is lying beside her, “Mama, come quick!”  I dash into the living room assuming a minor baby sister vs.little big sister crisis “What’s up?” I ask.  “Chuck is on! Sit down with me! Ummm, yumm, he’s making creamed spinach, I like spinach!”  That’d be Chuck Hughes, from Chuck’s Day Off, and a Montreal restaurant we tried to go to last spring but it was closed much to the heartbreak of my five year old.  So if Chuck ever reads this, perhaps, he can give us a call, and let us know what the hours are so I can bring my escargot eating, French-rack of lamb-requesting, gianduja cake-making children for dinner.  When I relayed this anecdote to my partner, he wasn't particularly surprised; nor was he surprised when I told him R had also watched Chuck and now wants me to make her a tempura runny egg.

This situation is not unusual in our house.  My girls and I are constantly watching one or the other of our favourite food shows and then recreating the meals.  It's been this way since I was pregnant with R and had a few weeks off work before I gave birth.  I’d watch cooking shows, walk to the market and buy the ingredient for one or more dishes I’d just seen made and go home and cook.  Rather than stop, this “habit” grew when I became a mama. Because all of a sudden, I didn’t just have a hungry audience (Mark) , I had a rapt audience member (R).  I recently confessed to my girls that I often pretend I’m hosting a cooking show while I’m cooking.  And as a mama of girls that love to help me cook or bake and enjoy food as much as I do, they completely understand. Well, that, and they are 3 and almost 6, so pretending to cook for a panel of judges or an audience, comes naturally to them.  But, I digress. 

So, yes, I have a running narrative mostly in my head but often out loud, as I prep and cook.  I rarely cook anything fancy anymore and based on my presentation alone never mind my rule breaking) I would definitely be told to “please pack my knives and go.”  But, here, in my home, I am a top chef mama.  My girls will try anything once.  Often more than once.  They have been my prep cooks since they could pull the leaves off a sprig of rosemary.  They are highly opinionated on what should be eaten with what; they live for the farmer’s market and grocery shopping in general, and have been known to eat a lunch of artisan bread dipped in olive oil, aged balsamic vinegar and a hunk of stinky cheese just as easily as they slurp up pasta puntanesca, dig into tongue curry, lentils, and basmati rice, or chow down on lamb burgers with a boursin centre topped with a tomato confit.  Don’t get me wrong, there are days they start randomly picking carmelized onions out of their dish, and take grimacing sips of roasted red pepper-tomato soup.  But unlike a top chef, I don’t have to take the criticism, and here at home, the judges can pack their plates and starve or hunker down and eat it.

Who do you cook for?  

Blame Timothy Olyphant (and 8 other reasons) for my Delinquent Blogging Habits

1. The whole point of a blog is to fulfill a narcissistic desire that other people care as much about what you have to say as you do about saying it (writing it).  But I have no idea if anyone is actually reading my entries never mind eagerly anticipating my next semi-witty post. As such, I'm not hugely committed to writing on the weekly basis that I had hoped to.  Now, if someone wanted to pay me for this...I'd be all over it!


2.My girls have decided they need to call my name approximately every 90 seconds that they are awake.  And sometimes even when they are sleeping (I kid you not.).  I'm not going to get into how much I love my girls, love hearing what they have to say and how much they love talking to me because in a few years they won't blah blah blah.  Any mama worth her mama title knows this.  And any mama not up for sainthood also knows that you can get diddly and squat done when your kids need to talk to you every 90seconds 20 out of 24 hours a day.  Even when their daddy is standing right in front of them willing to talk, listen, or do.


3.My phone is poopy.  What's that you say, in the middle of a contract so not eligible for a free upgrade yet? Then by all means my phone should stop working consistently.  I use my phone for the majority of my online interactions because it's easy.  But for reasons beyond my understanding,the touch screen is starting to fail, the apps don't work consistently and when drafts of emails and text messages disappear, I'm not going to risk that with a blog entry.  Also, sometimes my gadgets know when I'm coveting other gadgets and stop working out of spite. My phone must know that I was recently lured into wanting an iPad despite my solid stance against succumbing to dark side. (More on this another time I'm sure.  If I can stop being a delinquent blogger)


4. I'm under the delusion that all of posts have to be deeply meaningful...or at least long.  And, as of yet the technology to extract posts from my head that I think up when not near a keyboard - does not exist. Besides, I'm out of practice.  I used to be an avid journal-er and so was much better at writing personal perspective pieces.  But that was before I went back to school and had three children so that my writing as of late has consisted of text messages to myself of grocery lists, reminders, and 12-20 page academic papers.


5.I've developed a thing for a Kentucky Marshall.  Or more accurately, Timothy Olyphant in Justified.  I don't why.  His character is a bit of an ass.  I've never been particularly into the cowboy-type.  He's certainly no Jon Bon Jovi (Oh, wait, maybe I am into the cowboy-type.  As long as it's just pretend.)  My new "interest" has resulted in marathon viewings of the show's three seasons.


6.I continue to enjoy the conversation - and other things - offered up by my partner. Easy distractions from the computer. And I haven't even bought him a cowboy hat yet.


