IS it a laugh?

Our son Henry is 14 weeks old today (read: just over 3 months), and although he's been smiling for several weeks now, I've been trying my damnedest to get him to laugh. I'm sure an innocent bystander who didn't know that I have a baby would think I was crazy with all my antics.

The other day I was walking around Rideau Centre, alone, with Henry in the stroller. He was looking around like mad - so many new things! - and I passed American Apparel, on the second floor. I looked up and saw a male mannequin dressed, I kid you not, in a neon pink wife-beater and tiny gold running shorts. I was in a just okay mood at the time, but this sent the endorphins skyrocketing. I completely lost my shit and started laughing hysterically in the middle of the mall. I even pointed at the mannequin, and described it to Henry as my walk slowed to a crawl. Then I noticed people staring at me so I wiped away my tears of hilarity and kept walking.

The point of the story is that Henry saw me laughing and started smiling like mad. He opened his mouth really wide and made a little huffing noise. I tried to get him to do it again, but alas, the moment had passed.

Parents (or those who know babies), I ask you: is it a laugh?

In my opinion, sadly, no. To me a laugh has to have audible tone, not just be a breathing, huffy noise. Which has not stopped me from trying to get him to duplicate the phenomenon. No, this is just the beginning, ladies and gentlemen.

I've tried dancing like a crazy person (or, to be honest, like a friend of mine who is not afraid to dance like a crazy person for her kids), I've tried blowing short raspberries in his face (moderate success), I've tried tickling (zero success with that so far), I've tried laughing at his farts to see if he'll think they're funny too (nope, he just gets red in the face and/or bug-eyed), and I've tried making faces, but that just scares him. I think I might have to try knock-knock jokes or channeling Eddie Izzard or something next.

So... yeah.

Clutter clearing my body and my closet

So while I've spent the past few weeks carefully crafting the telling of the birth of my son (I'm still not ready, literally or emotionally, to post it), my body, especially my belly, has very slowly been trying to get back to its pre-baby form.

When my husband got me a bag full of junk food as a Mother's Day gift (among other things, don't worry, he's not an idiot), it was because I'd spent the two days before that loudly announcing my ephemeral cravings for chips, cookies, nachos and salsa. But the morning of Mother's Day I resolved that I would give up junk food for a while and actively pursue abdominal firmness.

Then this windfall of sugar and salt fell into my lap, literally.

I would like to think that I scarfed all of that junk food - to wit, a bag of chips, a bag of nachos (I had help with that, though), a box of Oreos, a Coke and a grape Crush - in two days not because I am a disgusting pig, but because I'm in a hurry to begin my new diet without temptation. It looks horrifying when you read it, and it's even more horrifying when I think about what I've put into my body.

Yesterday I spent a few hours systematically going through my pre-pregnancy clothes, ruthlessly - though sometimes wistfully - sorting them as, "it fits", "it will hopefully fit soon", and "Jay-zus, my boobs are too big for this." It is the latter pile that really frustrated me, as it included one of my favorite dresses, nearly all of my lingerie, and about half of my shirts. I also threw out about half of my underwear (will never fit me again), three of my bras (too old and waaay too small), some stockings with runs in them, and socks with holes. I've now got an overflowing bag of gently used clothes that I'm going to first offer to my future sister-in-law, and then to Value Village.

While my shirt pile is much smaller than it was before, it leaves room for new, well-fitting shirts to come into my life. I learned long ago not to get too hung up on the number on the tag (for a while I used to remove the tags on my clothes, and then conveniently forget what size I was), so new pants will be in order too, to accommodate my post-baby saggy belly.

Sod's law says as soon as I buy pants that fit me properly, I'll probably lose the weight and belly fat that requires they be larger than normal, and then I'll need to get all new pants again, but I'm okay with that.

It's official - I'm sick of being pregnant.

This past weekend I had a baby shower thrown in my honor, which was attended by friends and family both in person and via Skype, and was totally awesome. I'm incredibly grateful that so many people were able to come and a bit humbled by how generous people were.

Cleaning the house in preparation for the baby shower, though, made me realize that I am ready for this baby to arrive. I had a rather ridiculously-caused meltdown the day before the shower. Let's just say that our house does not lack for Mr. Clean Magic Erasers anymore, and my husband knows that I make the decisions now about when to throw them out.

To continue with my list of things I can't wait to be able to do after the child is born, I offer the following seemingly innocent activities:

• eat spicy food without getting heartburn
• see the underside of my belly without a mirror
• have non-itchy stretch marks (seems I may have PUPPPS, hooray for me)
• get in and out of the car without myriad gasps and grunts
• shave my legs
• sleep with only one pillow, i.e. the one beneath my head
• sleep on my back! or my right side!
• play Dance Dance Revolution (I think this may be my post-partum weight loss tool)
• eat sushi more than once a month

I'm sure there are more, but naturally baby brain has removed the memory of those wishes. *sigh*

The Do-Again List

Many people seem to have some sort of stereotype of a pregnant women in their head. Either she's a whiny shrew or she's so cheerful it makes you want to scream. I like to think I've struck a healthy balance between the two this pregnancy. If someone asks how I'm feeling, as a nitpicky Virgo I almost automatically mention the "bad" things first, like how my back is hurting or how tired I am. But I don't go on and on about it, and I'm just as quick to point out when Jellyfish is kicking or how I can gleefully state that, at 34 weeks, I still don't have stretch marks.

That being said, I've begun to compile my mental list of things I can't wait to be able do again. It's not intended to be an angry, ranty list, bitching about the activities that now escape me for various reasons; rather more of a wistful, oh-it'll-be-nice list.

• putting on footwear without gasping or using special tools
• reaching the back of a cabinet or the end of a counter
• holding my bladder like a normal human being
• while we're on the topic, not feeling the urge to pee every time I change position
• being able to fasten the front of my coat (I estimate I will lose this ability within two weeks)
• swing quickly in and out of bed
• rolling over in two seconds instead of two minutes
• eat a large meal and not feel like I'm going to explode
• carry/push heavy objects
• have a choice between more than three pairs of pants and six tops
• drink alcohol or caffeine without censorious glares from my husband

Naturally, of course, there will be another mental list compiling in about two months, one that's a little bit snarkier and more emotional, of the I-wish-I-could-still-do-this variety. It will likely include such items as:

• sleeping longer than two hours at a time
• showering more than twice a week
• talking to someone besides the baby about something other other than baby poop...

So when does this nesting thing start again?

I've begun about a dozen blog posts about my pregnancy so far, and have, as you may have noticed, posted about two of them. Procrastination is my strong suit, let me tell you.

Here's the update so far: I'm almost 33 weeks along (due around February 24th, give or take), my midwives say I'm healthy and so is the baby - who is head down now and likely to stay that way, huzzah - and I'm aiming for having a water birth at home, which makes my husband very anxious.

