nana

On March 13, 2014 my Nana, Valerie Joan Hunter, shuffled off this mortal coil and since I so infrequently remember to blog my husby recommended that I post the eulogy I gave at her funeral.

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I, along with my two brothers and my sister-in-law, drove here to Halifax from Toronto to celebrate Nana’s life and we couldn’t be happier that we did.

That’s what she was to us: Nana.  But looking at all your faces and flipping through the albums at last night’s viewing, I realize I didn’t know her like you know her.

I didn’t know her as a work colleague, or an Eagle Point Drive neighbour, or a church friend, as many of you had the pleasure of knowing her.

I didn’t know her as a travel companion, or fancy-dress-party-goer, or best friend for decades.

I didn’t know her as an aunt, or a Big Sister, or a mom or a wife.

I didn’t even know her as Grandma, which was her East Coast alias.

I won’t even know her as my 2-year old son will one day know her: as Great Nana, from the stories we will tell him, and from the watercolour painting hung up in his room.

But I knew her as Nana.

Nana and Grandad’s visits to Toronto were always the happiest, fullest, most joyous memories for me.  It helped that they visited at Christmas and traveled with one suitcase exclusively dedicated to presents.  Nana was, to me, was and always will be a series of memories: pearl nail polish, putting her face on, a great laugh, “getting ogernized”, teaching me shorthand, and they way she said “Oh, Tony…”

It’s impossible to remember Nana - no matter how you knew her - without tenderness and admiration.  I think that’s because she filled every relationship, every conversation, every room with gentleness and light.

She always had something to say - an anecdote, a story, something optimistic, something helpful.
She always had something to give - like the Werther’s Originals she kept in her purse for the car drive to and from the airport.
She left something behind - when I saw the tiny hairs left on the car seat from her fur coat and remember her, or the music boxes she and Grandad gave me that played “It’s a Small World After All” which helped me when I missed them.

So that’s how I’d like to remember Nana.  By being more like her.  With always something optimistic to say, always something ready to give, and always with something to leave behind.

Crayola

Hugo hands me a new Crayola, green.  The tip is dulled by small teeth marks and its wrapping is damp.  His lips reflect displeasure and his tongue explores the end of the crayon still his mouth.

"Out," my palm waits under his chin.  "Yucky, Hugo.  Spit it out."  Hugo deposits a trail of saliva and green waxy shards in my hand and turns to leave the room.  "Hugo?"  His body forms a half-turn, his eyes search my face.  "No more eating crayons, OK?  Yuck."

"Oh, okay, mammy."

I keep Hugo's name-brand crayons in a hinged tin - the same crayon tin from my childhood.  Outside, the tin is patterned with a vintaged, royal blue floral motif and the inside, a matte silver, is the backdrop to a multitude of sticky rainbow markings.  As a little girl, once I discovered that the ends of crayons left small dots of colour just by being in the tin, I figured I could make a few embellishments of my own.

When I open the tight-fitting, hinged lid the scent is comprised of these new crayons of my son's, barely out of their pristine cardboard boxes, freshly minted and still sharply tipped (unless recently masticated) mixed somehow with the ghostly smell of my crayons from the 80s.  The fragrance of my own collection, now long gone, has been embalmed and is a deeper, mustier one.  Their generic, quatrefoil designed paper wrappings were stained and peeled by my hands, their ends blunted by "filling in" large areas of newsprint colouring pages, many of them halved, or thirded, into smaller, unwrapped pieces that would slip through my grip by the heat of my fingers.

The summer of The Incident began with that tin.  I was colouring in the backyard of my parents' first home, a butter yellow, vinyl-sided semi in Newmarket, one afternoon.  My favourite crayon had always been a silver-coloured one: it was the first to loose its paper casing, since I wanted to more closely admire the sheen of metallic specks which sparkled when I held it up to the light.  The hinged lid of my tin provided a perch for crayons to rest between uses, and there sat the naked, silver crayon, awaiting duty. Sadly, the sun's rays claimed it that hot, summer afternoon and the next time I looked up from my artistic endeavour all that was left was a shimmering dollop of putty.

All instantly available at the opening of a tin box, such is the power of scent.  I wonder if, when he opens the tin for himself in years from now, Hugo will feel the soft fragments of green, non-toxic wax, stuck between his teeth.

mama monday: week 33 "womanhood, and all that is a woman"

In case you're wondering why I have ceased to post various fruits and vegetables that represent Baby Gaz's growth, it's because the growth at this point is difficult to document using fruits and vegetables.  Even websites are becoming more obscure in their offerings: your baby is the size of a Chinese cabbage!  A jicama!  A crenshaw melon!

Be assured that Baby Gaz is growing, Baby Gaz is moving (lots), Baby Gaz is hiccuping, and is healthy by all accounts.  The produce section of the local grocery store just doesn't suffice in describing how excited we are to meet him.

