Love for Lica.

So I'm sharing this here because this year my aunt Miriam has set her sights on raising money for an amazing young woman that I have had the pleasure of knowing through my time volunteering in Brazil. Lica is a young mother to three children and is in desperate need of a real little house to replace the one room her family currently lives in. I can personally vouch for Lica's strong work ethic, her undying determination, her ability to overcome adversity and above all else her unrelenting optimism and hope. The story below is my aunt's experience with Lica and it was Miriam who wrote it in order to pass the word along and gather support for the creation of a safe home for Lica and her children. Please give it a read. And if you are feeling generous this holiday season please contact me through the comments section or privately to donate or for more information.

LICA AND ME (Miriam)

I met Lica in 1997 when I arrived unannounced at her ramshackle home.  By then I’d already been volunteering in Bahia for a decade and had seen lots of grim stuff.  But I was shocked to come upon an enraged, drunken woman beating two very little girls. The older one, Lica, then just 7, was curled around a toddler, trying to shield her from the blows.  

Perhaps it was that protective gesture that stapled Lica to my heart. Or maybe it was just that I had the chance to watch this lovely child grow up under burdens and losses so dark they would have done most of us in. Who knows really why the heart lurches in the directions it does?   

All I can say for sure is that this kid captured me and during the two decades since, not that much has changed for the poor on the NE coast of Brazil. The descendents of African slaves and the aboriginal peoples still live at the ugly end of exploitation, corruption and violence.  The social service agencies are still under-resourced, overwhelmed and mired in a moribund byzantine bureaucracy. And Lica is now a young mother trying to protect her own three children from life’s harshest blows and I’m still asking my friends to help me help her.

LICA’S FAMILY HOME   

Lica’s grandmother owned the house. She’d had a steady job cooking in a restaurant 12 hours a day for 20 years and managed to buy a modest two-room house in a low-income neighbourhood.  Poverty,  overcrowding and gross neglect had reduced the place to a disgusting shambles: the dirt yard was filled with rubbish; the roof and walls leaked; the floors turned to mud in the rain;  the furnishings were broken cast-offs; closets were plastic bags nailed to brick walls; and the security system, two gaunt snarling dogs, crapped everywhere. Three adult women and six kids were living in these two rooms.            

LICA’S MOTHER   

Ana was addicted to cachaça, a local brew the abuse of which causes brain damage. She was already visibly impaired by the time I met her.  Lica has dim memories of a kinder Ana before she became a violent, confirmed alcoholic. But all I ever saw was Ana, even when sober, cursing and threatening the children, forcing them to do the chores she never did.  And when drunk, she would beat them with anything she could grab hold of.   

LICA’S DAD   

My old shrink used to say it only took one good parent to raise a healthy child. Lica had neither. The men in her family had spawned and gone.  Lica made several disappointed attempts to connect with her father, who lives in a neighbouring slum.  But he never came through with any support at all.   

LICA’S ELDEST SISTER      

Cristiane was 22 when I met her. She had taken the brunt of Ana’s abuse until she grew big and hard enough to punch her mother out. Unfortunately, Cristiane did not extend her protection to her younger sisters or her own children.  Only intermittently interested in them, she mostly left her kids behind with Ana while she hung out with sequential boyfriends.  

LICA HERSELF       

Lica was an unusually alert and responsive child with a robust survival instinct. She latched onto me and enchanted me with her mile-wide smile  and resilient spirit. She did me much good over the years. There were many times when I felt so exhausted by the unending obstacles we faced that I just wanted to quit. But then I would see Lica bent over a cracked plastic dishpan singing while she scrubbed the family’s dirty laundry.  I know it sounds corny: Lady Bountiful meets Baby Aunt Jemima, but Lica’s innate capacity for joy lifted my spirits and stiffened my spine. If this kid could cope, surely I could.

PROGRESS      

Despite the lack of a responsible adult in this home or any help from local agencies, with the financial support provided by Susan Adams and my sister Katherine Owen back in Vancouver, and the emotional support provided by the local leaders of Street Angels,  the kids in this family were eating better and  attending school.  But life in this impoverished, abusive family was always hard.

TRAGEDY    

When Lica was 10, her other sister, Vivienne, 14, went out one evening with a girlfriend and didn’t return. The friend was killed and Vivi was shot five times and left for dead. Somehow she regained consciousness and managed to crawl out of bushes onto a highway. Surgeons saved her life but they were unable to remove a bullet lodged behind her eyes. 

Vivi was left permanently blind and suffering from severe PTSD.  She refused to identify the assailants or leave the house. She was terrified that the killers would return if they learned she had survived.  Ana’s response to this tragedy was to be angry at Vivienne for having brought the attention of the police to her door. Lica was afraid to leave the side of her helpless sister because, “Someone has to stand guard over Vivienne”. Indeed, little mother, but it shouldn’t have to be you.

