Goodnight, Sleep Tight....

Warning: This post will make you itchy. And it's long, too. 

Those of you that are parents out there will probably relate to the feeling of awe that something so small and inert as a newborn baby can turn your life so totally upside down.  Well, people, huddle around while I share with you a little story about a how creature so much smaller, and even more inert, can play with your mind, ruin your careful plans, and ultimately, leave you impotent and angry.

It all started about a month ago when I attended a birthday party of a dear friend--one where I met some of you lovely readers.  The party was held at in a playroom at a community center very close to Vancouver's notorious Downtown Eastside (whoa, it is notorious, there's even a Wikipedia page for it).  On the way home, the Boodge slept hard, and when he got up he was in a vile humour.  He complained that he was too hot and itchy and he struggled out of his shirt.  He reached up to claw at his shoulder and then I saw it: his shoulder was covered in about 25 little bite-like spots. 

What was it? Chicken pox? Spider bites.  Then I remembered that the Downtown Eastside is reputed to be overrun with bedbugs.  Could one of the bugs have been in the community center, brought by some other visitor, and come home on Boodge's shirt?  I put anti-itch cream on Boodge and began consulting Google. 

After perusing some images, I was pretty sure we weren't looking at chicken pox, and that it was some sort of bug.  I took the cover off the carseat and washed it together with Boodge's clothes in hot water, because the internet advised that washing bedbugs in temperatures over 120 Farenheit will kill them (that's about 50 degrees Celsius for those of us who use metric).  There wasn't much more we could do, so I left it at that. 

Over the next few weeks, every 3 days or so, when Boodge got undressed I would discover a huge cluster of bites on some part of hid body.  They were itchy and as big as mosquito bites but otherwise he didn't seem too bothered by them.  Every time I saw them I would go to Google again.  Sometimes I leaned towards thinking they were spider bites.  (Note to parents: Don't Google images of spider bites with your kid right before bedtime.  Or ever.)  Sometimes I feared bedbugs again, but I didn't want to believe it.   Sean, who often sleeps with Boodge, was completely bite free.  Once, I had a cluster of bites of my own. 

Then 4 or 5 days went by with no bites. I thought we were out of the woods.  But on Friday morning, I pulled off Boodge's pants and saw that his thigh and knee were covered in a fresh load.  My research had told me that bedbugs bite in a recognizable pattern of three in a row; they call it "breakfast, lunch, dinner".  And in this cluster there were several bunches of three in a row.  I decided to get a doctor to take a look. 

Our own doctor was unavailable so we took him to a walk-in clinic.  Boodge lifted his pants up for the nice young doctor to take a look and within seconds he declared, "I am very confident that this is bedbugs."  He noted the "breakfast, lunch, dinner" pattern and also shared that while in university, he had bedbugs himself when he returned to residence after a break.  He prescribed a cream for the itching and looked up treatment for bedbugs on his computer.  The only treatment recommended was that of a professional exterminator. 

But here's the really shitty part.  My mom was visiting now so she could be with us on her 65th birthday.  I wanted to make it really special for her, and had planned a weekend with family.  My cousins, the children of her dear departed sister, and their four children, who my mom looks at as surrogate grandchildren, were all planning to visit for the weekend to celebrate with her, and would be sleeping in our house.  This doctor's appointment happened on her 65th birthday.  As soon as I got home from the doctor, I called my cousins.  It was 12: 30, and they were planning to take the 3:00 ferry from Vancouver Island and then drive out to our place. 

The little bug killed that party.  The cousins decided not to come.  Do I blame them? Not one bit. But we were all disappointed, and I was having a hard time containing my stress, not just about the bugs but about my mom's birthday falling flat.  My wonderful mother, who is always giving to other people, who deserved to be celebrated and taken care of, was instead putting on her happy smile and reassuring me that it would all be OK.   Boodge, who cannot stop jumping and squeaking with joy when he knows he is going to see his cousins, was really, really sad.  On the way home from the doctor, when I told him his cousins may not come, he sat quietly, wiped a tear from his eye, and said, "I just want to go home."  It broke my heart, to see him so quietly sad when usually he screams and blasts out his feelings. 

