Lucy turns THREE: a mermaid party redux

Despite my intentions to bottle her up and keep her little forever, my daughter turned three this past week. Three! Two parties (one for immediate family on the exact day, and one for her little friends on the weekend) mean I'd like to go back to bed now, but at least I feel like I did right by my favourite girl. Now where's that Mom of the Year award?

	The Dress My sister took Lucy to the Disney Store to outfit her with an Ariel princess dress, just for the occasion. Needless to say she wanted to sleep in it and wear it every day since she got it.
	Father of the Year A man who would dress up in an King Triton costume on a 30 degree day is worth his weight in clams.(Special thanks to my friend Marla for lending us the Triton costume and the Ariel wig.)
	Just Call Me Martha I am not a baker, but these fairly easy Devil's Food Cake Cupcakes turned out way better (less sugary by a mile — and I even used store-bought icing) than the expensive Ariel cake we bought at the grocery store. I was able to get the toppers at the Bulk Barn, as well as a Wilton Icing Colours kit that will last forever (read: worth the cost) and ensure my frosting is just the right shade every time.
	Sibling Love Ariel's, erm, Lucy's 5.5-year-old brother was a real gem. He let his sister have her special day without jockeying for attention (not sure she'd do the same) and took it upon himself to ensure the other little kids were having fun. While I wallow in mama-guilt on the regular, when I see these two together, I know I've done something right along the way.
	The Girl with the Most Cake While the guests burned off the sugar in "Ariel's Grotto" (a.k.a. a play tent with fish decals stuck to the ceiling), the guest of honour flitted about eating goldfish crackers (and more than her fair share of icing) and giggling up a storm. The "Tanks for my pawty mama," I got at bedtime was worth all the exhaustion.

Pigeons in the Subway

Quick housecleaning note: I don't have breast cancer! Woo hoo! Sorry to keep y'all hanging. I do have some sort of boob "wart" that needs to be removed called a papilloma (still gross, but prettier than "wart").

Today my daughter turned three. THREE! And I got a bit worked up, frenzied, trying to get my working butt home to help the huz with the family party details. I was in the ugly zone, the one where I was thinking about all the things I wasn't doing, instead of all the awesome things I'd done. Regardless, Eckhart Tolle would probably say that both are exercises in futility since neither act is rooted in the present moment.

The Bloor subway was hotter and sweatier than usual. I could count six different bodies touching mine. There was extreme heat emanating from one man and when he moved, the man next to him exuded a cold draft. I began to think of True Blood (my current fave show), and then I let my mind wander to that place that I despise: I began to panic about terrorists.

Post-911, I, like many, have terrorist-related panic attacks. A crowded subway when I haven't slept (because I stayed up to make Lucy cupcakes - the first cupcakes I've ever made in my life) and deadlines are looming is a sure trigger. What was different about this time was that I was able to talk myself off that ledge pretty fast. I breathed, I found the zen, I entered the now, and I was saved. (Yeah, it sounds insane to me too, but it's nice here in the light, so I'm staying.)

I looked around at my fellow subway passengers and tried to beam joy. Like a big giant joy energy field that would wake them out of their sleepwalking states and allow them to see that, fuck, we're all ALIVE! It's so beautiful! Why do we hate so much of it? What is SO wrong with most of us in the west that we have to numb ourselves to the most beautiful experience on the planet? LIVING!

The train rumbled through the Bloor Viaduct and I was suddenly overcome with joy at the sight of trees in the valley below. We get to SEE this, to bear witness to it. Beauty exists when we CHOOSE to see it.

I smiled one of those goofy smiles that make people believe that you are batshit crazy, which is OK on a crowded subway because it gleans you more personal space.

I looked around the train at all the zombies and thought about how I should read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies or whatever it's called, because the walking dead are amongst us every day and I should probably see if any authors think like me about it vs. the George Romero version of what zombies are. (Welcome to my brain on ADHD.)

Then the train stopped at a station and I absent-mindedly looked at the opposite platform across the tracks. There, acting like it was nobody's business, was a pigeon on the platform.

There he was all pigeon-like, acting like he needed to get the next car home so he could eat some KD and get the kids to bed in time to watch So You Think You Can Dance. He was doing that impatient pigeon move -- you know, that neck-bobby shit that only pigeons and PeeWee Herman do well? He was pacing and neck-bobbing and waiting for that motherfucking train like the rest of the world at rush hour.

And I laughed.