We scoured the city for a residential school for the blind and found nothing available for the poor.  Street Angels’ donors paid for a private facility.  After a year, Vivi was recovered enough to want to go home to visit her sisters. Within a few days of being home, Vivi contracted an intestinal infection.  Blind and disoriented with fever, she lost control of her bowels and soiled the bed.  Ana set to beating her with a broom handle. Lica ran to a neighbour for help. The police arrived too late. Ana’s blows dislodged the bullet and Vivienne died in her bed.     

There were no official consequences to the killing of Vivi. Since the  State neither removed Ana nor provided a safe place for the children, we built two add-on rooms, the larger one for Cristiane’s children and the smaller room (about 7’ x 10’) for Lica. We furnished both with separate entrances, lockable doors, a sink and a toilet so the kids could attend to basics without running the risk of disturbing Ana. And they could lock themselves in when she went on a rampage.

LICA’S TEENAGE YEARS      

Amazingly Lica continued to flourish. She developed into a strikingly beautiful adolescent.  She kept herself and her room carefully groomed. A diligent and ambitious student, she took, and did well in, every after-school training program we offered.  By 14, she’d set her sights on becoming a policewoman because as she explained: “I love their uniforms. And I’d be one of the good cops because I know what makes kids become thieves. And nobody messes with a policewoman.”  

By now, Ana had taken to screaming insults all night and wandering the streets semi-naked by day, obsessively cursing her thankless daughters.  Having a debased version of King Lear for a mother was a constant source of humiliation for Lica.  Faced with a daily gauntlet of local louts’ tormenting with lewd jibes, few teenagers could hold their heads as high or work as hard at improving their situation, as Lica did.              

But this girl did more than tough it out.  She often expressed genuine concern for her mum, especially when Ana’s physical health began failing. Lica was no Goody Two Shoes.  She could laugh with wicked delight when I mock--prayed for her demented mother’s demise. But the reality underneath our banter was that Lica longed for a kind, sober mum.  I’d often seen her patiently washing and feeding the blunted sot. And I knew she was doggedly searching for a free rehab centre in the enduring hope that Ana could be made sober and kind.  I was less optimistic but loved Lica for her tenacity, initiative and heart.      

One day Ana woke saying she had dreamt she was on a date with Zico, a soccer celebrity.  Lica got an idea.  Acting on her own, she contacted the producers of a popular reality TV show in which a poor person’s dreams come true (sort of a cross between Jerry Springer and The Wish Foundation).  Lica described her mother’s alcoholism and failing health (but not her violence) and suggested that Ana might be enticed into a treatment centre if a date with Zico could be arranged and that would make a super good double-dreams-come-true episode.    

To my surprise, Lica’s pitch was chosen for airing.  And there we all were, watching our enterprising Lica on TV cheerfully showing the blowhard host around the wretched family home while he badgered Ana into accepting the deal: 30 days in a recovery centre for a date with Zico. (The soccer hero was spared the date because Ana bolted and defaulted to booze after a week in rehab).

FIRST LOVE     

Of course, underneath Lica’s pride and resourcefulness, was an abused child hungry for love.  The first cute boy who kissed her hit pay dirt. At 14 she fell in love and happily flung herself into Eros Heaven. I’d been boring all the girls in our project for years with safe sex talk and we gave out condoms like Chiclets.  But often our prophylactic efforts proved to be straws in the wind of teenage passion.  Lica’s stay in paradise was unusually brutal and short.  

TRAGEDY AGAIN    

The cute boy, 15, had left school and was hanging around with the wrong crowd.  He was picked up by the police.  Fearing that all-too-common consequence of arrest for black kids - death-while-in-police-custody, Lica defied a big taboo. She raced to the police station to vouch for her boyfriend’s character. No one in the favelas trusts or turns to the police.  Even our enlightened local project managers were furious with Lica for involving herself (and, indirectly, them) with the police.  The police bullied Lica and slapped her around and locked her in jail for two days.  But eventually both kids were released.  A few days later, the undaunted, terminally-foolish boy tried to shoplift some candy from a drugstore. The owner chased him out firing a gun.  The boy was dead in the street before his 16^th birthday.

BABY MAMA    

And within a month, Lica, still devastated by the loss of her first love, discovered she was pregnant.  Lica was more afraid of Ana and an abortion than of having a baby.  Being a teenage mother is normal in the favelas; while abortions are illegal, dangerous and a deadly sin.  The birth was easy, the baby healthy and Lica a super conscientious mother at 15.

She missed a year of school and carried baby Andre with her everywhere as she struggled to feed and clothe herself and him on her bursaries which totaled less than $100 a month.  To make ends meet, she did daily domestic work whenever she could find it. But still hoping to become a policewoman, she returned to night school determined to satisfy the eligibility requirements for the police academy.

The psychological toll of extreme poverty is relentless.  There was never enough money to pay for the beans and the propane gas to cook them and the hydro bill. Their hydro was cut off. She worried constantly about baby Andre being left in her room in the dark with only a candle and a 12 year-old niece to keep him safe from Ana whose alcoholic storms continued unabated.   

At 17 she found Manuel to help her. He’s a decent, quiet motherly sort of young man, who offered her emotional support, kept Ana at bay, and patiently babysat Andre while Lica went to night school.  She, Manuel and Andre were now living together in her little 7’ x 10’ room.  She equipped herself with an IUD and for a year it looked like she might yet make it to graduation and the police academy. 