Having bedbugs was one of my worst nightmares.  I was edgy and preoccupied, calling insurance to see if extermination was covered (nope), calling friends who had been to our house and played in Boodge's room.  It took me the better part of the day to rally, but I did, with the help of my Mom's endless sunshine and reassurances that she was very happy on her birthday just to be with us.  We managed to put together a cake (the cousins were planning to bring that) and a celebration at the last minute anyway, and we all felt at liberty to have an extra drink that night.  The birthday was not a total disaster.  Score one for us, zero for bugs. 

Maybe now is a good time to share some of the information I have learned about bedbugs in the last week or so.  Fifty years ago, they weren't heard of much, and this is because of the widespread use of DDT in the past.  Once DDT was banned, they started to come back in North America, and now they are a growing epidemic.  Winnipeg, apparently, is overrun and you'd best check out your hotel room there before you unpack, no matter how much you are paying.  Despite all this, I still am glad DDT is banned.

They are about the size of an apple seed, so though you should be able to see them with your naked eye, you rarely will because they are nocturnal and they are also excellent hiders.  They hide in anything they can fit in--nail holes, electrical outlets, spaces between trim and walls, clock radios.  They eat only every 3-5 days, and in between eating the lazy asses just sit in their cracks, waiting.  They can live for up to a year without eating at all.  At night, when you are in your deepest sleep, they crawl out, get on a nice fleshy part of your body, insert their blood sucker and just suck away for a good long while.  When they are nice and full, they wander back off into their crack and wait until feeding time comes again. Little fuckers.  

They breed by a process called "traumatic insemination"  where the male pierces the female's abdomen and injects his sperm through the wound.  After this happens, the female tries to get as far away from the male as possible and this is one way they migrate.  If you're looking for pregnant females, look in the upper corners of your rooms.  They are also excellent hitchhikers and travel to new homes in suitcases, shoes, or folds of clothing.   They can be killed by high temperature or freezing for over 2 weeks, or rubbing alcohol sprayed on them if you see them, or crawling through something called diatomaceous earth, but other than that there is not much that kills them.  Use of bug sprays and other methods to try to get rid of them may just cause them to scatter to other parts of your house. 

I was still left with so many questions.  Was it just one bug that we brought home, or more? Did we indeed get it from the community center, and if so why was the bug wandering around in broad daylight?  Why didn't it fall off in the hour we spent at the playground after the party? Was it a pregnant female trying to escape? Why was only Boodge getting bitten (this is apparently very common, and also some people don't react to the bites at all)?  And most importantly, how could I kill every last one of them?

I called an exterminator.  I told him what was happening, and he suggested that if I thought it was just one or two bugs, and in just one room, I may be able to get on top of the problem myself.   If I couldn't, I could call him and he would do a free inspection.  If the inspection wasn't clear they could bring in a bed bug sniffing dog (which my mom, step-dad and husband were inordinately excited about), which could determine what rooms the bugs were in.  Extermination would cost $500 a room and would be done by sealing off the room and heating it up. 

So that weekend, we did what he had advised.  Mom and I removed everything from Boodge's room and sealed it in plastic bags.  We laundered all his clothes in hot water.  We vaccumed everywhere again and again and again, pulling back the ribbing of the mattress and vaccuuming it over and over.  Everytime we vaccuumed, we sealed the vaccuum bag in a plastic bag and threw it out.  For those days, Boodge slept with us in our room and nobody got any new bites. 

When we had completed the work we had a very macabre discussion about how uncomfortable it felt to put  Boodge back in the room as "bait".  My mom offered to sleep in the room.  I would have too, but I still nurse Peanut at night and sleep with her, and I wasn't going to bring her in there.  Sean suggested that since Boodge was the only one that we knew reacted for sure, he was the best one for the job.  But Sean would sleep with him as backup, to ease my thoughts of my little boy all alone crawling with bugs. 

One night went by, then two, then three. No bites.  We were pretty sure we had conquered the bugs.  But this morning, Boodge was itching around the waistline of his pants.  "Did you get bitten again?" I asked.

