I thought, since I have just now finished the excrutiating editing process of finalizing my book, that I would celebrate by sharing a juicy little exceprt with you.

Here it is. This is a point shortly after the two have met, and Rhys is bringing Amy back home:

Rhys walked Amy up the steps of her apartment building, and took note of her name on the mailbox. Apartmnet 2D, Amy Bennett.

She looked at him in the soft lamplight of the building's entrance. God, he really was a beautiful man. Oh, not in any classic sense of the word. He was too large and hard core for that. His shaggy dark hair was still slightly damp, and fell to just past the nape of his neck. His eyes, though they seemed to shimmer strangely like silver in the light, held a softness, a tenderness, that was out of place with his strength and the careful control he held over himself.

She realized then that this evening could have ended a lot differently than with the two of them standing at her front door. He had taken care tonight to see that she wasn't hurt from her insane mad dash into danger, and while she was sure that she had hampered him more than she had helped, he hadn’t lost it on her. If she determined nothing else from the events of this evening, she was confident in concluding that he would never have hurt her.

"Thanks for bringing me home."

"No problem," Rhys replied. He seemed to want to say something more, but didn't.

Amy stared at his mouth, wondering if he would kiss her again. She really wanted him to kiss her again. Deciding this was her night to flirt with danger, she didn’t wait for it, and instead went up on her toes, and smoothed her lips over his.

Jeez, he was so tall, he should be playing for the NBA.

Amy pressed her mouth against him lightly, cautiously, then gasped as he groaned and wrapped his arms around her. He deepened her soft kiss into something more, something carnal and hot, and she tumbled into it, lost in her growing desire.

Her arms clutching him, Rhys backed Amy up until she was pressed against the wall of the building. Amy reveled in the feeling of the sharp stone at her back, and his smooth, hard strength pressing into her from the front. One muscled thigh moved between her legs, pressed up against her, and she gasped as her insides melted in response. His lips were traveling down the smooth column of her neck, along her jaw, licking the sensitive spot at the base of her shoulder blade, while his hand moved to cup one breast, kneading and shaping it to fit his palm, the other tangling itself in her hair, which tumbled loosely over her shoulders.

Rhys was on fire. He had never felt this before, this all-consuming need. He wanted Amy with a desperation that was overriding all the good intentions that he had started out with, wanted to take her as hard and as deep as he possibly could. He had never let his body rule him that way. But right now, he wanted--he needed--to imprint himself on her body, mark her, dominate her. He wanted to possess her and protect her at the same time, to hold himself inside her for an eternity.

It didn’t help his self-control to know that she was just as hot for him. Her raspy little moans and the scent of her excitement beckoned to him like a siren’s summons. It would take nothing for Rhys to overcome her lingering inhibitions, convince her to take him into her bed, and once there, he wouldn't let her out of it again for days.

In fact, what better way to keep an eye on her. He could keep her constantly at his side, and perhaps gain some insight into the source of his dreams.

Whoa, he thought. Constant proximity for women always meant closeness and sharing. No way did he want that complication. He had a job to do that Amy could never understand, and a life that she could never be part of...a dangerous fucked-up life at that. He wouldn’t allow any human to become a part of that, especially not Amy, no matter how much he was drawn to her serene strength and frank humour. She would compromise his very existence if he allowed himself to be distracted by those expressive eyes and lush body.

It would be better for them both if he simply let her retreat into her apartment alone. She would never see him again, and he would move into the future as a whisper of nothingness, a ghost, as he had always been to humans.

But first, he wanted to commit the taste of her to memory.

I feel like I've been running a 10k marathon, and so far I'm not sure whether I'm ahead or behind.

But last night was one of those banner moments, one of those moments you remember for the rest of your life--because I finished the synopsis for my book!

Huh, you're not impressed? I'm ecstatic. I feel like I just passed the last leg of the marathon, now I'm into my seventh km, and the home stretch is upon me.

I can remember the agony of starting the book. When you first set your cushy running shoes on that path and push forward. It's hard going, but then you get into a bit of a zone, and the pavement starts zooming by. Until you get a stitch in your side, or in this case, WRITER'S BLOCK. Oh, the horror of writer's block. It might take a while, and you may have to sit out of the race for a few moments to catch your breath, but then you can start moving again, and that is a good feeling too, knowing that you've conquered the block.

When the book was actually written, I had a glass of wine that day. But oddly enough, despite feeling a little bit of a glow, I wasn't jumping up and down ecstatic. Perhaps it was because I knew that I had only reached the half-way point in my trek. Getting the book ready for publishing was going to take a lot more time, and I'd be huffing and puffing pretty hard by the end of it.

Now that editing is well on its way, I had diverted my attention to the matter of publishing materials. If a person wants to send a manuscript to a publisher for review, there are a lot of RULES. I couldn't believe all the rules. You need to query first, which means you send a short letter of introduction. And depending on the publishing company, they will either respond to request a synopsis of your book, along with a copy of the first few chapters, or they will not. Sometimes, a publisher wants the chapters with your query, sometimes they want a synopsis that is five pages, sometimes eight. Then of course, some won't even look at your query unless it is submitted by an agent.