Overall throughout the pregnancy, I've been trying to eat better, exercise, and do everything A Good Mom Should Do. I've avoided over-the-counter medications as much as I've been able (so far I've had a couple of Reactines for fall allergies, a Benadryl for a food reaction, and two ibuprofen for shoulder/back pain), I've taken prenatal yoga classes - though keeping up with the exercises has been spotty at best - and painted the nursery with low- and no-VOC paint.


I've avoided lifting heavy things, and when I do I bend at the knees. I use a shoehorn to put on my boots instead of failing miserably at reaching my feet. I sleep with a pillow between my knees and one supporting my growing belly. I get my husband to slather my belly with cheap lotion and so far, no stretch marks as far as we can tell, though I may be developing linea nigra very faintly below my navel.

Jellyfish, as we've been calling the little one, is very active. I was actually able to distinguish a limb moving last week; I suspect it was an arm. It was the oddest thing to see. The baby moves quite a bit when I'm resting, i.e. at the computer, but is gradually moving around regardless of my activities. Although it doesn't really hurt most of the time, it gets really quite uncomfortable when Jelly decides to park its keister (or its feet, I can't really tell yet), right below my ribcage. Firm but gentle pressure on the hardened bit eventually makes it sink back down into a more comfortable area, but more often than not it just moves back after a few minutes. Oh, well.


Due to my increasing abdominal girth, my centre of gravity has shifted and my back hurts more often. While I have had the good fortune to not have really gained any weight in my legs or derrière, when pants fit well there they have now become too tight around my pelvis, with elastic maternity waistbands squishing my bladder. When the elastic fits well over my belly, the pants are extremely baggy from the hips down and I constantly have to hike them up. I guess I should be grateful that I'll have less adipose tissue to try to eliminate post-natally, but it's hard to feel grateful when you pull up your waistband for the 17th time in an hour.


I'm not quite at the, "I'm sick of being pregnant" phase, but I think I'm getting close. I've scheduled a pregnancy massage for the end of the month, at a hotel/spa recommended by a friend, and I can't wait. It feels amazing when my husband rubs my sore back, but that's usually only for a few minutes before I roll over or we fall asleep or whatever. This will be one hour of bliss, if my friend's experience is any indication.

So I keep waiting for this "nesting" rage to happen. It seems to have come in spurts over the past months: I HAD to finish painting the nursery, I HAD to get more baby clothes from Value Village, I HAD to clean our bathroom at 11 PM the other night. I keep expecting to wake up in the middle of the night and have a sudden urge (and pre-pregnancy flexibility) to ninja through all the crap in our house and get rid of it.

Something I've realized about myself is that when I'm happy, I'm a slob. I only seem to clean if I'm in a bad mood, because then I can angrily clean the shit out of something and feel like I'm working out my frustrations on the sundry scum of my life. (Yes, I was in a bad mood when I cleaned our bathroom the other night, in case you were wondering.)

But I still have about 7 weeks left, give or take, so I suppose like the rest of the things happening to my body, I'll just have to wait for it.

Babies and Old Wives

When my husband and I went to the 18-week ultrasound, we knew we wanted to know the sex of our firstborn. I'm the kind of person who can't stand not knowing things, and my husband, well, just wants everyone to know. The fact that I've set up a baby pool on Facebook and at work, allowing people to guess the sex and date of birth (and in the case of my workplace, the birth weight), annoys him. "You're turning our baby into a circus!" he says, somewhat accusingly. But I think it's fun.

I have told people I don't know personally, like the dentist and the opthamologist. But keeping it a secret from my friends and family is HARD. Now that we know what Jellyfish is, it has become increasingly difficult not to use personal pronouns when talking about, er, the baby (see what I almost did there?) to other people. This is doubly difficult in French, where nouns have genders, so "le bébé" is masculine. I've had people jump on the fact that I have referred to the baby as "il" (he) to mean that the baby is a boy. Which may or may not be true.

I have slipped up on occasion (including when talking once to my dad, who just said nonchalantly, "I didn't hear anything," which may or may not have been true), but instead of hurriedly using the alternate pronoun, which is a dead giveaway, I just try my best to keep talking normally.

This is more difficult than it sounds.

Also, the fact that I have mentioned that "it was clear from the ultrasound what the sex is" to naturally mean that there was a giant penis on the screen waving around and saying hello. People, the absence of something is also definitive, you know! Which is not to mean that I'm saying it's a girl.

Boy, am I sly!

One coworker believes it's a boy, because we had a discussion where I asked her about boy names. All the baby name lists I've created over the years - and there have been many - are predominantly filled with girl names. Girl names are easy! I've always had trouble finding boy names I've liked. And generally, there is a delicate balance to finding a baby name that is:

• kind of traditional (no Moonshifter, Ziggy, Lafawndah, or Kodi);
• not too common or popular (no David, Ethan, Emma, or Olivia);
• not impossible to spell or pronounce (e.g. Niamh, pronounced NEEV);
• preferably has a French equivalent or pronunciation that is not too far off the English version (Henry/Henri, Bridget/Brigitte);
• is not sexually ambiguous in English (e.g. Kerry, Madison, Jamie, Ashley);
• is not sexually ambiguous in French (e.g. Michel/Michelle, Gabriel/Gabrielle);
• not too long (e.g. Yo Xing Heyno Augustus Eisner Alexander Weiser Knuckles; read here for the reference);
• doesn't rhyme with MacDonald (Ronald, Donald);
• and last but not least, doesn't have the distinction of being the same name as someone in our past that we disliked (examples omitted to protect ourselves)

So when this girl said she had a whole host of good boy names, I naturally was curious and pumped her for information. Leading to assumptions which may or may not be correct.

I've been finding it hilarious to hear people determine what the sex is based on old wives' tales, like the position of the baby or my shape or how pretty I am. It's even funnier when one person says it's a boy and another says it's a girl, and they each give me the same reason for their theory. Or, conversely, when I've known the opposite reason to be true.

e.g. "You're having a boy because your belly is all forward." To which I reply that this is how my mother carried me - at seven months she stuck straight out and people walking behind her didn't know she was pregnant until she turned around.

e.g. "You're having a girl because you're a little rounder than you were before." I chortle to myself and say that my mother was round all over when carrying my brother Scott.

One of the funnier determinants I've heard is the pretty-ugly factor, which I have heard used for both sexes. I had a nice table all set up, but I can't figure out how to insert it here, so I'll just have to write it out.

Theory #1: If you're pretty, it's a boy!
Reason: If you're pretty, it's because a boy is taking your ugliness.

Theory #2: If you're ugly, it's a boy!
Reason: If you're ugly, it's because a boy is passing his "ugliness" (masculinity?) onto you.

Theory #3: If you're pretty, it's a girl!
Reason: If you're pretty, it's because a girl is enhancing your pre-existing prettiness.

Theory #4: If you're ugly, it's a girl!
Reason: If you're ugly, it's because a girl is taking all your prettiness for herself.

There is a funny quiz online to figure out your gender odds based solely on old wives' tales. Here are my answers, for your edification on my current state of gravidas, and your temporary amusement.

