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Flashback Fridays: Dial Tone

"Sandra?"

Silence.

"Sandra, I can't do it anymore ... I ... I don't want to do it anymore. You are the only person I can talk to. The only person that didn't judge me about the abortion. I know I should tell Jared about the baby. No. I can't call it a baby. It wasn't a baby. Was it? I can't tell Jared about the abortion. He would never forgive me. But I did it for him too. I know I should have told him. But it's too late for that now and he doesn't understand why I am crying all of the time ... I am so sad and confused and angry and tired. Sandra, I am tired."



"I know. I know, Sandra. Thank you for understanding .... I have to tell you something .... I really just can't do it anymore. I feel like my life is out of control and my secret is so big that Jared will never love me if he finds out. No one will ever love me. I am damaged goods now. I am a terrible person. I'm a murderer. Did you know that's what she called me last week? Am I a murderer? I am too young to be a mother. I am only 20 and I haven't even finished university ... If my parents knew they'd be so ashamed. It would hurt them so much. I couldn't stand seeing how they'd look at me. I can't hurt them. But I couldn't be pregnant. I had to do it ... I had to ... I had no choice. Right? So why do I feel like there is a hole in my heart? A hole in my heart that will never, ever heal. I am so tired, Sandra. I just don't think I am strong enough."



"I understand what you are saying. But, do you think I am a bad person? Do you think I'll ever stop thinking about this?"

"But when? When will I stop crying? I can't do this. Sandra, I want to tell you that I called to say good bye. Thank you for being a friend to me when I needed it even though you barely know me. I am so sorry. I hope you don't hate me when you hear the news. Please don't let people say bad things about me. Please don't let people know about the baby. I mean the abortion. Please don't let them talk about me when I am gone."

"Yes. Yes I do. I WANT to die. I want to die like my baby died. Because, I guess it was a baby. I deserve to die. I wonder whether it was a girl? I have to die. I can't live like this anymore. I can't do it ... I just can't. I am so sorry. Please don't forget me. Please don't let people know my secret."

I was able to talk her out of it that night. But that wasn't the last time I'd have a conversation with her where I'd try everything I could think of to make her want to live. I felt so helpless. So ill equipped. I tried to get her to talk to a counselor or go to a support group on campus. I took her to see her doctor. I bought her a book that I thought would help. I went to the library to find anything I could on how to talk to a friend who wanted to commit suicide.



The thing was, she wasn't really a friend. We'd only just met a few weeks earlier and she had to tell someone her secret. I happened to be the one there. I'll never know why. But I became a part of her secret and the only person she would talk to. Maybe it was because I didn't know her. Maybe it was because I wasn't part of the fabric that made up her life.

Then I got the last of those desperate calls as I was walking out the door on the way to my final exam for introductory German...

"Sandra....Sandra....Sandra I am sorry. I am so sorry. I know you have been trying to help me and to stop me but its too late. I did it. I took two bottles of pills with ... vodka. Oh my god. Sandra ....:"

Click.

And then the haunting sound of the dial tone.



I went into auto pilot. I dialed 911 and told them what happened and gave them her address. I then called one of her housemates to go to her room and wait with her until the ambulance arrived. I went to my German exam, signed my name and scribbled a note to my professor about what happened. And I sprinted out of the room. It wasn't how I should have handled it. But how does a 20 year old girl handle a situation like being told someone has tried to kill themselves?

When I got to the hospital she was having her stomach pumped. The doctors said the paramedics had got there just in time. She'd live.

I called her parents. I knew she'd hate me for it but I had to call her parents to tell them their daughter was in the ER. And I called Jared, her boyfriend. I didn't break any of her confidences but they needed to know where she was. She needed them. She was calling out for help and I had to be her voice that day.

When she regained consciousness, I was the last one to walk into her room. The people that loved her were surrounding her bedside with tear-stained faces. She looked me in the eye and whispered, "thank you".

I don't remember what I said to her that day or during any of our calls. But I do remember every word that passed her lips. Every nuance in her voice. Every time she said my name.

And what I remember most was that dial tone. That dial tone still haunts me.

Flashback Fridays: The Call That Changed My Life

It was 10 days before Christmas, in my second year of University, when I got the call. "Your test results are in and I am sorry but they came back positive. We need to make an appointment with you this week to go over your options."

I froze. Said nothing. Hung up the phone. Sat in silence.

I am an emotional woman. In retrospect, it is shocking to me that I didn't burst into tears. Or experience anger, frustration, or panic. Instead I was numb. Numb because I had just been told that my biopsy to detect uterine cancer had come back positive. Twenty years old and just diagnosed with cancer.

Before that life-altering call, I hadn't told anyone about the test. With the notable exception of a stranger who helped me find the books I needed to read far too much info at the med-school library. As I stood alone in my room, digesting the news, the images of all the diagrams and life expectancy data I'd seen in those medical books swirled around in my mind at a speed that felt surreal.

And then I fainted.

When I awoke, my roommates were standing over me with a glass of water worried that I was ill. I had been battling severe abdominal pain and other symptoms for years. They knew that I had tough days and made frequent trips to the doctor for a barrage of tests to search for a solution.

In that moment I could have told them and I would have received a world of support and hugs. But I didn't.