BIOLOGY, POVERTY, GOD & THE LAW EQUALS DESTINY   

Unfortunately Lica developed a pelvic infection and the IUD had to be removed.  In the month between its removal and the arrival of the free birth control pills in the public health clinic, Lica conceived again.  She didn’t want another baby but Manuel didn’t want her to have an abortion.  Eventually Lica decided she couldn’t risk losing Manuel and it wasn’t fair of her to ask him to look after her child while she “murdered” his. Besides, who was she to defy God’s plan?   

Baby Matias was born with badly bowed legs – probably a result of Lica’s deficient diet during gestation.  He required special medical treatment and leg braces which meant Lica had to trudge for weeks through the complex labyrinth of the public medical system trying to find help for him. Worried and exhausted, she lost track of the fact that conception can occur while still nursing an infant. Lica was pregnant again before Matias was 3 months old.  And this time, grim reality overcame all scruples. She wasn’t yet 20, had two children to support, no regular income and so she tried desperately to terminate this third pregnancy.    

Affluent Brazilian women of course have access to licensed doctors who for a fat fee perform safe abortions in private offices.  But poor girls like Lica rely on cheaper methods: handfuls of morning-after pills, toxic chemical brews, back-alley knitting needles.  Lica tried everything and nothing worked and now she was terrified the baby would be born deformed.  By the time I found out what was happening and a professional friend located a cooperative physician, he refused to perform the D & C because Lica had passed the first-trimester cut off date.  We all held our breath until Tisiane, a beautiful normal girl baby, arrived. 

Thanks primarily to Lica’s capacity for hard work and love, five years later, Lica’s three kids, now aged 5 to 10,  are healthy, lively and in school.  Unfortunately, Manuel, the father of the youngest two, has turned out to be almost as much a liability as asset.  He has a learning disability, left school in Grade 3, is illiterate and has no family to help them at all. In a region of widespread unemployment and fierce competition, only men with extraordinary determination and physical strength can keep up the daily hustle required to find, and do the hard dirty work of unskilled day labour.  And that’s just not Manuel.  

Manuel is passive and slow – both mentally and physically.  He would drive me crazy. But I can totally understand why Lica needs him. He’s non-threatening, affectionate, patient with the children and helps her  by running errands and babysitting while she hustles whatever work she can find – cooking, cleaning, taking in laundry.  His passivity gets on her nerves; her bossiness on his. But I’m not sure that she or the children would be better off without him.  

Ana and her dogs still occupy the main part of the house.  Lica’s  7’ x 10’ room is now insanely crowded with five living in it. Lica keeps it as clean and neat as anyone could.  But it’s so small the children must eat, sleep, play, do their homework, watch TV and fight on their bunk beds. Lica and Manuel have no privacy at all. Their bed is an old single foamy kept rolled up under the bunk beds during the day. When unfurled at night, it fills the entire remaining floor space of the room.  Living like this produces endless tensions and conflicts from which there is no escape except to the dangerous streets.

Lica has the birth control situation in hand and impatiently waits for the day she will be deemed legally old enough to qualify for a tubal ligation. In a machismo patriarchal society, a woman’s reproductive organs are not her own to command.   

(A couple of years ago the Church refused to grant permission to hospital physicians who applied to abort a 9 year-old girl who was carrying twins after having been raped by her step-father.  The doctors won the battle of public opinion but the whole ugly process made it clear that biology is still destiny for poor women in Brazil).

I know Lica has enough smarts and gumption to manage the daily grind but she will never produce enough to be able to provide her family with a modest 2-bedroom home.  In a similar low-income neighbourhood close to the city’s resources, you’d be lucky to find one for $CDN30,000. I planned to leave her a bequest in my will. But my parents lived to their mid-90’s. So I have decided to try and raise the funds while they still might do Andre, Matias, & Tisiane some good.  

The streets beckon seductively to kids forced to live like this.  Even good parents lose them every day to drugs, disease and death. I lost count after 55 lads were murdered by gang warfare in the small favela where we were based.  It’ll probably take me some time and numerous parties and garage sales to raise enough to get Lica and her kids a decent home. But I intend to keep at it.   And in the meantime, I just hope that she can continue to hold things together until I  can, with a little bit of help from my friends, do my part.  I’ll let you know how things turn out.  And thank you for making the time to read this too-long history.           

This Is What I Have.

Recently I was folding a huge pile of baby laundry in front of the TV on a Saturday night. In between rolling tiny socks I scanned Facebook on my phone and read the typical Saturday night status updates from friends who were out for a night on the town. I felt instantly lonely and jealous - really jealous.

I tucked the phone away and went back to folding laundry in front of the TV, but I wasn't watching it anymore. I was thinking about where I was heading before I got pregnant in contrast to where I am heading now. I was thinking about what I traded, about what I gave up and mostly, about what I don't have anymore.