Then I looked around at all the zombies to see if any of them were alive enough to see the comedy show that was there for all of us, but everyone was too busy staring into laps and blank air, thinking about emails unsent and bills unpaid, to see the Alec Baldwin of pigeons.

I felt sad. I wondered who would bear witness to this magical life moment with me. Why couldn't we all see the pigeon and be happy? Why couldn't we all see the light that's in me, beaming out of me on good days?

"Nate would have loved this," I thought. Then I got happy again, because I realized that I did have people to share it with. I raced home to tell my son about this pigeon. My husband's family was there, my husband barbecuing, the party all set up and as soon as I said, "...and there was a pigeon, waiting for a train...," everyone stopped what they were doing and laughed at my story.

I have a family of people who saw the humour in my pigeon story, who got the beauty in the randomness of it. I have my tribe. They get me. I see pigeons on subway platforms now. I see my family for who they are. I am alive. Life is good.

My Left Boob

Hi. My name is Nadine Silverthorne. You might know me as Scarbie Doll or scarbiedoll or some other nickname/handle/avatar/acronym. I might come across as a bit rough around the edges. But inside, I'm quite soft.

And really, really lumpy-bumpy.

My body makes cysts. Lots of them. One for every serious stress I've ever experienced. Yup, there's a cyst for that. That's my body's way of coping. To package hurts and worries up in little balls of fat and fluid and deposit them in random places in and on my body. I have several cysts on my eyelids for example. A big ol' lump in my left arm. A pebble in my left thigh. Something funky on one of my ovaries. And several weird, painful bits in my boobs.

When you have tendencies towards being a hypochondriac with moderate to severe anxiety and panic issues, well, sometimes it's hard to tell when you should let things be and when you should advocate for better care for yourself.

I've had a lump in my left boob for 15 years, give or take a few. Lately, it's been feeling larger and hurting more. So after bugging my doctor over and over to give me breast exams, she finally suggested I have an ultrasound to put my mind at ease.

"What will that tell us?" I asked like an idiot.

"It will tell us you have cysts in your breasts, like we already know," replied my slightly annoyed doctor. Then she warned, "Look, we know your body makes cysts. You don't want to go down the path of poking yourself full of holes either."

I figured she was right, but the allure of putting my worry to rest was too appealing.

I had the ultrasound. They found my teenaged fibroid. But then they also found two suspicious hobbly-nobs. (YESTHAT'STHEMEDICALTERMFORTHEM!) And so I had to go back, to have two pricks and one rather large hole poked into me (doesn't that sound like a porn synopsis?).

The radiologist was hot. Correction. HAWT. And I immediately regretted opting out of plucking crazy-ass, stray nipple hairs. (Hey, I'm an Armo. Nipple hairs are God's way of saying, "You're lucky I didn't give you chest hair like your cousin Arpi!")

Then the ultrasound technician totally started flirting with the hot radiologist and I was all like, "Bitch, there's not room in here for the both of us! Now move out the way so he can admire my long nipple hairs and fall in love with me."

Anyway, I basically let them gang bang my cysts with a really long needle, because I'm a freak like that, for the better part of an hour. I don't actually know how I got through it without a panic attack, but I suspect I was doing some Eckhart Tolle Power of Now thinking (as in "All I have is this moment with the sexy radiologist and this needle and if I focus on his tanned biceps, then the needle doesn't exist."). Then I got dressed and hazily walked through the breast centre, out the doors to find my family waiting for me. Boy, were they a sight of sore boobs!

Outside, I asked if we could make our way into the Metropolitain United. I love churches for their ability to make me cry and let me cry in peace. The huzzle loves churches because he thinks, "Silly humans. Look at all this lovely artwork you've created for someone that doesn't exist." So he agreed.

I sat in a pew and stumbled over the Hail Mary. Then I sang the Armenian hymn Der Voghormeyah in my head because it's the surest way to get the tears out. And I sobbed. Like a baby. I had only wanted reassurance of my health and now, maybe, I was going to be facing a whole lot worse.

Let me tell you fellow panickers -- the "I told you so" is not worth it.

Then my daughter decided the altar was a stage, performing clumsy pirhouettes and Rupaul stances. My son's Zhu Zhu pet kept chattering away, causing Nate to cover his mouth and giggle, then shush his little batteried love pet. I wiped my tears away and laughed. No more feeling sorry for myself. I've got too much to live for.

Tomorrow morning I will get the results from my intense threesome with the radiologist and the needle. Regardless of the outcome, I've already decided how I'm living from this point on: fighting to stay fully awake in life, battling to get out of my head and to live, completely, in the present moment. Just being. Not fighting what is insane to try and renounce. Life. Living it. Alive and kicking.