1. My hair is shiny and full-bodied.
2. The hair on my legs growing just as fast as before. (Where did THIS theory come from?)
3. My nails are growing faster and stronger.
4. I have had morning sickness.
5. I generally crave sour or salty things, as opposed to sweets.
6. My tush is not growing abnormally large.
7. My feet are no colder than they were before.
8. Fetal heart rate is generally below 139 bpm.
9. I'm not craving orange juice.
10. Baby's resting low.
11. My belly is watermelon-shaped, not beach-ball shaped.
12. Baby's kicking mostly to the right.
13. Baby's kicking mostly low.
14. The dad's not gaining sympathy weight.
15. I can't see the weight gain in my face.

According to these answers, there's a 60% chance it's a boy, and a 40% chance it's a girl.

I'd love to hear any other old wives' tales you've heard to predict gender!

Mezzo preggo

I'm a little more than halfway through my first real pregnancy. And I have to admit, at this point, I still don't feel that physically different. Though, here are some of the types of things my brain has been saying to me over the past few months to explain the ways my body has changed.

• You didn't have morning sickness. You had all-day food poisoning. For eight weeks.


• You didn't have to diet because you lost 10 pounds from, er, food poisoning. Yay you!


• You're gaining the belly fat back. It's just firm belly fat now.


• You have trouble cutting your toenails, puting on your socks, and tying your shoes because of your poor flexibility. It has nothing to do with the new, firm belly fat.


• You only slept 16 hours a day for seven weeks because it was a hot, hot summer.


• Your boobs got massive for no apparent reason, and for the first time you so dazzled a waiter with them that he forgot your order. Score one for the new awesome rack!


• You had gas because you kept drinking pop, and eating the gigantic runner beans growing through the chain-link fence of the school near your work.


• You're only craving pasta because pasta is delicious.


• You're only craving oatmeal cookies because oatmeal cookies are delicious.


• You're only craving gravy because gravy is delicious (and you don't know how to make it).

At least, my brain was saying all these things until about two weeks ago. Then came The Nudge.

When my husband and I went to the 18-week ultrasound, it was astounding how much Jellyfish, as we'd been calling the creature inside me, was moving around. From the moment the technician put the wand to my belly, we could see Jellyfish was kicking, arching its back, moving its arms, and turning around, generally looking very different from the tiny blob we'd seen in the first, 8-week ultrasound. The strangest part was seeing all this glorious movement on the screen, and not feeling a whit of it inside me. I'd been having tons of gas (hooray for pregnancy hormones messing up digestion), so it was impossible for me to say whether I'd been feeling just gas bubbles, or if there was fetal movement mixed in with the abdominal shenanigans.

This lack of feeling was explained my the technician as being caused by having an "anterior placenta", meaning the placenta had attached itself to the front of my uterus instead of the customary position in the back. This basically means I have a cushion of liquid at the front of my belly, and the baby would usually be behind it, kicking the placenta instead of my uterus. She said I "probably wouldn't feel anything until week 22, at the earliest." A little disappointed at the delay in this next step in parent-baby bonding, but happy to see that Jellyfish seemed to have all the relevant bits (heart, brain, liver, limbs, etc), we left.

The day that week 21 started, I was writing a long e-mail to a friend who is teaching overseas (and who is rather disappointed that she's missing all the babyhood that's happening in the meantime). I was explaining about the whole anterior placenta thing to her, complaining bitterly that I wouldn't feel anything for a while. I stopped typing in mid-sentence to scratch my belly, looking down at my gradually flattening navel, when all of a sudden...

*nudge*

My whole belly just... twitched, about a half centimeter to the right. I froze.

I had joked with my midwife about the difference between gas and fetal movements ("If it makes a sound, it's probably not the baby"), and how it was really neat that when I lay quietly I could feel, and sometimes even see, my pulse beating faintly near my navel. This felt very different.

When you have gas, your intestines perform an astounding array of digestive orchestration, from low rumbles, to mid-tone pops, to bizarre squeaks, all accompanied by the various sensations of abdominal tightness, travelling gas pockets, and finally the ever-relieving fart.

This was most assuredly a nudge. There was no sound apart from my sudden intake of breath, none of the slight relief caused by the sudden, mysterious dissolution of gas that oddly, does not require a fart. This was a definite push outward by something that was certainly not my guts.

I gently put a hand on my belly, and then there it was again, fainter, but not at all Me. It was truly It. I pushed inwards a bit, hoping to get a response, and then again, fainter still - a flutter instead of a nudge - but still not Me.

Naturally, I rushed to type this to my friend, and then called my husband to gush about it to him, and then called my mother to gush about it to her. Then I sent the e-mail, and immediately went to lie down and try to commune with Jellyfish some more, but after several pokes and prods I guess the wee thing had had enough excitement for one day.

It's been two weeks since then, and the movement has become so much more defined! It's definitely focused on the right side, and I (pardon the pun) get such a kick out of actually seeing my belly move faintly. Jelly moves around a bit when my husband reads aloud at night, and it's tremendously satisfying. I'd love to share the movement with some of my co-workers, but generally speaking the nudges are too low for physical contact that is not indecent.

I find myself softly talking to my belly at work, when no one's around. Like most pregnant women, I'm stroking my belly constantly, partly for comfort, partly to feel when Jellyfish is moving, partly for support. I'm not that big yet, but I'm definitely noticing a change in my posture and where I feel tension in the skin of my belly.

One thing I have not enjoyed too much is when Jellyfish decides to step-dance on my cervix. It is truly the most bizarre and uncomfortable feeling. (Except for that thing where you lie on your front on the ground and someone lifts up your arms and holds them up for 30 seconds and then s-l-o-w-l-y lowers them and it feels like your elbows are going to go through the floor. Okay, that actually feels kind of cool.)

Men, there's really no way I can describe this in a way you can understand. Ladies, it feels like you have to pee and fart out of your vagina at the same time. There's just this unrelievable, and sometimes painful, pressure. When it happens I try to change position (seated to standing, or standing to laying down), or do leg raises to try to move the wee dancer out of there, but Jellyfish goes quiet for a few minutes and then stomps up a storm again, as if to say, "Oh, YEAH?!??"

Doesn't bode well for post-natal discipline, I tell you what...

Driving me crazy

People sometimes give me strange looks when I tell them I only have my beginner's license. "You're how old?" I explain that my parents always said they'd never teach my brothers and I (father too impatient, mother hates driving) and that if we wanted to learn we had to pay for it. On top of that, from the age of 16 onwars I always lived in a city that had decent public transit (Halifax, Toronto, Ottawa).

But my husband and I have been trying to expand our little family of two for some time. I figure it would be rather practical to be able to drive on my own with a future little one without Andrew having to be in the car with me. (As a beginning driver, I must have someone in the car with me at all times who has a full licence and at least 4 years of driving experience.) So I signed up for Driver's Ed with one of the cheaper organizations in the city. Well, you get what you pay for.

