What did your eyebrows ever do for you?

The other day I wore contact lenses for the first time in almost a year. I was trying to put forth a little more effort into my appearance, because a good friend of mine microbladed my eyebrows the day before and I wanted to prove to her that I would not squander my new-and-improved face.

 

(One time I went to get my hair cut and coloured at a fancy salon, and after over two hours of work on my head, the stylist pronounced me “all done!” and asked if I had any plans for the evening. “Not really,” I replied, “probably just go home and watch shows with my husband.” She was aghast—literally offended—that she’d just gone to all that work only to have it wasted on netflix and chill. She made me promise to go out, and not to make all her hard work be for nothing. I think of that any time I get anything “done” to my appearance. DON’T YOU WASTE THIS, CAMILLE.)

So I pulled out all the stops in honour of my new brows—changed out of grease-stained sweatpants, showered, BLOW DRIED and FLAT IRONED my hair (I rarely do this), put in my contacts, and applied a little bit of makeup—powder foundation, eyeliner, and mascara; I don’t even own eyeshadow anymore.

The whole song and dance took me nearly an hour, and the entire time, Hutch was harassing Holden, Holden was clawing at the shower curtain to be let in, Hutch was begging for shows on the iPad and snacks, Holden was whining at my feet until I’d point the blowdryer his direction (which he loved), in other words it was basically chaos. And throughout it all, whenever the whining and crying became too annoying, I would scream. At my boys (mainly Hutch). And then they would cry, because it scared them. And then I would feel horrible, because they deserve not to have a witch for a mother. And then I would stop all of my primping to cuddle them and apologise for losing my temper.

And THEN I remembered why nine days out of ten I don’t get “fixed up” before I leave the house. It’s just not worth it to me. I would rather have my kids happy and healthy, raised by a generally cheerful non-witchy (albeit frumpy) mother than an iPad.

Given the choice between paying attention to my eyebrows or my children, I hope I’ll always choose the ones that will feed me prunes in the old folks’ home 60 years from now. 

Posted in #wordythirty, failures, fashion people, It's All Good, self-actualisation, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

On Me at 30 Years

I turned 30 years old yesterday.


(Obligatory birthday selfie.)

On my last night as a 29 year-old, I had a nightmare:

Hutch and I are at the airport, preparing to board a flight to Russia. Kyle and Holden are nowhere to be seen. As we make our way through check-in and security, Hutch keeps running away from me, as he often does in real life. I am at the height of my stress level, trying hard not to scream at him in front of all the people at the airport, but at the same time trying not to look like a pushover mother whose kid walks all over her. 

We finally make it to our gate, and sit down to rest for a bit. As soon as we get settled in, my carry-on bag starts exploding with objects I’ve packed. Toothpaste, leggings, headphones, phone chargers—they all come popping out like one of those old snake-in-a-can tricks you used to buy at Party Central. Frazzled and embarrassed that my underwear was exploding throughout the gate, I frantically begin shoving everything back in as quickly as possible, but it’s a losing battle. As soon as I get one pocket zipped shut, another one pops open and explodes more of my stuff.

After a few minutes of focusing on getting the objects back in my luggage, it occurs to me I haven’t seen or heard Hutch in a while. I look up, and he’s running toward the doorway to board the plane. 

“HUTCH, STOP!” I yell, “WAIT FOR MOM!” He never listens, but for some reason I expect this to work.

With only a few more items to shove back into my bag, I turn around to do so quickly. I pick up my now repacked bag and turn back toward the door, only to see it close and lock with a foreboding thud, Hutch on the other side running onto the plane.

I know where this dream is going.

With a pit in my stomach I race to the door, but it won’t budge. I scan the airport frantically for an airline worker to let me through, but the ones I find are firm: I missed the boarding call because I was too busy dealing with all my loose items. My three year old son would be stuck on the flight to Russia all alone, with nobody to help him and no idea what to do upon landing in a very foreign country. He will almost certainly be abducted and sold into the sex trade. I will never see him again. And it’s all my fault.

I woke up in a cold sweat, horrified but relieved to hear Hutch snoring away on the floor next to me (if he wakes up in the night he’s allowed to sleep on a little “bed” we’ve made for him next to our bed—he loves it, don’t judge me). I took a quick poll of the rest of the room—Kyle in bed, also snoring, and Holden sleeping between us, alive and well. It was still dark outside, and if I wasn’t so shaken I would’ve had several more hours left to sleep.

