3 Years and Counting

3 years ago I was anxiously awaiting the birth of our second child. Based on the old wives tale that second babies come early, I had my bag packed and waiting by the door. I was marvelling over my impossibly large stomach and doing my best to take every moment I could to enjoy my baby girl who was about to become a big sister. Whenever I slept I dreamed of who this little person would be. Probably active, I would think, as baby kicked the daylights out of me. For such tiny feet, baby could really move. I was still trying to guess if this baby was a boy or a girl. I had a feeling I knew that part. But what else about this active little person? Big? Small? Quiet? Noisy?

On February 28th, 2009, we found out. About a week and a half overdue, our first son was born. A healthy 8lbs 7oz little man. All chub and rolls and sweetness. He was, as I recall, a very calm baby. His big sister adored him from the moment she layed eyes on him. The little mother in her was born that day too. I remember his delivery really well. Our doctor, who later became our family doctor, came in with a mood of patience and humour, exactly what I needed. By the time I was pushing I was grinning like a fool (oh epidural, you have your up side!) and making jokes between pushes. I had a mirror set up so I could watch him come out. I had said during our older daughter's birth that the last thing I wanted to do was see to the way everything looked when a baby came out, but braved it for our son. I'm so grateful I did. (Mind you, I didn't use the mirror for the next two, I had seen all I needed to see.)  I even touched the top of his head as he started to come out. His birth was empowering, beautiful, and exciting. I had a feeling he was a boy, so when my husband announced him by name after he was born I wasn't surprised, but still deeply overjoyed to see our first son. Named for his Granddad, his Daddy, and St. Francis, he has lived up to the potential of three such wonderful names.

In the years since then our boy has surprised me, scared me, and taught me so much. He is a tender hearted soul and very sensitive, but he's also so bold and particular. He likes things his way, but is also so sweet and considerate with everyone he meets (after he's finished saying 'no'). We've had two more children since his birth and he has become a wonderful big brother. He's very protective of his baby brother and sister, and loves to give them hugs and get them their toys. It's not all roses, mind you. Besides the fact that for a year he has been 2 years old (I know, I know. Of course!), he has also put us through the ringer with some health scares. I remember so clearly the long day when I had to sit with him in the hospital while nurses and doctors fussed over him, an IV sticking out of his tiny arm. He was so little and pale. I wanted so badly to scoop him up and take all his pain away. My husband and I poured out a sea of desperate prayers in those days for answers and healing. We thank God every day that his health improved and he's back to his button-pushing, heart-melting ways.

It's hard to believe that in 3 short years our little man has become a person that I cannot live without. From the moment that the test showed two lines I loved him with my whole heart. I am so grateful to have him in my life every day, even though I'm pretty sure he might be personally responsible for my growing patch of white hair. I can't imagine my life or my family without him. So, as we approach his third birthday, I'll keep saying my daily prayers of thanksgiving for him, and who he is for me and for our family. Happy Birthday, little man. Mommy loves you. Always and forever.

Battle Scars

After writing a post about teaching our daughters to always believe in their own beauty, I couldn't help but reflect that my reaction to the idea of my own beauty was not quite the same as that of my 4 year old daughter. When we tell her she's beautiful, she truly believes us and skips off joyfully, undoubtedly pleased with herself. My reaction isn't so cut and dry. I'm sure most of you can predict the mental hoops I jump through every time someone calls me beautiful, pretty or even cute. Unlike my daughter, I don't automatically agree and say thank you. And I certainly don't skip away. I may skulk though.

I go through my mental list of what I consider to be flaws at lightning speed. Yes, I'm beautiful except for my greasy hair, my possibly dirty clothes, the big bags under my eyes, not to mention my flabby middle section covered with long stretch marks. Given time, I'm sure I could easily fill this whole blog with descriptions about every part of my body that I don't like. I'm only 29 but my body has been ravaged by four pregnancies clustered over four years. I'm pretty sure that if I were on display in public the quiet whispers in the crowd would center around the idea of a woman who has let herself go. That's part of the human condition for both men and women. We self judge and the theme is rarely positive. Unlike my 4 year old daughter, the first thing on my mind isn't how pretty my hair is, or how much I like the dress I'm wearing (if I was wearing a dress instead of pajamas anyway).

