N is for Neonatal Nightmare

Today is a special day, for me...this is the day I became a mother...24 years ago.

So that would mean it’s my daughter’s birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, COURTNEY 

I HOPE YOU HAVE A TOTALLY AWESOME DAY!

I LOVE YOU

I made a little something for you, my sweetie-pie...a little Blogging Award.

(click on me)

N is for Neonatal Nightmare.

To those of you outside the ‘circle of trust’ you’re probably wondering about the title and asking, “How could her ‘precious’ little bundle of joy be a nightmare in the neonatal stage of life?”

Since you are of a curious nature I will oblige you with the gory details.

Turn back the clock to 1986…

Mr. P wanted a child (possible one of those heir apparent ones) and as the ever accommodating ‘little missus’ I looked at him and said, “Leave it with me dear” - as if this was a one woman show. 

Oops, I almost forgot...it was a one woman show!

I needed time to mull over what the astrology books advised with respect to what I, a Pisces, needed my future off-spring to be, and when exactly the best time to conceive was so I could assure myself the success I needed. (and deserved)

I would need an Aries or Taurus child in order to bring out the ‘best’ (not beast) in me and allow the fruit of my loins to make it into adulthood with the least amount of psychological drama! (there are animals out there that eat their young you know)

Now, I know this will be hard to believe, but as the gods do favour me, it was just natural that I found myself ‘with child’ on the exact date specified in my calculations.  

Fast forward to the last six weeks.

The reason for the fast forward, is because it was the most uneventful and easy pregnancy know to mankind (or womankind in this case). It’s true - no morning sickness, no nausea, no nothing...dull and uneventful!

Until...those last six weeks.

All hell broke loose as I was diagnosed with this condition called ‘eclampsia’ - now it’s no ordinary simple ‘toxemia’ - no, I get some ‘outer space’ version of eclampsia. It’s so rare and so toxic that I make the medical history books. (what I’ll do to get in a book)

I was checked immediate into the hospital and hooked up to every machine within a five mile radius; every ob-gyn in the country is looking in, out, and around me trying to get a glimpse of, “the worst case of eclampsia,” according to my specialist - flown in from some foreign country to deal with this “once in a lifetime” event. 

I should have charged admission because it really got out of hand when the media arrived. I kid you not - who could make this up. (only a really crazy writer with the wildest of imaginations)

In comes this very cute, very young doctor and with a serious tone, he takes my hand and says, “You’re baby is doing just fine, all the monitors indicate your baby is stable"...big long pause, and a heavy sigh..."It’s you we're concerned about. You see, we can’t seem to stabilize you. Now, about delivery, were you planning on natural childbirth…?”

He hesitates just long enough for me to ‘toy’ with him about this very sensitive subject. You see, the eighties were full of ‘natural childbirth junkies’ and I figured he was trying to size me up and see if this was going to be an issue.

I smiled, and ask, “Is natural childbirth still an option?” (I wasn’t going to tell him that I had signed up for the ‘express’ c-section birth and wanted a neat and tiny incision right above my womanly bits. (which a fellow esthetician had appropriately waxed two weeks before, an inch lower then usual - my scar is nicely buried deep in bush country)

Finally I’m prepped for surgery and off I go fully prepared to be a ‘mother’ within the next thirty minutes. Many hours later, after being prepped three times for surgery I’m sliding down that slippery slope of despair and I tell the doc I’m starting to lose it.

My condition was so bad that after the final prepping the entourage of doctors I now had are circling the wagon and talking in hushed voices; every now and then looking at me and shaking their heads.

I then heard from the huddle a voice - “Cross your fingers boys, we’re going in," and with that I was in the operating room.

After a little poking and probing I’m hooked up to the juice. I'm not feeling my toes, or much else and as the docs are making their first incision bells and whistles on my blood pressure machine start going off. I’m having a major meltdown - no heartbeat, no pulse - not looking so good. (and we wonder why I only have one child) Chaos!

Sometime later...Miss CP was born. Cute as a button and oh, so little. She was three weeks early and weighed 5 lb. 2 oz.

I got my Aries and I lived through my neonatal nightmare just so I could be her Mom. 

Anything exciting happen to you on route to parenthood?


Until O...


Editor's note - I did a few post-publishing typo corrections this morning...I must stop all this late night writing - too hard to proof!

M is for Momentary Madness

Note: I'm throwing my hat into the A-Z Blogging challenge sponsored by Tossing it out! What you will be reading via the letters A-Z is a little bio about me. This will give you a glimpse into my world and what I do when I'm not here - blogging. 