I definitely traded my weekend nights. I don't have Friday to look forward to. I don't dance straight from work to a girlfriend's house to get ready for another late night. I don't feel that sense of mystery to the evening, of who I might meet or what laughs we might make. I don't look forward to sleeping all the next morning and meeting friends for a greasy hangover breakfast.

I don't have being swept off my feet to look forward to. Not in the same way as before anyway. I can't totally lose myself in someone - blowing off responsibilities and passing hours with hand-holding and people-watching. Riding the train for romance and eating dinner for three hours. I don't get to run away on impromptu lover's weekends.

I don't have turning off my phone. Ever. For any reason. You don't realize how that would be something to be missed until it is gone.

I don't have dashing out of the house for something. I don't have swift errand-running, or speed in anything anymore ... except eating.

Photo: Sung Van

I don't have my money to spend on me, or at least I'm not making enough to have any of it. I have to buy expensive formula and diapers and special over-sized-for-safety baby Q-tips and educational toys. It's spent before I get it and I don't get much because I'm not working much. And the work I have isn't what I want to have because it's hard to chase a dream when there's a mouth to feed and debts to battle.

I can't let my fridge run empty. I always have to have food because although I have a notorious habit of forgetting to eat (or even forgetting to feed the cat sometimes) I have to feed the baby. A lot. A few times a day at least. And it's expensive and she needs special items that I wouldn't ever buy. And because she needs what she needs and I don't have enough money to buy separate items for us both I have to mostly eat what she eats. And it's either gross or it's making me fat. Because babies need fat, the lucky bastards.

And I don't have my body. Not really. I mean, she's not living in it anymore which is physically more comfortable. And she's not eating food from it anymore, which is physically and emotionally more freeing. So I guess it seems like I have my body back. But it's not the one I had before. And it never will be.

Thinking about all these things I don't have made me feel even worse than knowing everyone was out having fun.

I realized I'd have to change my thinking or I'd spiral into tears. So I thought about the list I'd just made.

The weekends. I was never that much of a party girl anyway. I used to spend a lot of nights at home folding adult laundry anyway. And the nights that I did look forward to were never as good as I thought they would be. In fact, towards the end of my single life I usually went home early with a headache rather then late with a phone number in my purse. I definitely miss sleeping in on Saturday mornings but I don't miss the hangovers and I can't afford the greasy breakfasts anyway.


Being swept off my feet. Well I can still have that. Granted it will look a lot different - much more grown-up. But it can still happen. It'll just be more organized, less haphazard, less chaotic. But maybe that's OK because if the beginning isn't such a whirlwind then maybe the end won't be such a cyclone. And I can still go away for the weekend. It just takes a week of planning first, a rotation of sitters and my phone has to always be on.

Which is fine I guess. It doesn't need to be off anyway. And sometimes I do get to power down. Like when I'm in a job interview or if I ever get to go to a movie. Of course if my phone is being turned off it means that I have to arrange another emergency contact and preferably some sort of bat-signal that I can see from wherever I am in case Babe is in distress.

Not being able to run out quickly really does suck. There's no way to make it sound better than it is other than to say that on the rare occasions when I do get to run an errand alone it is fucking amazing. I'll actually choose the long line at the grocery store on purpose just to prolong the ecstasy of it.

Money. Well fuck, I didn't have that much before anyway. I do miss shopping for me but hopefully that isn't gone for good.

And the fridge really is better full. It's more homey that way. Dried out leftovers, questionable milk and beer is depressing. Yes it's annoying to have to grocery shop, like, by law. But it's nice to know that if child welfare came to the door they would see that I'm attempting to nourish my daughter. I would be proud of my full fridge in that moment.

My body. OK, I do still have it - it's just uglier now. But that does mean I get to set aside time to go to the gym which is almost the only "me time" I get. And it's nice to feel like I'm using my "me time" in a healthy and productive way.

But even though I tried to put a positive spin on the things I didn't have I still wasn't feeling totally fine about my life. So I did what I do every night when it's quiet and lonely. I tiptoed up to Babe's crib and leaned over the railing and rested my hand on her back to check her breathing. It was perfect. Soft and rhythmic. She was perfect. Warm, curled up with an empty bottle and Lamby. I ran my fingers over the softest cheeks I have ever felt in my life and I kissed her hair - still damp at the curls from her bath.

This is what I have.

I have Saturday nights folding teeny-tiny clothes that are so cute and small they make me smile no matter how many times I've washed them.

I have someone who already has swept me off my feet, someone who will always have my heart. No matter what.

I have a phone full of baby pictures and sound bites of garbled first words. I get phone calls from a little voice just wanting to hear Mommy.

I don't run fast errands but I have pride when strangers coo over my beautiful baby, when she runs ahead of me at the mall, holds items in the shopping cart or walks in from the car at my side.

I have more time than money and that can't be bought. Time with my daughter is worth every lost cent.

I have cooking meals, dirty high chairs, spaghetti face smiles and little person cutlery on the floor.

I have a body that can create and nurture life. I carried my baby inside me, safe and cozy. Growing. Her hearing my voice. Her hearing my heartbeat. I have a scar from the day she arrived.