Saying it aloud might make it real. I wasn't ready for it to be real. I didn't call my parents. I didn't call my closest friends. I didn't call my boyfriend. I told no one. Knew it would be very hard on the people close to me and I wanted to spare them the fears that were swirling in my own mind. I wanted to figure out where my head was at before I shared it aloud and managed others reactions. I was so pragmatic and detached in my thought process.

So I did the only thing that I knew how. I took out my note book and started writing. I wrote through my fears and confusion. I wrote through my emerging anger and disbelief. I wrote through my need to protect the people around me. And I started planning. Not for dying but for living.

I made lists. Dozens and dozens of lists of all the things I wanted to do before I died. Of the person I wanted to be. Of the people I wanted to tell that I loved. Of the wrongs that I wanted to right. I don't know what happened to that note book but I do remember that those lists were instrumental in my young life and ultimately really shaped my life. The act of writing out those dreams for myself in a moment when my dreams should have been shattered, propelled me to achieve what I needed and wanted.

Keeping in mind that these are the dreams of a 20 year old girl, here are some of the words I remember committing to:


1. Whatever happens, be grateful for everything in your life

2. Finish my degree with deans list standing

3. Walk the streets of Paris and back pack through Europe

4. Volunteer as a Big Sister

5. Get a job that I love and learn all I can

6. Take all that I learn and apply it to meaningful work in the charitable sector

7. Get married to my soul mate on a beach

8. Have a baby and tell them that I love them every single day

9. Never settle

10. Live life with courage and love

Later that week I went to my doctor and asked to be re-tested. The second biopsy came back negative. They'd made a mistake. I didn't have cancer. There was a part of me that was intensely furious with them for letting me believe otherwise. But there was a much bigger part of me that was sincerely grateful that it happened. So grateful.

It was a long time before I told anyone about the week that I believed I might be terminally ill. It became such a sacred and private experience for me that I wasn't ready to share. I learned so much about myself during that week. About what I wanted out of life. About my strength and my will.

As I think back on all of those lists, I know that the act of making them planted the seeds that I needed to grow into the woman I am. By writing it down, it all came to be. I willed it to be.

I remembered this last night as I was thinking about my struggle for balance and goal setting for my future. I shouldn't need to have a cancer diagnosis or a life changing moment to do that. To set those goals and write them down. I have been working on it throughout my recent soul-searching Journey. But I am reminded that writing can be so very powerful and I am going to finish those lists that I started. Right now.

Flashback Fridays: Caddyshack

The first day we moved into our house last year we were greeted by one of our neighbours. While unpacking boxes in the kitchen, I looked up to see his face pressed against the sliding glass door sizing up the new residents. He had an evaluative expression as he stood boldly staring at us on the other side of the window.

Little Sunshine was immediately smitten and declared how lucky he was to have pets at his new house. He quickly named this 30-pound masked rodent, Ralph. And Ralph scurried away to report to his troops.

In the first few days we saw him often. He taught us the virtues of keeping the green bin full of organic waste locked in the garage rather than in the backyard. He reminded us why any product remotely resembling food can't be placed in the garbage. He was clearly working for the city and his messy lessons were effective in policing our compliance to reduce, reuse, recycle.

In less than a week Ralph decided that not only were we suitable neighbours but that we'd make fine roommates. And so he moved in. Or more accurately, he moved his wife, Rhonda, and her 8 little babies in. Eight baby raccoons and their mother were living on the third floor of our skinny Victorian between the deck and the roof.

One of the selling features of our new abode was that third floor oasis. A private little rooftop patio to enjoy an evening glass of wine in the summer. The perfect place to count the stars with Little Sunshine and spot airplanes over head. An excellent reading nook. An extra room to extend our little house.

But that oasis had been otherwise claimed. Taken over. The raccoons had made their presence known and they were not interested in sharing.

Rhonda and the litter turned out to not be nocturnal and she'd lie, spread-eagle, on the deck in the middle of the day nursing all the little furballs at once. If you knocked on the window she'd cock her head briefly and give you an f-off look and go back about her business.

If you tried to go on the deck to water the plants or attempt to scare them into leaving, she'd bare her teeth and offer a menacing hiss. More than once, she'd even lunge aggressively at us. She was pissed and she was territorial and she had firmly decided that we were no longer to use our deck. And that was that.

The challenge wasn't just that we couldn't use the deck, or that she was aggressive, or that we worried for Little Sunshine should he try and go out there when we were not looking. She and the family had made themselves comfortable. Eating our trees. Destroying our patio furniture. Leaving toxic piles of smelly droppings everywhere.

So I did what I always do when faced with a challenge ... I started researching a solution. I called the city. Spent copious hours online. Consulted with more than one animal control company. And I was dismayed to learn that my options were limited. Given the babies were young and there were so many of them it would not be a standard trapping and relocation situation. We would be charged per raccoon and then an additional hefty fee because they were 3 stories up and traditional traps couldn't be used. The city encouraged us, because of all the bylaws protecting the vermin, to leave them until they grew up and moved out on their own.

Just closing up the door to their nest wasn't an option for fear we'd trap the small babies inside. I didn't want raccoons living with me. But I really, really didn't want rotting carcasses under our deck that would necessitate a major reno to remove them. Forget how I'd even begin to explain that one to my son.

Mr. Good Taste had to go away on one of his extended work trips so I decided I would take matters into my own hands after one day that Rhonda was particularly offensive and domineering. I declared war and I wasn't going to be her bitch any longer.