I think in this instance I need to follow my daughter's lead. I need to learn to embrace her innocence. The other day when I was helping her get dressed, I noticed a jagged little scar on her knees. She saw me looking and smiled. She then proceeded to proudly tell me how she got the scar with great pride. She had simply tripped and scraped it at her grandparents' house, but told me the story like it was a great adventure. She recalled every detail about the special attention she'd received and that she got to wear a bandaid. She didn't remark upon the fact that her skin was no longer perfect. She has no problem wearing shorts or dresses even though her little scar is visible. For her that scar is a badge of honour, a battle scar earned during a grand adventure.

Why can't I try to look at myself that way? I may not look my best now. I am worn out and my body tells the tale with every glance. But, rather than judge the appearance, maybe I need to remember the hows and the whys of how I came to look this way. My eyes have bags under them because I was up very early feeding my baby girl. I may be a little greasy, but that's because I was working hard making bread with the kids. My clothes are dirty, but only because I spilled jelly on them while making lunch and haven't stopped moving long enough to change them (let alone take a shower yet). And as for my wiggly midsection and long stretch marks, maybe I should look at those battle scars too. I earned every inch of belly fat and every one of those stretch marks over my four pregnancies. I can't have my four kids without four pregnancies worth of affect to my appearance. I have to say, looking at it this way, it was all worth it. Sure, I'd love to be thin, unblemished, clean and awake, but not if it means I don't get to be Mom. Not if it means I don't get to be the Mom of these four children. Everything about me sings the battle song of my life, and I need to learn to be proud of it, just like my daughter is proud of her little scar on her knee.

That's the face of true beauty. Not the airbrushed and photoshopped "women" (most of them are still girls) we see in the media. True beauty is a life lived and enjoy, not Snow White trapped in her glass coffin. So let's agree to love what's truly beautiful about us.

Disorder and Order

After over six months of living here, my husband and I have finally unpacked our basement. Excluding a weekend when we first moved here, the entire bottom floor of our home has looked something like a shanty town. Dishevelled piles of boxes, random articles of clothing, and mismatched furniture were strewn in mighty stacks wherever we tossed them while moving in. We didn't care so much about how it looked. We had no real plans for it. It was too humid to make much use of safely with the children and with a baby on the way neither of us had the time or the energy to make any real headway in the large room that takes up most of that floor.

What really convinced us to make the time to sort things out was that we finally, truly decided we were staying here for more than a year. We had the opportunity to look into buying a home in the country at what looked to be a fair price. This house, that of my maternal grandfather, was nothing less than my dream house. A six bedroom house on a fairly large piece of land, that has the kitchen of my dreams, a layout I adore for our young family, and plenty of room for my husband to ply his trade as a cabinetmaker and finish carpenter. We could have our own garden, a shed for any animals we'd want to raise, and, perhaps best of all, we would be surrounded by my extended family, whom I have seen far too little of in the past years. In spite of this very overwhelmingly positive prospect, we took it to prayer and found our thoughts turned to staying in the city, in our current home. It wasn't without a twinge of sadness that I let go of the idea of the big country home in which I spent so many summers and holidays. I had to let go of the cheerful front door with a hummingbird captured beautifully in its stained glass window, the true sign that we were at our second home, a place where my grandparents would be waiting for us with expectant smiles and the smell of fresh bread.

So, we decided to stay here. In our cute city townhouse. Four bedrooms, big living area and lots of ugly shag carpet and wacky paint (sorry Dad, but I'm so over the pumpkin orange with green trim in the livingroom. Tuscan villa this ain't). We couldn't help but see so much potential within these four walls. A little paint here, some new flooring there, perhaps a workshop in our basement... And that's when it hit us. If we were really staying here, we couldn't live in complete order upstairs while the downstairs was in complete disorder. To be fair, a lot of items are in the wrong room or even the wrong floor because we had been hesitant to fully unpack. So at last we decided to give in, and in a few short days things started to come together. Suddenly, our basement has furniture that is there with intention. The small room is set up artfully with all of my husband's tools. The main room is starting to take on a very nice atmosphere as either a games room or even a second playroom for these winter days when going outside isn't an option, but a mere change of scenery dispells our cabin fever.

