Whistle While You Work

One thing that people living in the country where their native language is spoken can't possibly appreciate is the ease of understanding the song lyrics. To you it just comes with ease and zero effort. To me - it's a labour intensive experience and unless it's a karaoke night I am reluctant to sing out loud for over a decade now because of - Brian Johnson.

My biggest blooper with language and lyrics happened when my oldest son was 8 or 9 and got introduced to none-other than AC/DC by his "dad" - a wonderful man and a lifelong friend I rarely mention in my writing although he helped a great deal in raising my son. But I feel that the story of love and respect for the man who's on paper my "second ex-husband" deserves way more than just a blog post. No need to worry M, you can keep your anonymity a while longer, the memoir's not quite done yet!

Long story short, the kid got a boom box from his dad and a few CD's and the next thing I know the door to his room is starting to be more and more often shut. The music blaring behind it is angry; bass and drums are fierce seemingly shaking the very foundation of our East York home. I approach the door in order to intervene about the decibels when I hear my otherwise gentle boy's voice growl the most disturbing lyrics. Shocked, stunned and mortified, I run to the backyard where M is fixing their bikes so they can go for some equally savage ride and mistakenly I repeat what I heard, but first - of course - questioning his sanity as a co-parent to provide such disturbing musical content to my child.

AC/DC fan club 

   "Dirty deeds un-der sheets? DIRTY DEEDS UN-DER SHEETS!?"

What ensued was one of those moments that I only remember in slow-motion. M lifting his face towards me, dropping the greased bike chain on the driveway, whole face squinting into a grimace before his 6'5" frame rolled over to the grass patch where he laughed uncontrollably until the kid heard him, paused the music, got told how I understood "Dirty deeds done dirt cheap" , after which they both continued laughing and rolling on the ground - likely until supper time. Which I probably didn't even want to cook for them!

Understandably so, I stayed away from loud singing until this past winter, when my new set of kids (Oops 1 & Oops 2) fell very much in love with the Disney soundtrack. No, not Frozen, thank goodness but an old CD they inherited from their big brother, the AC/DC fan himself: Villain Songs! #boyswillbeboys

And since the best way to motivate the boys to get ready for school in a flash is to make it a competition (the kid that gets his snowsuit, boots, hat, gloves & backpack on first gets 2 songs on our drive to school while the runner up gets only one) I got to hear a lot of that villain music this past winter. Before  e v e r y  drop-off and after  e v e r y  pick-up!

When the lyrics finally managed to sink with my comprehension what stroke me as incredible were the lessons and social queues I totally missed when I used to hear these songs with Filip many years back! Disney Villains offer some seriously good teachings that can turn to be very useful for navigating both personal and professional relationships.

Here are some Disney song gems:

You can sleep safe and sound knowing I am around!

Have you ever been encouraged to trust, to trust so much so that once this convincing someone hears and "takes over" your worries you can actually 'sleep safe and sound' only to find out you've been conned? Well, if you saw the Disney cartoon version of the Jungle Book you have been taught a valuable lesson early on! Be careful who you trust and share your burden with - if you have to be convinced you are safe, it's likely a deception! Trust in me, Kaa is way more than just a pretty name!

Please be careful and say NO!

"I'm not asking much, just a token really, a trifle..."

Along the same lines is the lesson brought by Ursula the Witch. She nonchalantly tells the Little Mermaid it is actually her job to assist her.

"My dear, sweet child, that's what I do
It's what I live for
To help unfortunate merfolk like yourself
Poor souls with no one else to turn to."

The price will become visible only in the end, when it's too late - when the "favour" has already been completed. And when Ursula coldly says: "We haven't discussed the subject of payment" followed by "It won't cost much. Just your VOICE!" I actually had chills! Sometimes in life one is offered a deal at the expense of basic human rights, their voice included. Given my life's experience, I am dying to yell to Ariel each time "Don't do it!" as I listen to her singing naively thinking she made a wise choice by trusting a witch. This is when my sons go in unison, while strapped into their car seats in the back: 

   "Don't worry mama, she'll get her voice back!" 

Thank you boys. True. She WILL get her voice back. Of course she will. Silly me!

The lyrics state: "Whistle loud and long". Please DO!

Good news, it doesn't always take a villain to give sound advice. For all of us locked-up in a Monday to Friday routine sometimes referred to as a rat-race, the Snow White has an easy to follow advice: 

Whistle while you work!

What is more surprising, these exact words are echoed by grown-ass councillors that are trained to career-coach!