7.I recently re-discovered my love of reading and my ability to whip through a good book in a day or two.


8.My interactions with the grown up world are somewhat limited and as a result so is my content. Also, holding balancing my netbook on my knee while breastfeeding my almost 3mos old is both mildly painful for me and potentially a bump on the head for her. (Don't worry, I haven't let it slip yet.)


9.I like to sleep.


Do you have secret crush on a TV cowboy? 

The sanity saving logic of multiple birthday parties

Last night we had L’s fourth birthday party.  And by that I don’t mean that she turned four, she turned three (a week and a half ago).  We had four parties for her.  Here’s what you need to understand about the logic – or perhaps lack of logic but still sanity saving method:  .  Both sets of grandparents want the undivided attention of their grandchildren and us.  If they just wanted to passive-aggressively fight over who our girls dote on more, that would be fine, but they just can’t leave Mark and I be.  The ones that can’t cook want to help in the kitchen.   The extroverts try to bond with the introverts.  And rather than vying for proof that their grandchildren love them; they tend to try to prove that they know us the best.  It’s exhausting.  Not to mention, the uncanny ability they have to make our house seem small and our food seem like crap.  Ask anyone who’s visited our house if we know how to throw a good party, cook and serve a good meal, pour a good drink, or be a gracious hosting couple.  The answer will be “absolutely.”  As long as the person you are asking isn’t related to us.  All bets are off then.

So after three horrifying Christmas Eve dinners, one Christmas “drop-in” and two shockingly worse Baptisms, we’ve called it quits on the dual family get togethers.  And from the beginning we’ve done this with the girls’ birthdays.  So, L had a lasagne dinner with chocolate cake the Friday before her birthday with Mark’s parents and his son where his dad walked in with his humourous defensive persona (not sure who is supposed to find it funny when he says things like “oops, can’t touch your hair right V”  and “oh, i guess you didn’t really want to get me that glass of wine”) and his mom asking Mark if he’d heard about so-and-so’s cousin’s wife’s dad dying and how was she supposed to know they had were driving their grandson back to Toronto for us.

Then L had a casual drop-in the Sunday before her birthday where my parents and sisters showed up, over-stimulated her, hassled sleeping baby C waking her up in waves thinking it was hilarious (um, no, not really) and my mother doing that weird child-like defensive thing where she “blames” everybody else for things  a la “Mama said you can’t have that, not me.  I would let you run with scissors .” Just confirming this date had been hell with my Dad’s response being “Uh sure, Sunday after church might work, we’ll see.”  No!  No, we’ll see!  Either you are coming, or you aren’t. 

Now, imagine trying to combine all of those quirks, schedule conflicts, and presents ("Oh, nana got you that.  But I got you this."  "Oh that was nice of grandma to get you that, I can make you another one just like it!") into one small space.  Not.Going.To. Happen.

Of course, we had our own little supper complete with the requested purple robot cake, on her actual birthday.

And last night, we had two of our couple friends over with their children.  We brought in the reinforcements:  seven bottles of wine for the six of us.  All of the kids had a blast and the grown-ups did too.  We made gourmet grilled cheese (gruyere on potato-rosemary break with homemade braised spare ribs) and had the “head” of the robot cake that I had remembered to take out of the freezer.  L had spent the afternoon setting the table, washing berries, and then getting dressed up in a puffy party dress that drowned her petite-ness but with a smile as big as her heart!

Next month is R’s birthday and we’re really hoping to whittle down the number of get togethers but we just don’t think we can cope with a dual family shindig.  There really isn’t enough wine in the city to make that bearable.

Do your two sides of the family get along?  How many birthday parties/gatherings do you do for your kids?  (And how much wine is involved?!)

Home birth at it's best: The story of L's birth three years ago

It was about this time (8:40pm) three years ago that my water broke all over my bed.  I was watching an episode of The Wire with Mark.  R was hanging out with her aunt in the other room watching a movie on the laptop and playing with the new fairy sticker book Mark had bought her just for this very day.  It was L’s due date and I’d been having some mild contractions throughout the early evening.  I’d called my sister and Mark before their work day ended to let them know, that despite the odds (of having a baby on their estimated due date) it seemed like I was about to go into early labour. 

My sister came by and Mark came home with fresh fruit and fruit juices as per my request.  I gave my midwife the heads up but she didn’t seem overly committed – given that my labour with R had been 36 hours, there was no rush especially considering I didn’t feel like I was in labour.  I played with R, I puttered, I ate dinner, I showered, I settled in for a night of TV on DVD watching and warm kisses with Mark.  And then I was hit with a pretty big contraction and started to climb off the bed to work through it and my water broke all over the bed.  The bed I had not yet made up with the double layers of bed sheets and plastic sheets for our planned home birth.  We paged Chris our midwife again and she said she’d head over to see where things were.  Mark filled the birthing tub and I drank some juice, talked to R to let her know we were definitely having the baby soon and climbed into the tub. 