But then of course I couldn’t sleep, so I spent the early hours of my first day as a 30 year-old considering what my dream had meant, and this is it:

Life is short. I may already be halfway done with mine. Do I want to spend what time I have left (however long that may be) obsessing over things…objects…items? All this stuff in my life (and I literally mean STUFF, just crappy junk that takes up space and drives me crazy) keeps on popping up and distracting me from the truly important things in my life—which actually aren’t things at all, but people, relationships, and goals.

And if I’m not careful I may turn around in a panic, devastated to find I missed it all.

I’m thirty years old today, and enough is enough. I am cutting it all out—every item, activity, commitment that doesn’t add value to my life is gone, or will be soon. Instead of wasting free time (the limited free time I have) staring mindlessly at screens, I’m going to produce. Create. Build.

And I’m going to write. Every day, at least something, for the entire year. I’m calling it my #wordythirty.

It’s going to be great.

Posted in #wordythirty, awesome., introspection, self-actualisation, what I'm about | 3 Comments

On Holden at Nine Months

Holden is the sweetest thing. He’s very similar in disposition as Hutch as a baby, except maybe slightly fussier and more dramatic. I guess he has a right to be that way because look at what he has to put up with on a daily basis (note the shovelful of sand on his head):Hutch loves his baby brother and also loves to terrorize him. Never having a baby brother myself, I can only imagine the secret joy he takes in causing Holden grief. But Holden takes it mostly in stride, and I maintain great hope that they will be best friends throughout their lives, despite it all. Nobody makes Holden laugh as hard as Hutchy can. And he doesn’t even have to try, really. All he does is look at his baby brother and the kid cracks up.

Hutch just LOVES to stand behind Holden’s high chair at dinner, despite constantly being told not to…the appeal of hiding from—and subsequently surprising—his baby brother is just too great to pass up. I love how Holden will twist almost completely around to see where Hutchy is. 

If Hutch is built like me, Holden is very much like Kyle. Hutch’s legs were always long and lean, and Holden’s got these adorable little thunder thighs that are just. so. squeezable. He’s like the little teapot—short and stout. His cheeks are droopy and huge and all kinds of awesome. He’s got six teeth (two little chiclets on the bottom and four giant chompers on the top), of which he’s very proud. He eats almost everything, baby-led weaning style, which means that I don’t have to sit and spoon feed him at mealtimes. (It also means his high chair and the floor surrounding it is a complete and utter disaster three times a day, because this kid is messy. But it’s worth it.)

He’s been a solid crawler since about 6 months old, and as of this week is *starting* to dabble in standing unassisted. A lot of people bemoan the fact when their infants start crawling and walking, but to me it’s a very joyful thing. I think the older Holden gets, the more he and Hutch will play together and the less I will have to be the song-and-dance around this joint.

Some things I want to remember about this beautiful baby boy: 

1) The chubby squishy joyfulness of him. 

2) How he is ENTIRELY squishy, even his knees and his back and his forehead. 

3) How when I nurse him, whichever side he’s laying on, he uses his top leg to kick me and grab at stuff with his toes. It’s so adorable. He’s like a little monkey baby. 

4) Whenever music starts to play, no matter where he is he stops what he’s doing and starts to twerk. 

5) His clumsy attempts to cover his own face (or mine) with a blanket for peek-a-boo. Babies doing things clumsily is probably the cutest thing of all time. 

6) His clumsy attempts to clap.

7) He will catch strangers’ eyes and smile at them but then nuzzle into my shoulder and get shy…but peek at them and grin some more. He makes everyone melt. 

 

It’s so hard having a toddler and a baby but I know that in a few years I will miss these days and I’m constantly striving to enjoy it. I think I’m doing pretty well. 

Love you Hody!

Posted in Holden, kid stuffs, motherhood | Leave a comment

On Making Hard Decisions

After the death of my grandmother, my parents decided to buy her house. For awhile they didn’t know exactly what they wanted to do with said house…only that they felt very strongly they needed to purchase it. They tossed around dozens of ideas—whether to move into it themselves, rent it, sell it, what. Plan after plan was hatched, debated, and abandoned.

Finally, they proposed an idea to me and Kyle that would make it possible for us to move into the house and live near my family in Arizona after ten years of being away.

When they first came to us with their idea, we were shocked. Mesa, Arizona is not my favourite city in the world, but nevertheless I have dearly missed living near my family these past ten years. Kyle’s family is amazing and we love having them in our lives, but it doesn’t change the fact that I miss my own family. (In a perfect world, we could have both our families just down the street from us.) And it’s been with a certain degree of sorrow that I’ve welcomed Hutch and Holden into this world, knowing they would never have the close relationship with their cousins that I had with mine growing up. There are friends, and then there are cousins. Mark my words: cousins are better. (They have some cousins near where we live, but they are older than my boys, and though they share an awesome love, it’s just not the same when you don’t grow up together.) From the minute I chose to leave Arizona, I’ve known it would cause me heartache not to raise my children there.