Welcome to Nadine 2.0.

The Maybe Baby

“Let’s make a life list,” I suggest to my sister. We’re buoyant after getting two side-by-side seats on a sweaty, smelly rush hour subway car. I’ve been reading the life lists of others and about how those who write down their dreams are more likely to have them come true. It seems like a fun way to pass the time.

“I’d like to ride bikes through Europe with the kids some day, sorta like Family on Bikes,” I offer. We ramble on: cooking classes in Italy, sushi in Japan, and neither of us has an interest in South America – except for beef in Buenos Aires. (The after-work hunger clearly drives the direction of the dreaming...)

Then the voice in my head chimes in during a moment of silence. “Psst... Another baby.”

WHAT?!

Ludicrous, I tell my brain. I thought we’d decided. We’re done! I no longer have the pangs of longing when holding a friend’s newborn. We’re four, it’s nice and round. The world is built for four after all. Win a trip for a family of four. Seat four comfortably in small or mid-size. One parent per child caregiver ratio; one child per human ecological ratio. We’re good! We’re great!

But growing up with a sister and knowing how wonderful that relationship can be has me a little uncertain about my childbearing career at times. I would love for Lucy to know the joys of having a sister. And so there’s this phantom child that lurks around as a possibility. The Maybe Baby.

I find myself picking out names that I like, names that we haven't used. Eek! Could I do it all over again? Could I be OK with the necessary minivan, the bigger house, the greater responsibility and financial burden? Should I consider taking the next steps?

"Imagine Lucy as a middle child," my sister offers.

And that seals the deal. The door is closed, again.

Pitter Patter

London, England, 1999.

His roommates were out at their jobs. One worked for MTV UK, the other for FIFA - both ambitious women with wildly different career paths. They shared a ground level flat in an unremarkable section of Fulham. The pilot light frequently went out on the water heater, making baths (there was no shower) a challenge. The washing machine leaked in the kitchen and bits of old newsprint, that they'd used to sop up the laundry spills, clung to the linoleum floor.

It was my first time travelling alone. I was not one to leave my comfort zone, nor rock the boat with my strict-for-Canada, liberal-for-Armenians parents. But I was in love and my love had decided that he needed to live abroad for a while.

We had just spent three glorious weeks together on his new turf, playing house. I went to the theatre while he worked. His roommate introduced me to her friends and took me on a journey to East London, to a flat where boys made films and art and smoked too much pot. I ended up in a Peugeot, listening to My Bloody Valentine and driving past a spot where one of Henry the Eighth's wives had been beheaded -- now a footie arena -- and then all the way to Greenwich, the place where time begins. I planted my blue nail polished toes on either side of the world and snapped a pic.

I rode the Tube, went to museums, walked for hours trying to get lost (impossible in London -- there's always a Tube-stop to help you gain your bearings). We drank in dive bars in Chinatown, in after hours bars in Camden, in fancy bars in Soho, in delicious pubs on Fleet St. I shopped on Portobello, saw skateboarders at Sheppard's Bush. I drank wine and wrote in my journal in Covent Garden while a man juggled swords and an opera trio serenaded me. I did our laundry at the laundromat on the high street, took the bus alone to Sainsbury to get the fixings for a lasagna I would bake him. No matter the adventure, I always came home to him.

He snuck into his roommate's room and put on his Neil Young Unplugged CD. He grabbed my hand and twirled me over bits of dried newsprint in the kitchen, out into the hallway, "Harvest Moon" playing softly over our missteps. And he whispered in my ear, "Pitter patter. Pitter patter."

***************************************
Toronto, Canada, 2010

I hear the padding of soft, plump feet on the cork floor, the rustling of her buckwheat pillow, the dragging of her duvet on the floor. I open one eye to see her standing there, eyes still puffy from sleep, face determined and pleased at this ritual. She thrusts blanket, pillow and lovies on top of me and demands, "Middle."

It is 6:30 a.m. and this ritual, while sweet, sometimes has me wishing for a snooze button. She senses our mild iritation and tries to amuse us with her Jerry Lewis act. We turn our backs to her, pull the covers up a little higher, hiding our amused smiles.

"Mama, are you mad?"

Oh no my sweet, dear child. You brought the whisper of two young lovers - an idea, a suggestion - right into this very moment. You start my every day with love and joy and presence. How could Mama be mad?

"Mama, is your heart happy?"

Indubitably, emphatically, yes.