What ensued next became increasingly reminiscent of Bill Murray's notorious Gopher struggle ala Caddyshack. This woman was obsessed. Not the trying-to-kill-them-obsessed like Murray's groundskeeper alter ego. But driven. I would win this war. Oh, I would win.

I started off trying to make it as unpleasant as possible for them to live there and purchased a giant super-soaker. Every time I'd see them, I'd blast the buggers with water. They hated it and for a day or two it worked. They'd scatter whenever the water-gun-toting crazy lady emerged. But that got old quickly and they began to enjoy it. Even trying to catch my sprays in their mouth for a drink.

To save the plants, I bought an industrial sized container of cayenne pepper. I'd read that once they got a taste, it would deter the gnawing at our baby cedars and they'd go for less spicy pastures. It worked. And then it would rain and I'd have to re-apply. All was fine and dandy until one day I went out with my big bag of cayenne and started to scatter in our potters when a gust of wind suddenly blew about a pound of red pepper into my eyes, nose and mouth. Now if you've never had cayenne pepper in your eyes, um, lets just say I don't recommend it. I was instantly blinded. Seriously blinded. I was stuck outside on the third floor coughing and choking with my eyes on fire and unable to see anything. I turned around and became disoriented. I could hear Mama Rhonda hissing at me as I tried to edge my way towards the house. Panicked I'd fall over the deck. Worried that the raccoons would head for the unguarded open door. Aware that my young son was just on the other side reading and I was the sole responsible adult in the house caring for him. I did the only thing that you could do. I started screaming at the top of my lungs for help..."Please help M-O-M-M-Y! I cannot see! HELLLLP. But don't come out on the deck near the raccoons. Do you understand me?! Close the door so Rhonda doesn't get in. Wait, NO, don't close the door. Tell me where the raccoons are. No stay back. No tell me which way to walk to get inside. What do you mean you don't know which way is left?" Finally I got down on all fours and crawled through the raccoon poop to get to the door. It took more than an hour for my sight to come back. For an entire week I walked around with seriously blood shot eyes that looked as though I was dying or had a very nasty drinking problem.

Even before the eyes had healed I mounted my next battle. I'd unearthed a tip that if you soaked a rag in ammonia and placed it near their access opening, then they'd be offended by the smell and move. So I set out to buy a giant bottle of ammonia and got to work. I should mention that my housekeeping repertoire has never included the use of ammonia and I had no idea really what it was. I did note that the bottle had copious warnings about keeping away from children and that you should avoid inhaling at all costs. Little Sunshine was terribly interested and determined to help. But I was a good mom. I read the labels and I declined. He was so persistent that my seemingly stellar solution was to lock myself in our tiny top floor bathroom to prepare the soaked rag before he could get his hands on it. That's when the plan went terribly awry. I soaked the rags and didn't notice a strong smell. How could this work if they didn't smell bad? Had I purchased some special unscented ammonia? So I did the only logical thing and I stuck my nose in the bottle while holding the ammonia soaked rags near my face and inhaled verrrrry deeply. I can only describe the sensation as though I had just breathed in a flaming toxic butcher knife. I had inhaled so much that I instantly couldn't breathe. Setting down the bottle in the unventilated tiny room, I turned to step towards the door still holding the ammonia cloths. I breathed in again. This time it was even worse and my lungs were rebelling. I started to get dizzy and nauseous and I was frozen and unable to unlock the door. I was in there for more than a minute just breathing in and out the toxic ammonia. Paralyzed. Vision blurred. I couldn't feel my lips. I almost passed out cold when I finally managed the dexterity to get the door open and I immediately collapsed on the floor outside. It took about 20 minutes before I could breathe properly and stand up long enough to throw up for an hour. I was sick for 2 days.

And the "offensive" cloth? The raccoons just moved it out of their way.

They developed a palette for Cayenne pepper too.

I would call Mr. Good Taste each day with reports of the insane war I was waging. And between him and the reactions of my friends, I became an urban legend worth hours of amusement. The crazy raccoon lady.

They never left. They taunted me daily and finally I had to surrender before I ended up in a full body cast.

At the end of the summer, when the babies had grown and we had nine full-sized rodents living with us, an animal control company came. Defeated, we coughed up the big bucks to trap them and raccoon-proof the entire house.

This spring came around and our raccoon proofing was effective because they moved into our next door neighbours place. But they still stop by every few days to taunt me as they sunbathe on the deck ... bastards.

Flashback Fridays: Mackenson

Mackenson.

That is one name that I will never forget. A name that when I say it aloud stops me in my tracks and makes me think. Really think. About life, the world, injustice, sadness and why I should be grateful. Mackenson is someone who touched my life so profoundly. Yet we have never met.

And we never will.

Mackenson died of pneumonia as a complication of AIDS in a Port-au-Prince orphanage at the age of 4. One year younger than Little Sunshine is right now. He never really knew his parents or most of his family. When he was born HIV positive and later orphaned, his extended family left him on the streets of urban Haiti. Fearful that he'd share is deadly disease. Confused about the devil's role or the force black magic played in his fate. He was an HIV positive toddler living alone on the streets until a kind couple took him in. They gave a safe place to so many AIDS orphans like sweet Mackenson.

I first saw his photo when I was helping an International Development charity and we were discussing projects in need of funding at their Haitian field office. His image will forever be embedded in my mind. He had these chocolate coloured soft cheeks that were a little lop-sided and he was clothed in a plaid shirt buttoned right up to the collar to make him look like a pint-sized 40-year-old man. His eyes were looking at me with such depth and sadness ... and hope. I fell head-over-heels in love. It is almost impossible to find the words to explain it.