Still, as much as I long to be closer to my family, we have settled into a fairly comfortable routine in Canada. Slowly but surely we’ve plugged away at debt until we are now completely free from it except for a very modest mortgage. Kyle has a comfortable job at a family business which he will someday own jointly with his brothers…and more than that, it’s where he’s always lived, what he’s always planned on doing.

And me, I’ve gotten used to the idea of raising adorable little Canadian boys, and indeed become excited at the thought of sending them to French Immersion school, and ice skating lessons, and teaching them how to build snow forts (after learning how myself). Not to mention the healthcare situation up here, which is so simple it’s actually confusing to me sometimes—(You mean I can go to any doctor, at any time, for any reason, for no cost? And when I need a knee surgery I just need to get a referral for the specialist and wait a little while? And when it’s my turn, I will get my surgery, and pay nothing? And if we decide to have a baby I don’t have to plan ten years ahead of time to start saving for the hospital bill? We pay nothing? Except $40 if we want a private room in the maternity ward? And if there’s an emergency and we need to go to the hospital for life-saving medical care, it won’t bankrupt us because it’s free?) And maternity leave, for after having said baby: it’s a year long, and it’s paid.

On top of that, the truth is that I just plain like it here. Not all the time, of course. But the summers are heaven-sent. Growing a garden, basking in the sunshine, the novelty of 11 p.m. sunsets. The people are friendly, the playgrounds are abundant, the Canadian life is pretty awesome. I even like the snow a little bit, sometimes. The peaceful quiet that it brings. The beauty of everything covered in white.

All of this is to say, we did not make our decision lightly. Moving to Arizona at this point in our lives would be a huge, life-altering change. We talked with international accountants, we talked with immigration lawyers, we thought about it nonstop for what felt like months. What if Kyle can’t find a decent paying job with healthcare? What if we don’t make enough money to get by? What if Donald Trump becomes president? What if there’s a zombie apocalypse and we’re stuck in the desert without enough water? What about Zika?

But finally, in the end, we made our decision.

We are moving to Arizona.

At least, we’re hoping to. We’ve started the process of applying for Kyle’s green card, and it sounds like we should expect it to take at least 12 months before it is approved (and hopefully it will be approved). We still have so much to do—so much!—and it is overwhelming to me, but we are really excited for the possibility of how different our lives might be a year and a half from now. At the end of the day, that’s what it came down to: we feel that making this move will be the best choice for our family.

(And for the record, Kyle never really had to come to terms with any of this the way I did. He was on board almost immediately. Even now, I have a lot of reservations about it, but he is 100% excited and confident we can make it work. Where he gets his faith I may never know.)

So anyway, that’s the news. And the best part is: my grandma’s house comes on a piece of property that includes a vacant lot next door. On this lot my sister will build a new house, and we will live as next-door neighbours. Our children will grow up with cousins just a stone’s throw away!

(The second best part is that my overachieving sister is also PTO president and has, at my request, talked to the elementary school principal about instigating a Spanish Immersion program at the school my boys would likely be attending. So there’s hope for me after all.)

Wish us luck. I’m actually scared shitless.

Posted in Canada, change, the great state of AZ | 4 Comments

Reflections on Grandma Leavitt

My grandma passed away in June. This picture of her (taken in March of this year) holding Holden is the last *good* one I have of her. I was able to go back to Mesa in May/June to visit with her again before she passed, but the pictures I took of her then, she wouldn’t want shared.

Grandma loved babies. She had 6 of her own (it blows my mind; I can’t imagine having that many, and I know so many families with even more), 27 grandchildren and 22+ great grandchildren. At the time of her passing, Holden was the youngest great grandbaby and she loved him a lot, though she only actually met him twice. But I talked to her her often on the phone and she always told me how much she loved his name. “Hoooolden,” she’d draw it out. “That sure is a nice name.” 

When he’s older I will tell him all about his Grandma Great who loved his name. 

I’ve lost both of my grandfathers already, but my grandma is the one I’ve been closest to throughout my life—I grew up around the corner from her—and her passing has made me reflect on my life (and my death) in a way I never have before. 