Getting into the birthing tub was such a blissful experience for me.  During my labour with R, we didn’t have one and the only place I’d found any relief or comfort had been in the shower but that had still not been great.  Climbing into a pool of warm water provided me with a cocoon of heat and safety.  I genuinely felt like I’d managed to carve out a safe and private space for my labour.  The birth pool was set up in our living room, there were two soft lit lamps on, a music mix playing on low on my iPod, and not a clock in sight.  (I had unconsciously created an environment the exact opposite of my labour with R.)  R came running through the house to pour some water on me, rub my back, and then ran back to hang out with her aunt.  Her aunt who wanted to stay as far away as possible from the whole “birth thing” as she put it.  Being present for someone else’s labour is clearly not for everyone but my sister is the best aunt one could ask for and it was very generous of her to be there given her feelings on my nudity, blood etc.

My midwife and her student arrived shortly and set up all of their things and wanted to check me.  I reluctantly got out of the tub and let them do so, asking spontaneously that they not tell me how far along I was.  R came back to the living room where we’d covered our couches and floor with old but clean sheets and towels, and fed me ice chips.  After dealing with my midwife and the student being horrified we didn’t have a pile of postpartum supplies in a special box (I swear they were obsessed over the fact I didn’t have 8 receiving blankets and a baby hat in the living room but still in the closet about 12feet away- our old place being small.)  I climbed back into the birth tub and moaned “open” out loud, rocking in the water on all fours for what can only be described as bum labour.  With R, I had twisting cramping, rolling never fully ending contractions.  But this time, everything was happening in behind and it was actually something I could cope with, work through, and quite honestly, wasn’t too bothered about.  Mark poured warm water on my back, wiped a cool cloth on face, fed me juice and ice chips.  He was an incredible birth partner.  I don’t know how he managed to do all of that in a way that made it seem like it was happening simultaneously and in exactly the way I needed it to. 

Just before 10pm Chris asked me to come out of the pool so she could check me again.  She wanted to know if it would be okay for the student to check afterwards.  I didn’t want to get out of the tub but if I had to, I didn’t mind the student checking as well.  So I lay down on the couch, Chris told me I was at around 8cm and then I got hit with a wave of contractions and I told her and the student to get out of my way and that I needed to stand up to work through them.  It seemed so much harder and faster.  I started to panic.  I was standing and Mark was holding me, and the student was encouraging me to climb back into the birthing tub because I was screaming that I thought I had to go to the bathroom, and that I didn’t know what was going on and R was in the room and started to cry so my sister took her away.  And then I felt a burning sensation.  I put my hand between my legs and much to my surprise…I felt a head!  I had gone from “about 8cm” to baby crowning in the time it took me to stand up and take a few steps.  The panic and screaming had only been about 90 seconds long as I went through transition.  I really wish my midwife had explained this to me; however she wasn’t in the room and it happened insanely fast. Knowing this, being able to explain it to myself, helped me focus. I was flooded with relief and everything became crystal clear.  “Mark!  That’s her head!  That’s our baby’s head!”  I said excitedly.  I happily (yes, happily!) called for R to come back, promising her that I was okay, that our mini monkey two was coming right now. Meanwhile, baby’s head was descending rapidly, my midwife was across the room still on the phone with the backup whom she had been telling I was at 8cm not that I was actually giving birth!  I now had two hands on the head and was laughing from the very pleasant sensations of birthing.  I wouldn’t necessarily go so far as to call it an orgasmic birth; but it was tickling!  R was watching from the arms of my sister, both wide-eyed, for different reasons.  Mark was holding me as I stood. Encouraging me and later he would admit to thinking he was going to have to drop fast to catch our baby because he didn’t think Chris was going to walk over to us in time.  But she did and knelt in front of us and said seriously and rapidly that I was going to have to do some movement as the shoulders were sticky.  “Ok!  What do you need me to do?”  I asked and in an instant I had one leg propped on the couch and out came baby L.  I honestly don’t think Chris thought I’d be able to move that fast into such a position.  I went from 8cm at 10pm to holding my baby at 10:08pm. 

I sat down on the couch as our baby was placed on me.  They couldn’t actually bring our baby all the way up to my breast because the cord was so short.  R was right beside me at this point and as she had wanted, she got to tell me that the baby was a girl.  Mark told me that R just kept checking on me and when he asked what she was doing she said “Waiting to see the placenta come out too.”  Eventually it did and it took a while – they had to remind me to focus on pushing and massaged my uterus too.  But I was so enthralled with our new baby, I didn’t pay too much attention.  I did see the placenta which we kept in and actually not only froze but moved with us to our new place for burial.

Mark dressed little L in the clothes R had picked out for her.  We had a shot of bourbon.  We impatiently waited in bed, where we’d relocated after my shower, for the midwives to leave.  It seemed to take forever when all we wanted to do was lock the door and go to sleep.  R climbed into bed beside L despite the fact that her own bed was actually attached to our bed, she wouldn’t leave her baby sister.  And in the morning when she woke up and found that Mark had moved her, she climbed right back over him and put her arm protectively, lovingly, and gently around little L and it has pretty much been there ever since either literally or figuratively – and I hope it’s always there. 

While I truly believe any birth that results in a wonderful new addition to the family is the perfect birth; I will admit that little L’s birth was about as midwifery home birth perfect as one could hope for.