"No, these are just mosquito bites." Boodge protested.  No doubt he didn't want his life and his room turned upside down anymore.  I pulled down his pants and saw another cluster of about 15 bites.  What was worse, my mom said she had three bites on her ankle, knee, and thigh, and had three bites in a row on my own abdomen. Breakfast, lunch, dinner.  Little fuckers.  My heart sank. That meant the bugs were in three bedrooms now. There were certainly more than one.  And our efforts in Boodge's room had scattered them. 

So I called the exterminator again.  Everyone went wild with the prospect of the bug-sniffing dog but he didn't come today.  Just a nice man with a headlamp and a magnifying glass, who inspected the three rooms.  And guess what he told us? "I can find absolutely NO evidence of bedbugs here.  I'm 100% certain that you don't have bedbugs. Now, I could make a mistake, but I think it's something else biting you."  He said you would typically see bed bug poop, blood spots on sheets, and other signs, which he saw none of.  Granted, our deep cleaning of Boodge's room destroyed most of the evidence, but Mom and I saw nothing like he described either. 

So can somebody please tell me what the hell is going on here?

Here are some other confusing things he told us. Apparently the little assholes inject an anesthetic so that you won't feel them biting you.  This is contrary to what the Doctor said, that people often wake up because they are being bitten and it hurts.  The exterminator said that nobody can look at bites and say for sure they are bedbug bites, because they look similar to many other bites and everyone reacts differently.  Even doctors, he said.  And that breakfast, lunch, dinner pattern? It only happens if you move when the bug is biting you, in which case they will pull out their poker and wait until you've settle down, and reinsert it.  But why would you move if you don't feel it?  Oh, he also said that freezing bedbugs doesn't kill them unless they go down to -32 Celcius in the first 6 minutes.  He had actually been to a conference with a leading researcher in bedbugs that weekend, and she had frozen one for a year, only to have it walk away when it thawed out. I guess I can take Boodge's books out of the freezer.

And that's where this story ends, my friends, for now.  One little creature, so much disruption and confusion.  And maybe it's not that creature at all, because now I am back to the beginning, wondering what is biting my little boy.  Wondering what to do next.  I suppose the only thing I can do is wait to see if more evidence, accumulates, and call the exterminator back in if we keep having the problem.  Or chalk it up to spiders.  Or just accept the bugs as part of our natural world, and let them bite my sweet little boy.  'Cause hell, I just signed a petition  to ban the use of neonicotinoid pesticides that are killing the bee population yesterday, so clearly I'm a friend to the bugs, and not the pesticides.  But then again, bees are necessary for our survival.  Whereas, from what I can tell, bedbugs are just lazy ass, sneaky little bloodsuckers.

The Kindness of Strangers

We don't venture out very often in the afternoon.  On a typical day when we're not going into the city or spending a day with friends, we get out in the morning, come  home for lunch and Peanut's nap, and then hang out around the house in the afternoon.  I fell into that pattern a long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that I may have forgotten why I did it in the first place.

Boodge has a meltdown hour.  He doesn't melt down every day, but if he's going to it will usually happen between 3 and 6 in the afternoon.  You know, about the time my patience, energy and fun ideas are starting to wane and dinner still has to be made.  I like to be at home so we have the space and privacy for all that emotional turmoil, as well as the familiarity and entertainment necessary to prevent it most of the time.

But today I wanted to make sure the house and kids were clean for my mom's visit--she arrives tomorrow for 3 weeks--so I did that first.  After Peanut's nap, I announced that we had to go into town.  If our accountant is going to have a snowball's chance in hell of getting our taxes filed in time, I had to mail him our paperwork--but I didn't share that fact with the kids. Boodge, confused by the shift in routine no doubt, asked me if today was the day we were going to get Mama Cool (my mom). 

"No, tomorrow buddy. After preschool, we're going to pick her up."
"I don't want to go to preschool. I just want to go get her right away tomorrow."
"Well, she'll be up in a plane when you're in preschool, we can't get her until the plane lands. We can't make it land any earlier tomorrow."

