It's twenty minutes past nine on the Saturday night before Christmas - two days before we pack up the kids and head to New Brunswick for two weeks. There are many things I should be doing - four loads of laundry are heaped on my bed waiting to be folded; the living room looks like a bomb went off in the toy section of Walmart; and my first attempt at a mincemeat pie sits miserably in its pan, looking all too much like my post-partum body: crisp in some places and soggy in others. Some people would need to excercise a great amount of discipline in order to get to work and tackle these less-than-glamorous challenges. For me, however, the opposite is true - I am making a stupendous effort to ignore all that needs to be done in my house, to make a cup of tea and to sit down and write.
So someone out there had better read this, damn it.
There are four things in life that I think are truly worth doing. Not necessarily for everyone, but for me - they give me great pleasure and have a number of other benefits as well. The problem is, because they are important but not urgent, they rarely get done. These four things are prayer, exercise, writing and music.
Case in point: I am now writing at 10:30 pm, having been interrupted by my baby, who needed changing, dressing, feeding, and burping, and who is now lying in her bassinet screaming. My noble attempt to give some time to one of my four priorities (after my family, of course) has once again been thwarted. And now I am too tired to continue tonight, especially since I still have four loads of laundry to fold and a crying baby to comfort. I will continue with this train of thought next time I have a spare moment ... which will probably be sometime in 2009 ...
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Impending Changes to Canada's Foreign Aid Policy
You can read the full National Post article by John Ivison here, but here are some of the highlights of changes to Canada's foreign aid policy being recommended to the Harper government by the Senate:
- fewer recipient countries
- aid targeted towards countries making efforts towards democracy and good governance
- less social welfare funding and more infrastructure funding
- less bilateral and multilateral funding, more grants to smaller NGOs actually working in the countries they are trying to help
- more staff on the field and fewer in Ottawa
- extensive CIDA reform
- recipient countries would no longer have to spend the funds they receive on purchasing goods and services from Canada (a Liberal politician once said that the best thing about Canada's foreign aid system is that all the aid money stays in Canada)
- double aid to Africa
Almost all of the proposed changes in the Senate report are in my opinion good and necessary. Canada's foreign aid system has become both bloated and ineffective to a startling degree. If the Harper government is serious about making Canada's foreign aid actually accomplish something in the world then these changes are a good start. The only recommendation that worries me is that they consider abolishing CIDA and lumping foreign aid in with the Dept. of Foreign Affairs and International Trade. I'm no fan of CIDA, but I do believe that aid and trade need to be seen as very distinct entities and not controlled by the same dept/bureaucrats/interests.
- fewer recipient countries
- aid targeted towards countries making efforts towards democracy and good governance
- less social welfare funding and more infrastructure funding
- less bilateral and multilateral funding, more grants to smaller NGOs actually working in the countries they are trying to help
- more staff on the field and fewer in Ottawa
- extensive CIDA reform
- recipient countries would no longer have to spend the funds they receive on purchasing goods and services from Canada (a Liberal politician once said that the best thing about Canada's foreign aid system is that all the aid money stays in Canada)
- double aid to Africa
Almost all of the proposed changes in the Senate report are in my opinion good and necessary. Canada's foreign aid system has become both bloated and ineffective to a startling degree. If the Harper government is serious about making Canada's foreign aid actually accomplish something in the world then these changes are a good start. The only recommendation that worries me is that they consider abolishing CIDA and lumping foreign aid in with the Dept. of Foreign Affairs and International Trade. I'm no fan of CIDA, but I do believe that aid and trade need to be seen as very distinct entities and not controlled by the same dept/bureaucrats/interests.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
My Humiliating Day
Ah, life with a toddler and newborn ... so much fodder for blogging. So yesterday I woke up feeling great, ready to conquer the world. "This is easy," I thought, "What was I so afraid of?" Unfortunately, I'm firmly convinced my 21-month-old has the Heroes-esque ability to read minds and set out to bring me back down to reality. I decided to drop my husband off at work and then take the two girls to my women's group at church. Normally Lauren cries for about 10 seconds when I leave her in the nursery, but this time she started screaming at the top of her lungs as soon as we entered the church parking lot. So here I am, waddling across the parking lot through a fresh coating of snow (and of course, seeing as we live in BC, neither my kids nor I have winter boots) with a diaper bag, a 30-lb car seat, and Lauren clinging to my leg. Once I get into the church the baby starts to cry as well, so I wrestle the three of us and all our gear into the nursery and begin to nurse Willow ... at which point Lauren goes ballistic and literally tries to climb into my skin. Now, any of you who have heard Lauren scream can testify that it is undoubtedly the loudest, shrillest scream ever produced by child or adult. She should work in the sound department for horror movies, the kind where people are being slowly and cruelly tortured. Anyway, so this goes on for several minutes, while all the time women are arriving the the program is starting in the next room. Finally I pry Willow from my breast and Lauren from my neck and figure I'll take the baby and make a run for it, while leaving Lauren in the capable hands of the nursery workers. But in the process of climbing over the baby gate in the doorway, I trip and fall on it, smashing it to pieces (all while holding my two-week-old baby, of course, and all in full view of about 30 women). So now not only am I an incompetent mother, I'm also a complete klutz who can't be trusted to carry a child. I didn't think it possible, but Lauren's screams reach an entirely new level so I beat a hasty retreat back into the nursery where I nurse my bruised ego and spend the next 20 minutes trying to get Lauren calm enough that I can get her coat and shoes back on so we can concede defeat and go home. Of course, I have to put her down so I can put Willow in the car seat, and you can imagine how well that went over. Why none of the other mums were coming to my rescue and offering to take the baby or something (anything!) at this point is beyond me ... maybe it's some sort of women's group initiation that everyone has to go through. Anyway, by the time I got them out (by walking through the group of women, of course) and into the car I was reduced to a puddle of tears and was seriously considering driving to the nearest hospital to have my tubes tied. But instead I drove back to my husband's office and tearfully begged him to work from home for the rest of the morning. Fortunately for my sanity, he did.