My dear friend, 

This will complete my narrative, over which we recently spoke. I thank you for your indulgence while I complete my story, for you will surely need these details to help you form your opinion and subsequently give your advice. 

…

It was in the elevator, on that last day of her business trip, that I knew we were destined for something more - but I never imagined that it would end up like this. 

The space was small and confining; we stood so close that every breath I took contained her essence; the intoxicating fragrance left me paralysed. I could not find the words to ask her to stay, to get acquainted - the moment passed as the doors opened.

That elevator ride was the last time I would see her for sixteen months.

We wrote and I told her all about my life, what there was to tell of it, for then I was but a young man. As my mother might have said, "Still a boy in the ways of women."

I couldn’t get her out of my mind and back at university I lost focus of my studies; my grades slipped. She was in my blood; I needed to see her and get to know her.

A trip was planned; I would visit her at the end of my final year. Time was slow to pass and as the months stretched on my youthful inexperience confused my longing for her for love. 

I professed that she was my dream and my reality, all wrapped together in one, and without hesitation I mailed these thoughts. 

It is torturous recalling it now, dear friend, but I must. I must suffer deeply, for I need to feel the same anguish that I have burdened her with.

The look in her eyes, I shall not forget. I am a flawed man for not seeing what lie behind her stoic and severe exterior as she reprimanded me for my writings. 

My writings, that professed my love and my longings, had confused her; she wanted my written words spoken, but alas I could not find the words. Ashamed and riddled with guilt I drew inward and this infuriated her.

She was like no woman I had ever known - although admittedly I had known few, but her disdain and vile disrespect was palatable and tasted like bitter medicine. I taste it now as I put pen to paper.

My dear friend, as you read this you will undoubtedly feel my pain, yet I confess I am certain she suffered equally and possibly much more. 

I must continue setting the tone, for in our last communication I left you wanting. 

After returning home, life was void of colour and walking through my days, weeks and even the years had become a challenge. The challenge lie in hiding my true feelings from those closest to me, including the woman I married four years after my return.

Do not judge me harshly for marrying a woman I did not love; a man needs companionship and affection though both lacked lustre in my colourless world. But try as I might to fit in and appear contented with my life I could not ignite my heart - this was my undoing. 

When my wife left, my only regret was not feeling anything; I was devoid of the emotions needed to release her with dignity. She told me she had always known she was second in my heart but had mistakenly, as often is the case with youth, thought she would be enough for me. 

Such a man as myself cannot be deserving of a second chance, do you agree, my dear friend? Yet recently, when the opportunity for this second chance came upon me unexpectedly, what do you think I did? 

I can scarce look at myself let alone confess my own failings; to do so would surely cause you to think less of me.

In my momentary madness I let her go, and as she looked over her shoulder one last time, she smiled. I wanted to go after her but the moment passed and she was gone. 

I ask you, my dear friend, what recourse do I have? What are your recommendations? 

With great anticipation I await your answer, in hopes that your wisdom will light the way in this dark tunnel I now call home.

Warmest regard,

Has momentary madness caused you regret?

Until N...

L is for Lessons Learned

Note: I'm throwing my hat into the A-Z Blogging challenge sponsored by Tossing it out! What you will be reading via the letters A-Z is a little bio about me. This will give you a glimpse into my world and what I do when I'm not here - blogging. 

A long time ago, far, far away, in a foreign country, a sweet, innocent, young lady fell in love. 

Her handsome suitor was younger than she, but he was charming and had all the right attributes that a young lady could want. 

She was only in his world for a few days and then she left for her own to carry on living a very structured and well organized life.

She missed him. He missed her. They wrote each other for a very long time, until one day he decided to be brave. He came, all the way to her world, to visit her and win her heart.

He arrived and she froze with the fear of uncertainty and doubt. He was too young to know what to do. So he did what most young males do; he did nothing.

The visit ended, he went back to his home, far, far away - and there he lived for eighteen years.

During those eighteen years the young lady grew into a wise and worldly woman who had checked her emotions and her love baggage into the very exclusive Heartbreak Hotel. 

With her heart now frozen she grew impatient with other women pining over broken hearts and wounded souls. This impatience was borne from years of having locked her heart away. 

Every time a woman sat opposite her, with their overwhelming tales of woe and sadness, her heart grew harder and colder until one day she was known to all as the Ice Queen.

Not too long ago, when the cold of her heart became unbearable, she ventured out and visited this land, far, far away where she thought the answer to unthawing her frozen heart might be found.