Oh My God, I thought. How do I get an agent?

We'll just leave that one alone for now.

But finally, the query letters are written, the synopsis is drafted, and this is when I start doing the football happy dance--oh wait, my analogy was running, right? Oh well, never mind.

I am reminded today of relationships...past, future, lasting and fleeting.

I have had occasion recently to reconnect with a number of old friends from high school--eeek. The horrors of remembering a time when I wore faded blue jeans that came up to my shin, bright neon colours, and, if I happened to have actually attended school that day...a uniform. (I know!!)

But more than that, I remember laughter, drama, friendships that seemed they would last forever, life that was glowing and fresh, and a sense of future, of purpose that was wide open and infinite with possibility. It's funny how it all seemed so common and everyday back then, while now I look on it with a profound sense of wonder. Wonder that I was ever so young, that I had so many dreams. Wonder that I ever looked that bad, and wonder that I even made it out alive.

Some of those friends are still with me today. Others, as I mentioned, I have had a chance to reconnect with, and I enjoy learning about their lives and families. I am amazed to find so many people doing exactly what they wanted to do back when we were young and foolish, and others who have gone so far above and beyond their own wildest dreams. Either way, it's always good to see that they're having fun, and living life to the fullest.

I think about how my own goals have changed since I was young. I used to write as if my soul were pouring out on the paper. Poetry, stories, anything to put words down. I have come to determine that the creativity flows best and easiest when you're young. But then I remember wanting to be a doctor, a lawyer, or something equally glamorous. I think that was mainly a result of watching too much tv, though. When I finally made it through high school, and went on to university, and then to college, my goals changed again. And again...and again. Until I was back to the same place I had started--with a love of writing, and trying to see where it would take me.

I think our first loves are often our best. We can't always get that feeling back after it's drifted away, and in most cases, it's best that way. But sometimes our younger selves can teachour older selves a few things. About how to appreciate friendships, follow dreams, and enjoy life.

Let's talk character development today ladies and gents. Why you ask? Because I want to, and it's my blog. :)

But really, it's kind of been on my mind, mostly because, now that I've effectively moved onto my second WIP, with the first book being all but done, I'm very surprised at how very different the characters are in this new book. Granted, the stories are very different as well. Originally, I had thought that, after finishing my first book, I would continue to write paranormals, but I was stunned to find that the next characters to clamour for attention, wanted a story that wasn't like that at all.

Book 1 (we'll call it that for now, since for some reason, it hasn't quite "found" its name yet), is a dark paranormal, complete with immortal warriors charged with the responsibility of protecting mankind from hell's most evil demons. Needless to say, these were some pretty tough and dangerous characters, and we're just talking about the heroes. The main character, Julian, is a 900 year-old soldier in this epic war, and has his own deep emotional scars to prove it. When he meets Amy, the heroine, he finds her fascinating, not only because she's brave (maybe stupidly so), but also because she is like a vibrant burst of sparkling colour in his otherwise dark existence. He fights his powerful attraction to her, but cannot completely put her from his mind, partly because he keeps dreaming that she is in danger, and his dreams have a bad habit of coming true.

Book 2 (and at this point it's being called "Lost", for a number of reasons), is a contemporary romantic tale with a hint of mystery thrown in for good measure. The characters meet and at first are more annoyed with each other than anything else. There are no supernatural forces bringing them together, but a mutual attraction has them eager to explore the possibilities. The hero, Max, is a former cop who now owns a rustic mountain lodge in the volcanic mountains of Oregon. The heroine, Cam, is a writer (fancy that), who has come to town as part of her book tour.

For me, the interesting part of writing Book 1 was bringing characters together who are from extremely different worlds, and who will fight their attraction to each other from the word "go". Even so, for both Julian and Amy, their past becomes the biggest obstacle between them and their happy ever after.

In Lost, Max and Cam aren't drowning in the horrors and guilt of past events. They are both strong, independent people, who weren't necessarily looking for each other, but aren't afraid of being together. But how does love blossom when these two become embroiled in intrigue and murder?

So there you go. Two books. Two couples, and author who is pretty surprised at the turn of events.

Well, I guess you can tell that I haven't been around here much recently. I mean, the last blog was from August or some such nonsense.

Sorry about that.

I can tell you that the passage of time has been both good and...not so good.

We had a number of unfortunate deaths in our family this year, and I miss them all very much. But we also celebrated birthdays, weddings, Christmas, and all those fattening-type holidays, and enjoyed every minute of it all. My sister is now a happy married lady with a little baby on the way, and everyone is looking forward to when he arrives and we find out that the doctor was wrong to tell her it was a girl...just kidding. They don't tell you those kinds of things unless they're sure--right?

Derek started junior kindergarten in the Fall. He loves it so much, and I couldn't be prouder of how well he's doing, how many friends he's made, and how quickly that comment "nothing" starts coming out of his mouth already when I ask him what he did on any particular day.

For those of you who were aware of the fact that I was writing my first novel...ta da!! It's done, finis, and now we enter the dreaded editing phase. Actually, this part I like. It's the time when I get to re-read the book with a lighter frame of mind, not so worried about dreaming up plot strategies. I just get to fine tune minor inconsistencies and enjoy the actual story-imagine that.

The new book is well underway. The first one was more of a "pantser" exercise, meaning I wrote by the seat of my well-worn oversized sweats. But this time I'm trying to be a little bit more methodical, and I've actually got an outline!

Hopefully, I'll make it back here soon. Love

So, with the beginning of August, came not only the end of Carlo's summer teaching schedule and the beginning of his vacation, but also my birthday and our planned trip to go camping with our three year old son. Camping you say? Why not to Italy, to visit fabulous art galleries, majestic cathedrals, having tantalizing gelato and succulent wines? My vote seemed to have been vetoed. We went camping.

Not that it wasn't amazing. I'm still going to bring up the Italy trip again next year (and every year thereafter, until I can browbeat them to go :) )

We decided to go north. We always go north. Every year in May, I get online with our National Parks reservation service and book our camping trip in Algonquin Park. We go there as much as possible. The views, the lakes, the wildlife, are all truly beautiful and worth every second of the four hour drive in weekend bumper-to-bumper traffic to get there...really.

This year, like clock work, I logged on-only to find that our retreat, our haven in the north, was completely booked. There were no sites available-and I was looking all the way into August for Pete's sake!

So instead of Algonquin Park, we headed up north to a park on Georgian Bay. It was a good choice, still latitudinally the same, still a Provincial Park, still camping, right?

Well, all Camp grounds are not created equal, as with everything else. It was still a quiet camp ground, which is something we really look for. And the water was marvelous, crystal clear, warm and with a fun, sandy beach for playing. Yet, the natural benefits that we had come to cherish in Algonquin Park seemed to be sparse. There was a more definite feel of "human invasion", and very little flora to behold. There were no nature walks and no fish to pull out of the lake.

Still, for our son, it was heaven on earth. He absolutely adored the beach. He loved the fact that he slept in his sleeping bag in a tent, and didn't have to go to bed until it was really dark out, after stuffing his face full of mushy white marshmallows. He also got the undivided attention of his parents and his uncle, who accompanied us this year.

So all in all, while I will still press for Italy next year, we won't be ruling out camping either. For this family, the experience is one to savour as often as possible, and we'll always make the time to go...although we might stick to Algonquin Park, as that's where our hearts seem to be.

It looks like summer is well on its way to having arrived. How do I know this? What is the deciding factor that brings this to my decidedly unfocussed attention?

Our grass needs cutting. Constantly.

Lush green lawns are the bane of society. I know, in the past everything from T.V., cell phones, and spiky hair have been the bane of society in my humble opinion. But really...grass.

You may recall that we have recently moved into a beautiful home in a nice, quiet, older neighbourhood. It's great. I love it. But there's 1/2 an acre of land, and a lot of this consists of lush green lawn. Everyone on the block has the convenient riding lawn mower out at least twice a week to keep the grass nice and short. My husband has also been graced with a riding lawn mower of his own, even though we have a push mower that is almost brand new (bought last year). The riding mower was given as a gift because our friends were getting themselves a new one. The old one, the one sitting in our garage...doesn't work. Hubbie is adamant that he can get it working, and until he does...the grass doesn't get mowed.

So not only are we the "new kids on the block", but now we're also the bad neighbours because our lawn looks more like a meadow, complete with weeds.

I hope and pray that the mower will either be fixed soon, or a kindly arsonist will come along and set it on fire for me...in either case, the lawn will still get mowed eventually. And then I'll have to start baking muffins to take to all the neighbours.

Wow, has it really been since January that I've posted a blog here? I feel deep shame, I assure you. Crazy, crazy is life in a law office.

We have, however, begun to enjoy our Springtime. It started madly enough in January, with a seemingly innocuous little photo on the internet of a house for sale. I fell in love. My husband and I had just started to talk about the possibility of selling and moving somewhere else. We like the area, but in the specific neighbourhood where we lived, the constant construction and growth was wearing thin. Since we had moved in there had been about 5,000 more homes built around us, 2 schools, 2 grocery stores, 3 corner conveniences, 1 Canadian Tire, 1 Walmart, 1 Home Depot, and 3 strip malls. The noise level had grown to be so bad that no matter what time of day it was, you could never enjoy the natural sounds (even though we were fortunate enough to back onto a bush area).

So, I showed the photo of this nice little house to my husband, we went to see it, and put in an offer. Ta da...she turned us down. Okay, keep on trucking you say. And that's what we did. We put the little house aside in our minds, and kept looking around. Well, after another 3 weeks, we still hadn't seen anything we liked, and decided maybe we should wait until next year anyway, just to be sure we weren't "jumping into anything".

But wait...the seller of our little dream house came back to us and said she had reconsidered our offer (I mean really, if that's not fate, what is?). We jumped on it, and by mid-March, we were the proud owners of a 30-year old home in rural Ontario, with a 1/2 acre of land, and lots of trees, privacy and "natural sounds".

We painted, we cleaned, we gutted and renovated the basement. Ask me why we felt the need to renovate the basement right away. Because my husband decided before we even moved in that it would prove to be a perfect getaway for him and his buddies. He wanted to turn it into the ultimate "games" room. Complete with foosball, poker table, bar, tv, etc...Considering I talked him into the house in the first place, I was quick to agree that it was indeed a necessary expenditure at this time.

We survived the Easter holidy, spent time with family and friends, attended a baptism and a birthday party or two...and now we're up to date.

Talk to you soon.

Well, it's surely been a long time since I've successfully blogged, and I say successfully because there have been a few times (few and far between) where I've begun something, haven't been able to finish, and of course, the impetus is gone, and later I no longer feel that my thoughts were worth trying to resurrect from the vast black hole that is my brain these days.

Christmas has now come and gone, the new year has thus been rung in, and here I am at my desk again. I think what I really wanted for Christmas, and of course, didn't get, was some more time off. Not only from work, but from the whole rigmarole that is the holiday season. I really love it...I do, but I wish that there wasn't so much to do in such a short time. For my husband, it's great. He teaches, so come Christmastime, he'll always have two weeks off from work. Sure, I'll give him a few projects to get done around the house, but that's more to keep him from calling me at work every ten minutes because he's bored out of his mind. He's just that kind of hyper-active personality type that has to have the hands and mind working on something constantly, or he'll immediately be sleeping...or bugging me.

Not me. I know how to maximize relaxation time. I don't get much of it, but if I even had three or four days where I didn't have to follow any schedule, do any visiting, or get any work done, I'd be reading. Not just casually, but hard-core from sun-up to the dark of midnight reading. That, and I'd go for a massage, get to the gym a couple times (not too much, it's a vacation), bake some warm, fresh muffins, and get out that paint brush.

I have so many ways to relax, but lately none of them seem to work. Maybe it's because of the fact that there's not even enough time for power naps anymore. It takes me more than the 1 hour grace period I may get in an evening to wind down and really RELAX, and so I don't bother anymore. I keep on truckin' and tell myself that I'll just get these few things done today, and then tomorrow I'll have a little more time and I can sit down for a while. But it never happens that way, because tomorrow comes with its own set of all new tasks that just have to get done.

I guess that's why I've chosen to vent like this today. I'm making it my New Year's Resolution (do people really still make those?) to not give a shit about the dishes so much, or the laundry, or worry about getting every task off of my desk before the end of the day.

So how long do you give me?

I read an e-mail today about a daughter who was giving her mother the news that she and her husband were expecting a baby. The e-mail was about how the mother wanted to express to her daughter the complicated emotions and changes that would happen to her once that child was born, but had trouble doing so. I found myself knowing exactly what she felt. I have often tried to express my own feelings surrounding my life as a mother.

The changes in my life after becoming a mother involve more than just me trying to hide the disgusting truth that is my new body, the inability to sleep in on weekends, or take spontaneous vacations. It's something that no childbirth class will ever be able to teach you (not like they taught me much to start with). The physical wounds of child bearing eventually heal, but becoming a mother has left an emotional wound inside me that is so raw, I fear I will be forever vulnerable, because I know that I will never again read a newspaper without asking, "What if that had been MY child?" News of every plane crash, and every house fire haunts me. When I see pictures of starving children, I now always wonder if anything could be worse than watching a child die. No matter how sophisticated I was (yeah right), becoming a mother has reduced me to the primitive level of a bear protecting it's cub. An urgent call of "Mom!" is enough to cause me to drop the good crystal without a moment's hesitation to rush over and make sure that no bones have been broken.

I remember thinking, while I was pregnant, that motherhood wouldn't affect my career. I would simply get a really good babysitter, and everything at work would carry on as it had before. But no matter how much time I invest in my career, I have been professionally derailed by motherhood. There are days when I have to use every ounce of my non-existent discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure my baby is safe with the strangers I have entrusted him to, no matter how much I have investigated their qualifications. However decisive I may be at the office, I second-guess myself constantly as a mother.

Eventually I did shed the pounds of pregnancy, but I have never felt the same about my body. I have slowly learned to recognize that my life, once so important, is of less value to me now that I have a child. I know that I would give myself up in a moment to save my offspring, but also hope to live longer, not to accomplish my own dreams, but to watch my child accomplish his.

I know that my husband understands how much more I love him now, as a father. He was always careful to powder the baby's bottom, and never hesitates to play endless games of hockey or watch countless episodes of-god forbid-Barney, with him. I have since fallen in love with him all over again, for reasons that others would find very unromantic. Just the fact that he holds my hand as we lie in bed, when I'm exhausted after a full day running around after our son, that he will hold out his arms for Derek who is running hell-bent-for-leather to jump on him when he walks in the door at the end of the day, or when my husband has taken the job of bathing him and putting him to bed all on his own, so that I may have a moment's rest before storytime, has now endeared my husband to me forever, with those new bonds being stronger than any vow of marriage, or declaration of love.

I offer a silent prayer for my husband and me, and for all those mere mortals called parents, who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings. May you always have in your arms the one who is in your heart.

All women are aware of the notion that, once you've given birth to a child, the joy and beauty of that little baby just makes the pain and agony of delivery sort of float away, and you won't really remember it afterward.

I'm here to tell you that's crap.

I remember every detail about my son's birth, from the tense, crampy pain of the beginning labour, to the full blown cut-this-thing-out-of-me-then-kill-me-promptly pain that comes later. I remember recovery, breastfeeding, sleepless nights, and the whole shebang.

My son is now 3, and we've been steadily potty training for about 3 months. Like I've said, while I will never forget the agony of childbirth, I think potty training will surpass it in the memory banks.

Potty training is one of those uncontrollable things, like getting your husband to put down the remote while you're watching "Lost" and he's trying to get updates on the hockey game during every commercial. You ask him to do it, you plead with him to do it, but ultimately, you have little control over whether or not he will do it. It's the same with potty training. No matter how much I cajole, plead, and bribe Derek to please, please, please go on the potty, it's not really up to me, as to whether he will, or invariably, won't.

I hate that.

I've spent evening after evening these last months, sitting on the bathroom floor getting hemmorhoids, while I read Derek book after book and waited for those precious drops to fall into the toilet. Finally now, we are at a point where Derek understands the concept, and can consistently hold his bladder long enough to get to the potty.

I have to admit though, that I've been playing it safe a little bit, by keeping his training pants on overnight, so that he (and I) can sleep well (I know that he isn't quite ready to go a whole night without an accident yet). Except that, whether psychologically, or purposefully, he refuses to go number 2 on the potty, so every morning his training pants are dirty.

We've hit a wall. He's training himself not to go number 2 during the day, which means he's always going at night, which means that I can't take the training pants off (I'm not so cruel a mother that I would purposely instigate nightly rituals that begin with his crying at 3:00 a.m. because he's dirty, then necessitate my having to put him into a bath, change the sheets, and get him dressed in new pajamas, all while I'm swearing and cursing under my breath because neither of us wants to be up for another 3 or 4 hours yet).

So what does a mother do? And when will the agonies end?

What did I ever do before my son was born? I've never had so much joy, laughter, fun, pain, fear, anxiety, as I have since he came along.

Some would ask whether I count the good as outweighing the bad, and after some thought, I would have to reply by saying that the bad is actually part of the good. It may sound weird, but this fear and anxiety that I feel daily as it applies to child rearing, is a good thing (although it may not seem like it at the time). When I worry about Derek and about how I'm doing in my job as a mother to him, I think that this process in itself is making me a better mother. For me to be aware of the mistakes I am making, or wondering and dreaming about his future, means that I am constantly challenging myself to "step up to the plate", and do the very best I can for him.

We had Derek's 3rd birthday party this weekend. Before I go into detail about this completely chaotic experience, let me give some background about past birthday celebrations. When Derek turned 1 year old, and again for his second birthday, we had everyone, friends and family alike, at our home in the basement (it's November, not a sunny warm June, remember). There was no room to breathe, and don't get me wrong, I actually think our basement is pretty large, and accomodating for such events, but even so...Oh my God. I chopped, minced, cooked, baked, and otherwise wore myself out in the kitchen for two weeks before said events, to make sure that I could sufficiently stuff my family full of yummy goodies.

The parties themselves were successful, as everyone expressed their satisfaction with food and entertainment (the kids got glitter glue all over my carpet, that still hasn't come out), and afterwards, I felt like a spent party balloon, my energy simply deflating with a long hiss.

This year was different. I told myself months ago that I wasn't going to wear myself out like that again. I have too many other things to do during November and December, right up until my husband's birthday arrives in early January, to get worn out so early in the game.

We booked a party room at the local indoor jungle gym. For those who will understand, it's like an enormous McDonald's Playland, with the added bonus of extremely expensive and violent arcade games (for our 3rd birthday party, we pretty much skipped the arcade portion of the event).

I was given the option by the convenors, to either have lunch served first, or after the kids have had a chance to run wild within the playground...uh, can you say "stupid question". I of course chose to let the kids eat first. That way I could avoid the obvious problems associated with trying to get ten children back into the lunch room, when they all want to keep playing (hopefully, until either the world ends, or they fall to the ground, from complete exhaustion). It was a good choice. Even before the cardboardy-tasting pizza arrived, the kids were itching to jump into the ball pit, swing from the hanging nets, and slide vicariously down the closed tube slide.

The best thing was, as I watched my son and his little friends enjoying themselves more than any little kid on Christmas morning, I felt no anxiety, and no pressure, but instead a great and vast relief that I did not have to stress over the planning for weeks ahead of time, nor clean up afterward. I wasn't even tired, beyond the minor aches associated with a grown adult crawling through three levels of kid-climbers, to rescue the odd child that can't seem to find his way back down.

It was a blast, but I'll not be doing it again soon. The amount of money spent on this one party was more than enough to last for another three or four years. Derek will just have to live with his memories next year, and the next year, and...

November is a crazy month for me. It is the precursor to an endless Christmas season. November brings three family birthdays to buy for and celebrate...those of my father, my brother and my son...all before I even start to think about buying gifts for Christmas. Most years this has brought a lot of pressure upon me, as I am terribly aware of the bubbling volcano that will finally run over and explode on Christmas day.

However, this year, I'm on top of things. Derek's birthday party has been scheduled and I look forward to watching 10 three year olds run around the play area at my local indoor jungle gym next week (especially because it won't be at MY house), I bought birthday presents for everyone very early, and I'm caught up and sailing smoothly along at work (finally), which means that I have even started to get a handle on the Christmas shopping early this year.

With all that accomplished, I was looking forward to just enjoying the month, as it were, lazily wiling away my remaining free weekend this month, and enjoying a nice home-cooked (because I won't be cooking it) meal to celebrate my family's birthdays. It isn't going to happen that way, scheduling difficulties in trying to get my brother to come and visit (he currently lives about 5 hours from the rest of the family), and the fact that my parents have booked themselves a Mexican vacation this month, mean that even though this is the first year that I have juggled all my little balls very smoothly in the air, and have everything under control, there are still things that are uncontrollable.

I hate that. If ever there was a control freak, it's me. I'm the type of person who cringes inwardly, and has fingernail marks imprinted on my palms as I try to let my 3-year old pick out his own clothes in the morning. It invariably means that he looks like a cross between a cartoon character, and a whino, because he always wants to wear the t-shirt that no longer fits, but he still insists he "needs it" because it has Nemo on it. Then he insists on wearing his favourite jogging pants to school, but doesn't understand why the fact that he wore them yesterday playing in the mud, means that they aren't going to be just as great today.

Such is life I guess, but it's disappointing because I know I'll never be so organized again.

Kristina

It's that time of year...the shopping malls have started to smell of spicy egg nog lattes from Starbucks, and echo the sweet croon of Bing Crosby, and the less interesting sounds of N'Sync and Britney Spears do Christmas. It gets darker a little bit earlier, and the festive lights have started to shine on a few homes as I'm driving home from work at night. Pretty soon, everyone's lights will be up, and I love driving through our neighbourhood at night to see them. I can smell in the air that the snow is on its way, and can envision many an afternoon spent shoveling the driveway and making snowmen with my son.

This is the best time of year (despite the frantic shoppers), because everyone always seems to glow a little bit brighter, their thoughts revolving around family and friends, and with the anticipation of cozy warm nights spent cuddled on the couch in front of a fireplace (or in my case,in front of the t.v. watching "Bob the Builder" with my son...but you get the picture).

I love shopping for my family at Christmas. I try not to buy much, and I like to make crafty little things mostly, but either way, it makes me happy to see how glad they are that I remembered that my mother wanted to read that particular book, or that my sister needed some new clothes for work, and my husband was eyeing a particular woodworking tool at the hardware store.

However, it seems to me that this year especially is a time when we need to remember more than just our families and friends at Christmas. So much has happened this year to others around the world, and you wouldn't be human if you could look the other way and not feel a pang in your heart at the tragedy caused by hurricanes Katrina, and Wilma, the devasation of last year's Tsunami in the Pacific, where people still have no homes, and orphans still cry in the streets, and the conflict still occuring in Iraq and elswhere in the world today, where many Canadian and American soldiers are stationed and won't be home for Christmas with their families.

So this blog is dedicated to those who need help from me-and all of us-this year. It doesn't have to be much, but if we can all remember to send a little something, by way of the many forums available (ie. Canadian Red Cross ; American Red Cross ; Disaster Relief ), then our own Christmas will be that much warmer, brighter, and happier for it.

Kristina

It's funny how, with the onset of October, all of us seem to want to be scared out of our pants (or in the case of my potty training son-pee in them) all of a sudden. October brings happily creepy images of pint-sized ghouls and goblins. It turns out though, that my dreams for a sincerely frightening Halloween get dashed on the rocks of reality.

As I discussed my Halloween plans with friends, family, neighbours, and heck-even strangers I met in the bank and the grocery store, I realized that every kid under the age of 12 was dressing up as either a princess, with some variations into the realm of fairies, or Walt Disney characters-for girls, and cartoon heroes like spiderman, batman and some sponge bobs-for boys...thereby taking all of the fun out of Halloween.

What happened to all my little ghouls? Even my own son deserted me. He wanted to be either a cowboy (at least it's traditional), or a monkey (which at least would have still been original).

Come on people...this is the only time of the year when we as a society can completely embrace our pagan roots, without fear of eternal damnation, or some kind of latent guilt complex remaining from our inhibited Quaker antecedents. Why do you think Hollywood cranks out a hundred new horror movies every September/October? It isn't for the Academy Awards, but because we want to be scared at this time of year. It shakes us out of our complacent, safe little lives just that little bit to get us through the endless throngs of people in the malls throughout the Christmas season.

However..to let up just a little bit, my little Cowboy (that's eventually what he decided, although after I bought the hat and made the vest, he wanted to switch back to a monkey, which was met with a hysterical episode by me) was the cutest non-ghoul on two (2) feet. Too bad there really aren't any pictures to post in this venue.

Kristina.

Have you ever heard of the expression "time management"? In a busy law practice, time management is essential, and without it I would be out of a job, and needing to rely on the pathetic skills developed in university while working as a retail sales clerk.

Deadlines grab you by the throat, even before you've had a chance to breathe, and without my trusty daytimer, I'd be lost. Ahhh, my daytimer...truly a thing of beauty. There are many ways to keep track of appointments and deadlines in any office. Many people these days use a computer scheduler, and I've tried it, but I prefer my daytimer. It's situated on my desk in such a spot as to be constantly accessible and visual, and I found that the computer program couldn't be visual when I was on the computer in other programs, working diligently.

However, it isn't enough to simply input your deadlines into a daytimer, you've got to have a system, so that at a quick glance, you can immediately tell the types of things you're looking at for your day. For example, my personal reminders are entered in red ink (that way I am daily reminded about my pathetic social life), while work-related reminders are in blue, and deadlines are entered in green. Additonally, when something gets marked off as being completed, it is highlighted in yellow, while deadlines that get adjourned, postponed, or cancelled, are highlighted in orange. By the end of the year, you can leaf through my book and it looks a little bit like a colouring book, but it's very effective.

It's too bad that type of thing doesn't work at home also. But you just can't put your home life into a daytimer, especially with a 3 year old. Schedules too often get changed. Plans are made, unmade, and then made again, and your list of deadlines (or in this case-shopping, chores, and soccer practices, etc.) would be 50 pages long just for one day. Not to mention that while my daytimer has a place of importance on my desk which makes it easy to reach any time of the day, at home it'd be lost in ten minutes (I'd find it 3 days later in a laundry basket, underneath a pile of clothes that had been washed 5 days before that).

Normally, my paranoid, neurotic nature would scream at this disorganization, but it's amazing how much I really don't care as much about the "schedule" at home, as long as we are all having fun together...and isn't that what home is all about.

Kristina

"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you." (Kahlil Gibran)

Oh yeah? Well Kahlil Gibran can kiss my…Wait…I mean: How inspirational!

The funny thing is, at one time, that poem would have really spoken to me. I can just imagine myself handing out flyers with that poem on it to my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents of my friends, and so on, to try to make them recognize my distinct teenage individuality.

Now I read it, and I feel guilty, the way you do when you know there's a sink full of dishes and a thousand loads of laundry to do, but you’ve turned on the TV and crashed on the couch anyway.

I known, though, that Derek is his own person, it's in every mispronounced word out of his cute little mouth, and in every fairy tale about dinosaurs and monsters that he makes up in his head. But still..he's mine, right? I catch myself feeling so possessive. Like just before bed, when he's all cleaned up, and smelling of bath soap and feels cozier than hot chocolate on a rainy night, I tuck him in and read his story, and we spend ten minutes talking about his day. He gives me a great big bear hug and says "see you later" as I turn out the light and close the door.

It makes me sad sometimes, because I know that there will come a time (not too distant) when those affectionate interludes will not be welcome by him, when he'll be "too old" for the cuddling of his mama.

Even now, Derek is his own person whose social interactions aren't really mine to dictate as they were before. He talks to people, and I try to stop myself from whispering "Don't forget to say "Please" and "thank you!" because even as I'm saying it to myself under my breath, he's saying it out loud already. So I try to hang back more (which comes about as naturally to me as rocket science) and let his own character shine through.

Like when we were at his cousin's birthday party, and everyone was painting their flower pots and making crafts, but Derek was off in the play room putting the spiderman doll to bed in the toy crib, and reading him a story about a dinosaur named Eddy. Part of me wanted to tell him to come back and colour like the rest of the kids, but another part of me (and thankfully, the stronger part), found no reason to force activities onto him when he was obviously having fun doing other things (and not bothering anyone else).

And so, even as Derek is learning, growing, and developing, so do I, as I learn the best ways to deal with him and encourage his growth. Let's just hope I'm not screwing it up so badly that his therapist is going to take out a warrant for my arrest when he's 30.

Kristina

Blessed me

I am truly blessed, and will be the first to admit it. I have a very beautiful, intelligent, happy and healthy boy.

I don't remember thinking about my "adult" life when I was a little girl, not like some others who had their wedding planned out before they were five years old, the husband shining brightly in their starry eyes by the time they were twelve, and a giggling little baby swimming in the ether of their fantasies while they were babsitting other people's kids.

Instead, I remember thinking of my high-powered, fast-paced life as a lawyer (god forbid), probably living in some other exotic country (where you ask? let's say Tibet, do they need lawyers in Tibet?). There were probably men in these fantasies too, especially as I entered that sexually-frustrated phase of my late-teen years, but no specifics ever really crystallized.

And as for babies, I can honestly say the thought never entered my head. I just wasn't the type to be awed by the googly-faced, drooly little monsters.

However, I guess a time comes for most people...after you've found that special partner...when you begin to think that you might have matured enough to handle parenthood (whenever think you've come to this point, please give yourself at least another two years...because trust me-you're not ready).

I have recently had the opportunity to visit my dear friend in the hospital, after she gave birth to her own second child...a beautiful baby boy. Since she gladly entered her second pregnancy, the questions began..."when will you have another child?"..."are you sure you're not ready for another one?".

Granted, some of the foregoing may have you believing that my convictions on the issue of children are somewhat wishy-washy, given that I didn't initially seem to want any. However, let's get something straight here...THERE'S NO WAY I'M HAVING ANOTHER BABY.

Don't get me wrong, I love Derek, and I wouldn't change a thing about him, and even if part of me thought sometimes in a small corner of my mind that it would be nice to round things off with a little girl, none of these feelings are strong enough to motivate me to actually go through another pregnancy, birth and the sleeplessness of early-babyhood.

I guess part of it is also due to the fact that Derek is now entering that amazing age of discovery, learning and progression that means we (my husband and I) have some more freedom again ourselves. For example, just recently Derek decided that he didn't need any help to maneuver down the stairs to the basement and turn the tv on so as to watch cartoons. Do you have any idea what this means to me? It means that if he doesn't want to spend time in the kitchen with us while we're getting dinner ready in the evening, he can do things by himself now, and I don't have to put up with whiny, cranky Derek (although this rarely happens, because he loves to "help" in the kitchen, which naturally means that crockery gets broken almost every time).

At first, it's kind of a letdown, let me tell you, to know that as each day passes, your child "needs" you less and less for those mundane things, and that soon he'll be moving out with his tongue-pierced, pink-haired girlfriend, and skipping his classes to get drunk in the afternoon. But then it really penetrates, and you realize that you can have a life again, and that even planning things to do with your child gets easier, because he can be involved in so many more activities.

Some may call me selfish, but I'm good with life the way it is now. I was never big on change anyway.

Kristina

Our Family Thanksgiving Trip to Algonquin Park

You would think that Thanksgiving anywhere in the world would be filled with lots of extended family, warm homes with Turkeys in the oven, potatoes, and zippers being opened over full bellies...and that's true for me as well, to an extent.

Every family holiday that I've ever had has been spent this way. Whether it be Thanksgiving, Easter, Christmas, or whatever "special" occasion my mother can cook up as an excuse to have everyone over for dinner.

Usually, this is a good thing (as Martha would put it). Who could complain? Well this has been a long year...starting with a tough Spring. My husband and I have attended two family funerals this year, which took a lot out of us. Then came the long, hot summer, with no relief for the wicked. Instead of running out of town to enjoy the summer traffic jams heading up to cottage country, we decided to renovate our bathroom, which took a lot more out of us.

So now, with Thanksgiving looming on the horizon, hope had sprung in my tired old heart. Should we resign ourselves to another busy weekend, travelling back and forth between the in-laws for an endless round of visiting, as has always been done? (Not to mention that I could just see my sister picking up the phone to ask us to help her move into her new house, because she's "smartly" chosen the long weekend to do this, so as to have an extra day to unpack.)

No...not this holiday. I begged and pleaded with my husband to "take back Thanksgiving". We ran to the computer to look up travel packages for beautiful, peaceful cottages in Algonquin Park.

Finally, the weekend arrived (here in Canada, Thanksgiving was October 9, 2005). We hit the car and defied speed limits to make our way north. It was the most beautiful weekend of my existence. We had amazing weather, my 3-year old son practically swooned with joy to go fishing with daddy, and we took long walks in the woods, surrounded by trees and lots and lots of coloured leaves.

The funniest part, of course, was when I decided to relax in the super-deep bathtub equipped with high-powered water jets. Leaning back in beautiful, scalding hot water, I turned on the jets, only to have the water spraying into my face, out of the tub, across the room and all over the floor. My husband rushes into the bathroom to see why I am screaming with laughter, only to be caught full in the face by flying water himself. You should have seen it.

All in all, it was completely worth leaving home and family for a weekend away. I wouldn't necessarily do it again very soon, we would never get away with ditching everyone again, but everyone should do it...take some time for yourselves, and don't worry about the family "obligations".

Kristina

On the subject of my status as an un-cook, it comes to mind that I have been getting away with domestic murder, as it were.

For a married woman, with child, and a home to keep (let's not forget the 9-5 full time job in busy law firm...but still), I have been immensely lucky in that, I never have to cook (unless, like recently, I have chosen to do so...which doesn't happen often).

My husband, beautiful-strong-protective type that he is, loves to cook. He makes breakfast in the mornings, and on weekends that means amazing food like pancakes, bacon/eggs, etc. He also packs my lunch for work (although contrary to his usually excellent deduction skills, he hasn't yet seemed to realize that the apples, pears, plums and other "good for you" foods always seem to still be in my bag at the end of the day).

Dinner is another example of the heaven-sent man that he is. He teaches, which usually means that he gets home a lot earlier in the evening than I do, after work. This also means that I will often come home to amazing smells eminating from my kitchen. It's a wonderfully orgasmic feeling to come home and smell a good meal that you haven't had to cook yourself (another reason I bought a slow-cooker).

In return, I usually take care of most of the other household-ery chores, like the laundry, dishes, etc. I don't mind at all, especially considering that I tackle these tasks about twice a week, but he cooks for me three times a day.

Have I mentioned how great he is?

(Next week: How horrible my husband is)

Kristina