Good times.
Good times.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Guilt, Motherhood and Other Synonyms
A precious half-hour to myself. I just - sadly - dropped my mother off at the airport after two extremely helpful weeks following the birth of my second child. This must be how the very rich live - with a live-in cook, nanny and maid. But now she's gone and I set ensconced at Starbucks with an eggnog latte and chocolate biscotti. "The traffic was bad," I'll tell my husband if he asks why it took an hour and a half to make a one-hour trip to the airport and back. Or maybe I'll tell him the truth - what a novel concept. Why is it that I feel compelled to lie or justify a half-hour to myself? I wonder if guilt is one of those things that comes automatically with motherhood, like super-hearing and eyes in the back of one's head. If you're a working mum, you're guilty about the time you're not spending with your children. If you're a stay-at-home mum, you're guilty about not contributing to the family income and about asking your husband to help out with anything ("oh, he was working hard all day, I was 'just' at home with the kids"). If you work part-time, you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, and have the privilege of feeling guilty about everything. You can't escape guilt as a mother, just as you can't escape the lingering smell of spit-up no matter how many times you shower ...
On Breastfeeding in Public
Nothing like welcoming you all back to my blog after a year's hiatus with a rousing rant on the over-sexualization of breasts and the freedom to whip them out in public ...
I love breastfeeding. Not just for the numerous nutritional benefits, more and more of which are being hailed in the press – apparently breastfeeding is good for everything from preventing adult obesity to a higher IQ – but mostly for the sheer convenience of it all. No bottles and nipples to sterilize or formula to mix, no temperature to regulate, no extra bottles to prepare for an afternoon of running errands. When my baby is hungry, I have all I need at my ready disposal – the perfect mix, the perfect temperature, the perfect amount, and nothing to sterilize.
However, as much as I love breastfeeding, there are few things I hate more than breastfeeding in public. When I’m at home, alone with my year-and-a-half old daughter and my newborn, I can yank up or whip off my top at leisure and concentrate on the job at hand (or, rather, at breast). In public, however, I not only have to worry about my daughter latching properly and keeping her from bobbing on and off the breast as she is wont to do, I have to somehow do that while simultaneously ensuring every inch of potentially exposed skin is and remains covered – not only the breast but also the rolls of baby-fat lingering around my belly and hips (which are – to me – more worthy of hiding). And how exactly is one supposed to help a new baby nurse when you can’t even see her for the massive receiving blanket in which you’ve tried to shroud your whole body? Of course, whatever you’ve got yourself draped in will always slip off at the most inopportune moment, especially when the baby is old enough to give it a good yank just as someone starts talking to you. In fact, it is only for the comfort of others that I even bother to extend the effort – because believe me, at this point I couldn’t care less who sees my leaking, swollen, cracked and completely asexual breasts.
This brings me to a question which has lingered on my mind since the birth of my first child: why is it that nursing mothers feel the need to cover up? A male colleague of mine tells the story of his female boss at his old job, who came back into the office on her maternity leave to tell him that she was not returning. She had her baby with her and during their meeting the baby started to fuss, so she asked him, “Is it okay with you if I nurse her?” and then proceeded to do so after he begrudgingly and untruthfully said he didn’t mind. He tells this story with an expression of incredulity and relates how shocked he was that she nursed her baby in front of him. I, on the other hand, am shocked that she felt the need to ask his permission – what mother needs permission from friends, colleagues or complete strangers to feed her own child? It seems as ridiculous as asking, “Do you mind if I give my toddler a cracker?” before offering an obviously hungry child a snack.