So we passionately embarked on a fundraising campaign to help fund the expansion of an orphanage for all the misunderstood and misplaced HIV/AIDS orphans in Haiti. We may not have changed the course of that insidious disease in Haiti but we did help ensure sweet Mackenson and his friends had safe place to live, medicine and hope. It is one of the things in my life that I am most appreciative and honoured to have been a part of. From what I understand the orphanage is still going strong 8 years later and they are doing lots of good public education initiatives in the community too.

Thank you Mackenson. You'll never know what you awakened in me and how knowing of you has influenced the person I have become. I honour your memory and those of all the other children in Haiti and around the world who share your fate.

Flashback Fridays: Unlisted

I've often reflected on the saying: "You can take the girl out of the small town but you can't take the small town out of the girl." I think in many ways that rings so true for me but in just as many ways it lacks validity. For it doesn't take much "big city" living to jade a woman and steal her naivety.

I grew up in a village, yes a village, so small that they changed the population sign when I moved away to go to school. I chose a university town that was certainly a city but yet far from urban. So it was a comfortable first step away from my hick-roots that I was trying desperately to shed. I then spent the summer after graduation back packing through Europe and solidified my resolve to set down my new roots in Canada's largest city. I mean, if I could navigate the subways of Athens and Paris and thwart a pick pocketer in Rome and survive some sketchy moments in Berlin, then surely a tame city like Toronto would be a piece of cake.

Feeling like a confident, independent woman with savvy and street-smarts, I embarked on finding my first apartment. It was my Mary Tyler Moore moment when I tossed my hat with reckless abandon and knew I was "gonna make it after all". Living on my own without parents or a roommate. Launching my career with a new wardrobe, killer shoes, and my very-own-I-don't-have-to-share-with-anyone-bathroom. I couldn't be more excited or filled with anticipation of the adventures this single girl in the city would have. The city. And not a single person would ever guess that I hailed from red-neck country.

I exercised what I believed was a solid amount of caution and prudent research when hunting for my first place. My criteria included: being on the subway line, near a grocery store, no roaches and in a security building. Check, check, check, check. Signed the lease and moved my no-money-down-for-a-year furniture into my smokin pad.

It took less than an hour to realize that I'd missed the boat on the roaches. I wasn't living alone after all. I had dozens of roommates. But I found a way to slay the buggers and win that battle within a week or two. Still makes my skin crawl to think about it. But I digress.

The other criteria I screwed up was the security building. The apartment I rented had a desk for a security guard with a sign that said "security guard on break will be back in 5 minutes." That sign never came down the entire time I lived there. I also learned that a month before I moved in, there had been a triple homicide in the mall beneath the building and the building and been nicknamed "murder mall." Nice.

So with my self-proclaimed street savviness slightly tarnished, I proceeded to relish in my new life. And then it happened. The phone rang at about 2 am and I awoke to answer it expecting it was a friend with a man-crisis or someone inviting me to a fabulous late night soiree. On the other end was a heavy breather. He knew my name and proceeded to recount every step I had made that day and share that he was watching me and had been for weeks. Instead of hanging up I listened to all the things he thought of doing to me in a shocked silence. This wasn't happening to me. It couldn't be.

But here I was. Young woman in a short skirt. Kept the exact same schedule and same route every day. Smiled and talked to strangers on the subway. My answering machine basically said "hi I am a sweet and innocent girl who lives all alone. Sorry I can't come to the phone right now." I had no clue.

The calls kept coming every night with increasing threats and claims to be following me. He'd know the kind of muffin I ordered for breakfast near my office and the exact time I boarded the subway to leave in the morning. I called the police. They gave me a safety-101 lesson about how to carry my purse and how to mix up my schedule and what to do if my stalker approached me. It was in a day before call display so together we tried tracing the calls. My stalker was the savvy one because he'd use different pay phones each time. They checked into a few leads. They found nothing. But when he realized the police were involved, the calls stopped. In the end they said all that I could do was unlist my number and move.

I fled to the most family-centric, beyond-my-budget neighbourhood of the city that I could find. Was legitimately more savvy with experience this time. Savvy but scared and jaded and damn angry. How dare this guy steal my confidence. How dare he terrorize me. How dare he force me to move. How dare he invade my psyche.

It took me a long time to not jump with fear every time the phone rang late at night. But almost 11 years later my number is still unlisted.

Flashback Fridays:"The Great Big Storm"

In honour of Little Sunshine's impending 5th birthday, for today's Flashback Friday I'll share one of his most memorable stories as a 4 year old...

It was August 19, 2005. Mommy took the day off work to drive me to see my friends that lived near my old house. We were driving Daddy's car. Mommy calls it his "mid-life-crisis-dumb-sports-car". It has only 2 doors and is really close to the ground. It is silver. I tell my Mommy that I don't like it either. But she doesn't know that when I am with Daddy I tell him that I like it a lot.

When we were driving, all of a sudden the sky turned a funny colour. It was sort of black and sort of green. Like when you mix up too many colours of markers on your colouring page. Mommy said, "it looks like there is going to be a great big storm." She was right. She tells me Mommy's are always right. I wish I was a Mommy or a Daddy so I could always be right too.