He accepted this with some deflation. He's pretty excited about the visit and anticipation makes him jangly.  He turned his attention to some balloons we had blown up earlier. He wanted to hold two of them in one hand but one kept slipping out, and he was squawking in frustration, near tears.  After I calmed a few of these outbursts and made no progress on getting him out of the house, I suggested that I could help by tying the balloons together.  He went for it, and soon was holding four balloons, two in each hand.  He was very happy about it. He wanted to take them in the van.  Whatever, dude, let's just get our boots on.  His sister carried out a balloon too, and we were off. 

We parallel parked out side the post office and I opened the van.  "Peanut, we're just going to come around to your side." I said, unbuckling Boodge. Peanut gets worked up if she thinks we're leaving her in the van.  I unfurled the stroller, helped Boodge down, and reminded him that we were on the traffic side so he needed to hold my hand and be careful.  I began leading him towards the back of the van when he pulled from my hand and bolted for the front, "No, I want to go around this way."

I grabbed his arm quickly and pulled him back, afraid.  "No, you come with me, we're on the busy road and you need to listen."
But again he pulled from my arm, "I want to go around the front!"
I grabbed his wrist and pulled him along with me around the back of the van.  He was wailing, "I want to go around the front, why won't you let me go around the front!" I slid open Peanut's side door, and she was crying too because we had taken a while to get to her. 

That's when I remembered. This is why we stay home in the afternoons. Right.  I inwardly braced myself.

"You hurt me." Boodge sobbed now. "You hurt my arm. Why did you hurt me?"
Now feeling guilty, I squatted down and hugged him.  "I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you.  But I was scared, because you ran away from me on the busy road and you could have been hurt. You can't do that. It's dangerous." I spoke sternly. 
"Why wouldn't you let me go around front? Why couldn't you hold my hand around the front way!?"
I sighed.  "Look, we can get Peanut in her stroller and I'll take you to the front way safely holding your hand."

But did I mention the balloons? He was still holding his, and Peanut still had hers.  But in that time that I took to walk back around the van with Boodge, making him wait watching for the cars to go by until we had a very safe window, Peanut let go and her balloon went blowing across the two lanes of traffic.  Now she was crying. And when Boodge saw that balloon go, any calm he had gained lifted right off him and he was crying again. I didn't help, either. I gave him a guilt trip, basically blaming him for his sister losing her balloon, which made him feel worse.  I was annoyed and things were going off the rails.

"I didn't want her to lose her balloon!" he sobbed. 
"Well, it's too bad she lost it. But we're not crossing two lanes of traffic to get it. It's lost. Let's go to the post office."

A minute later, as we were going up the ramp to the post office, I heard a voice, "I think you lost one!" A man came running up, holding Peanut's purple balloon. ,He had grabbed it and crossed the road just to run it back to her.  I wanted to kiss him, what a kind person!  Boodge choked back his sobs, looked at the man like he was a superhero and said, "Yeah, it's my sister's!"  We both thanked him enthusiastically.  Harmony was restored. Peace reigned again. My faith in humanity was replenished. 

Until. I hit the button to make the post office doors open.  "I wanted to hit the button!!!" Boodge wailed.  I looked up to the heavens for mercy.  Inside the post office there was a longer line tha I had ever seen there, and the woman at the front was lodging a complaint about her flyers ending up on someone's lawn.  People turned to look at my loud, crying son. 

"Let's go back outside so you can get calmed down before we do this ljne-up." I led us back outside and squatted down on the landing, taking a breather for myself as much as anyone.  A grandmotherly type woman exited the post office.   "Oh, how can you cry with so many balloons?!" she asked.

Boodge sobbed, "I wanted to press the button."

She looked at me curiously.  I explained.  She tried again.  "But you have those amazing balloons, you can't be sad."

But he could.  And he would.  She seemed to see that, and she said, "You know what. The door is open now, so you can't press the button. I'll watch it for you and see when it closes, and then you can push it." She made a big show of it, "Oh, still open, still open....still open....it's closed! It's closed, you can push the button!!"  Boodge lit up again, a smile on his face.  He pushed the button.  I thanked the lady and wished her a sincerely good day.  She smiled a knowing smile.  I thought of how great it would be to have my mom here. She would have handled it just like that.