With no regrets, we unpacked our last box this weekend. If this can be home, even just for now, let it be so. No more holding back. If this is where we're meant to be, we will be, living wholly in this moment and, hopefully, enjoying it.

Crockpot Leek and Potato Soup

This should be the last in the series of recipes for our 3 week meal plan. I wanted to wait until I made it to put up the recipe. As it turns out I ended up making it up as I went along so the quantities are something you can play with. The soup was creamy, rich, and had layers of flavour!

5 or 6 bacon ends (or as many rashers of bacon cooked and cut up)
4 leeks (cleaned and loosely chopped)
10 potatoes (chopped in cubes)
2 cloves garlic (minced)
6-7 cups broth
1 can coconut milk
Pepper to taste

Sear your bacon ends in a pan then put them in your crockpot. Add your leeks, potatoes, garlic and pepper to the pot. Add enough stock to just cover your ingredients and cook on high for 4-6 hours or on low for 6-8 hours. Your potatoes will be fork tender when it's done. Puree in batches in your blender and then return it all to your crockpot. Whisk in your coconut milk and serve!

Mixed Veggie Egg Drop Soup

When baby girl was born hubby and I practically lived off soup. I would pop the ingredients in the crockpot and know we had a good nutritious meal waiting. Again, this one isn't so much as recipe as a guideline with a few suggestions.

Chop up whatever veggies are in season and fill up your crockpot about 3/4 of the way full. Add any spices you want or if you like, some pre-cooked sausage or bacon. If you want to have a starch, potatoes can go in now but things like rice or pasta will need to be in the last hour of cooking as they expand too much with extensive slow cooking. Fill up your crockpot with the stock of your choice, leaving about an inch at the top so the soup can bubble away. Cook on low for 8 hours. For the second day you can add a little more stock and cook it again for another 4-6 hours.

For the egg drop part of this soup to work it needs to be absolutely piping hot. If it's not, transfer 4 cups of broth from your crock to a pot on your stove top and bring that to a boil. Once it's bubbling away carefully stir in however many eggs you like (I'd go for 4 or even 6 for a meal to last two days). Make sure to break the yolks and lets it all spread about. Your eggs will cook right into the broth. If you've cooked them on the stovetop transfer it back into your crockpot and stir it in so it's evenly distributed. You'll notice the egg adds a really unique and delicious flavour to your soup while adding a kick of protein.

Sausage Meatballs

This isn't really a recipe, more like cooking instructions! The butcher's wife clued me into this amazing meal idea after I bemoaned the fact that I had ruined the handmade sausages I bought from Getaway Meat Mongers the previous week. Because these pre-spiced sausages are hand cased, they're so easy to use in a lot of different ways. All you have to do is gently squeeze and the sausage meat comes right out. At that point you can either shape them into patties and pan fry them, or, as I prefer, form them into several small meat balls. As I recall I got an easy five out of each sausage which was a great because it felt like less went further with each of us getting several. Portion control is in the eyes, as they say. Once I'd formed my wee army of meatballs I put them on a foil or parchment lined cookie sheet and baked them at 350F for about 15-20 minutes. The best way to check them is to make a victim of one of the meatballs and cut it in half to make sure it's cooked all the way through.

Once you've made your meatballs you can serve them on top of pasta with sauce, or with simple sides of veggies and potatoes, rice or even quinoa.

Dijon Spice Pork Tenderloin

This meal is a splurge so when we have it we really love it and savour it. For such a complex tasting dish it's surprisingly easy to prepare. In medium skillet roast 2 tablespoons each whole peppercorns and cumin. You'll know it's ready when the smell of the spices really hits you. Put them on a cutting board and crush them all with the back of your pan. When that's done cover your pork tenderloin with dijon mustard and then roll it in your crushed spices.

Place your fully coated tenderloin on a foil lined cookie sheet and bake at 400F 25 minutes, or until the juices run clear when you pierce it with a fork. Before you pick this delightful little roast up with your bare hands and eat it like a caveman make sure you let it sit for 5 minutes. By doing this you'll let the juices and flavours distribute evenly through the whole tenderloin. Slice into little tranches of meat and serve with seasonal veggies and buttered potatoes.