It started to rain really hard. It was the most rain I had seen in my WHOLE life. And I am a 4-year-old, big boy so that is a long, long, long, long, long, long time. It was raining so much that we couldn't even see out the window. Mommy said she couldn't see 2 feet in front of her. But I don't think there were any feet of people walking on the road anyway because it was so rainy. I think she meant meters. That's what I learn in school. But it has been a long time since she was in school. Maybe a 100 years. But she was still right because I didn't see any feet at all.

She was driving really, really slllllooooowwwwwwlllllllyyyyy since she could not see any of those feet. Then the road started to look like a swimming pool or a lake or an ocean. I know because I have seen an ocean before. That is exactly what the road looked like. There was so much ocean that a bunch of the cars stopped working on the street and the water was up to the middle of the cars. If cars could turn into boats it would be much better. Our car was still working and the water was whooshing past like we were swimming. I have never seen a car swim before. And I am already 4 years old so you know that is pretty gigantic if even I have never seen it.

On the road to my old house there is no where to stop the car or anywhere to park so mommy had to keep driving. She was singing a song to me and trying to make me laugh. She was trying to trick me into thinking it was fun. It was fun. But I think she was really trying to trick me into not seeing that she was scared. She had white marks on her knuckles and was a little sweaty and talking to herself. She was either scared or had to go poo. Pretty much everything is about poo. Poo is funny. Ha ha ha ha. I just said poo 3 times. poo poo poo.

She finally saw a place we could pull over and stop. She called my Daddy to tell him what was happening and he didn't believe her. He said she was being dramatic and that storms don't happen in Toronto where cars are covered up in an ocean. Boy did that make her mad. Really mad. Daddy is in biggggggg troubllllllee. I bet he'll get grounded or have a time-out or something.

I could hear funny noises on the car's roof. It sounded like it was raining rocks. It was SO loud. Mommy said it was hail. There sure was a lot of hail. Then it happened. Oh Oh. I had to go pee. I think I had to go pee about an hour ago but I am far too busy to go pee when my Mommy asks me. So I always tell her I don't have to go. It is more fun to I see if I can hold it in my belly forever. Someday it is gonna work. Now it was an emergency. A very, very big pee emergency. When I told Mommy she got that "why-didn't-you-go-pee-when-I-asked-you" look on her face. That one is the funniest. I love making her get that face. I think that is why I do it.

But it was hailing and raining so hard and now the water was almost up to the windows on our car so we couldn't open the door and there was no where to go pee. Mommy started looking in the car for a cup or a can. I don't know why because I wasn't thirsty, I had to go pee. NOW. She is so silly sometimes. Then she told me that because we couldn't open the car door or stand in the big, big storm outside that I had 2 choices: pee out the window or pee in my pants. I am a 4 year old big boy and I do not pee in my pants. Peeing out the window sounded really fun. And it was raining so hard we still couldn't see any feet or cars or anything. Just lots and lots of rain and hail. So I picked that choice.

Mommy helped me climb into the front seat of Daddy's "mid-life-crisis-dumb-sports-car". She gave me so many instructions like I have never peed before. She kept telling me to aim out the window and not on her. I wasn't going to aim on her because Mommies really don't like it when you pee on them. The face they make when that happens isn't funny at all. So she opened up the window and the rain was coming in so fast I couldn't see and big white rocks of hail were hitting my belly. She helped me push my bum out the window and pee fast. It was so scary having the hail hit my belly and my penis. Get it ... pee-niss. Ha ha ha. I just said pee-niss. When I was done, she quickly rolled up the window and we were both all wet. But not from pee. From all the rain and the hail rocks. That wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be. It wasn't fun at all. I said to Mommy, "I never want to pee in the hail again." I didn't like that.

Then the man on the radio said they had seen a Tornado. I had never seen a Tornado before. This storm was getting very exciting. Mommy decided we needed go somewhere new so she started to drive away and the car got to swim again. We found a mall and parked the car and ran inside. Mommy carried me because the water was up to her bum. I am as tall as her bum so I'd be under the water. Bum. Ha ha I just said bum 2 times. Inside the mall all the lights were off and people were sitting on the floor crying. I don't know what they were crying about. I was the one that had to pee in the hail storm. I am never, never, never going to forget that.

An old wrinkly lady told Mommy that the bottom floor of the mall was flooded and everyone was scared of the Tornado. Then some firemen came and said that the Tornado had gone away but that they had to evacuate us because of some floods and electricity. Evacuate was the cool word I learned that day. I wonder how to spell that word. I wonder how to spell lots of words but that is another story. This story is about peeing in the hail.

So we got back in the car and we started to drive home. I asked Mommy, "why are we going home? I thought we were going to visit my friends." She didn't seem to like that question because she did one of those loud breathing noises and then put on her nicest Mommy voice and said we'd have to go another day. We started to drive in the ocean again. So slowly. I bet it would have been more fun to drive fast though. I was so tired from all the peeing in the hail that I fell asleep. When I woke up, we were back home and Mommy said it took us 3 hours to drive there and that was the longest nap of my life and why didn't I have naps like that for her. Now that was a silly question. There was nothing to do in the car and I was tired. That's why. Plus at home I'd rather play with Mommy or read books or play on the computer or ask lots and lots of questions, rather than nap.