Inside the post office, we joined the line.  Things were going smoothly then. Boodge was puttering around, a little too loud but he kept it down when I asked him to.  He wasn't crying.  Peanut....oh, Peanut, she was just taking it all in with her big blue eyes.  Thank you, Peanut.  She still has that graceful quality of seeming to know when I'm already at my limit, and keeping her peace.  Boodge disappeared around the corner to look at all the mailboxes, where he could come to no harm. I noted that the line had grown by about 4 more people behind me. 

Suddenly there was a loud gunshot sound.  Several people jumped, but I knew what it was. It was immediately followed by a wailing I know too well, and Boodge emerged with one popped balloon, awash in tears again.  Some people were cracking jokes about shots fired in the post office.  I saw other people smiling in sympathy, both for me and Boodge. Something about the child and the lost balloon--it brings out the best in people.  The faces around me were kind and tolerant, not tsk tsking about the loud crying child.  I hugged Boodge and murmured kind words. 

Finally it was our turn.  The man behind the desk greeted us with stickers in hand.  "Do you want a sticker." he asked Boodge.
"No," sobbed Boodge loudly, "I just want a balloon."
"But I don't have a balloon!" said the man in mock distress. "Does anyone have a balloon??"
I laughed, and so did the crowd watching.  The man had weighed and rang through my parcel all while entertaining me, my son, and the long line.  I paid my $2.35 to mail my package and I thanked the wonderful postman.  And we got the hell out of there. 

On the way home, Eddie Vedder hummed us all back into peace of mind with this song:

Thank you Eddie.

And thank you kindness of strangers.  It was the kind of situation that can leave a Mama fried and embarrassed, but instead I felt very grateful.  Nobody had scowled at me or my "acting up" kid.  Everyone had treated Boodge like a human being with valid problems, and me like a good mum doing her best in a bad situation.  I felt like I lived in a compassionate world, where people cared about my children and about me too, and supported me to be a mother.  It's just the world I want to live in, and I'm glad to be here.

Let's pass it on.  

Eating the Soul Food

Hi everyone!  Yesterday at a birthday party for my dear friend's three-year old I had the pleasure of meeting two lovely women, both who introduced themselves and told me that they read my blog regularly, and love it.  It was so wonderful to hear that what I write here has meaning to someone else, or even just keeps someone in a good place while they're lying in bed with a restless baby.  "It's soul food for us, Katy," said my dear friend as we said goodbye.  And I was once again inspired to get back here.  In fact, lately I've been hungering to write, here, or anywhere.

But no amount of desire seems to shift me when the time finally comes, 8:30, both kids in bed, and me finally alone.  The mental space and uncluttered mind I need to write is drained, sitting like a lump of liquid lead in my butt, which rests so heavy on the couch.  I've never been one to work much in the evenings. All through my days of schooling and working my way through that schooling, it was my policy to knock off at 9 and just chill out for a couple of hours before bed. 

The fact is, these small fry are exhausting and all-consuming and they make it so difficult to do those things that feed our souls, like writing can for me.  I see so many Mama's and Papa's working so hard to raise their kids as well as they possibly can, and keep their homes and jobs, all while dealing with the daily unexpected--a sudden illness, a blown tire, a pee accident just when we get to where we're going.  Breadwinners working long hours, leaving the at-home parent pulling just as long solo shifts.  Two parents, working full-time, feeling torn and exhausted. Single Mama's (heroine's, in my book) trying to do it all, to be twice as good for their kids while doing twice as much. The necessity to be doing something that is other than for ourselves is so painfully constant and unavoidable sometimes. 

Like right now, for example. Right. Now. I am taking this time to myself, because earlier today I felt myself bubbling over with a need for space, taking my angry feelings out on my kids who were just being kids--one so wrapped up in the cute story he was telling me ("Mommy, if our house was made of hot dogs we would have ketchup coming out of the taps and buns for chairs and plate!") he was ignoring my question of what he wanted for lunch, the other crying in my arms and reaching insistently down my shirt for my breasts, needing her nap.  My husband saw my frustration, he hugged me and listened to my vent and then promised to give me some time this afternoon.  So here I am.