In my four days of in-class sessions, I learned the following things:

• the teacher once lost his teaching license for two years for too many speeding tickets
• if you take a Canadian penny and slip it in between the treads of a tire, Queen's head down, and you can see her crown, your tires need to be replaced
• the teacher "practically invented road rage"
• a pair of pantyhose can temporarily replace your serpentine belt
• the teacher got thrown into alcoholic detox at the age of 15
• parallel parking is "the easiest thing in the world"
• the teacher once made his daughter pay $400 to fix a dent he put in his bumper because she didn't notice it when she borrowed his car (always do a circle check!)
• a car has four blind spots
• the teacher has had four heart attacks
• older people don't check, or aren't aware of, their blind spots
• the teacher once had mescalin put in his beer without his knowledge and it took him seven hours to get home
• if your tires squeal during your driving test, you fail
• the teacher currently has 3 demerits on his license; one more and he loses his teaching license permanently

As you can tell, I don't feel I learned a whole lot about driving during class. Also, the teacher is rather fond of cursing, which I can only hope is a scheme to grab the attention of sleeping teenagers, but which feel is actually his personality coming through.

On the plus side, my in-car instructor is very different. He is very talky. Rather more professional than the class teacher. I've had my first lesson already, and he said at the end that I'm a very calm and confident driver (good thing he didn't see me nitpick at everyone else's bad habits), but that he's going to hammer at my weak spots (checking my blind spots, among other things) until I hate him. I won't hate him, but I may strongly dislike him.

Overall, I think my first lesson went well. We stopped only once to go over the rules of a yield sign - specifically, DO NOT STOP UNLESS YOU HAVE TO (or you fail the test) - and he only touched his brakes twice. It's a little disconcerting to have the brake pedal disappear under your foot while you're driving. I think the best part is that the car (I'm hoping it'll be the same one) is a Sunfire, practically the same car as our Cavalier, so I don't need to fiddle about looking for various signals and things.

I have to find my Rules of the Road book. I need to finish my homework before my last lesson. My first homework in ten years. It's odd.

Rumble in the Capital

As a girl growing up on Air Force bases across Canada, I quickly developed a healthy respect for the awesome power of airplanes. Particularly since I was about six, when a friend of the family lost her husband in a flying accident, I have had an even healthier fear of airplanes crashing. (I mention this only as an indicator that I have had this fear since well before 9/11, when most sane people developed similar fears.)

As a base brat I became attuned to the various sounds of flying. I could tell the difference between takeoff and landing without looking, and during one particular summer could actually differentiate between the sounds of an F-14 and an F-18. I can't do either anymore, but I still peer suspiciously at the sky when I hear an aircraft which seems to be flying unusually low over a civilian area, while I look for smoke trails or a brighter light signalling a fire and not the wingtip lights. Just in case, y'know.

As I was playing a video game on the computer yesterday, on the upstairs level of our house, I was in the midst of a battle scene when this faint rumble began. For two seconds, my brain thought,"Cool, I'm really getting into the game." Then the rumble got much louder and the house started to shake. I swear on everything I hold dear I truly thought it was a plane coming down. I stood up and peeked out the curtains for about half a second, to assess where the noise was coming from and in which direction I should run to avoid having my head removed by an errant wingtip ripping through my roof. It was so loud!!

I didn't see anything in that split second, so I ran out of the office just in time to hear and see the mirror in the guest bathroom, which was never attached to the wall, fall forward and hit the faucet, sink, toilet and floor in quick sequence, shattering into a million pieces. Ash bolted downstairs and hid under the dining room table. I ran past him into the living room, where our touch lamp was flickering on and off, to see if I could spot contrails from the patio door. Nothing there. As I ran to the front door I spotted Juno diving under the living room chair. I still saw nothing, and by then the rumbling had stopped. It was only about 30 seconds. Not the longest 30 seconds of my life, but maybe in the top ten.

I hurriedly threw on some clothes (hey, it was my day off) and ran outside. A few neighbors were out there (including, I kid you not, a woman on her knees with her hands up in the air, praying). I called across the street to two women, "What WAS that?" A couple of shrugs. I ran back inside to grab the cat carriers in case I needed to get the cats out, wrinkling my nose in distaste at the state of them (what? they're not used that often, and basements are dusty). Went on a cat hunt and found Juno immediately, but I couldn't find Ash. He had fled from the dining room table, and it took ten minutes before he finally came up from the basement. Lots of good hiding places there. Figuring the worst of whatever it was was over, I ran upstairs and picked up the phone - no signal. I remembered that the computer was still on. Internet? Check. Immediately jumped on Facebook, where there was already a deluge of posts.


So, as all of Canada knows by now, it was actually an earthquake that hit the Quebec-Ottawa region (and not, as I had feared, a large airplane), measuring approximately 5.0 on the Richter scale. There are reports of minor damage in Ottawa, such as broken windows and fallen chimneys, with more serious damage in areas of Bowman, QC, the worst being a collapsed causeway and a damaged church roof. The quake was felt as far south as New York City, as far west as Thunder Bay.

So I made it through my first real earthquake and lived to tell the tale. The only casualty in my house was the mirror and the cats' nerves. Well, mine too. Took an hour for my fingers to stop shaking. But now I know what an earthquake feels like, so I'll hopefully be less panicked next time it happens.

(And just so we're clear, I'm not actually afraid to fly. I'm afraid to crash. On one memorable flight home to Halifax during my university years, I sat in the window seat right next to the propeller... during a snowstorm. I have a vivid imagination, and so the mental image of the propeller, a black silhouette against a backdrop of blowing snow and a bright winglight, rotating right off its casing, slicing through the cabin, and removing my legs below the knee, still stays with me.)

Mild, mild March

Today marks the first day I enjoy my yard work in 2010. It seems all my preparation in the fall of 2009 paid off: barely two bags of yard waste, and a delicious pile of compost just waiting to be spread. It actually worked! I'm truly surprised, since the last time I saw the inside of the compost heap it still had most of an undegraded lemon in it, among other things. Oddly enough, the grass clippings I dumped in mid-October are still uncomposted. Oh, well. Soon enough!

I found less cat poop than I expected. Last year there was a cat who would crap in my vegetable garden at least once a week. (The vegetables stopped growing.)

A pile of firewood is ready, and now the yard is pretty much set for a wonderful Easter Egg hunt this Sunday. We're supposed to have gorgeous above-seasonal temperatures this weekend (even today did not feel like the advertised 15°C - I was sleeveless all afternoon), which is perfect.

What did I get rid of? I bit the bullet and cut down some raspberry canes that were in the way of other plants. Some. I never remember which ones are the new canes and which are the older ones. Most of the canes fruit for two years.

I mostly got rid of dead leaves on the hostas and lilies and irises. Later, when it's a bit warmer, I'll be digging up the pampas grass. It's overwhelming the plants by the southern fence, and so bye-bye it will go.

I cut down another big branch on Anna Willow that was leaning over the fence into the neighbor's yard. Beth Willow will require some serious pruning later on too. And the Forsythia had a few long branches removed, but not nearly enough.