I have calls of "Mamma" from her crib in the early morning. I have chubby arm hugs and yummy elbow and finger dimples to kiss. I have giggles. I have family holidays. I have slicing grapes. I have bubble baths and rubber duckies. I have tiny shoes by the door, bottles in the night and splishy-splashy mud puddles.

This is what I wanted and this is what I have.

She's a Girl.

When we were in Auckland E's daughter had a little play stove in the kitchen which Babe just loved. She played with it every day that we were there and littered the house with the pots and pans that went with it. She loved it so much that I made a mental note to try to find something similar here in Vancouver.

Then the other day we were in Walmart and I remembered the stove and decided to check the toy isle to see if I could find one.

Of course the one E's kid has was found in a second hand store and it's way cooler than any of the crap you'd buy at Walmart. It's plastic too, but not the China-lead-paint-cheap-ass-Walmart plastic. It's the hard plastic that snaps into dangerous shards not the soft plastic that bends forever like silly putty. And E's stove makes cooking sounds and the burners light up and it's actually the colours you'd find on a real stove. It's not a pink stove with purple burners and a sparkly flower oven door with a fucking Disney princess on it or something. And it's super small and compact and fits nicely in a real kitchen. But nevertheless, I wanted to get something...

But of course all the Walmart kitchens were huge and completely unnecessary for a one year old. I know I'll have to purchase one of them later but I'm not yet at the place in my parent-life where I'm willing to buy toys that come in refrigerator-sized boxes. But then just as we were about to leave we came upon a stack of mini-kitchens on sale for $20. The kids pictured with it on the box were Babe's age and the thing wasn't too big. And better yet, it was cheap, so I wouldn't feel bad about donating it to the thrift store in six months.

So I bought it and Babe seemed to know what it was by looking at the box and she seemed excited.

But when I was looking for the kitchens we passed a row of plastic tool benches. And the first thought in my head was, "Well here's all the tool benches, where the hell are the girl's kitchens?" And that thought bugged me on the drive home. Why did I so eagerly dismiss the tool benches as being for boys? Was I already falling victim to society's gender roles and guiding my daughter more towards Barbies and fairy dresses and away from Transformers and army men? It bugged me.

It was still bugging me two hours later when the Walmart kitchen was built and Babe was happily putting cups and saucers inside the oven.

Then I realized something cool.

I paid for the toy and hauled it in from the truck. I spent almost two hours with 500 parts scattered in a pokey puddle at my feet. Seriously, for $20 they don't get you started on fucking anything. For $20 you get 500 pieces swept off the factory floor and some generic instructions that apply to various models of similar toys.

My tool box was out and my screwdrivers were spread all over the place. Sharp tools that I had to continuously confiscate from Babe who would snatch one as soon as she sensed my focus was elsewhere.

Babe watched me sift through a hundred little pieces to find the right one. She saw me drop screws and bump my head on the table looking for them. She heard me swear more than once. She probably noticed my butt crack.

She quizzically listened while I explained what I was doing. She played in a poopy diaper for longer than is acceptable because I was too focussed on what I was doing to stop and change her. She saw her mom do all of that. And that's pretty manly shit I was doing.

So who cares if the end result is a kitchen set instead of a tool bench - we used tools to make it. Babe is gonna grow up in a house where it's her mommy that does the blue jobs and the pink jobs. And she wouldn't be lying if she told her baby-friends that her mommy can drive a forklift in high heels. (She'd be a genius - but not a liar).

Single moms do it all. So I guess being a single mom gets me off worrying if I'm stereotyping my daughter.

P.S. While building the toy I also had dinner cooking and the laundry on.

What are you worth when you don't get paid?

Sorry. I missed all of October. I've had some distractions, not the least of which has been my quest for meaningful employment. I've been looking for a job in journalism since mid-August and my maternity leave ended in mid-October. So for almost a month now I have officially been unemployed and I tell ya - it doesn't feel good.

I was pregnant during my last semester of school and by the time my internship was over I was too obviously pregnant to expect anyone to hire me. It was then that I made the choice to put off starting a career in media and instead go back to working as a nanny. Which I did on a short-term contract to squirrel away enough hours to get my maternity leave.

But now that Babe has celebrated her first birthday (more on that later) it's time for me to go to work. The problem is there doesn't seem to be any work for me to go to. Not in my industry anyway. So as of now I'm still at home with my baby, taking care of her but not "working" at a regular 9-5 job. And because of this lack of employment, a first for me since I was 15, I often find myself questioning my value.

I know that raising children is work. And I know there is great value in it. Being a mother that stays home with her children is certainly of immeasurable worth to the family unit and a child's development. I know I'm making a difference for my baby; that me being with her in these tender years is important. I've heard the people who say, "Motherhood is the most important job there is". But it doesn't feel that way.

For starters there is the lack of a pay cheque. And without an income you immediately lose the yard stick by which we generally measure worth. There's also the lack of peer evaluations, performance reviews, promotions, raises, bonuses...all the workplace milestones that we brag to our friends about and hold up as examples of our success.

And when your friends are earning X amount of money per year and you're bringing in nothing it's hard to find your footing on the playing field. In a world where everything is guided by the almighty dollar what's a stay at home mom worth? When your day consists of diapers and playgrounds how do you retain a sense of personal value?

As important as I know it is to be here for Babe I can't help but feel like I'm not accomplishing anything.

This past year I've found myself placing too much value on how clean my house is or how many errands I can perform in a day. Having a sink void of dirty dishes somehow makes me feel better about myself and that isn't OK. Don't get me wrong, being able to maintain a household with a baby on the loose is no easy feat but it's just not enough for me. I don't want to define myself with such boring accomplishments.

It's definitely my ego that's the problem here. And society is getting into my head too. A person shouldn't be more or less valuable based on their income. The more you make the better you most certainly are not. Yet here I am, feeling crappy about myself because I'm not "working".

Right now I'm not the breadwinner. But I can't be the stay-at-home-mom much longer either. I'm not a trophy wife or a kept woman and I never will be if I keep eating dessert at this rate (seriously). So what am I? And whatever that is, what's it worth?

The Last of the Summer.

Inside the Little Cabin.

Babe and I are back in town now. We had so much fun on Hornby. I wish we could have stayed longer but we were gone for three weeks and J really wanted to see Babe, so we came back.

I still haven't decided if being alone on vacation with Babe was easier or harder than I had imagined. Definitely not having running water was a total drag. I'm used to it but with a baby who is constantly covered in poop, food or dirt it was worse than I had remembered.

And I had planned to re-sleep train Babe while we were at the cabin...but...

Yup. Once again I have failed at sleep training and given into my little devil. Which is just the absolute worst thing you can do. But in all fairness to me she is really, REALLY stubborn. Last time by night five Babe was sleeping through the night in her crib. This time I made it to night seven and she was still screaming for hours. She's always had the same bedtime routine and she is happy as a clam until she sees that we're heading for her bed. Putting her down in the crib is like lowering a cat into a bathtub. She wraps herself around my arms, digs her nails in and starts screaming.

But now I have decided that I actually like sleeping with her and I don't need to make her spend the whole night in her own bed. I do however, need her to go to sleep in her own bed and stay there for the first few hours so that:

A: I don't have to go to bed when she does.

B: I can leave her with a sitter and have the sitter be able to put her to sleep without crawling into my bed.

So that's what we're working on now.

Babe winning the battle. In bed with Mommy early one morning.

The trip was made a lot easier by having my aunt and uncle right next door. They were able to take Babe off my hands sometimes so that I could get things done. Everything at the cabin is dirty and not baby-proofed so there was literally nowhere to put Babe down. I did have her playpen with us but she'll only stay quiet in that little padded cell for so long. So I had to get used to doing everything with Babe hanging onto my leg. Washing dishes, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry - any chore I had to get done took twice as long with her attached to my body. So it was great when my aunt would hold her for twenty minutes while I showered or went to the bathroom (can't put Babe down in the outhouse either).

My aunt giving Babe a bath in a bucket. Our beautiful beach in the background.

And even as the trip wore on and I got more and more used to it being just the two of us, there was the occasional shitty moment.

One night Babe and I went to a party at a friend's house. It was way past Babe's bedtime and I was prepared for total meltdown. But Babe was an absolute doll the whole time. She crawled all over the house, chasing the children who could easily escape her grubby paws. She danced to the music and flirted with all the grown-ups. We were having a great time and I hadn't yet really noticed that almost everyone else were in pairs. Single pairs, married pairs and pairs with their babies. If I had noticed I guess I hadn't given it enough thought to bother me. But then a woman whom I hadn't seen in a long time came over to congratulate me on my baby. And as she was watching me watching Babe she casually asked, "Are you alone?" She's the sweetest lady and didn't mean anything by it but I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I don't even know why really. On another day with another person asking, the question wouldn't have fazed me. But I guess I had forgotten for a second and was unprepared for the look of concern on her face.

But these moments were few and far between and mostly we had great weather, great fun and made many great memories.

Babe loves music and was thrilled that my friends had so many instruments at their house.

Cymbal, marimba, cymbal, marimba...

She went straight for the drums every time we went over to their house.

In the lagoon. I know she isn't wearing a life jacket. Relax.
We're in two feet of water. Photo and kayak loan by Judith Coleman.

Napping in the hammock.

Again in the hammock.

Photo by Sung Van, a family friend who rents my aunt's
cabin every summer. I love this shot.

Babe with my good friend D on the beach the day before we left.

This summer I finally got to read some books too. From the time Babe was born until last month I haven't been able to finish a newspaper article never mind an entire book. After finishing Two Kisses for Maddy I read The Birth House (which has been sitting on my nightstand since Christmas).

AMAZING book! Loved, loved, loved it. It's happened to me before that I've had a book kicking around for a long time and then when I finally read it I can't believe that I just let it sit there for so long. The Birth House is one of those books. It's the first book by award winning journalist and author Ami McKay. It's about the practice of midwifery on the east coast during the first world war. The main character reluctantly takes over as the single midwife of a small fishing community outside of Halifax. Even as she helps women through the birth of their babies, protects them from their husbands and a solicitous doctor and keeps their secrets safe she is seen as a witch and treated as an outcast. "The Birth House is an unforgettable tale of the struggles women have faced to have control of their own bodies and to keep the best parts of tradition alive in the world of modern medicine," says McKay's website. I haven't enjoyed a book this much since The Help and I found myself hoping someone would make a movie out of this one too. 

On the way home I detoured a little to take Babe to see the goats on the roof at the Coombs Country Market. I think she was a little surprised to see a big animal on top of a building. We were lucky to see them. I've been many times when the goats haven't been on the roof as advertised. We shopped around the market and the surrounding stores and it was a nice break from the drive down Vancouver Island (which Babe spent the first half of screaming while I sang Old MacDonald over and over).

Goat.

Babe watching the goat.

After the market we caught a night ferry back to Tsawwassen and stayed at my parent's place before coming home the next day. I miss Hornby Island already but it's good to be home. How long we get to stay here I'm not sure. I've just started applying for jobs and most of them aren't in the Vancouver area.

Sailing home.

Life Goes On.

Babe catching some zzz's while I make some
extra cash helping my aunt with her taxes.

Babe and I have always done a lot of stuff just the two of us. But now that I am officially a single mom there’s a finality lurking in the shadows on every outing. Before the separation Babe and I were doing things alone but I knew J was at work, or at home. I knew that he could come if he wanted to and that maybe he would come the next time.

Out for dinner.

But now I know it’s going to be just us on the outings. There’s no chance that it might be three. While it’s a relief to just go ahead and do things without being disappointed when J decides not to join us, it is sad to see all the other families when we go out.

I guess it’s because it’s summer and everyone is on holidays that now we see families wherever we go.

When we eat out we inevitably get seated in the family section where the other tables have two parents sipping their wine and trying to get the baby to take a bite of something.

When we go to the park we see mommies and daddies teaching their toddlers how to ride a bike or fly a kite.

Currently Babe and I are on my beloved Hornby Island for a vacation and the other day I took her to Whaling Station Bay for the first time. Babe had lots of fun crawling all over the sand. She was thrilled to be free to go as far as she cared to in any direction.  We built a sandcastle and dug a hole and played in the tide pools and the waves.

Playing dress-up with Mommy's jewelry.

But while Babe was having a blast I had mixed emotions. Part of me was so excited to be with my baby in the place I love. I’ve daydreamed about this first summer with my baby for so long and to have that dream finally realized is pretty awesome. But of course it was a little bittersweet. Under the other beach umbrellas and sitting on towels were whole families having fun at the beach together. The fathers were building sand castles, swishing their babies through the waves and running back to the cars for forgotten items. It’s funny that just something as little as seeing a man put sunscreen on his wife’s back kinda hurt a little.

And it was probably just me but I felt like people were wondering where my husband was or feeling sorry for me because I had no company and no help with the baby.

But we had a good time anyway. And Babe even had a nap at the beach, which allowed me some grown-up reading time!

I’m currently reading Two Kisses For Maddy by Matt Logelin. I stumbled across his blog while playing on my phone and nursing late one night. It’s been around for a long time now but it was new to me. Logelin writes about raising his baby girl on his own after the sudden death of his wife only hours after the birth. His blog is touching; both heart-breaking and heart-warming. And I figured since I am now finding my footing as a single mother of a (relatively) new baby I could maybe find some solace in his book. And I have. It’s a beautiful story about Logelin’s struggle to overcome his personal grief while raising his new daughter. I highly recommend it if you are still looking for a good beach read.

Anyway, I feel that this vacation will set the tone for how well we can handle the next few months as we transition into a one-parent household and I return to work. So far it hasn’t been easy. Babe is back to sleep training which means she has been crying off an on all night and practically insufferable during the day. And my parents have been visiting Hornby as well so I’ve actually had some help. But they leave tomorrow so here’s hoping I can make it at least another week. We’re really roughin’ it up here. I have no TV or Internet (I have to go to the school just to post this) and Babe and I are living in a one-room cabin with no running water. It’s a lot of work but I’ve waited years to have this time at Hornby with my very own baby!

Life goes on. 

Playing in the ocean while waiting for the ferry.

At the beach.

Sleeping at the beach.

Testing out the new stroller for its intended function - walking around Helliwell.

Review: The Mom Spa.

Hanging out waiting for our appointment.

Yesterday I was in South Surrey killing time before a doctor appointment and I found something wonderful!

It's no secret that I loooove going to the spa. Massages, pedicures, manicures, facials...I love it all. I have been a few times since Babe was born - three times to be exact. But each time I had to arrange for my parents to meet me at the spa to take care of Babe while I was getting a treatment. I've had to keep my cell on in case they called and I've had to be prepared to walk out halfway through my appointment in case she really needed to nurse.

But The Mom Spa is great. I was so intrigued by the name when I drove past it that I had to pull over and check it out. And once I checked it out I had to book a quickie pedicure to test it out.