But outside the window, I can hear them: Boodge sprayed Peanut with the hose. She's crying. He's crying because his dad took the hose away from him.  Unable to stop myself, like a robot, I found myself thinking: she needs dry clothes. She'll get cold. I went to get them and throw them over the deck for Sean. But Peanut saw me and began desperately sobbing, wanting her Mama.  And I turned away from her. I came back inside, and now my peace time has me wrestling Mommy-guilt to the ground.  Which isn't as peaceful as I'd like.

On this blog, I try not to be constantly complaining about the hard side of parenting.  I try to come here with an appreciation of just how blessed I am with my family and my life.  In fact, I try to come to my life that way.  But on the other hand, I would never want to give the impression that it's all giggles and dimples and soft, calm talk here all the time.  That I don't lose it, that my kids don't do things that are embarrassing or frustrating as hell.  That my husband always recognizes when I need time and can give it to me. That I always parent to my ideals.  I don't even know what those are, half the time. 

I saw my friend C. the other weekend.  She has two boys, the same ages as my kids, and she also works 4 days a week.  Just another Super-Mama, exhausted but still smiling her very radiant smile.  I shared with her about my day baking with my kids, how Boodge had been scooping sugar or butter or batter into his mouth every time I turned my back (funny, in retrospect) and how eventually I had become frustrated and told him I didn't want to bake with him anymore, and taken a time out for myself.  "I wish you would post that on facebook," she said, "Instead of just how you're baking with your kids, tra la la." (she didn't actually say Tra la la...but I think that's what she meant...right C?)

Facebook isn't a place I want to fill with complaints either.  But I get what C is saying.  It's nice to hear what's behind the scenes in people's real lives.  It helps when we can admit to each other that we are real, not ideal, that we make mistakes and we have triumphs and we are learning as we go.  It helps us forgive ourselves.  And we need to forgive ourselves, often and easily, just like we forgive those that we love and live with. 
  
We are not alone, Mamas and Papas, but it sure does feel that way as we go about long rainy days in our own houses, as a week of family illness drags into two, as we spend a long workday away from our babies, or lie awake for another night with a sick child while our partner is away on business.  And we are not invincible.  We need time to replenish, and we have to take it when we can get it.  Even if we have to walk away from their crying faces and reaching arms, it is good for our kids in the long run. I really believe that, though truth be told I am terrible at taking time for myself.  And on the other hand, I love being with my kids, and dislike walking away from their reaching arms.  None of this is simple.

I'm so glad I met you two ladies yesterday, who read these words.  Those connections to other mothers, and the honest conversations that are inspired by my writing here--that is soul food.  It replenishes, just a little bit.  Even though I am struggling with how much I want to share here...everytime I meet one of you I know I am writing to a community of amazing women (and some men?), people who, like me, are doing their best to live honestly and love the hell out of their kids, to grow and learn and get back up when they want to sit down. Thank you all so much for still checking in, even when I choose to mostly sit down when I could be writing.

Lemon Muffins

I have promised to share this recipe with a few people so I thought I'd post it up here so everyone can enjoy it.  I'm not taking any credit for it, though, it is credited to a chef named Mani Niall from San Francisco.  So says the back of the sugar bag I got it from.  Mani would be dismayed to know that the first time I made them, I forgot to sprinkle them with sugar, and the second time, I forgot the sugar altogether.  But he would be glad to know they were still good, both times.

But much better the first time because I also made some Lemon Cream Cheese Icing to go with them (no need at all for that yellow food colouring in this recipe though, in my opinion). They were so good that when I posted on facebook that they were in my oven and there was chai on the stove too, the mention of it all was enough to lure a new friend over for a spontaneous visit.  So if you're ever feeling like you could use some company, try this: cook up a batch, put on the chai from my last post, and put it out there.

And if you don't want company, just keep it to yourself, find a quiet corner, and breathe in the cleansing lemony scent.