So what's growing so far? Tulips, irises, sedum, hyacinth, miniature daffodils, daylilies (they're behind the canoe stand, though, and they never seem to make it to blooming, but we'll see). I spotted buds on some of the raspberry canes, and some of the mystery trees I uncovered last fall. It'll be fun to finally find out what they are!

I wasn't the only one to enjoy the sunshine though. Ash the Cat submitted to being harnessed and put on a leash. He nearly escaped when I wouldn't move from the composter and he freaked out, thrashing like a rabid animal. I put the body harness back on (the collar was still around his neck) and tried an experiment. I unhooked him from the leash, covered the only bolt-hole I could find, and let him explore on his own. Then I heard Juno the Cat meowing at the patio door. Normally she doesn't like Outside, but she seemed curious, so I opened the screen door and let her out. Of the two, she is microchipped, so I'd worry less about her than Ash. (Don't worry, he's getting chipped soon.)

When Ash is outside, he becomes totally wild. He doesn't hear his name, totally ignores me, and doesn't make a sound. He tends to stick to the edges of the yard, rarely walking straight across it. He also tries to eat all the long grass he can find. Ash hates being brought back inside (he actually hissed at me today - a first), but once back in the house he is quick to have the harness removed.

This was Juno's first time Outside, and she behaved rather differently from Ash. She meows in acknowledgement of her name being called, but doesn't come back like she usually does. She tended to wander all over, not really smelling much, just trotting around.

There was a pretty hilarious moment when the two of them spotted each other from opposite sides of the yard, and approached each other so slowly, their tails puffing up and their bodies slinking low to the ground, until they got a good sniff and the puffiness abated. Then the garbage truck came by and Juno took off back to the patio.

I think their outing was good for them. I know cats sleep a lot, but they've been passed out for about an hour each. I could use a nap myself. It's probably more sun than I get in a week!

Resolve... for real

At this time of year, as many well-meaning people do, I have made a New Year's resolution. It seems fitting that at the close of a year, one reflects on the past twelve months and wonders, "How can I do better?"

The common resolutions I hear others make are, "Lose (the holiday) weight" or a fitness variation thereof, and "Save more money," no doubt a wish made by those who feel the post-season financial crunch.

It took some thinking to figure out how I wanted to improve my life. "Lose the holiday weight": sure, I can do that using our new Nintendo Wii and eating less extravagantly than I did in December. But with a bit of work the eight pounds I gained in as many days (!) will be gone in a few weeks. So what then?

"Save more money." Well, my credit card is hurting a bit, but I'm working extra shifts for the next few months and have no gifts to buy for a while, so with luck that should be paid off by Valentine's Day. Then what? Ten months of gluttony and merciless spending so I can make the same resolutions next year and feel, for two months, that I have accomplished something? Not for me.

It's tough for many folks to make resolutions, whether New Years'-induced or not, stick. I read something once that said if you want to change a bad habit to a good one, or adopt a new habit, you need to do it every day for 21 days. By the time the 21 days are up, it should be so incorporated into your routine by then that you don't think of it as something new.

I found that to be true when I went on my weight-loss diet this past summer. It was really hard for a few weeks -I felt constantly hungry - and then, it just sort of... stopped. I still eat less junk food in general now (with the obvious "Except in December" caveat), and we cook more food at home instead of eating out 3-4 times a week.

Well, the emphasis on that sentence should be cooking... not necessarily eating.

My resolution for this year is to throw away less food.

My husband and I have a really bad habit of cooking a big pot of something (soup, spaghetti sauce, stew), eating it for a couple of days, then letting the rest rot in the fridge. It's really appalling the amount of food we throw away. I'm slightly relieved by the green bin program our city has just begun, since this means we can rest assured that our blue and black leftovers (and kitty litter!!!!! ?Zounds!!!!!) will wind up in a composter instead of a dump, but I'd like to really focus on reducing the amount of food we throw away, period.

We bought a whiteboard and a handful of colorful pens for the kitchen, and have started to write the week's dinner plans on it. It being the first week, there was naturally some leeway with it. It started with:

Sunday: Yummy delicious stew
Monday: Yummy delicious stew leftovers
Tuesday: Chili
Wednesday: Stir-fry
Thursday: Chili leftovers
Friday: Dambergerts (see the new Pink Panther movie for the reference)
Saturday: [insert hand-drawn logo for East Side Mario's here]

Today is Friday, and this is what actually happened this week:

Sunday: Yummy delicious stew
Monday: Yummy delicious stew leftovers
Tuesday: Yummy delicious stew leftovers
Wednesday: Dambergerts
Thursday: Subway (oops)
Friday: Whatever I make, since hubby is going to a hockey game and won't be home for dinner
Saturday: Something home-cooked, since my friend is coming over for dinner

As you can see, it's something of a work-in progress. On the plus side, the subs were free, since I had enough points on my Subway card to pay for them both.

On the whiteboard is also the shopping list, and today I aim to inventory both the fridge and the freezer, since knowing what food I have to cook with in the first place is half the battle. My hope is that all this cooking of massive meals may lead to the later acquisition of a small deep-freeze.

However, hubby is more opposed to this idea, arguing that the garage is cold enough in winter to keep frozen things frozen, and he shouldn't have to pay for electricity to make a box cold in a cold garage. I argued back that there is always a pool of water under the car, hence it is at least above freezing. He said that it was kept liquid by the salt coming off the car. We tested this idea with ice cubes in an open container on a shelf in the garage. After two days, they were still solid and hadn't at all melted into each other, and neither had the water on the floor really solidified. Okay, he won that one.

Now the debate is how to store food without critters getting into it, since I know from experience that little rodents can and will eat through thin plastic to get at food they like. So Rubbermaid containers are out. I don't know that a cooler would work if there are no cooling packs inside it.

I'm soliciting any advice on how to store frozen food, electricity-free, without critters getting in. Does a freezer stay cold in the winter if you don't plug it in? Let me know, and wish me luck on my resolution!

'Tis the season to give!

I haven't felt very Christmassy of late, but this week's snowstorm certainly cured me of that. Hard to not feel the holiday spirit when your latissimi dorsi are protesting the slightest movement from an hour and a half of shovelling, right?

Today, December 11, I have most presents bought, or at least thought of. Andrew and I are pooling our money this year to buy gifts from World Vision's Gift Catalogue. We don't really need any more stuff (particularly since we just buy the stuff we want throughout the year), so we decided to instead spend the money we would spend on each other on useful things that would help a family in need. He's really glommed onto the idea of a goat. I haven't yet decided what I'll pick: I tend to veer towards medicine or school supplies. But I suppose all the drugs and books won't help unless you have food in your belly first.

Tonight is my workplace Christmas party. We're going to dinner at a restaurant called Little Turkish Village. Decent food, great service. And it's a gift exchange too: this year's theme is mittens.

Although we've been directed to spend only about $10-15, I've had another, slightly more expensive idea. But if I go with a related, but more expensive gift and no one else does, I don't want to look like I'm one-upping my co-workers. It's also not clear to me if these mittens are actual gifts to the recipient, or if they're gifts that will later be donated to charity.