It's beautifully decorated and perfectly peaceful inside. An oversized crystal chandelier greets you in the lobby and everything is pretty, fresh and calming. But there is something special about The Mom Spa that really does make it perfect for moms.

On site they have this amazing playroom for kids. There's a table and chairs, a TV and DVD player, lots of toys and books, foamy floor mats, a great big train table and more. The kids have their own bathroom with pint-sized fixtures and there is a special gated off area for little babies to nap in a playpen or sit in a baby swing. There is also a place to heat bottles and a comfy chair for nursing. And best of all, the playroom comes equipped with free child minders!

This was only the second time I have ever left Babe with someone other than my parents and probably the only time I would entrust her to a stranger. But the kids there seemed so happy and the child-minder so nice that it was easy to leave Babe for a half hour foot pampering.

In truth I was so excited about the concept of free childcare while at the spa that I realized halfway through my appointment I had never bothered to ask about her qualifications. I just left Babe there and headed off to the elegant nail lounge. F.Y.I. if anyone wants to kidnap my child they need only distract me with a spa treatment.

I did talk to the babysitter afterwards but more importantly when I went to retrieve my daughter she was happily curled up in the woman's lap. And before I left her I was assured that if she got too upset they would bring her to me while I had my pedicure.

Not only is the playroom great but they have a children's hair salon on site as well. Complete with the cute little car and airplane seats. And the spa swag in the lobby includes adorable baby items.

If you're in the mood for some pampering but unable to arrange chid care, or you just want to stop in for a little upkeep while running errands and have the kids with you this is the perfect place. Or if you want to get a bunch of your mommy friends together for a private party they do that too. They take kids and babies of all ages and the spa prices are comparable to other places in Vancouver.

I love my sparkly toes!

Because it's a spa I didn't take many pics but you can check out the website here. Or: 

The Mom Spa on Facebook.

The kid's hair salon. Whimsicuts.

Will We Lose Our "Baby Boxes"?

Photo courtesy of Wired.com

So I have been really short of time lately and it's been impossible to get a post done. Now I'm backed up and I have a bunch of things that I want to write about.

Tonight I was going to post some photos highlighting Babe's and my recent trip to Washington D.C.

But when I logged onto the Internet I found this article instead. It pissed me off so much that I think I'll just share this and save the pics for another time.

Here is the link to the article about the controversy of "baby boxes".

I always thought that these were a creative solution to a really sad problem. It never occurred to me that anyone, least of all the United Nations, could find fault in them. But then why does it surprise me, people can always find something to get up in arms about.

Vancouver got its first and only baby box at St. Paul's Hospital after a number of babies were left for dead or their bodies disposed of presumably by mothers who were desperate to not have a baby.

The Angel's Cradle at St. Paul's allows a mother to anonymously place her baby inside the cupboard-style bassinet and leave undetected before an alarm sounds alerting hospital staff to the delivery.

The theory is that if women know there is a safe place to leave their newborn and they can do it in secret less babies will be left for dead. Here is an old article about the baby box in Vancouver.

As far as I know Vancouver's baby box has been used only once.

The article states that, "the UN Committee says the anonymous nature of the boxes deprive each baby from knowing their parents; a right all children have under a UN convention."

While children most certainly deserve that basic right they more importantly deserve the right to not be left in a dumpster. And while most children do know where they come from and who their parents are certainly many don't.

What about children who were adopted? Not all adoptions are open and not all adopted children can grow up and track down their birth parents. What about the children whose mothers or fathers won't tell them about their other parent. What about the privacy afforded to sperm donors? Certainly it's better to be left somewhere warm and safe, be assessed by medical staff and then be adopted by loving parents than killed by a confused and terrified mother.

While I highly doubt that baby boxes do much to decrease abortion rates or infant abuse as some may claim they do, I do think that every city should have one. Sadly it's true that they won't stop abandonment of babies, but as the old saying goes, "if it saves just one..."

The article also states that the UN Committee is concerned that babies left by fathers may have been abandoned without the consent of the mothers. Well the opposite is surely true as well.

But we aren't talking about most babies, or most parents. We are talking about a very, very few number of babies that would otherwise be killed or left for dead. Surely most mothers or fathers whose babies were taken by their partner could track their baby down through the hospital it was left at. And while it is tragic that a few babies will be abandoned by angry fathers or pimps to the heartbreak of their mothers these are babies that would probably have been killed at birth by the same men if the baby boxes weren't so accessible.

To me it's just ridiculous to put the right of the child to know its parents over the safety of the child.

And as a side note: The baby who was left in Vancouver's baby box was left with a family history and birth information. Much more than a baby left on a doorstep or in a dumpster usually gets. Maybe the baby boxes not only provide a desperate parent a safe alternative to murder but also allows them some time to think through the decision to abandon their baby and take extra care in doing so.

I'd be really disappointed if Vancouver lost its baby box.

Here are a couple more articles on this issue:

The Guardian

CBC


And in unrelated news.
Here is my opinion on this story - GOOD! I hope my daughter gets better teachers than this loser.