Lemon Muffins

1/2 cup oats
1 1/4 cups yogurt (I used vanilla by accident, and liked it)
2 cups of all purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar plus 2 tbsp for sprinkling
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 eggs
1/3 cup of vegetable oil
4 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp lemon rind

Mix the oats and yogurt and let it sit for at least 20 mins. Preheat the oven to 375 C. Line or grease the muffin tins.  Mix up the dry ingredients in one bowl.  Put the remaining wet ingredients in with oats and flour and whisk them together.  Put the dry ingredients into the wet and stir it up until just combined. It is pretty thick stuff.  Divide it into the muffin tins and sprinkle each with a 1/2 tsp of sugar.  Bake for 18 minutes, cool on a rack.  Makes 12 muffins.

Chai: For The Love Of Me

This winter I started a simple tradition to give myself a little treat and pick me up in the afternoon.  Sometime around three, and especially by 4 (our home's "witching hour") I find myself slumping while the kids are losing it and if I can get a really tasty cup of tea, it helps me survive the end of the day.   I sometimes have bought those boxed Chai syrup things that you mix with milk, but I feel guilty about the packaging and price when I know I can easily make it myself.  It's really just about getting the spices on hand.

So in the New Year, I went out and bought bulk spices, tea bags, and loose tea.  Now, every week, I mix up a bunch of spices and brew myself two big pots of chai, one green tea for the afternoon pick me up, and one Rooibos tea for a decaffeinated version.  I really love black tea chai too, but I wanted to start drinking green tea again so I have made that my caffeine.  You can use this basic spice blend with any kind of tea that you like, and throw in a little vanilla if you like it that way.  The great thing about making your own is you can play with the spice mix over time, and sweeten it to your liking.

Here's what I use, approximately.

3 large cinnamon sticks
a teaspoon of peppercorns
2-3 star anise "stars"
6-8 green cardamom pods
a heaping half teaspoon of whole cloves
fresh ginger--maybe a tablespoon grated, or a bunch of slices (I freeze my ginger and grate it off when I need it)
34 teabags of your choice, or 2 tbsp loose tea
About 6 cups of water.

Crush up all the spices with a mortar and pestle, or you can use a clean coffee grinder to quickly whack them up roughly.  You can skip that step, but I feel it brings out even more spiciness. And I like that.

Now put the spices and the water together and boil them.  If you are making Rooibos or Black Tea, put the tea in too.  When it is boiling I simmer it for about 15 minutes with a lid partially on.  If you are making green tea, put it in at the end just after you turn it off, and ideally, strain it out after 5 minutes. I don't like my green tea crazy strong. 

Now, this is a good time to have a cup. Just pour it through a strainer, and then when it has cooled you can strain out the rest into a mason jar.  Put it in the fridge, and voila.  Every day, as witching hour approaches, heat up some tea and milk and honey and let it soothe you. 

I can't tell you how many times I have held my warm tea in both hands and said, "Thank you, Me.  You really love me, don't you? I'm so lucky." 

And on Friday night? After the kids are in bed? I go hog-wild, whackadoo crazy and pour in a shot of vanilla liqueur.  And a little spiced rum.

You're welcome.

A Missive from the Sick House

Maybe it's the fact that our house was buried under a wall of flu this last 9 days, but I feel inspired to reach out and say hi today.  Reach my out from my deeply bored body with my tired hand, hoping to get a grip on something that will pull me back into normal society.  Nine days we've all taken turns lying flat on our backs with fever, dripping with snot, hacking out the sickness from our lungs.  There have been many delicious child-on-parent naps.  There have been many middle-of-the-night pukey sheet and jammies changes. And then Peanut's ear started oozing orange, and now she's on antibiotics.  And Boodge's fever spiked up again last night for a last hurrah. 

I'm feeling sub-human.  I now know the names of all the engines on Thomas the Train and even play Angry Birds now.  The house, for a time while Sean and I were ill, was littered deep with small scraps of food, snotty tissue, discarded clothes, toys and construction materials.  (Because did I mention that inside that 9 days Sean finished the new bamboo flooring in our playroom?  What a hero! And I get hero status too because on weekends I took care of the kids while sick/took care of the sick kids so he could do it).  And that is where we have been for over a week now, give or take some brief outings into civilization. 