Either way, I'm sure the recipient has actual mittens or gloves of her own, and even if they are for charity, surely 25+ pairs of mittens are better than one, right? Oh, wait, did I mention this gift is a multiplier, and so is worth five times that, i.e. clothing for 125 people? No? Well, yes.

World Vision is awesome. And before non-religious people start worrying that since World Vision is a Christian organization they're all about converting the masses, rest assured this isn't the case. I'm sure they preach in countries where Christianity in its many forms is one of the common religions like Mexico or Chile; but in countries like India, Nepal, or Senegal where the predominant religion is Islam or Hinduism or Buddhism, they actually respect it instead of trying to change it. Neat, huh?

Remembering.

Today is Remembrance Day. I'll spare you the oft-repeated passages about sacrifice, courage, and honor - not to lessen the horror of war, nor the strong will of those who face it, but because I think sometimes we forget that behind the mask of the military, there are people.

Although I was less than a gleam in my parents' as-yet-uncreated eyes when my paternal grandfather went to war, I still remember that he wouldn't talk about it when I was a young girl. (My grandfather died in 1991. I was barely 12 years old.) I'm not really sure where he fought: for years, I thought he'd been in the Pacific, but I have photos he took of captured German subs. My mother says he never spoke of the war in all the time she knew him, though my father still keeps a big blue metal chest in the basement; I fancifully think it may be Grampy's sea chest. I really don't know what's in it.

I like to think that my grandfather, in his own way, didn't want anyone to share in what he suffered in the war. The cynic would say he probably just wanted to forget, but in not speaking of it, my grandfather helped the world retain a bit of innocence. If we don't teach our children what war is, then why would they have reason to wage it? And since I can't tell you what it is he didn't tell us about war, I can tell you what I do remember of him.

The things I remember most about him are the way he smelled of aftershave and Export A cigarettes, and how it never bothered me even though I was terribly asthmatic. His constant stubble and prickly mustache on my cheek was very comforting.

How we used to wash the big blue truck together, and how when I was seven years old that could be the most exciting part of summer vacation. A bucket of soapy water, a big soft sponge, and a strong hand guiding mine on the hubcaps would make my day.

How he and my grandmother taught me and my brothers how to swim in the pool in their backyard, and how he used to make us fly through the air in the little floater. When I turned eight or nine, I was finally old enough (read: strong enough) to help him put the cover on the pool at night, and take it off in the morning.

And how cozy it felt to sit in the middle of the front bench seat in the giant Olds, the hot burgundy naugahyde searing the backs of my skinny little legs when we went to the post office in the afternoons, Grampy driving, and Grammy on my right.

But what makes me sad are the things I can't remember, like how he used to ruffle our hair before bedtime and call us... what? Some strange little pet name that probably drove my mother crazy. It's on the tip of my mental tongue, but I can't remember it.

Or what his naval tattoo really looked like. I think it was on his left arm, and probably involved an anchor. Or was it his right arm? Did it have lettering? Or dates? Was it blue? Black? That faded greenish color of ancient inks?

What did his voice sound like? I remember a gravelly rumble, no doubt caused by the smoking destroying his lungs and heart, but I can't remember exactly what it sounded like.

So although I've missed the traditional minute of silence in writing this, I've been silent whilst writing it, and been remembering him like I only seem to do around this time of year. I think that more than counts.

Once, a few years ago, I had a very vivid dream where the doorbell rang and when I answered it, it was him. He was wearing his long blue coat, and looking a little annoyed that the door was closed. I gaped at him, and said (rather calmly, under the circumstances), "But... you're dead!" He looked around furtively, keeping an eye out for the rest of my family, and whispered conspiratorially, "Not really. They just think I am."

As I sit here and hear the mundane sounds of suburbia outside my window, I wonder how many more things I'll forget about him in the coming years. I hope I remember much more than I forget.

Wait... Buckwheat. He called us Buckwheat.

Healthy me!

So I'm finally nearing my goal weight of 120 pounds: I'm at 121.8! Since my birthday, I have been taking it easier, exercising less frequently, and still mostly eating healthy foods, with only occasional forays into junk food.

Helping my weight loss was my recent hair cut, done by me, myself and I. I donated my hair again to Beautiful Lengths, a program from Pantene that encourages women to donate their hair to make wigs for women who lose their own hair to cancer. Since my hair grows fast, I was able to donate most of my hair for the second time in a year.

As a result, I lost nearly a pound of hair. Yay me!

My pants are almost all loose now (excepting a few pairs I've had since university, when I was about 15 pounds lighter), and I don't have to keep pulling my shirts down over my pooch. My bras fit better around my body, but are looser in the cup. That kind of sucks, because shopping for bras is a nightmare. But I digress.

It's so wonderful hearing everyone compliment me at work, particularly since I cut my hair myself. (Did I mention that?) I'm not saying it wasn't hard - it WAS - and it took me an hour and a half, three mirrors, a pair of scissors, a comb, four elastics, many hair clips and bobby pins, and an electric razor with an attachment, but I think it looks okay. A little uneven in the back (hey, I'm not a miracle worker), but once it dries you can hardly tell.

Two more pounds, and then the dreaded bikini photo!

Halfway!

When I stepped on our crappy old scale on June 30, and it read nearly 137 lbs (62 kg) for my 5'2" frame, I knew it was enough. Fed up with my thickening waistline, with the crotch of every pair of pants I owned wearing out in a matter of weeks due to the size of my thighs. I thought, that's it.

I'd like to say I jumped right into a diet plan with a minimum of effort and oodles of willpower, but I'd be lying through my teeth.

Some years ago, my husband got sick of me whinging about my pants not fitting (and it says something about my lowering standards that I was at 125 lbs at the time) and proposed that he become my diet coach. That, for three months, he in essence was the boss of me. Well, the diet didn't last three months, but I did drop about 8-10 lbs and I was very happy with the result. Unfortunately, a sedentary job for several years and a gradual laziness setting in amounted to me feeling fat, despite protestations to the contrary from my friends. Hey, they didn't see me naked. Clothing can hide a lot.

This time I asked my husband if he would consider doing it again. I'm not the kind of person who can start a new habit like this without lots of help and a ridiculous amount of encouragement.

So, first thing we did was buy a new, ultra-modern scale. To be sure of its accuracy, we weighed an unopened bag of flour on the new scale, and it was only off by a tenth of a pound. Then my hubby weighed himself on the old scale and the new scale and found a three-pound difference: the old scale was actually under! So I weighed 140 lbs. Marvy.

So now, five weeks into my ten-week diet, I have lost at least ten pounds: weigh-ins are on Sundays so I don't know my exact weight right now. (Okay, I do, but I'm not supposed to weigh myself more than once a week, so shhh!)

I am eating smaller portions, healthier food, and exercising a lot more. I have only had potato chips once in the last month. When I ate bacon with my eggs this past Sunday, I found I couldn't even eat it all, because it was so salty. And yesterday, I worked so hard in the garden that I lost my appetite and couldn't eat more than half my chicken salad for dinner. (But it had bacon in it, so maybe that put me off a bit.)

We are keeping a meal and exercise diary, which my hubby has brilliantly rendered in MS Excel. We seem to be either underestimating the value of my exercise, or overestimating the caloric value of what I'm eating, because mathematically I've only burned about a third of the calories needed to drop 20 lbs, but I've already lost half the weight. I'm not complaining, just confused.

For exercise, we're counting my shelving work, biking to and from work (10 km total, about 6 miles), Tae Bo, and DDR, which, for the uninitiated, is Dance Dance Revolution, a dance pad game available on multiple consoles. The workout function lets you count the calories you burn.

So my ultimate goal is to get to 120 lbs by my 30th birthday, which is September 8. I'll be rewarding myself with a tattoo on my new hot bod.

On being gastronomically challenged.

My friends and family know that I have a dairy allergy. Unlike most children who develop allergies as toddlers and grow out of them before they hit first grade, I have had this condition my entire life. Despite the fact that I complain constantly about lots of other things, I rarely complain about this dietary inconvenience, because it's something I truly can't change.

I admit, I sometimes felt left out as a kid, going to a friend's birthday party and not being able to eat the cake and pizza that were served. I've been telling people not to put butter or cheese on my food since I was about seven years old. My mother never cooked with dairy, excepting the odd recipe for the rest of my family.

Growing up in the eighties and early nineties, before allergen warnings became commonplace on food labels, my parents and I had to read endless lists of ingredients to ensure the contents were safe for me to consume. I knew what whey powder and modified milk ingredients were practically before my classmates could spell the words.

Today, I'm fortunate to just be able to glance at the bottom of a block of text to see in slightly more prominent font, "CONTAINS: MILK" before I put it back, instead of spending several minutes scrutinising the tiny print, looking for esoteric chemicals that may cause me to react. All in all, I think I do okay, food-wise.

But never do I ever feel so out of place, gastronomically, as when I go on vacation.

When I went to Mexico five years ago, I assumed (incorrectly) that their cuisine would be light on dairy, and heavy on vegetable and corn matter. This assumption led to the worst allergic reaction I've ever had in my entire life, when I ate chicken that was cooked in... something. Butter? Yogurt? I still have no idea. I had even made it a point to ask, and the server told me no, "No es cocinada con leche." ("No, it's not cooked in milk.")

Usually, I can tell almost as soon as I taste it if I'm allergic to it; but I was on my second helping before my lips started to swell. Twenty-four hours, a couple of doses of Benadryl and a case of full-body hives later, I realized that it's difficult to trust anybody in the food industry.

When I went to France, I thought I got a lot of strange looks when I requested no cheese on my pasta or butter on my bread. (My husband disagrees, but I'm the paranoid one.) I mostly ate baguettes and pasta when I was there, as it seemed a safe alternative to their dairy-laden offerings. When I eat out, I always make sure to specify to the server that it's an allergy, not lactose intolerance.

Dessert is actually the thing that bothers me the least, probably because we only ever had it on special occasions when I was growing up. Birthdays, family visits, that sort of thing. And it was usually Jell-O or some cake or a couple of cookies: nothing fancy. Therefore, I have no concept of dessert being a regular part of one's meal, which I tell people, with a grin, has kept me healthier anyway.

I have never, ever been able to eat dessert in a restaurant, with the exception of a Chinese food place in Moncton I visited as a child which served Jell-O as part of the all-you-can-eat buffet. But seriously, no Oreo cake, or chocolate mousse, or tartufo, or peach cobbler, or apple pie, or fudge mountain, or ice cream of obscure flavour have I ever been privileged to sample.

People often ask me, "Don't you wish you could have [insert luscious-sounding food here]?", or if I "miss" dairy. I never had it to begin with, and the few times I have had it it's made me dangerously ill. Why on earth would I miss something that makes me feel like crap? Sometimes I do wish I could have it, though, if only to be able to understand the ineffable relationship between wine and cheese, or be able to debate the virtues of ice cream versus yogurt.

So now, on the eve of my summer vacation to my mother's hometown in northern New Brunswick (safe kitchen, since my mother and I will be cooking), I think about tomorrow's stopover in Quebec City, a city which, according to the menus I've found online, seems to have an obsession for multiple-course meals featuring various game and fish, drenched in every form of dairy known to humankind.

I found restaurants which sound truly amazing, but whose menu would kill me within minutes. It seems a shame that I can never partake in the many delights these establishments have to offer, because in my experience it has been much easier for a restaurant to accomodate my diet if they have simpler fare. Complicated menus rarely, if ever, can offer substitutions. Use oil instead of butter? Preposterous, you'd lose the flavour. Soy milk instead of cow's milk? Why, it would ruin the consistency of the sauce.

No, no butter poached lobster with asparagus and hollandaise for me, thank you. I'll pass on the sweetbreads, raisins and foie gras terrine with onion confit prepared in crème de cassis. I'll save the Chicken picatta coated with mozzarella and fresh herbs, marinated and roasted in pepper sauce for my next life.

When watching "Up", don't forget your tissues.

Last night my husband and I went to see Up, the new Pixar movie. We had planned to see it anyway, but when friends of ours gave it a glowing review, we resolved to see it as soon as possible, so we could watch it in all its glorious Disney Digital 3-Dimensionality.

Oh man, did I ever cry. I almost had to pull over on the way home because I was crying so hard until Andrew thankfully started blasting some techno music inthe car. The music, which thankfully I cannot remember exactly now, just devastated me - piano scores in particular often do. So did the cloud-watching scene. And the scene immediately afterward. And the scene at the end. And several scenes in between. I probably would have cried more if I hadn't lost my packet of kleenex near the beginning of the movie and hadn't had only one tissue to work with for 90 minutes. (I found the rest of the packet on the floor, where it had slipped off my lap, when the lights came up.)

This has got to be Pixar's best movie yet. And from someone who has watched The Incredibles about fifty times, that's saying something. The animation, and I don't just mean the 3-D aspect, is superb. The music frightfully appropriate. The dialogue, funny and touching. The casting, bang-on.

Go watch Up! And remember the tissues!

I <3 Star Trek

Hubby and I went to watch the new Star Trek movie Sunday night. We had been hoping to see it in IMAX, but when we got to the ticket wicket, it was sold out. We made a quick decision and bought our tickets at 6:39 for the 6:40 show. We sadly decided to forego concessions and hastily grabbed seats in the fourth row, near the middle, which wasn't too bad.

But my belly would not settle for nothing during a movie. I hastily took Andrew's order and ran out of the theatre, praying there would be a short line. Fortunately, most of the movies had begun, so I only had to to wait about 10 seconds to be served. Unfortunately, the server was sooooo s-l-o-w. It was as if he knew I was antsy and wanted to make me suffer. But I got my Coke, Andrew's Diet Coke and our popcorn in record time and rushed bach to my seat in the middle of a truck commercial. I didn't even miss the previews! For those who know me, you know I must write the previews on the back of my ticket. Must get to that 15-year ticket display project sometime. Anyway...

The movie was, in a word, AWESOME. In two words, FREAKING AWESOME. In many more words, I think it may just rival Star Trek: First Contact for my favorite Trek movie.

The casting was astounding, particularly the roles of Kirk and Spock, but most especially McCoy. For Lord of the Rings fans, the actor who played Dr. Leonard McCoy is Karl Urban, who played Eomer, leader of the Rohirrim of Rohan. He just had the Doc's mannerisms and accent down perfectly, and I'm not just referring to the typical, "Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a 'fill-in-the-blank-with-another-career'!" « Il a un jeu très subtil,» as my high school drama teacher would say, a very subtle play, and it is likely that only people who have really watched the original series will pick up on how eerily he plays the role to perfection.

SPOILER WARNING!!!




The fact that the entire story takes place in an alternate reality certainly leaves things open for future movies with this cast - indeed, most have already signed on for an as yet unnamed movie due out in 2011 or 2012.

I can't wait to own this movie!

Il mio giardino, aprile 2009

Tuesday marked the first day this year I really spent working in my garden. Chopping down dead pampas grass, raking up as much mulch as I could, cutting down branches that were in the way, losing my shears, emptying a yard waste bag I though I had left them in, refilling the same bag once shears were not found, looking all around the house, yard and garage for shears until they were found hanging off the wheelbarrow (where, as soon as I found them I recalled thinking to myself, "I'll put them here so I don't lose them").

Today is Thursday and my legs are still killing me. I didn't realize how much squatting and lunging I do while gardening, but wow. Or rather, ow.

Tulips and daffodils and lilies are sprouting up. Irises are peeking through and so is the sedum, which I hope does not attract as many wasps as last year. *shudder* The forsythia has buds, and I'm strongly considering chopping down the smokebush to a more manageable height than its current ten feet. Unless I invest in a good pair of loppers...

It amazes me that ivy seems to never die. The ivy by the patio appears just as green now as it was in November.

But what with all the pruning I did before the snows it'll be exciting to see what grows this year. In particular there are two small trees that I'm anxious to see leaf and flower, as they were so covered up by other plants I didn't even know they were there!

Ash and Juno

My hubby and I adopted a second cat this past Christmas. For a young female who had given birth at only 9 months, and already had her babies adopted out, the name Juno seemed only appropriate.

Never having owned cats before we got Ash in late 2006, I never realized what different personalities they could have. When we took Ash from a farmyard barn Thanksgiving weekend, he was barely eight weeks old. He was carried around as much as he would tolerate, and we didn't know that he could be really trained if we had tried. We didn't realize trimming his claws regularly would get him used to the idea, or that always keeping a squirt bottle handy would keep him out of the kitchen better than yelling. As it was, Ash was definitely king of the castle at our new house. He had the run of every room but the kitchen, once he dispatched the fish in the office by chewing through the filter hose and letting most of the water leak out.

But then, Juno arrived.

I had been thinking of getting Ash a "friend" for a while because he was never properly socialized. We took him away at such a young age, and with no other cats around, he didn't really know how to react around other animals, or other people for that matter, since he only saw us with the occasional visit from family or friends. So hubby and I started looking on the Ottawa Humane Society's website for a suitable cat. Internet research told us that it would be best if we got a female who was younger (opposite sex to avoid fighting, younger so he could still be the boss). We saw a couple of super cute ones on the site, but we decided to go to see them in person and find out if any of them clicked with us.

We walked in just before Christmas Eve, intending to look at a pair of black male twins, just 3 months old. Turns out they'd both been adopted just hours before. But a small, scrawny little "torbi dil" (I just now found out that means "tortoiseshell diluted") caught our eye. We looked at her chart, saw that she was barely a year old and had already had a litter of kittens. We asked to see her, and when we picked her up she immediately started purring. She was so thin - the effects of birthing, recent spaying and shelter diet meant she didn't weigh very much - that we could feel her pelvic bones eaily through her thin, scratchy fur. She was very chatty: lots of meowing and purring and chirping. We put her back for a few minutes, and looked at the other cats to at least give them a chance to win our hearts.

There was a grey female who could have been Ash's twin - grey fur, yellow eyes, same facial structure - except her white patch was under her chin instead of under her belly; we were sorely tempted. There was an adorable little ball of fluff about four months old, grey with big white patches, but we figured a long-haired cat would spell trouble for allergies. I seem to recall an orange male tempted me for a while (I've always wanted a ginger cat), but this skinny little yowler had already charmed us. Too bad we missed the adoption deadline for the night. We paid a deposit so we could pick her up the next day.

We went to the pet store to buy more supplies (cat bed, new toys, more litter, more food) and set up our empty spare room as a place where Juno could be alone while Ash got used to the idea of a new cat in His Domain. I was frankly alarmed at the idea that we might have to keep them apart for up to twelve weeks if they displayed overt hostility towards each other. I prayed Juno's shelter experience would make her magically pass on "socializedness" to Ash really quickly.

I shut Ash up in the basement for the few minutes it took us to set Juno up in 'her' room, then let him loose once her door was closed. Juno seemed to like being in the room alone... for about 24 hours. She quickly got bored and would head for the door anytime we went in or out to feed her or play with her.

I'll never forget the first time Ash actually saw her.

It was the third day of her being in our house. Andrew opened the door to go in to feed her and play with her, and his foot caught on the door so he couldn't close it immediately. Ash saw her, and he backed away slowly, his tail rising straight up and poofing out like a bottlebrush. For the first time in his life, he hissed. Andrew keeps telling me that Ash really is the best cat he's ever had, and that I don't realize how lucky I am, and I guess that day I partly acknowledged that because I had NEVER seen Ash so scared. Not even when he met my in-laws' über-friendly dog Meggin; he'd only been ten weeks old then, and he curled up into the tiniest ball of kitten I'd ever seen, his fur going all poofy and his ears flat back.

Juno, of course, being the friend sort, trotted right up to the door before Andrew slammed it shut, and I tried to soothe our poor outraged beastie.

Things were a bit hairy for a while, a couple of fights a day, but nothing lasting more than a few minutes of scrabbling. It's hard to say who really won those fights. Juno seems to have appropriated most of Ash's "spots": the catbed outside our bedroom door, the top of the kitty condo we built last year. But not out of any spite, I think; it seems to be more a question of familiarity. It smells like cat, so it must be a cat place. Ash has found new spots, or retaken old ones: in front of the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway, on the sheepskin in front of the TV. They share our bed during the day, or the old aquarium stand in the spare room which we hope to make a change table someday.

Ash is definitely settling into lap cat status, while Juno is still happy to play fetch with the little fishie with the rattle in it, or ravage various mousies. Ash is still a champion laser chaser, though. Juno doesn't seem to understand it. There's still the odd tussle between them, but overall I think they've finally become friends, which is exactly what we had hoped for.