Her days there were spent living life lazily, lounging on a little sofa made of sun drenched leather. Here she tried to let her heart unthaw, but to no avail for her charming young suitor had changed beyond her heart’s recollection.

She stood before this stranger, the window into her past clouded with false hope and shattered memories, and in his eyes she saw a young man begging to be forgiven.

It was then that she felt something awaken within...

She packed up her beating heart and smiled as she looked over her shoulder. Leaving this far, far away land she knew that this time she would be checking out of the Heartbreak Hotel and not coming back.


The clock stands still for no one, and the lessons learned must be heeded for they are what guide us, always forward, always onward.

Have your lessons learned been heeded?

Until M...

K is for Keyboard Kerfuffle

Note: I'm throwing my hat into the A-Z Blogging challenge sponsored by Tossing it out! What you will be reading via the letters A-Z is a little bio about me. This will give you a glimpse into my world and what I do when I'm not here - blogging. 

Do you know how hard it is to come up with “K” words - well, do you? 

No, really, I’m serious when asking this question - it’s no easy feat - ask Ingeborg  (aka mother) she’s lying on her sofa while I sit with fingers hovering over my laptop waiting for that stroke of brilliance to hit one of us!  (this could take a while...)

With our collaborative efforts in full swing we toss about the likes of: 

Kaiser (for the buns mother loves)

Kalamata (for the olives I love)

Karts (homage to my go-karting days)

Katzenjammer (just because we liked the sound of it) 

and then there was 

Kempt bringing up the rear, in a rather unkempt fashion if I do say so myself. The nerve of some words to just lolly about like that.

Nothing in this group tickled my fancy, so we continued right along in the “Ke” section of my built-in Dictionary. 

What? You think I can come up with this on my own - please, credit when credit is due, and this isn’t the time. But thanks for thinking it!

So...along comes Kerfuffle - and I’m like, “Yeah, that’s it! That’s the word - okay what goes with Kerfuffle?” 

There’s a moment of silence and then I hear mom ask, “Ya, vats Kafuffel - vat das dat mean, Kafuffel?”

And right then (because I’ve tuned Inge out as I’m trolling for words) up comes the word Keyboard - “YES!” 

Houston, we have lift off! We are good to go!

So, have you had any Keyboard Kerfuffles lately? 

See, it can be used in a sentence and makes complete sense! 

I’m going to make the assumption (bad thing sometimes, but I feel you are all above average folks - you are after all following me) that you know we Canadians have this law that requires everything to be in French and English, including our keyboards. 

We’re special! 

Mac still makes separate keyboards for each language but PC manufacturers have decided to spare the expense and give us the much desired, much dreamed about, much longed for bilingual keyboard. 

And here I thought Santa never got my list! 

I did take the time, PC loyalist that I was (note the past tense), and played with each of the keyboards and it boiled down to what was best for my hands.

That extra ‘French’ key, which now bunks next to the return key, would have required me to stretch my pinky to hit the return key. My pinky and I conferred and it was unanimous - PC’s were voted off the shopping list. 

I type a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed, and the thought of having my pinky over-extend itself just so I can stay true to my country's need to have two official languages was just asking too much.

There is a fine line...and after my keyboard kerfuffle ended I saw the light - that would be the backlight on my Mac’s ‘English only’ keyboard!

So tell me, any kerfuffles (keyboard or otherwise) in your world lately, eh?

Until L...

J is for Just Jenny

Note: I'm throwing my hat into the A-Z Blogging challenge sponsored by Tossing it out! 

What you will be reading via the letters A-Z is a little bio about me. This will give you a glimpse into my world and what I do when I'm not here blogging. 

☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀☀

In the dark ages it was the wish of every father-to-be that at least one of his children be a male to carry on the family name along with the family business.

Not much has changed - a man still wants a son. (even if he won’t admit it publicly because the missus would tear a strip off him) Some things never change.

I’m the second of four kids - girl, girl, boy, boy.

Okay, the first child can be a girl - after all every dad secretly wants a little princess too.

But...all bets are off when it comes to kid number two - if number one was a girl, number two better be a boy or else.

Here’s the or else.

So, I’m the second girl...my poor mom was under tremendous pressure to produce the heir apparent - but apparently failed at such a simple task - what was she thinking. (even though it’s the sperm that determines gender)

Now, as mom tells it she really had her heart set on a boy, she’d done her duty the first time without success and really, really wanted a boy. 

Mostly she was not a big fan of the ‘state of pregnancy’ - can we blame her!

Yes, there are some women that love being 'with child' - I say, “Good on you, whatever floats your boat.” Apparently in mother’s case it sunk her ship - four times.

When I was brought to my mother (after being tidied up and made presentable) the nurse congratulated her on her sweet, adorable, lovely, cute-as-a-button little girl.

“No, No, I vant a boy, take it back!”

I kid you not - those were her words - and we wonder why I’m in therapy! 

Well, after some arguing about the fact that I couldn’t be swapped and given to someone else who might have wanted a “girl” baby, I was taken back to the nursery to prepare for my fate.

In the meantime, my mom received a visitor - the woman who would subsequently become my godmother - TW. 

TW was so excited mom had another beautiful little girl, she had been by the nursery and was cooing all over the place about how lucky my mom was. 

“Ya, dann take her, she’s yours. I vant a boy - no more girls.” (said like she’d just had her nineteenth girl)

After some explaining, by TW, my mom finally acquiesced - even though she knew it meant going through yet another birth to get that elusive but highly sought after boy - I was adorable and she had already fallen for my "cute-as-a-button" charm.

But that didn’t stop her from still being ticked at me for being a girl. 

She told TW she had already picked a boy's name (for her son) and therefore I would be called Peter; it would teach me a lesson for being a girl.

TW went on to explain that Peter was not a suitable girl’s name whereby my mother leaned back in her bed and said, “Fine, dann ve call her Petra!” 

I can only say there is a god - and it was manifesting itself through TW - because she said, “Absolutely no, dats not a goot name.”

“Ya, dann you pick da name vat ve give my boy,” retorts my mom. (note how she still called me her boy - and we wonder why I’m good with a hammer)

Okay…

Without hesitation TW says, “I alvays liked Chainy und ve name her Chainy.” (this was how they said Jenny - I kid you not, there is no way I could make this up)

Fast forward to Kindergarten…

Mrs. S, an elderly teacher, (they all look old when you’re that little) called in my parents for a little chat. It appears I was not responding well to my name Jenny and she was concerned about some learning difficulties because of it.

“Ya, dats her name Chainy, vats da problem,” says mommy dearest! 

With that the meeting was over. Mrs. S had her answer - it was not adorable little “me” that had the learning problem…

I’ve always liked my name, never wanted a different one and can safely say I am eternally grateful to my godmother for it.

It’s a good name. It’s not Jennifer or Jen - it’s just Jenny! (try to remember that, will you)

And you - how’s that name of yours working out? 

Until K...

I is for Indelible Ink

Note: I'm throwing my hat into the A-Z Blogging challenge sponsored by Tossing it out! What you will be reading via the letters A-Z is a little bio about me. This will give you a glimpse into my work world and what I do when I'm not here - blogging. 

I was about nineteen when I got my learner’s permit for motorcycling. I used to borrow my brother's bike, a two-stroke, 350cc Suzuki. 

I loved that bike - off the line it was a bullet. It was a rush when the “big bikes” would pull up along side at an intersection and give me the nod.

Yeah - let’s see what you’ve got - that was always my thinking. The light would change and I’d be off that line so fast you could only wonder if I had been there in the first place.

Speed demon - I always wanted to race cars - I grew up watching the Indy 500 - glued to the telly and imagining myself behind the wheel of the winner's car. (well dream big or go home that's my motto)

I was even a bit of a local legend at the go-cart track, where I hung out and taunted the boys into racing me - the mistake made by those young pups was to think of me as a girl.

Oh, to be sure, I’m a girl - love being a girl - but because my mother wanted her second child to be a boy (that would be me - kid #2) I think I’ve got more than my share of “the guy genes” in me - hammers, hogs, and heavy machinery make me happy!

Now, the reason for the preamble is to set the stage for my story…

Back at age nineteen - 

One fine sunny day I was out for a ride and needed to tank up - next to me was a gal filling up a very impressive customized 650cc Yamaha - teardrop tank, slightly extended forks, and enough polished chrome to blind you on a sunny day.

We gave each other the nod - but me, ever the talkative type started in on a “bike” conversation, acknowledging hers and talking about mine.

One thing lead to another and she pipes up that I should follow her to a house party she’s going to and, unbeknownst to me, was also the guest of honour.

Ever the curious type (right after talkative) I nodded in approval and off we went.

We didn’t have far to go which was too bad because I really wanted to see what she could do with her bike. I’ll never know because in short order we were in front of this old three storey house.

Hanging out of windows and draped around front porch pillars was this motley crew of very burly bad boys - okey, dokey - says me to myself - this should be interesting.

They are hooting and hollering to her and giving me that nod…

She jumps off her bike and flips off her helmet (it’s the law here in Canada) and seems very excited to see her friends.

Well…

There is some kind of verbal exchange that somehow has something to do with tattoos and the one that she had recently acquired.

Next thing I know, she’s unzipping her very tight jeans, flipping up her top and there across her womanly bits is this tattoo - GATEWAY TO HEAVEN.

I have, on occasion, wondered what ever became of Miss Gateway to Heaven, and her tattoo. Over the years, had the gateway been left in disrepair and seeped into its aging foundation, which in youth is so firm and fresh; yes, these thoughts do intrigue me as do tattoos.

Of the four of us siblings, I’m the only one without a tattoo - somehow indelible ink isn’t for me.  I do not want to go through life marked, in one stage of it, with something I am not sure will transcend the coming years. Something so permanent is off my radar.

That being said…

In my line of work I do cosmetic tattooing - specializing in eyebrows. Now, should my own lovely brows ever need the help of indelible ink I would succumb and embrace the permanence.

Do you have indelible ink hiding on your canvas?

Until J...

H is for Happy Hour

Note: I'm throwing my hat into the A-Z Blogging challenge sponsored by Tossing it out! What you will be reading via the letters A-Z is a little bio about me. This will give you a glimpse into my work world and what I do when I'm not here - blogging. 

Is this what it’s come to - reducing poor little happy into a one hour time slot?

Seems like it, doesn’t it.

Well, pull up a stool, pour yourself a drink and stay a while...this lounge singer’s got a song just for you…

Somewhere in close proximity, at Joe’s Tavern or the spiffy lounge over at Hotel Way-too-Expensive, you can find a Happy Hour - just waiting to be savoured and enjoyed by one and all. (of legal drinking age) 

I often have wondered what it is in our lives, these days, that helps us define our personal state of happiness. 

The conclusion I have drawn, after all my wondering, is that to most people happiness is something you acquire, rather than seeing it as something that is a built-in feature that just needs to be activated.

Each of us has the potential for happiness, but somewhere along the line it is (like deliberate dialogue) de-activated and held, like a dangling carrot, in front of us - ever elusive and ever unattainable.

I’m here to set a few things straight about Happy Hour.

First things first, happiness isn’t something you tuck into an hour and wipe your hands of  - it’s an ongoing process - one that requires some effort to initiate but once it’s up and running there’s no going back. 

But, some of you are shaking your heads, aren’t you?

You’re talking to your screen, saying something like, “But I hate my job, my spouse and/or my kids are driving me to Joe’s - bills and health issues are bogging me down - how the hell am I supposed to be happy?

Well, stop looking at this from the outside and letting all your outside “baggage” prevent you from experiencing the true state of happiness and having a real Happy Hour all day long. 

Have you noticed that even though there are things all around us that are beyond our control the one that we most lose sight of is our ability to take control of our emotions, and subsequently how we let things effect us, which in turn, creates a state of unhappiness. 

It’s a vicious circle - but let’s take a circuitous journey down the path of happiness according to ME - Queen Happy!

I get up every morning and regardless of the baggage waiting by my bed I am happy to be alive. Fo me, this means I have just won the Life Lottery and now have, at my disposal, twenty-four hours (hopefully) to ??

?? = what exactly - you will need to fill in the question marks for yourself.

For me, I try to start each day with a clean slate and see it as a new beginning. Sure, stuff from yesterday has followed me here, into this brand new day, but it can only affect my state of happiness if I let it - AND I DON’T. 

Okay, how about the other night during my Mac meltdown - was I happy then? 

Well, I wasn’t unhappy - annoyed, aggravated, irritated, ticked, frustrated, anxious and even concerned - but I was not unhappy. My mood as far as my life in general was concerned, outside of my Gmail issues, was still happy. 

Another misconception is that money buys happiness. 

Well, in fact, during Happy Hour I imagine some people do think they are buying happiness. 

It’s what happens after this small window of happiness closes that is very sad - these seekers of one hour happy are disillusioned and fall into despair as they wind their way home to face the unhappiness they have created, but don’t want to own.

Money can buy a sense of security and creature comforts - but if happiness doesn’t exist prior to having money, no amount of it will make you happy. This is a fact! People need to believe it! 

Each one of us determines our own state of happiness. Take a moment to activate this long forgotten internal switch, if it isn't already on. 

It will take a wee while for it to start running smoothly without glitches (kind of like my new Mac) but once you start it you’ll be happy you did.

I believe state of mind and happiness are linked and thus give each of us  the potential of having our own personal Happy Hour - all day long?

How are you enjoying your Happy Hour, so far?

Until I...