My husband, a lover of poetry and a fan of Walt Whitman, sent me this glorious poem a few months back: I Sing The Body Electric.  The poem should be read it its entirety - it is a stunning piece of art - but, if you're short on time, here are some of the excerpts that I thought painted a magnificent portrait of woman and her ability to incubate life.

This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor,
     all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what
     was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response
     likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all
     diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling
     and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of
     love, white-blow and delirious nice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the
     prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day.


This the nucleus--after the child is born of woman, man is born
     of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the
     outlet again.


Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the
     exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.


The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veil'd, she is both passive and active,
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as
     daughters.


She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers,
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.

mama monday: Week 31

Going through old post drafts, I came across this one from Week 17.  PROOF THAT I MEANT TO BLOG THROUGHOUT SECOND TRIMESTER.  Despite being a little outdated, the list entitled Stuff I Didn't Know still stands as a reminder of how weird all these pregnancy symptoms can be.  

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Here we are at Week 17 already!

Baby Gaz is approximately the size of a pear, I look more like I'm carrying a watermelon, and feel like I'm carrying a wine barrel.  I have a few friends who are also due in November and, although their due dates are a few weeks later than ours, I feel like Anoine de Saint-Exupéry's elephant in a boa next to them.

Now that I'm comfortably settling into second trimester and able to put into words some of what pregnancy has been, I figured I'd treat you all to a segment I'd like to call Stuff I Didn't Know.

1. Feeling Excited
   In fact, for most of the first trimester, I didn't.  Other than the day we found out we were pregnant (a story I realize now might make for an interesting blog post - stay tuned), and a few weeks after that, when I would laugh uncontrollably to myself like a crazy person because of the wonderful ridiculousness of it all.  I was pregnant.  Me.  With a human inside me.  A baby that will look partially like me and partially like Andrew.  And we'll have to look after it.  Shouldn't we be screened or something?
   
   Other than the laughing fits I felt terribly underwhelmed when anyone squealed at me, inches from my face, "AREN'T YOU SOOOOOO EXCITED?!"  Other than wanting to point out that they had taken all the excitement and there was none left for me, nay, for anyone else for that matter, I was surprised by internal response: "No." and, secondly, by the one I actually said out loud: "Of course."  Because both answers were true, but the latter didn't seem true - yet.
   
   It's kind of like asking someone who is battling influenza, amnesia, PMS, sleep deprivation, loss of bladder control, and abdominal swelling whether or not they are excited about attending the Oscars over half a year from now?  Well, yes, they suppose they are excited now that you mention it but mostly they're mapping out the nearest garbage pails in case they're struck with the urge to vomit, the nearest soft surface in case they pass out, and the nearest bathroom or thick hedge because they'll have to pee as soon as you'll let them stop talking about the Oscars.  There isn't a lot of energy left to be excited with.
   
   
2. Mood Swings
   You may be familiar with my occasional day trips to Crazy Town but they spaced themselves out at least a month apart and were, more or less, understandable.  As understandable as Crazy can be.   Pregnancy leaves allllll those episodes in its dust.  Not only are pregnancy mood alterations unpredictable but they bypass premenstrual ones in both height and depth.
   
   Conveniently, I live with a man who is as patient as he is wise which means that he knows when to attempt to "fix" the situation and when to let things run their course.  And follows up any particularly hard day, headache, or cry by drawing me a bath and giving me a massage.  I know.  I win.
   
3. Feeling Tired
   I can nap like a champion, and frequently do, but pregnancy has given me an entirely new outlook on fatigue and sleep.  Many parent vetrans will see us and advise, "Sleep now while you can!  You have no idea how tired you'll be once the baby arrives."  I haven't entirely completed my research on the subject but I'd be willing to bet that sleep is not one of those quantifiable substances that you can stock up on and use later, like toilet paper.  Not only that, but no one informed me that the sleeplessness begins LONG BEFORE BABY SHOWS UP IN PERSON.
   
   Andrew has developed a love-hate relationship with the body pillow I now sleep with (love, only because it aids me in sleeping...so it's mostly hate).  The pillow, in combination with my bulbous shape, increasing weight, inability to sleep on my front, inability to sleep on my back, multiple trips to the washroom to pee, and inexplicable wakefulness between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 a.m. make it quite difficult to get a good night's sleep at present.  Which is why I'd like to take those parent vetrans by the shoulders, shake vigorously, and inform them that THEY AREN'T HELPING.

foto friday: hot time, summer in the city

Here are a few shots snapped over the past three months.  Hand-picked, rinsed and presented for your viewing pleasure!

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Back when the weather was at record-breaking heights and I was scheduling my life by moving my pregnant bulk from one air-conditioned environment to another, my friend Jessica and I spotted this charming employee of The Good Neighbour on a break.

Yes, he wanted to see if it was hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement.

The third wedding of the season.

I know, right?  I almost passed out from an overdose of cute.

Solomon, beating the heat in our backyard.

Apartment-viewing with Sarah, my sister-in-law.  This apartment, on Roncesvalles, was posted for just under three days and inspired a parade of hipsters to stand in the rain and wait for a viewing.  Just another day on Ronceez.

The first peek at Baby Gaz's nursery!  I doubt if this drawer will ever be as tidy as it is now (have you ever tried to fold a newborn-sized onesie?) but it was so fun to organize.

The fifth wedding of the season. 

Andrew at childbirth class, learning how to properly change, clothe, and swaddle a fake newborn.  He's a champ.

Fake newborn changed, clothed, and swaddled!  The proud papa displays his accomplishment full of confidence and poise.

wifercize wednesday: hormones and hand sanders

Andrew has been such a dear in keeping up with his hormone-flooded wife.  The downsides have included fits of frustration (generally nesting related or sleep deprivation related) followed by a gush of tears.

A few months ago I decided to tidy the first floor of our house.  AND I HAD TO DO IT RIGHT.  NOW. Coming across a few pairs of Andrew's shoes in the hallway, I asked him if he would like me to put them in the front closet or upstairs in the bedroom.  He told me to hold on one moment, as he was busy paying a bill online.

I waited a moment.  I waited a moment more.  Still answerless, I abandoned the shoes and stormed off to complete some other equally-as-pressing task until Andrew tracked me down and asked me if I was OK (the banging of objects tipped him off).

"Yes.  I'm fine."  (I wasn't.)
"Reeally?  You don't seem fine.  Are you mad?"
"No.  I'm not."  (I was.)
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know."  (I didn't.)

About 10 minutes after this futile discussion Andrew was back on the couch and I furtively joined him.  I sat as close as I could manage with my bulky abdomen, put my head on his shoulder, and started crying.

"Are you crying?  What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry."  (I was.)
"That's OK.  For what?"
"I don't know."  (I still didn't.)

Andrew has been wonderful at decoding (or, rather, lovingly disregarding) many of my extreme ups and downs and for this I am grateful.  The truth is that, most of the time, I truly don't know why I'm upset.  In the past week alone, the answers to "Are you crying?  What's wrong?" have included "I'm tired.  And you're nice." to "This movie is too sad."  Both legitimate answers.  To me.  At the time.

Another behavioural development has been a slightly unhinged desire to refinish furniture, as mentioned on Monday.  The first of which was a stool.

I spotted the stool on the side of the road the day Andrew and I were parking near St. Joe's hospital for an ultrasound appointment.  It was a painted (chipping), white (yellowing), wooden stool with a slab of the seat broken off.  I thought it was marvelous.

After my dad reattached the broken seat with carpenter's glue, it looked a little something like this:

After a generous sanding with my handy Black & Decker GelMax Mouse Sander and Polisher with Touch Zone Technology, it looked like this:

And after two coats of black CIL semi-gloss latex interior paint (primer included!) it looked exactly the way I wanted it to:

You might remember that I've been working on this little plot of the house ever since I designed my own wire hooks to display decorative French cheese plates on the wall:

Since it's completion, I am happy to report that it is the first DIY project that Oberon approves of.  In fact, he approves of it so much he almost exclusively owns property rights to it.

"How handy," he told me when I placed the finished stool in the kitchen.  "You've finally given me the throne I so rightfully deserve.  From here I shall survey my kingdom and all that transpires throughout."

mama monday: week 30

One would assume that after having whined and complained openly and publicly while we waited to become pregnant that the very least I could do was to blog as frequently about the process of pregnancy once acquired.

But second trimester has come and gone and, for reasons unknown even to me, I didn't feel the urge to post.  Not.  One.  Post.

I guess I was having fun just...being pregnant.

No other excuse.  But now the air is crisp and the leaves are turning and I feel, as I do ever September, the urge to hand in assignments in a timely matter.  School's back in session.

Baby Gaz is growing strong and wiggling near constantly.  Andrew and I read somewhere that babies at this stage sleep 95% of the time.  WHERE ARE THESE BABIES WHO SLEEP 95% OF THE TIME?  Our baby missed the memo.

Here he is, our little butternut squash!

In other news, we attended and just finished 12 weeks of birth classes which were absolutely incredible. We can not recommend the Bradley Method (also known as the "Husband-Coached Childbirth" method) strongly enough to any pregnant couples who are looking to take classes.  At first, we thought 12 classes (two hours each) seemed excessive but now that we've completed them we realize it was just barely enough time to cover all the topics necessary for childbirth education: labour coaching, nutrition, and exercise to name a few.  We genuinely feel well prepared for Baby Gaz's birthday in November!

September also marks a slew of baby showers which arrive just in time since we have been holding off on purchasing too many items ourselves to prevent the Multitudinous Equipment Stockpile Syndrome (MESS) in Baby Gaz's already cozy (read: small) nursery.  Over the next few weeks I'll be posting all about Nursery Makeover 2011: second trimester also came with record-breaking creativity and energy that had me refinishing roadside finds and making multiple trips to Value Village in search of SOMETHING I HAVE IN MY MIND, OK?  STOP ASKING SO MANY QUESTIONS.

Happy September and thanks for visiting after so many months of incommunicado!