But tonight Peanut was chatty at bedtime and Boodge was standing on his chair at dinner christening us all with new names like "Sawtowan" and "Miskipimaramoway", so I know they're feeling better.  I'm glad to have their frisky selves back, though the cuddly, docile kids of the last week have been nice too. 

Not totally back. Just as I finished that last paragraph my Peanut started hacking on the monitor, and I went in to catch her puke in a towel in the nick of time, avoiding one more pukey mess. But she's not good yet. She needs her Mama and I'm going to bed. May as well take advantage of some more cuddle opportunities. And let's not forget, sleep. Sleep is always welcome.

Hope to see you all on the outside real soon.

Let's all say a little prayer to hasten spring. 

Just Putting it Out There

Today I got an e-mail from an acquaintance from grad school/facebook friend, telling me that in a desperate moment in her parenting day, she thought of my blog and reading there helped her restore her sanity.  Her e-mail totally made my day, it is just the kind of thing I hope for when I put these words out there: that someone will find something useful or resonant within them.  I had been thinking about getting a post up and her e-mail, as well as a series of shower-epiphanies, helped bring me here. 

I'm not sure where this blog is going.  But one thing that comes into my mind often when I think of it is this quote from Marianne Williamsom: 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

 It's a mighty quote. And I think it's true.   And I'm not going for anything glorious here on my blog, that's not what I'm getting at.  What strikes me about that quote is more the idea that if we can get past our fears and be our authentic selves, and show that to other people, that is the kind of thing that lifts up both ourselves and others. 

Sometimes when I write a post I think, "Does anyone really want to read this? Maybe this just needs to stay internal dialogue."  Or I think, "Do I really want to reveal this?  What will so and so and who's his what think?"  But another voice inside me argues:  you believe in openness. You like when people show you their real selves.  You have to be the change you want to see. 

I've both been in group therapy and facilitated it.  Most people who cringe at the idea of personal therapy get even more antsy about the idea of group therapy.  Even me.  All those people, all that heaviness, being confronted about your "issues". But the thing that I love so much about groups is the fact that people recognize themselves in each other, once trust is established and true sharing has begun.  In hearing the stories of other people, in offering them the small bits of wisdom we have, in telling our own truth and being witnessed and reflected back: we are healed. We are empowered. We are changed. The curtain is pulled back, we realize we are all the same. And the connections that are made from that can make lifelong friends out of people that might never have crossed paths in real life. 

My idealistic self wishes that we could always be so open. That we didn't have to seek out sacred circles to share the things we are ashamed of.  That we didn't feel shame at all, but self-acceptance rooted in a knowing that we are all struggling with something, and all have something to offer one another.  Now, 37 years into my life I well know that you can't just pull that stuff out in mixed company, and that it truly is important that you don't make yourself vulnerable to just anyone.  I also know that even recognizing our common humanity doesn't make me able to understand or like certain people.  Like the Republican presidential candidates.

 So where does that leave me here: just trying to find a line between too much and too little.  Also, my focus is shifting.  Like, see how I haven't mentioned my kids in this post yet? And I just received confirmation that my application to be a Registered Clinical Counsellor is approved.  That is, after I pay my professional association a bunch of money.  A bunch of money that I could now earn back in private practice. 

So I'm thinking about worky things, outside the home.  I'm thinking about what's next for me, even though I love where I am.   I'm not ready to go back to work, I'm not rushing.  Raising my kids full-time is what I want to do, until they are in school.  But they're growing fast.  There's more room opening up for me. And I could work as little as 3-4 hours a week, to start. 

So I'm going to start getting my head back in the game.  First, I'm just going to do some reading.  And this is where my shower epiphany comes in:  it would be fun to write about what I'm reading here, and my thoughts around it. 

I'm starting with  John Gottman's "Raising an Emotionally Intelligent Child." Because my focus hasn't shifted that much.  I love Gottman, his research on marriage is unparalleled.  I trust him. I look forward to hearing what he has to say.  It's the right amount of sharing for me, right now.

And lest I go without drawing attention to my kids: