Remembering my Father

Today would have been my father’s 60th birthday. I say would have been because my father died in early February, 1993, at 43 years old. So today marks not only 60 years since he was born, but also the point at which I have lived for as long without him in my life as I did with him.

I did not have an easy relationship with my dad. In many ways he never really grew up himself, and I think he struggled to parent someone else. At one moment he would be really easy-going, laid back and fun, and at the next he would be angry and unyielding. He had demons, and in spite of all of his best efforts he never fully exorcised them.

My parents separated in 1988, and divorced a few years later. Following the separation I didn’t see much of my father. I was a teenager, and hardly all that easy to get along with myself. In the way that teenage girls are wont to do I cast my dad as the bad guy in all of my internal dramas. I was 16 when he died, alone. My grandparents found him some days later. I can’t recall the last time I saw him, it was many months before he died at minimum. Our only contact was over the phone, and usually the calls weren’t pleasant or friendly.

But that is not the whole story. The other side of the story is that my dad was friendly and talented. People who met him liked him for his unconventionality. All of the other kids thought that he was cool with his brightly-coloured, mis-matched Converse sneakers and his Hawaiian shirts. He was a self-taught goldsmith who made the most amazing jewelry in the studio at the back of our house. He was an entrepreneur and an acclaimed artist and artisan, and he cared the world for my sister and I, even if he didn’t always know how to show it.

I made my peace with my father, or at least my father’s memory, more than 15 years ago. I accepted that things likely would never have been easy for us. He would never be the dad I wanted him to be. That’s the nature of life – you play the hand you’re dealt and make the best of it. I think that I have managed to do that, for the most part. My dad helped me to become the person that I am today, and I’m grateful for that. Sometimes the best things come out of the hard parts of life, which is what makes it all worthwhile. The struggle is what refines and focuses us, and makes us strong.

I learned a lot of things from my dad. He taught me about rocks and nature and music from the early 1970s. He taught me who I am, and more importantly sometimes, who I am not. Because of him I learned that I am responsible only for my own actions, and I cannot control the outcome of every situation. And I learned about loss and grief, in a way that I hope my own children will not have to. Because I plan to see my 44th (and, for that matter, my 84th) birthday.

Today I am wearing an old brown sweater that I took from my dad’s house after he died. And I am remembering the man who is responsible for my very existence with mixed emotions. I think that’s OK. Real life is not as simple and tidy as we would like it to be, and so memories aren’t, either. I have made my peace with that, too.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Remembering the Montreal Massacre

At approximately 4pm on December 6, 1989 an armed gunman* entered the engineering school at École Polytechnique in Montreal, Quebec. He entered a classroom and separated the 9 female students from the approximately 50 male students. He ordered the men to leave, and then shot the women, killing 6 and wounding 3. He claimed that he was fighting feminism, and he believed that female engineers personified what he was fighting against. The gunman then proceeded across the campus, killing another 8 women and wounding an additional 7 women and 4 men before shooting himself.

I know that incidents like this have sadly been repeated many times since, with many other targets. Places like Columbine, Virginia Tech, Dawson College and Knoxville Unitarian Universalist Church have been coloured by violence in the same way that École Polytechnique was. Mercifully, these events are actually very rare, although I certainly wish that none of them had ever happened.

I myself entered engineering school less than 5 years after that day in 1989. Because of that some part of me feels like the Montreal Massacre is my incident. I have sat in many rooms, at school and at work, where there were 50 men and 9 women. And while I would not say that I have encountered overt or undue discrimination, I would also say that it has always been apparent to me that my choice to pursue engineering is unusual. That it sets me apart, in some small way. And that because of it I feel a particular kinship with the women who were killed.

Today, I remember them.

Geneviève Bergeron, 21
Hélène Colgan, 23
Nathalie Croteau, 23
Barbara Daigneault, 22
Anne-Marie Edward, 21
Maud Haviernick, 29
Barbara Maria Klucznik, 31
Maryse Leclair, 23
Annie St.-Arneault, 23
Michèle Richard, 21
Maryse Laganière, 25
Anne-Marie Lemay, 22
Sonia Pelletier, 28
Annie Turcotte, 21

It is my greatest hope that we can create a world that is free of this kind of violence, gender-based or otherwise. I believe that it is possible, and that only we can do it.

* Yes, I know the gunman’s name. I have not used it, because I am remembering his victims here, not him.

It Was 20 Years Ago Today

September 5, 1989 was a big day for me. I was thirteen years old and it was my first day of junior high. Nerves were running very high, and not just mine. That gymnasium packed full of new grade 8 students was chock full of nervous energy. We all looked around, sizing each other up. Who was the best looking? Who was the best dressed? How could we bolster our own social status in this new environment? At the time it all seemed very scary and important. Getting it wrong could ruin your whole life.

In the midst of the sweaty palms and the raging adolescent hormones I met a very important person. Of course, I didn’t recognize it at the time. When the guy who had the locker next to mine asked me how to work the combination lock I had no idea that I had just said hello to my husband and the father of my children. However, I do love to be the holder of information, so I was more than happy to show him the old twice to the right, once to the left trick.

Truthfully, I spent most of my time that day, and most days, ogling Mr. Dreamboat. He was the cutest boy in grade 8, and he just happened to be in my home room. Fate? I thought so. Of course, the fact that approximately 15 other boys, including Jon, were in my home room was meaningless coincidence.

I don’t remember a lot about junior high. I think I’ve deliberately blocked a lot of memories out of my mind. And who can blame me? It’s a highly awkward time on so many levels. But I wake up every morning beside a souvenir from my days of braces and teased bangs, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Hair metal may be gone, and MC Hammer may be a bankrupt reality TV star. But I carry a piece of 1989 with me wherever I go, whatever I do.

(And if you were also 13 or thereabouts in 1989, you won’t have to click on that link to know which song I’m referencing, because you slow danced to it in a high school gym just like I did.)

Looking at our grade 8 yearbook photos, I think I can see why love didn’t blossom immediately. Although, in my defense, that hair was considered the height of fashion at Abbotsford Junior in 1989. I swear it.

Happy 1st Birthday Jacob!

Today I’m taking a break from the Carnival of Maternity Leave to celebrate baby Jacob’s birthday. He was born at 3:11pm on August 13, 2008. I can’t believe it’s already been a year!

I considered a few ways to go here. I could wax poetic about all that’s happened during the past year. I could talk about how this day last year felt to me, when I welcomed my son. (Although, if you want to know more about that you can go back and read all three parts of his birth story.) Or I could talk about the changes Jacob has brought to our family. Instead, I decided to share with you what Jacob is like right now. What it’s like to live with my one-year-old.

Jacob’s little feet on the day he was born

Jacob is very different from Hannah. He’s deliberate and focused on a whole other level. I find his level of concentration surprising for a one-year-old. For example, he will play for 5 minutes straight with a toy and bucket. The toy goes inside the bucket. The toy comes out. They switch hands. The toy goes back in. There is shaking of both objects separately, and together. He wants to know everything he can about the toy and the bucket.

Jacob will do his own thing. Of course he’s only one so he’s not exactly heading to the store to pick up milk, but he will play independently for 10 or 15 minutes at a stretch. Trust me when I say that this is a huge bonus for me. He’ll even do things like wander off in pursuit of adventure. Then he’ll hide and wait for me to find him. When I finally spot him around the corner of the bed he breaks into peals of laughter. He sets the tone of the play and chooses the game.

Jacob’s little foot at 11 1/2 months

The concentration and independence have been a dangerous combination. When Jacob is engaged in independent concentration he discovers all kinds of new ways to put himself at risk. For example, he climbs up and down stairs. He can open the toilet lid and the sliding screen door. He’s figured out that if he shakes the cupboard door enough it defeats the babyproofing latch we have in place. He will crawl into the kitchen while I’m cooking, get up on Hannah’s step stool, and stand at the counter. His abilities far outstrip his ability to understand the risk he’s putting himself in.

Jacob is friendly and easy going. He seems to believe that everyone loves him and he knows how to turn on the charm, too. He hangs out in the baby carrier and he naps on my back. He eats quickly and well, and while he loves me he’s also happy with most any other adoring audience he can track down. I had a lot of fears about having a second baby, but for the most part my little man has made it easy. Part of it is that I am more relaxed, but I have to give Jacob his due. He’s content to be along for the ride as long as you throw the occasional smile or piece of banana his way.

Jacob with his favourite stick in the garden

Jacob is starting to assert his will. He’s learned a few sounds (I would hesitate to call them words) that he uses to communicate his desire. If he’s upset or wants me he yells. He points at things that interest him and cries if something is taken away. He will bat your hand away or try to escape if you’re doing something he doesn’t like, such as washing his face. He’s a fledgling toddler and he’s not shy about letting you know if he’s unhappy.

Jacob took his first steps on Sunday, but hasn’t tried walking since. Although he’s been cruising around holding onto furniture for 4 months he’s hesitant to walk unless he’s holding on to something. It surprises me given his complete lack of caution on every other front. He waves and he claps. He has 6 teeth and crazy hair. And he is totally amazing. This past year has gone way, way, way too fast. Happy birthday to my boy!

When I Was Young and Childless

I love my children to pieces. They are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. But like a lot of parents I look back on my carefree youth wistfully. I didn’t appreciate how good I had it before I had kids. Here are some of the things I miss from my child-free days:

1. Sleeping in. What I wouldn’t give to just lay in bed uninterrupted for as long as I wanted.

2. Cute summer dresses. I have been nursing almost non-stop for over 4 years. Yes, you can find cute nursing dresses. But they’re expensive and you have to mail order them. The result is that I haven’t worn a cute summer dress in a very long time.

3. Afternoon reading. I used to spend weekend afternoons curled up with a good book. This is pretty much impossible with a 4-year-old and a 10-month-old constantly vying for my attention. Sigh.

4. Having two free hands. Sometimes the most basic tasks just feel totally impossible when I have a baby on my hip. Thank heavens for baby carriers or I would never get anything done!

5. Grown-up music. I listen to a lot of Raffi and Wiggles these days. ‘Nough said!

6. Eating junk food. Back in my kid-free days I could just decide to eat a chocolate bar if and when I felt like it. Now I’m trying to set a good example. Plus, it’s impossible to eat a treat in front of a preschooler and not share. I need to sneak treats, and it’s rather tedious sometimes.

7. Weekend getaways. I would like to be able to drive someplace for the weekend without risking a screaming baby and having to pack more gear than our car can hold. Plus, there’s nothing terribly relaxing about vacationing with children.

8. Singing. I used to sing in a choir. I would now, too, except the choir practice doesn’t mesh with the kids’ schedule. I miss it, and I really look forward to the day I can take it up again.

9. Easy shopping. I used to try on shoes just for kicks, or take leisurely trips to the grocery store. But now there’s just so much crying and whining. Please can I just have the Dora fruit snacks? How about these cookies? Please-please-please-please-please! And don’t even get me started parking lots. Toddlers and parking lots will be the death of me.

Jon and I in Nova Scotia, on our last big trip pre-kids

Oh, how I wish I’d enjoyed my freedom more while it lasted. What about you? If you could go back in time what would you appreciate more than you could ever have imagined?

A Blogging Retrospective

This past Monday was the 6th anniversary of Strocel.com. Jon originally created the site as a gift for me, and as a place to chronicle our home buying and renovation experience. And that was what the early days were mostly about – the suburban castle we have called home since 2003. Check out Jon doing some painting in early June, a few days after we took possession:

After the house came the cat. Dorothy came home in September of 2003, 1 1/2 pounds of fluff and cute as could be. Who would have guessed that inside this sweet kitten lurked such a bad attitude?

Life settled into something of an equilibrium, and we slowly recovered from the emotional and financial strain of the home renovation. We decided we needed a vacation, and visited Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. It was lovely.

The vacation was also something of a last fling, because within a month of our return in July 2004 we discovered we were expecting Hannah. Or the baby who turned out to be Hannah. She was due the following April.

My sister got married in Las Vegas on Valentine’s Day of 2005. In spite of my advanced pregnant state, I decided to attend.

Sadly, I brought back more than I bargained for, since 3 days after my return I was in early labour. On February 19, 2005 Hannah was born at 34 weeks gestation, and lab tests showed that I had an amniotic infection. My best guess is the stress of the travel did it. Life as we knew it no longer existed, because we were suddenly parents.

Some blurry years followed, probably the best and worst of my life. Together our little family made it through. And then in either a flash of brilliance or a case of total delusion, we decided to do it all again. After some difficulty conceiving we found out in December 2007 that we were expecting again, in mid August of 2008.

Luckily, things were much less eventful this time around. I gave birth to baby Jacob a few days before my due date, on August 13, 2008. And we were a family of four.

All of this, and much more, has been chronicled here. I love to look back through the archives and read my thoughts when I was pregnant with Hannah, or remember how terrified I was when we bought this house. If I keep up the blog for no one else it is worthwhile for me. And hopefully not too terribly embarrassing for everyone else.

When Jon created this site back in 2003 I had my doubts. I didn’t understand blogs. I understood websites, but blogs weren’t really mainstream yet. I insisted that we have a separate landing page. Jon rolled his eyes but humoured me. I also insisted that we have separate blogs, and so we did for the first year or two. It explains some of the redundancy of our early posts, since those two blogs were combined into one during one of our re-designs. It makes me laugh to think how much things have changed. I’m very grateful now that my husband dragged me along in spite of my reluctance.

And I’m grateful to those of you who visit me here, read, and share your thoughts. I hope you’ll still be with me in another 6 years.

Eighteen Years and Two Kids Later

My husband Jon and I have been together for a long time. It’s eighteen years today, in fact, that he asked me to ‘go out’ with him. That was in 1991, and I was a few days shy of my 15th birthday. It feels like a lifetime ago, and it sort of is. We are certainly completely different people today than we were on that day eighteen years ago.

I met Jon in September of 1989, on our first day of grade 8. His locker was beside mine, and I taught him how to open the lock. It was hardly love at first sight. Although I liked Jon, I had my eye on the same boy that every other girl in grade 8 did. (My good friend Heather knows exactly who I mean and is now nodding in agreement, I’m sure of it.)

With our friend Jim, March 1991

Another friend and I spent our time together trying to work up the courage to call Mr. Dreamboat, but could never do it. Although I think I made it so far as to hang up on his mother once. Well played, Amber. Anyways, when not calling Mr. Dreamboat got old, we would call Jon, because he wasn’t so scary. And then we would talk and talk and talk.

Jon listens well, and knows a little bit about a lot of things, so he’s always been a great conversationalist. Plus he has never felt the need to prove his intelligence at your expense, which is rare enough in adults but almost unheard of in 13-year-old boys. I told my partner in telephone crime that I thought I would marry someone like Jon Strocel some day. But only someone like him, not Jon himself because I didn’t think he was all that attractive.

In Harrison Hot Springs in 1999

But then we all went away at the end of grade 8 and by the time we returned in September Jon was 4 inches taller, with a deeper voice and some slight razor burn. And that changed things considerably. When we were cast in the school play together and he started flirting, I reciprocated. After all, I was 14, and it all seemed like harmless fun. I was certainly not thinking marriage and children and a mortgage, I was thinking maybe I would have someone to go to the big dance with.

To my great surprise, I found marriage and children and a mortgage, and a whole lot more. We’ve shared our lives since we were 14 years old. In the years since we’ve learned to drive, graduated from high school, gotten our first ‘real’ jobs, attended university, moved away from home and back again, and on and on. We’ve gone from being kids ourselves to a married couple living in the ‘burbs with two cars, two lovely kids, and a cat with a bad attitude. Through it all I’ve known that someone has my back, someone knows me better than I know myself, someone is there when I need to talk or need a shoulder to cry on.

Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia in 2004

There have been times in the past 18 years when I wasn’t certain that this is what I wanted for myself. What if we were together only because we didn’t know any better? What if there was something better out there for me? Did I need to spend some time on my own to truly know who I was? I struggled with these questions particularly during my first years at university. After I spent a few months in Ottawa in 1996, though, the answer came clear. I wanted to be near Jon all the time. I had found ‘it’, whatever it is, and I couldn’t just squander that. I’m endlessly glad that I didn’t.

And our story has a happy ending because Jon and I are where we should be, and so is Mr. Grade 8 Dreamboat. He was at our 10-year high school reunion, and has a great life of his own. He’s happily married, is employed in a great job, and has a lovely baby. Thank heavens I never worked up the nerve to call him. Sometimes it all works out for the best in the end.

Buffet Love

I love a buffet. I always have. Piles of food of all kinds laid before you. Plates that could never possibly be big enough to hold it all. Finding a bunch of items you really love and never make. It feels like the world’s your oyster.

As a child the buffet held a particular appeal. For one thing, there’s no waiting at a buffet restaurant. You don’t need to be still for 15 or 20 minutes to peruse menus, order, and wait for your food. For another, at buffets you have total control over what you eat. Once I was old enough to serve myself my mother was no longer involved in my food choices when I was at a buffet. And the desserts – oh, the desserts. I especially loved it when they had a ‘build your own sundae’ station. So. Good.

There are a few food items that seemed to be staples at the buffets I frequented in my childhood. These were not what you would call fine cuisine. But all the same I loved them. Some of my favourites were jelly salad (shredded cabbage in green jello), meatballs, cheese cubes, and those oven roasted potato wedges. Oh, and pickled herring. Yes, I love pickled herring. I might have been a picky eater at home, but at a buffet I piled my plate high with foods that didn’t remotely belong together. And of course, I always took seconds.

Photo courtesy Matt Hinsa on Flickr

I seem to remember more buffet restaurants dotting the landscape of my hometown back in the ’80s. Only they were usually called smorgasbords or salad bars. (Although once a ’salad bar’ includes fried chicken and cheesecake I think you’ve crossed the line, myself.) I’ve considered the possibility that they’re still around and I just don’t eat at the same sorts of restaurants anymore, but I don’t think that’s it entirely. Places that used to have them, like the Keg or even Wendy’s, don’t anymore. I think it’s actually a shift, at least in my area.

Perhaps the demise of the buffet is related to increasing concerns about food safety. I wouldn’t doubt it, those fears are probably well-founded. Keeping the food sufficiently hot and preventing cross-contamination isn’t easy. Google ‘buffet food poisoning’ and you’ll find more alarming articles than you can shake a stick at. Or perhaps it’s one too many university students viewing the ‘all you can eat’ promise as a personal challenge. I don’t really know.

Of course there are some areas where the buffet is still going strong. The Indian buffet has become a local mainstay. Las Vegas buffets are legendary. And brunch. Oh, the buffet brunch. Two meals in one, and always lots of hash browns. I do love a good hash brown. Sometimes they even have omelette stations. Really, what’s not to love?

I’m feeling rather nostalgic. Although I will concede that the food quality at many of my childhood buffets was sorely lacking. It’s sort of like fast food, really. On the one hand, it’s neither good nor good for you. On the other hand, it’s sort of comforting. As it is, with their disappearance my memories will have to do. Which is possibly for the best – I’m sure that real life and lukewarm potatoes would pale in contrast to my own recollections.

Roch Voisine, je t’aime

I’ve been writing far too many serious blog posts lately. Designer babies! Breastfeeding! Gender! Teaching your children money management! In fact, I was going to post about the auto industry and the economic crisis today. Really. Like the world needs even more words dedicated to the whole fiasco. So instead I’m changing the pace a bit.

If you were a Canadian girl in 1990 or so, or if you have ever spent time in French Canada, then you know who Roch Voisine is. But maybe you haven’t had the pleasure. So I will now take the time to introduce you to my school girl crush, the man who inspired me to pull out my French-English dictionary and learn that sable means sand. Oh yes, I was sophisticated and wordly. I chose someone who sang in a whole other language while some of you were ga-ga over the New Kids.

Roch Voisine is a French Canadian actor and musician, born and raised in New Brunswick. (Fun fact – New Brunswick is Canada’s only officially bilingual province!) His Wikipedia page has all sorts of info about him, but here are just a few highlights:

- Roch was born on March 26, 1963
- Roch wanted to be a hockey player until he was injured (playing baseball!) in 1981
- Roch graduated from the University of Ottawa in 1985 with a degree in physical therapy
- In 1988 Roch hosted Top Jeunesse, a French-Canadian variety show for teenagers
- In 1991 France awarded Roch with the Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres
- In 1997 Roch was made an officer of the Order of Canada
- Roch has two sons, Killian born in 2004 and Alix-Élouan born in 2006

And of course, Roch sings the best song ever, Hélène.

And, not as good, but there’s an English version too.

My friend brought me one of his tapes home from Quebec when I was 14, and I played that thing to death. Yes, it’s a touch cheesy, but I was 14. And also the man is French. Come on ladies, you have to admit the accent lends a certain je ne sais quoi. I think I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Roch Voisine.

Photo courtesy RV International Inc.

Four Years On

Hannah will turn 4 years old at 4:00 pm this afternoon. And I will celebrate 4 years of motherhood. 4 years of amazing milestones and life-altering moments. 4 years of sleepless nights and early mornings. 4 years of blinding love. 4 years of wondering when I will find myself again while feeling slightly off-balance when I’m not with Hannah. 4 years of wiping tears and kissing knees. 4 years of wrestling with hair elastics. The craziest 4 years of my life.

As exciting as it is to watch Hannah grow up, and as much as I love having this little person in my life, it’s all happening far too quickly. I will never be able to look at my kid without wondering what happened to that little 5-pound bundle that we brought home from the hospital. I mean, I know exactly what happened. But also, somehow, I don’t. Because as trite as it sounds it doesn’t seem like it happened 4 years ago.

So what is she like, my 4-year-old? She loves to make people laugh, and her favourite jokes involve toilet humour. She jumps into things head-first, throwing caution to the wind (much to my chagrin). She loves to move and climb and jump and run. She’s a princess and a crime-fighter, a big sister and still very much a little girl. She likes to hold my hand, and build things, and play imagination games. She loves the Wiggles and the Disney princesses. She loves her mom and dad and baby brother. And we love her back, fiercely and in a way I didn’t understand until that day 4 years ago when she came into my life.

Happy Birthday, Hannah!