When she was my age she was almost done having kids. When she was my mother’s age she had a gaggle of grandchildren and (in my opinion) was at her peak. Full of life and love, an evening spent at Grandma’s was always pure perfection. We played with cousins—red rover in her huge backyard, or chased chickens or made secret pacts to always be best friends. When we were older we sat around listening to aunts and uncles tell amazing stories of hilarious days gone by. And when it was time to say goodbye, she made sure her guests left filled up, both in heart and in stomach. She loved her family above all else. 

At 80 she died; she was the baby of her family and two of her sisters (her best friends) outlived her. Seriously? All those years together, and then having to part with your baby sister like that? It’s so wrong. Stupid cancer. 

The last time we visited her (before the trip in May/June which was really just to say goodbye and then stay for the funeral), she insisted that Kyle and I drop by her house on our way out of town. She wanted to say goodbye. She had a calendar of tractor pictures that she’d been saving for months to give to Hutch…22 great grandchildren and she remembered that one of them was obsessed with tractors, can you imagine?! Makes me cry just thinking about it. And for the record, he continues to love the calendar to this day. 

When he is older I will tell him all about his Grandma Great, who remembered he loved tractors. 

My crazy amazing family set up a 24-hour vigil so my grandma was never alone in the weeks before she died. I got to be a part of that and snapped this picture during a quiet moment that we had together.

I think she must have felt her life was short, in the scheme of things. She was 80 when she died. I am nearly 30. If I die in 50 more years…that’s really not much time. What do I want to do with it? Why do I waste so much of it? How can I make a difference? What is my purpose…my mission?

I want to answer these questions, and soon. But having children has, for me, made any sort of serious introspection difficult. At the end of the day I basically fall into bed and pray for 4-6 hours of sleep. Keeping my boys alive and relatively happy has been my number one priority for the past three years, and honestly most days that’s about all I can say I accomplished. My house is a mess, I’m super out of shape, my garden is pitiful, etc. etc. with the very long list of failures. 

But at the same time, having children (and watching Grandma die) has kicked my desire to change the world into high gear. I need to leave it a better place than it is right now. For them. So somehow I am going to have to find a suitable way to divide my time between them and…something else. What that something is, I haven’t quite decided. But it has to be soon because there just isn’t that much time anymore. 
Whatever I decide to do, I hope it can honour Grandma. 

Posted in Uncategorized | 5 Comments

On Holden at 5 Months (though he’s actually 6 months now)

Holden.

Holden 5 Months

At 5 months he has zero teeth (a fact which brings me great joy, because I am obsessed with his gummy little grin and I know that once he gets teeth he’ll start going through that weird-looking phase that all babies have). He watches us all like a hawk, especially at dinner time, so I’ve let him gnaw on cucumber slices, carrot sticks, strawberries, and the like. He really really likes to nurse (we are nursing exclusively!), and I think once I start giving him food for real he’s going to become a little addict.

Holden, 5 Months

By the time Hutch was this old, he’d spent many many hours alone with his daddy. Holden, on the other hand, has only had a handful of hours away from me, and I’m pretty sure zero one-on-one time with Kyle sans Hutch. It’s harder for Kyle this time because Holden is so attached to nursing. And Hutch’s little toddler needs are so all-encompassing that trying to manage both at one time without built-in soothers is very overwhelming. I don’t really blame him. But I look forward to the time that Holden is a little more independent from me so he can get to know his daddy better. And until then, I’m blooming. Or trying to.

In that way he is very different than Hutch, but in other ways they are a lot alike. Holden is a pretty mellow baby—we’ve been blessed with two blissfully non-colicky infants. He’s usually very happy as long as he’s well fed. He loves watching any action happening around, and complains very loudly when the action (usually Hutch) leaves the room. I have a feeling that once he starts crawling (as of yet he’s rolled over a few times but seems to have forgotten that he ever did it) he’s never going to leave Hutch alone.

And I *hope* that they are good friends and play together well so they can entertain each other and I can once again poop in peace.

Holden Chewing on Toes

People ask me if Holden is teething because he is always in search of something to chew on (including, lately, his big toe). But that’s just how he’s always been. Usually when he’s laying on the change table getting his diaper changed he will reach out with both hands and grab onto my forearm to try to chew on it. Same thing when he’s nursing—he grabs onto anything he can find: my shirt, a thumb, the blanket, the b00b—and holds on as tight as he can. It’s almost like he’s trying to somehow consume more than just milk. Like he wants to consume it all. I hope that means that he’ll set his sights high when he’s all grown up, but now look at me projecting my own adult dreams onto my infant son. It probably just means he likes holding on to things.