Some people would argue that the breasts are sexual objects and should not be exposed in public. First of all, I think in the grand scheme of things breasts are meant first for feeding babies and second as sexual objects. And really, how sexual is the sight of the back of a baby’s head surrounded by a few square inches of skin? Second, there is something obviously wrong with our culture when we can watch without blushing explicit and gratuitous sex scenes in film and on television and yet avert our eyes away from a mother feeding her child as if we are witnessing something dirty or shameful. The reality of what breasts are for seems to be too much for our overly-sexualized culture to handle. We refuse to accept breasts for what they really are – small and droopy, engorged and painful, soft and comforting, wet with milk and perpetually smelling of spit-up, and givers of life to the human race. How much more real and beautiful is this picture than that portrayed by the trend-setters of the world – the hard, perky breasts of actors, rock stars, models, and an increasing number of high school girls – breasts which are devoid of feeling and will never know the miracle of a tiny mouth gulping down nature’s precious antioxidants, antibodies, perfect protein and a few extra IQ points to boot.
And so it is with these thoughts in mind that I call on the nursing women of the world to join me, throw away your cover-ups and feel free to whip it out anywhere, anytime. You don’t need anyone’s permission to feed your child, and it is only by seeing more and more nursing mothers will people grow more comfortable with having us in their midst. When someone averts his or her eyes or throws you a scathing I-can’t-believe-you-are-exposing-yourself-in-front-of-me look, know that you are helping to reverse our culture’s obsession with breasts as solely sexual objects and simultaneous rejection of breasts as providers of sustenance and life.
I love breastfeeding. Not just for the numerous nutritional benefits, more and more of which are being hailed in the press – apparently breastfeeding is good for everything from preventing adult obesity to a higher IQ – but mostly for the sheer convenience of it all. No bottles and nipples to sterilize or formula to mix, no temperature to regulate, no extra bottles to prepare for an afternoon of running errands. When my baby is hungry, I have all I need at my ready disposal – the perfect mix, the perfect temperature, the perfect amount, and nothing to sterilize.
However, as much as I love breastfeeding, there are few things I hate more than breastfeeding in public. When I’m at home, alone with my year-and-a-half old daughter and my newborn, I can yank up or whip off my top at leisure and concentrate on the job at hand (or, rather, at breast). In public, however, I not only have to worry about my daughter latching properly and keeping her from bobbing on and off the breast as she is wont to do, I have to somehow do that while simultaneously ensuring every inch of potentially exposed skin is and remains covered – not only the breast but also the rolls of baby-fat lingering around my belly and hips (which are – to me – more worthy of hiding). And how exactly is one supposed to help a new baby nurse when you can’t even see her for the massive receiving blanket in which you’ve tried to shroud your whole body? Of course, whatever you’ve got yourself draped in will always slip off at the most inopportune moment, especially when the baby is old enough to give it a good yank just as someone starts talking to you. In fact, it is only for the comfort of others that I even bother to extend the effort – because believe me, at this point I couldn’t care less who sees my leaking, swollen, cracked and completely asexual breasts.
This brings me to a question which has lingered on my mind since the birth of my first child: why is it that nursing mothers feel the need to cover up? A male colleague of mine tells the story of his female boss at his old job, who came back into the office on her maternity leave to tell him that she was not returning. She had her baby with her and during their meeting the baby started to fuss, so she asked him, “Is it okay with you if I nurse her?” and then proceeded to do so after he begrudgingly and untruthfully said he didn’t mind. He tells this story with an expression of incredulity and relates how shocked he was that she nursed her baby in front of him. I, on the other hand, am shocked that she felt the need to ask his permission – what mother needs permission from friends, colleagues or complete strangers to feed her own child? It seems as ridiculous as asking, “Do you mind if I give my toddler a cracker?” before offering an obviously hungry child a snack.
Some people would argue that the breasts are sexual objects and should not be exposed in public. First of all, I think in the grand scheme of things breasts are meant first for feeding babies and second as sexual objects. And really, how sexual is the sight of the back of a baby’s head surrounded by a few square inches of skin? Second, there is something obviously wrong with our culture when we can watch without blushing explicit and gratuitous sex scenes in film and on television and yet avert our eyes away from a mother feeding her child as if we are witnessing something dirty or shameful. The reality of what breasts are for seems to be too much for our overly-sexualized culture to handle. We refuse to accept breasts for what they really are – small and droopy, engorged and painful, soft and comforting, wet with milk and perpetually smelling of spit-up, and givers of life to the human race. How much more real and beautiful is this picture than that portrayed by the trend-setters of the world – the hard, perky breasts of actors, rock stars, models, and an increasing number of high school girls – breasts which are devoid of feeling and will never know the miracle of a tiny mouth gulping down nature’s precious antioxidants, antibodies, perfect protein and a few extra IQ points to boot.
And so it is with these thoughts in mind that I call on the nursing women of the world to join me, throw away your cover-ups and feel free to whip it out anywhere, anytime. You don’t need anyone’s permission to feed your child, and it is only by seeing more and more nursing mothers will people grow more comfortable with having us in their midst. When someone averts his or her eyes or throws you a scathing I-can’t-believe-you-are-exposing-yourself-in-front-of-me look, know that you are helping to reverse our culture’s obsession with breasts as solely sexual objects and simultaneous rejection of breasts as providers of sustenance and life.
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