When we got inside, Mommy went on the computer to read the news and found some pictures to print off to show Daddy that she wasn't exaggerating. When he got home we showed him those pictures and we told him our story. Three times. He felt really bad and got Mommy some wine. Wine has alcohol in it so I had juice. Kids can't drink alcohol ... but they can drive in the ocean in the great big storm and pee in the hail. That was the most exciting day of my WHOLE ENTIRE life. And I am already 4 years old so that says A LOT.

Flashback Fridays: How I Met Your Grandfather

I often picture myself sitting in a big comfy chair with my doe-eyed grandchild perched on my wrinkly knee as I recount the story of how I met her Grandfather...

Mr. Good Taste and I first laid eyes on each other almost 11 years ago. Since you already know that this story is fit for consumption by the grandkids, you won't be surprised to learn that it wasn't a scandalous tale of me as a hooters waitress and he my loyal customer or an account of a rescue from my glamourous life as a stripper. We also didn't first connect over some epic moment where we both saved a drowning child nor did we find each other walking through the romantic streets of Paris. Our story is fairly tame. But it is all ours.

I had just graduated from university and landed my first job as an Account Executive at an advertising agency. I was full of gusto and living by myself for the first time without a roommate as an independent woman of the 90s. I had just ended a long-term on-again-off-again relationship for the final time and was relishing the life of a single gal in the city. I worked long hours and spent my down time with good friends. I had reached a point where I wasn't looking for a man. I was happy and single and enjoying getting to know myself after a series of long term boyfriends. I had come to the conclusion that I didn't need a partner to be satisfied with my life or who I was. I had dismissed the idea of soul mates as mere propaganda from fairy tales that they dupe us into as naive young girls. Many of my high school friends were getting engaged. Lots of well intentioned offers of a set up were flowing my way. But I wasn't looking. I wasn't sure I'd ever be looking.

He was the tall dark and handsome new Art Director that arrived in the creative department of our agency a few months after I started. An office of young professionals, the agency was a buzz with gossip when he first showed up. Was he married? Did he have a girlfriend? Was he a jerk?

When we first met I thought he was hopelessly stunning. He has these deep brown eyes that can melt the arctic circle. He was always the best dressed guy in the building but pulled it off effortlessly. And he had this way about him. Shy. So very shy. He had no idea how hot he was or how half the women on my floor daydreamed about him. A man that has no idea how sexy he is can't help but become instantly more fabulous. But I wasn't looking. I wasn't interested any more than as an admirer of his beauty. Plus he was waaay out of my league. Four years older, infinitely cooler, and a creative. He was very private. No one knew that he was divorced or had a child. No one knew that he was a quite survivor of many tough times and had arisen from it as a calm, centered, kind man. We just knew he was cute, cute, cute. Did I mention that he was cute?

We didn't ever work together on a project but I knew how talented he was -- which consequently put him even farther out of my league. So he was never on my radar to flirt with or to pursue (even if I had been looking). We ended up having mutual friends and becoming part of the same social circle. Many of those people are still in my life today like The Teacher and The Guy Friend. We'd go out for drinks as a group and spend time together casually. We became good friends. Laughed easily together, respected each other and connected ... as friends. To be honest, because he was so shy, I actually thought he was just a little bit scared of me.

I once tried to set him up with my friend, Athena, on a weekend when she was in visiting me from out of town. A group of us were going to the Cranberries concert and I pointed her in his direction with fingers crossed. There were no sparks that night, just lots of conversations about how she thought that he spent the night staring at me. Ludicrous. He was out of my league. And we were good friends. And I wasn't looking.

Then slowly over the next few months The Teacher noticed and Scottish Lass noticed and I was the only one who didn't.

We all went out to celebrate my birthday and he couldn't join the fun and so we agreed to hang out another time to make it up to me after teasing him for missing our soiree. It was the first time we'd ever gone out by ourselves. About 5 minutes in we both realized we were alone and that the energy was different. I tried to be charming and witty and avoid too lingering eye contact or any unfounded assumptions. We were walking between a restaurant we'd eaten at and a bar for a drink, when the sky opened up and started pouring rain. No umbrellas and no hope of staying dry. We were soaked to the skin and laughing hysterically. I should clarify that it wasn't a sexy scene out of a movie. I am not the most attractive of women as a drowned rat. I have the kind of hair that doesn't behave in such situations. Make-up was running. Clothes clinging in all the wrong places. Then in an instant I suddenly didn't care that I looked like hell and was wet and cold. I felt so comfortable with him and in myself at that moment that I just sat there soaked and smiling and didn't even go to the rest room to assess the damage and fix up. We sat for another few hours talking and I found out later that was when he fell for me as I cared not at all for my disheveled state. He somehow found me most attractive when I was most certainly my least.

We went on our first official date a few weeks later now aware that there was some chemistry and we couldn't deny the obvious any longer. We saw the English Patient together. Hands nervously bumping as we grabbed for the popcorn. Shy, awkward jitters as we knew that this was different. We later went to a farewell party for a mutual friend and told no one there we were on a date. I am not sure we'd even used that word with each other. Then he drove me home. He got out of the car and opened my door. I hugged him good bye. And then it happened. My world changed with that heart beat. He took my face in both of his hands and unexpectedly kissed me with such sweetness and confidence that I almost fainted. Then he reverted to the shy little boy I know so well and scurried back to the car blushing.

I still remember that moment like it was yesterday. That kiss was it. I was gone. Without looking at all I had found the most amazing gift. From that day forward we were inseparable. Fell in love fast. Knew we were soul mates instantly. He was the Yang to my Yin. We were opposites in so many ways but shared a common understanding in all the ways that counted. Our early romance was intense and electric and we knew within days that it was out of our hands and that we'd be together for life.

We were married 3 years later and will celebrate our 7th wedding anniversary in October.

Our relationship has been tested many times. But it was built on friendship and deepened with a soul connection. We are a team and have proven our ability to survive any challenge ... together.

And so my dear grandchild, that is how I met your wonderful Grandfather. Who is still a hottie to this day. And who still has that shy smile that makes my heart race...

Flashback Fridays: The "Planning" of Childbirth

It took me a long time before I could tell this story. Partly because I was so emotional about it. Partly because I felt somehow that I failed. And partly because people thought I was exaggerating.

This is the tale of Little Sunshine's entrance into the world...

I am decidedly the least religious person I know. But one thing I always say about Little Sunshine is that he is my miracle baby.

In my life I've struggled through a host of medical challenges, one of which is endometriosis. When I was 21 they even suggested I have a hysterectomy. I refused. I'd been told by more than one doctor that it would be highly unlikely that I could ever get pregnant.

I am not the kind of woman who easily takes no for an answer. I am fiercely stubborn. Telling me that I can't do something is the biggest fire you can light under my boney little butt. So I embarked on a steadfast mission to prove them all wrong. I read every book I could get my hands on. I discovered naturopathic medicine. I spent over a year totally focused on beating what I was told was the unbeatable. I changed my diet, took buckets full of vitamins and herbal remedies, did a detox (not the Betty Ford clinic kind) and exercised. Basically a total life over haul with the goal of transforming my body into a hospitable environment for a baby. Cleaning house before the company moves in, if you will.

When we finally learned we were pregnant it was better than winning the lottery or running a marathon. I was deliriously happy. Because of all the pre-pregnancy work I did in anticipation that I might never have a baby, I was a bit over-the -top as a pregnant lady. If brides become Bridezillas then I became Pregzilla. I ate only organic, read everything, did yoga, practically moved into my naturopath's office. My body was his temple and I wasn't going to mess this up. My over-achiever personality went into hyper-drive.

At the 3 month mark we told everyone we knew our good news (and plenty of grocery store clerks, taxi drivers, and other random strangers). One week later, on my birthday, I had a miscarriage scare. The doctor's said it looked likely that we'd loose the baby and to come back the next day to check. That was the longest night of my life. I was terrified to move. Terrified to be terrified in case it made things worse. I didn't sleep for a minute. I can remember the feeling as if was only yesterday. When I found out the next morning at the hospital that my sweet baby was okay, I wept. It was the definition of relief personified. As a result though, my resolution to be pregnant-lady-of-the-year intensified.

The rest of the pregnancy was filled with much gratitude and excitement. In my uber-pregzilla state, I was convinced that a natural labour was my only option. I was brainwashed by all the judgmental literature that I had consumed that to do anything "less" was a serious detriment to my precious baby. I dutifully planned out the perfect labour and delivery. What I failed to understand is that you simply cannot plan these things.

I felt my first contraction in an art supplies store 10 days before my due date. How beautiful. What a lovely memory. This was starting off better than I had planned. Fairly quickly the initial twangs turned into full-fledged-I-am-going-to-punch-my-fist-through-a-wall-excruciating-back-labour that was four minutes apart. And that continued on with increasing intensity for forty hours. 4-0. That's equivalent to a work week (a fact I remind Mr. Good Taste of often).

I went to the hospital a few hours in and was told that I would have to get my water broke and have some drugs to speed things up because I wasn't "sufficiently dilated" and my "contractions were not productive". I left. That's how insanely stubborn I am. You'd think I had bad service at restaurant. I left and continued to labour in my self-created utopia at home. I drank my special teas. Walked through a stunning cemetery. Morbid? Well I suppose, but it really is one of the most gorgeous and tranquil cemeteries you'll ever see - and no one around to hear me scream. My doctor called in on me a few times and finally convinced me to come back to the hospital. I was still not dilated enough and I was tired. At about hour 36 I was crying through every contraction and had basically lost my mind. A nurse found the words I needed to hear to give in and take the epideral and have my water broken. I was devastated and relieved all at the same time.

When it came time for the pushing it wasn't going well. I had both my doctor and a resident intern doctor with me. Little Sunshine's heart rate flat lined and my doctor panicked, ran out of the room and came running back with a surgical obstetrician and another doctor. They talked quickly and acted swiftly. They didn't consult with me on my plan. They didn't have the time to explain that they'd be doing all the things that were strictly excluded from my plan. They tried a vacuum and that didn't work. They tried forceps and that didn't work either. Because of where he was in the birth canal and what was happening they decided the best solution was to start cutting him out. And I am not talking about a C-section or your garden variety episiotomy. No sir. They sure didn't show this technique in our prenatal class. There was blood everywhere. It looked like a massacre. I felt like I was watching from above my body and suddenly not a participant.

Then just as he was born, the resident doctor fainted. Fainted. Right there in the delivery room at my feet (I later found out she was 2 months pregnant). So much was happening that I could barely process it all. Then they took him away instead of putting him on my chest and I panicked that there was something wrong.

But when I finally got to feast my eyes on him, I could barely breathe. I instantly was unaware of all the drama that had just unfolded around me and he and I were alone in the world in a magical moment.

He had dark bruises from the forceps and long labour and a cone head from the vacuum (seriously the poor guy looked so beaten up). Yet he was the most stunning baby I had ever seen. We locked eyes and knew each other immediately. He sucked on my finger and I held him with such a profound sense of completeness that I don't have the words to describe. I forgot all about my plan and in that moment knew that I had become something. I had become a mother.

Because of the extent of my ... um ... wounds, we stayed in the hospital for 6 days and then I was on bed rest for 3 more weeks at home. All three doctors came into apologize to me for the drama. There was a part of me that felt disappointed I had abandoned my plan and didn't do what was I had read that was "best" for my baby. But the rational side of me knew that I had done exactly what I needed to do for my baby. I conceived him. I kept him warm for 9 months. I gave birth to him. I loved him. The rest was in the details.

So my birth story was a bit harrowing and not filled with the butterflies and harps I had hoped for or planned for. It wasn't about the plan I had been duped into focusing on or about stubbornly proving the doctors wrong. It was about this amazing life we had created. It was about this perfect miracle baby who was here. Living. Breathing. Loving. And who would change my life forever...

Flashback Fridays: Charades are for the Birds

My first Flashback Friday was a little heavy. So rather than a sequel to Meeting My Father where we all live happily ever after, I am changing it up a bit to share one of my favourite "you-can't-be-serious" stories. But this is a story that works soooo much better told in person when I can stand up and do proper animated imitations. So I ask you to use your imagination with me a bit ... insert in your mind, wherever you feel appropriate, the image of a slightly goofy woman doing big exaggerated gestures and witty sound effects. Ready? Are you sure? Go...

About 7 years ago, Mr. Good Taste and I went to the Philippines to attend his brother's wedding and do some volunteer work. To save a few coins, we booked on Air Korea and took a 20-something-hour flight from Toronto to Manila with stopovers in Vancouver AND Seoul. I know, I know - you get what you pay for. The flight over there was uneventful enough, except that I ate nothing but peanuts for an entire day. I am allergic to seafood and the stewardesses only spoke Korean. At each meal I'd say "Is there seafood? I am allergic. Please, no seafood." I'd make all kinds of over-the-top gestures about a fish. Then for effect, I'd hold my hands to my throat for fake choking. They'd always smile politely and reply, "no seafood". Just to be sure, I'd do a full unsolicited encore of my death-act-charades and dramatically confirm "no seafood?" They'd repeat, "no seafood". Yet every ... single ... time, I'd open up my dinner and it would be fish or shrimp or some other kind of seafood. But I learned to accept my lack of Korean and rusty pantomime abilities, and ate my damn peanuts.

The flight home was, for lack of a better word, the exciting part. We boarded the plane, took off and shortly after ascending, there was a distinct odor in the cabin of something burning. We tried to joke that they had just burnt my seafood dinner, but I had a window and could see an alarming amount of smoke. We were traveling with my new sister-in-law who had never been on a plane before, and so I just smiled reassuringly and tried to play it cool.

The captain never made any of the standard announcements. The charade-challenged flight attendants never appeared with the usual routines. The video of our cross national progression didn't begin. Nothing. For about 10 minutes. Then, suddenly, we felt the sensation that we are descending and later came to a very abrupt and insanely rough landing back at the Seoul airport. But not anywhere near the terminal. Dozens of emergency vehicles with sirens blazing came speeding to the plane as we embarked using emergency procedure. Still being told nothing. We were all sufficiently shocked enough that everyone followed confused but calmly. They whisked us to the terminal building in emergency shuttle buses. The flight attendants shaking and teary. The captain looking like he was going to pass out. All very reassuring. And, still, no information about what had just transpired.

The passengers were a mixed bunch. A third were Korean, a third Philippino, a third Japanese and me. The only "common" language was English and, as I mentioned, that wasn't our crew's strong suit. When we arrived at the airport, a flustered man started frantically scanning the crowd and made a bee-line to the only blondie in the bunch. He said I looked like I definitely spoke English and escorted me to the front of the room. He then asked me if I could translate to the group what was going on. Translate?? But I can't speak Korean. Not necessary. It seems my reputation clearly proceeded me. My translation assignment gave me another chance to reclaim my title as a charades aficionado. Don't let anyone tell you your useless skills won't come in handy in an emergency situation.

He began with his own elaborate and terribly comical, under the circumstances, rendition of a Korean mime-meets-pictonary-player as I acted as his translator. Together, we managed to give a myriad of instructions to the crowd. When I pushed for the why's of it all, his eyes widened, gave me a serious look and began repeating over and over again (while flapping his arms frantically), "Very big bird striking problem. Very big bird striking problem."

It seems our engine caught on fire when a bird flew into it and we were forced into a tenuous emergency landing. They landed us so far from the airport because they were sure we would explode. In hindsight, it was probably good we didn't know what the hell was going on.

The next morning we reboarded what looked like the same plane. With the same seat assignments. And the same crew. Our previously oblivious and calm group of passengers were now on high alert as we prepared for take off. Clutching family members tightly. Sobbing. Hyper ventilating into the barf bags.

This time after take off, there was no smoke smell. Instead, there was an announcement from the captain in broken English saying: "Ladies and gentleman, I just want you to know we all went through something very big together yesterday. Something that will not happen in most people's life times. We almost died together. We should have died together. But somehow we didn't. Now sit back relax, enjoy your flight. Thank you for flying Air Korea".