He’s a scrappy little baby. Even before he could roll over officially he started rolling from side to side to find me when he woke up in the night. (Oh yeah, we co-sleep. Call the parent police.) He makes sure he gets what he needs, and I think it’s pretty adorable of him, at least for now. I’m sure as a teenager it’s going to drive me kind of crazy.

He’s so soft and squishy. Everybody comments on it, even Hutch. Hutch loves to cuddle up next to him and cries when I have to take him away, to change a poopy diaper for example. Everything about Holden is soft. His back is squishy, his cheeks are squishy, his tiny little thighs are squishy, even his forehead is somehow, impossibly, squishy.

He’s started doing this adorable thing where I pick him up and he buries his face into the nape of my neck and squeals. The noise is muffled because of said burying-face-into-neck, but when I move his head up so he can not be muffled he just pushes it right back down again. I think he just likes the sensation. Try it on someone who won’t call the police—it is strangely satisfying.

He’s our funny little boy—”such a good sweet li’l baby” according to Hutch—and we are madly in love with him.

Posted in Holden, kid stuffs, motherhood | Comments Off on On Holden at 5 Months (though he’s actually 6 months now)

Bloom When You Are Planted

Bloom where you are planted, they say.

How about bloom when you are planted.

It’s weird having two kids. And hard. I feel like too many instagrammers make motherhood seem just joyful and blissful and heavenly all the time, and it’s weighing me down. I’m here to say: it’s freaking hard.

I love my boys both so much but most of my days I’m left feeling like I haven’t done enough—haven’t given either child enough of my full attention, haven’t listened to Kyle enough about his day, haven’t cleaned the house enough or called my grandmas enough or worked out enough [at all] or nourished my soul enough, or, or, or…

I know when I am an old lady I’m going to look back on these years and miss them. I know I will. My struggle now is how to hold onto the joyful moments (scarce as they sometimes are) and let go of the overwhelmingly blah ones—or worse, the awful, punch-the-wall-so-you-don’t-punch-your-kid, close-the-bedroom-door-and-weep-for-how-mean-you-just-were-to-someone-you-love, hold-your-face-in-a-pillow-and-scream-until-you-see-spots moments. Those times are the weeds: you’ll never get rid of them completely but you can still grow pretty flowers.

I need to bloom when I am planted.

Here, now, today, this is where I’m planted. This day, this week, this year. This life—it’s hard times, guys. But maybe I can blossom despite it all, if only I can find one thing to love about every day, to habitually go out of my way to stop and think, “Yes. This. This is my purpose for today. This is why I got out of bed.”

Sometimes it might be digging a really massive crusty booger out of my baby’s nose. So satisfying.

Hutch and Holden, May 2016
Holden is 5 months old, Hutch just shy of 3 years.

It’s true what they say about the days being long but the years being short. Although Hutch has gotten so much better with Holden than he was at the beginning, he still has his moments (hundreds of them daily) where I wonder what the hell I am doing wrong to be raising such a terror. Then I remind myself he’s two. He’s two. And this is how it’s going to be for awhile. So bloom when I am planted.

Isn’t it wonderful? So hopeful, so grounding, so immediate: bloom now, it says. Don’t wait. Do not wait around for that perfect night of nine hours’ sleep, or that glorious tantrum-free day that will probably—surely—never come. Those things are pipe dreams. Just bloom now.

Bloom anyway. Bloom, today, despite those fifty extra pounds, those droopy saggy eyes (and other things [so many things are saggy]), that dull lacklustre hair. Find one way to feel a little pretty today, even if it’s just flossing your fuzzy teeth. BLOOM, DAMMIT.

Sometimes my toddler throws me a bone to get me through the day—like in the photo above. I was taking Holden’s monthly progress photo and Hutch started to cry literal tears because he wanted to get in the picture too. And then both boys gave me smiles for days and I have hundreds of photos just like that, because it was so glorious and lasted so long. And sometimes he cuddles up to Holden and nuzzles his little face and says, “Ho’den is my best. friend. ever.”

And then sometimes (all the times) he fights putting on pants like he’s some kind of revolutionary. A pants-free pioneer.

And sometimes he poops everywhere else except the potty.

And sometimes he cries before bed that his tummy hurts just so we’ll bring him a snack and we know he’s stalling. And other times he’ll cry that his tummy hurts and then he actually throws up and I never know what to believe anymore.

But I can bloom today.

 

 

Posted in family, hutchface, kid stuffs, Married Life, mediocrity, motherhood, parenthood, self-actualisation | 4 Comments