"Frozen", just not by fear!

It might sound simple but it is actually quite profound. Whistling can make the time pass quicker. In case the work is dull & done only for the sake of a paycheque, it will remind you there is much more to life than just work. It is also contagious - the more you whistle the more people will join in making for a jolly company that weathers the daily obstacles together. We are never alone in our problems. Taking things lightly is a great strategy!

Ask any little girl and they'll tell you, no they won't tell you, they will sing you one of the most important life lessons we all - me first - need to get better at: Let it go!

The 2013 animated blockbuster "Frozen" offers the best ear-worm ever created and I am sure to be humming it until I fully and totally get it. Life-coaching taught me to never to allow things to be rushed, but rather acknowledged and processed - usually with a group of trustworthy peeps - in order for everything to be understood and closed. It's only then one can fully and completely "Let it go!"

I'll end my Disney-inspired silver screen adventure with an unusual learning. Can an ultimate villain offer a useful advice that actually rings truer than true? Absolutely!

When Daniel wins our little pre-school winter-dressing contest, being a jazzy kind of kid that plays a

Couldn't have said it better myself!

piano, he always chooses: "Cruella de Vil". When Joshua wins - him being a hearty little rascal - it's "Are you in or out" from Aladdin and the Prince of Thieves. When it's my turn, perhaps because of my fondness for choir music - I always pick Lion King's - "Be Prepared". And amazingly enough it is the worst of them all that precisely pinpoints how I feel these days as I enjoy my life, my family and my work while mapping our amazingly fun summer:

"Just listen to teacher:

I know it sounds sordid but you'll be rewarded

When at last I am given my dues!

And injustice deliciously squared.

Be prepared!"

Injustices can be deliciously squared indeed. It just takes a tiny little bit of patience and preparation: know who to trust, whistle while the work is getting done, then simply claim one's voice back. Then it becomes super easy to let it all go!

Dial M for: Marriage, Motherhood, Memoir

On today's date 22 years ago I didn't know it was Mother's Day weekend.

Serbia doesn't do Mother's Day, or Father's Day for that matter.

1994

Twenty two years ago May 7th was "Djurdjevdan" - a big day in Serbian Christian-Orthodox Calendar represented by St.George on the White horse slaying a dragon. It's a patron saint day of many families in Belgrade, though not mine. On Saturday, May 7, 1994 my family was celebrating something completely different: their daughter's wedding. 

That daughter happened to be me. 

The decision to marry my boyfriend, once I had dated him for a few years, while diligently completing all the checkmarks my parents had insisted on (graduate from university, license as a pharmacist, find a good job, not get pregnant etc.) - well, the talented Bruno Mars perfectly sums it all up in the very first verse of  "Marry You" : "It's a beautiful night, We're looking for something dumb to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you!"

The initial wedding date was supposed to be in early April since my sister was emigrating to Canada in mid May and I wanted to give my parents a breather between these two monumental events in our family life. However, my pharmacy technician Mira, who was much older and wiser and also hypnotically persuasive - all that gypsy blood flowing through her veins - told me as we were manning a heavy afternoon shift in the pharmacy wholesale warehouse: "Never marry in April. April marriage--April joke." May 7th seemed like a perfect and safe day. 

Mother's Day 1996 was on May 12th. I wish I knew Mother's Day existed, not because by then I was a mom for the whole 110 days. I wish I knew because by then I learned how much I needed a mom, how much my mom meant to me and how at peace I was with everything that happened as if I wasn't doing my motherhood all by myself. If there is anything that touches the essence of my mom's motherhood it is the first few months of me being a mom - in my case, a single mom. 

My mom welcomed me home after a failed marriage. 

My mom went with me for ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.

My mom was at the hospital the night I gave birth to my son. 

My mom assembled (having our friends and neighbours pass down baby items) the most magical nursery for me to enjoy and heal in.

My mom woke up every night to keep me company while I breastfed. 

My mom cooked delicious home-made soups and baked pies.

My mom ironed mountains of cloth diapers each and every day. 

Bajce the Best!

My mom cleaned projectile vomits, soothed the crying baby and readily managed diaper explosions.

My mom patiently fed him his first solid foods. 

My mom assured me there is no rush to potty train. 

My mom...

My mom followed us to Canada at age 60.

My mom was my son's day-care. And a tutor. And a bestie. And a confidant.

My mom saved my sanity. And taught me everything I know about motherhood. 

And if I had to choose between that husband or this mom - I would've gone for this mom every single time!

2016

I'm aware of my incredible good luck to have this mom be my mom. 

I measure my great luck for being a mother of three boys myself, while still having my mom around - fun and wise and full of life. 

And to make sure my boys will know how to carry our good fortune and extraordinary parenting forward, I'm researching, interviewing and capturing it all in a memoir. 

Here is an excerpt of an early draft:

        It was January. There was no baby formula. No glider chair. No dryer. Only lukewarm radiators. 

I am sitting on a sturdy orange kitchen chair in what used to be the bedroom my sister and I shared as teenagers. My leg is propped on a ledge, my whole body coiled uncomfortably on one side trying to avoid—sitting. 

The newborn in my arms is crying. His mouth gaping open, like in cartoons. Red toothless gums framing a miniature paper-thin tongue. It’s a hungry, frustrated cry. 

1996

I’m crying. Mine is an exhausted, desperate cry. Manual for new moms was clear about breastfeeding. “Offer the breast whenever the baby cries. Mother’s milk is perfectly nutritious, served at the ideal temperature and always bacteriologically safe.” 

Mother’s breasts, the book failed to mention, were swollen and tender, chestnuts tightly packed into a balloon, hard from the milk that started pouring out all at once through the utterly unprepared ducts. The yellowish, greasy colostrum was everywhere, soaking and staining my bra and my PJs, spraying baby’s eyelashes, getting into his nostrils, sticking in his tiny soft golden hairs. It went everywhere but into his mouth. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Crying, chanting, I rocked myself front and back then stopped jolted by the sharp pain. The tiny mouth managed to latch and started sucking, sounding big gulps, almost choking at times, gnawing the nipple until it bled, yet never letting it go. I was nursing a wolf, not a boy. 

It was January. There was no maternity-leave pay for a retail pharmacy manager. Equal opportunity anything hadn't arrived in Serbia. No food in the supermarkets. No gas at the stations. Pampers for newborns sourced on the black market, too big for the skinny 6-pound body. One diaper, one Deutsch mark. 

“You WILL grow to hate me. You will look at me one day and ask ‘how could someone fail so profoundly at basically everything? At motherhood. At breastfeeding. At providing you with a warm room to sleep in. A clean diaper. A safe childhood. A normal family. A country with no war.’” 

The father-to-be handed me an envelope with neatly signed, stacked and stapled divorce papers ten days before the baby was born. “In case the child is born alive (for still birth please see below), the mother has the right to give the name and make sole decisions regarding medical, religious, educational and all other needs.” Then he disappeared. 

Twenty years later, I am sitting on a chair watching a 6’4”, broad-shouldered man with a hipster beard pack the last few items he’ll need in his sophomore year. Laptop—check. Guitar—check.

“Filip, how was it growing up with just me… never meeting your biological father?” 

“Oh, mama!” He turns around and gently taps the top of my head. Then he smiles. “It was magical!”

Happy Mother's Day!

Five People You Meet On... Facebook

It's spring. Far from spring-like weather in Toronto but spring nonetheless. And what comes with spring aside from the bombardment of boot-camps, colonic cleanses and restrictive diets promising a beach-ready body in a jiffy? Spring cleaning!

Being the daughter of my particular mother (sorry mama!) growing up, I loathed spring cleaning, mainly because this energetic, capable and cheerful excellent lawyer parent was no joke when it came to anything. Especially cleaning. In a home where on any given day we would've been safe to eat off the floor, spring cleaning meant a bat-shit-crazy level of intensity. Mattresses were lifted, carpets rolled, curtain rods dismembered; cashmere sweaters washed by hand in a mild shampoo then dried flat and carefully folded so they could survive the summer and potential moth attacks high up in the lavender-infused closets. Every goddamn Murano glass figurine and delicate crystal piece was carefully removed from its place, washed, and the shelf dusted until it squeaked with surgical-grade cleanliness. Silverware, a special cloth and drops of some German-made liquid were sure to take hours of rubbing and shining of the cutlery we got to use only once a year. Unless I were to get married again. All to the never-ending droning of the eager vacuum-cleaner - an orange-coloured beast made in Slovenia with an always-empty dust bag - as per orders of my drill sergeant mom. Mama, sorry again, but I loathed spring cleaning!

These days I live like a princess. My only task this time of the year is to stuff the clothes I no longer want or fit into the bag and call the CDA Clothesline donation program. Hand down the books I won't re-read. Scoop all the cosmetic sample packs - Gift With Purchase junkie that I am - into a shoebox so I can drop it off in a women's shelter together with the 'babyish' toys my boys reluctantly decided to part ways with. And voilà! It's done!

Could this be it? Do I feel 'clean' and ready to spring forward into new adventures the way we did when my mom was in command? Umm, not quite...

I recently got reminded that there is more to de-cluttering than just the stuff that no longer serves my family. What about the energy that surrounds me? What about people who proved toxic or ill-meaning?

So I sat last night and sifted through my expansive Facebook friend list. Do I really know everybody? Between my early Belgrade years, the high school, the Jewish Choir and neighbours and university and then my early Canada days and brand-new friends and colleagues and my big kid's friends and their moms by now multiplied by another two kids's moms, plus fellow volunteers and travellers and coaches and writers... amazingly, there are very few people I actually haven't met in person! For the most part, the energy they emit is so pure and so good that I can bask in it for hours.

Here are the five people I stumbled upon last night while Facebook-cleansing (for anonymity reasons gender references might have been deliberately altered).

Cyber-Crush: There is this guy I've actually never met. But some time ago a friend of a friend must have shared some of his writing and I was hooked. Became a fan and a follower and a 'friend'. It's the kind of stuff I forgot could be put in words, especially in somewhat cumbersome Serbian. That Balkan men tend to be rough and jock-like has been my greatest misconception. This guy muses about the complicated in us women, adoring it for all the havoc we wreak upon his big sensitive heart. This guy understands the music and lyrics and the wicked way in which a song can make us weep or chill or rejoice and everything in between. This guy sees the political turmoil of my homeland of the crooked and corrupted while finding the threads of unspoiled and normal and optimistic. It is fair to say that he is a must-have in life even if only on the screen, removed by the ocean and a few vast corn-fields. The Verdict: label him with that 'favourite' star so I make sure I get my dose of awesome every time I check in.

Cluster-Fuck: Everything the Cyber-Crush is not. Stupid. Misogynist. Inappropriate. His signature dumb grin always next to a tall beer someone bought him, tongue sticking out in proof: "Booze = Fun". Sheepish bro-smile on sports event. Horrendously hollow. Universally unwise. Should not procreate. Don't ask how we ended up being Facebook friends. The Verdict: delete the bastard. Nothing good/smart or remarkable will ever come out of this. Block!

Fart-Mountain: This one came in a package with a whole bunch of great people and ended on my list by mere proximity. It didn't take long to distill the theme: with indignant irony he comments on a world that never does him right. Not enough money. Not enough attention. Not enough respect. Not enough opportunity. Food is too expensive. Selection not up to the expectation. And you are guessing right - not enough sex - so there is always this raunchy undertone that might come across as charming to the people just looking to speed up the mandatory minutes. Otherwise everyone just sees one giant wuss. The Verdict: Un-friend fart-mountain. There has never been a friend there anyway.

Anti-Aphrodite: This is a tricky one. Because of some vague biographical details you are led to believe you share a common spirit. You could be friends. You give. You open up. You trust. You wonder... why are the tiny eyes tirelessly darting left and right as if constantly scanning the terrain for terrorist traps? Why are the lips always tightly pursed and instead of an opinion you only get: “Mhmm"? Was that "Mhmm good" or "Mhmm bad"? You never find out. There are whispers in someone else's ears. Silent nods. Elbow pokes. And there's the rampant paranoia the gossip queen suffers from - is it true this person said/thinks/heard...? 

My forties brought with them an abundance of unbelievably-generous, wise, insightful, beautiful and resourceful women-friends. I have no need for a patsavoura in my life. But then I'm a Life Coach. And a feminist. The Verdict: I'll let her delete me. Or by cyber-osmosis she will learn a thing or two about grace. It's her choice. 

Everyone Else: As of this writing, yes, all 718 of you. Thank you for being in my life. The articles you share make me think. Your travel destinations make me plan. Your music choices make me way cooler than I am. The books you recommend make me spend. Your political views... with Donald still rambling around, let's for now leave the political views. Your baby's pictures make my ovaries tingle! Your recipes make me eager to strap on my apron. Your photography inspires me. Your choice of words make me envious. Your fitness levels make me push harder. Your funny pet videos make me melt. Your quotes make me reflect. Your milestones make me rejoice. 

Above all, seeing you often crowding together, right here on my computer screen - mere strangers from around the globe - makes me hopeful. Hopeful we are becoming an army of good. The crowd that understands there is nothing to compete for. Just to generously share everything there is that is good. And no matter what the haters tell you, it really can all start with a “Like”. 

I love you Facebook family!

There's No Place[nta] Like Home!

One of the toughest things I ever had to do as an immigrant-single-mother was become a landlord.

 That skill was required if we were to succeed with an arrangement that my son and I can start living independently in our own house five minutes away from the school as well as steps away from my mom - aka Bajce aka day-care aka before&after school program aka ruthless retired-lawyer tutor aka #all-meals-made-from-scratch. Often in my early days of motherhood that coincided with the early days of heartache over my unexpected divorce I would come to the conclusion that no one really needed a husband, if they only had a mom like mine! 

        The tough part about renting the basement of my mother's house was that for 500$/month it was hard to attract a “high quality tenant”. So, burdened by my own story and wanting to save the world one single mother at the time, the first two tenants have both been single moms, each with a little boy in tow. The first one lasted only for a few months. Her beautiful blue sparkly eyes hid a severe mental illness I couldn't have picked up on the interview. Nor would I have deemed it fair to deny her shelter because of it. After all, I am a healthcare professional - stigma stops with me. Unfortunately, the social services picked it up no problem as they came to collect the 4-year-old that she left home alone while she went running on the streets, shouting and hitting cars with a wooden plank she picked up along the way. Naked. 

The second single mom was a child with a child. I should have known there was no way she could afford to be a responsible parent let alone a tenant - there was a venti Starbucks frappuccino in her hand every day coming home while her boy munched on a mummified McNugget, greasy little fingers clutching the happy meal toy. My hope was that by mere proximity to my mother, who was always a mom to any kid we happened to bring home, she would start knowing better, doing better. Once when she hadn't left her apartment for a few days, mom went down with a hot soup and a freshly-baked banana bread, sure they were both down with flu, only to discover they must have moved out overnight, forgetting to lock the door and pay the last three months rent. She had said she was between jobs. I nodded and said I understood. 

        Thankfully an unemployed history teacher turned Riverdale jail guard working the night-shift soon moved in, causing us to relax for a long stretch of time. We appreciated having this interesting and well-read man sleep all day. He appreciated finding a banana bread on his window sill when he came home at dawn. 

       But just before him, we had another tenant - an old lady, Jun… Oh, do I remember! 

        Back in the nineties, it cost me a fortune (36$!) to place an ad in the newspaper hoping to find a renter. Today there is just about a million free ways to search for the right tenant - pages and pages of rental websites can be found in seconds. Between Airbnb, Craigslist, Kijiji, Tripadvisor and a myriad of local rental hubs, it is easy for one to post an ad - the photos, the hood, the price. Right? 

        Who would you want to live in your space, should your work, say, take you abroad for six months of the year? A period too long to just put sheets over the furniture and too short to contemplate selling. 

        A friend of mine - a smart, honest and meticulous human being - took an analytical approach to advertising her beautiful place downtown. She was looking for a professional (read: pay rent on time) couple (single people can attract all sorts of trouble back home with them), non smokers, no pets (for obvious reasons), no kids (perhaps because she's met my kids?) to leave her sacred space to strangers for six months (in exchange for rent money, of course). As it turned out, she had an amazing choice of couples from which to choose. Guess we always look for something similar to us and something we hold in high regard when making these decisions. That way, although there are no guarantees, at least for the start we feel like we made a safe and reliable choice. So, no wonder, my friend settled, after a series of Skype calls, on a couple that was already on route to the big city: a PhD candidate and his yoga instructor wife. It spelled: responsible. Honest. It radiated: karma-conscious. In subconscious mind: safe. Decent.

       The neighbours said they were quite nice. For the most part - quiet. They kept to themselves. 

       The familiar noise of keys jingling in my friend's hand as she approached her front door six moths later invoked a feeling of anxiety - what would she find walking back into the sacred space she worked so hard for? The recent news-story of an Airbnb condo being trashed beyond recognition as if a rock-band had been holding an after-party and a barfing marathon in it probably sits in minds of anyone who has ever handed the keys of their home to a stranger. 

        So when the door opened and she caught a glimpse of the inside of her home looking familiar and welcoming she relaxed. As agreed, the couple had hired her own cleaning lady to come several times during their stay and clearly they had kept their part of that bargain.

       Kicking off her shoes, she went to her bathroom to refresh. Brand new soap bar. Clean towels. Thank goodness. 

        Nothing feels more like “Home Sweet Home” then stretching out comfortably on your own familiar bed. Your bedding. Your pillow. The scent of your favourite fabric softener. The ultimate comfort we work hard for. 

       She didn’t know whether it was an unfamiliar smell or was it the room’s Feng Shui that seemed odd and all upside-down but for some reason she just couldn't relax. She tossed and turned and became restless as if waiting for some truth to sink in. 

       And what do we do when we feel the pang of unexplained anxiety? We make a trip to the fridge! She was still contemplating which healthy snack would provide both ease and comfort, her hand on the fridge handle when a note under a magnet caught her eye. 

       It was a neighbours’ "welcome to the hood" note. Introducing herself. Listing the best coffee and take out places. Then saying she was excited to meet the little fella soon.

  

       Little fellow? What little fellow? 

Although my friend is a devoted doggy-mom the ad had specified no pets. A vet had recommended that so that her dog would feel like she was home once they returned. 

      Could it be a child? All these calls - they said nothing about bringing a child! 

      As it turned out, the yoga instructor - I’ll call her Rosemary - and her academic hubby were liars. Rosemary was nearly 7 months pregnant when they moved in - easy to disguise on Skype if one wants to. Not so easy to disguise as one waddles down the street and runs into a neighbour. 

      People don’t need to ask landlords for permission to have kids. I get that. How about getting consent to having a home birth? 

     

According to the made-to-sound-cool blog post, one day during the February freeze, my friend’s place became the birthplace of a baby boy. And a make-shift hospital where two midwives practiced their skill, hoping nothing would go wrong. Home births sound great in theory - if nothing goes wrong. Sometimes, however, things do go wrong - a breached baby or a slowed heart beat or a lack of oxygen or inhaled meconium or mom’s blood pressure rising or a placenta previa or a million other things. A famous Serbian ob-gyn got himself in hot water once stating that the woman is closest to death during childbirth, statistics proving him right. In that case your home could become an address on the death certificate?

       My friend’s place was also a training ground - apparently two mid-wives in training attended as well, together with a crowd of family and friends likely holding hands and chanting “Kumbaya” in lieu of an epidural. Or to clear the karma of two parents who conscientiously chose to birth their child in a cloud of deceit - equivalent to having him wrapped into a yoga mat made of lies. How very granola of them!

       I’m an unreasonably-affectionate mother of three. For 823 days of my life I have been an expectant mother, loving my nausea and my swollen feet, nightly leg cramps and even the dreaded finger exams - all this was leading to my motherhood graduation days one January, one July and one October. And with recent public lash-outs on breast-feeding moms or the omnipresent fat-shaming should one not shed all the baby weight in the first few weeks like our Angies, and Jessicas and Giselles effortlessly do - I am extremely protective of new moms. They don’t tell us how hard the first few months of ultimate sleep deprivation are. Or that breast-feeding at the beginning hurts more than the roughest of labour pains. Or that the baby blues is often a cruel downplay on postpartum depression we feel too guilty to admit and get treated. White knuckling those first days and months trying to look as blissful as expected. Reading those damn cards that completely misrepresent the chaos we are trying to get the hold of (Hallmark and I have never been on good terms). No one tells us that it sometimes takes years to get our bodies back in shape or our marriage back to harmony; our jobs back to rewarding. And our self-esteem back at all!

       And with all my love and understanding of new moms I can’t fathom any place but the hospital for me to leave my sweat and tears and many other bodily fluids coming out of me and my baby. Leaving it in someone else’s home is just plain gross and irresponsible. And a biohazard.

     

Internet - the oasis of quotes! 

 I visited my friend the other day giving her a hug after her exciting time abroad. And as we chatted and laughed I casually disappeared to the kitchen and silently opened her freezer. I scanned the few boxes - some packages of edamame and a frozen yoghurt desert. Phew, no umbilical cord stored -- they dodged the hospital, but what about the cord blood banking? It’s now up to Bella*, her poodle to check the backyard for anything else.

       You see, that old lady Jun - my last horrible tenant - was a hoarder. As seen on TV. The worst find during the clean-up after a long-fought eviction: fish insides, guts and intestines, bagless in the fridge and freezer. Although we had to replace the fridge I was so relieved the bloody fragments actually belonged to a fish. It could've been worse. That fall as we prepared to plant bulbs in the flower beds, we discovered that Jun buried about 3 dozen fish heads. The rotting smell scarred me for life. Gave up gardening - forever. 

But still better than finding Rosemary’s placenta stashed somewhere! 

       *not her real name