speech

Leila, you are on the cusp of speaking to me in full sentences. You reach for words and try to string them together and every day you learn how to say something new. It is shocking and amazing to now be able to ask you to do something and have you do it. "Leila close the door." "Leila give mommy a kiss?"

You can ask for "more" and say "no" (which you do, all the time). You can say the names of people you love. You can name almost all the animals and make their sounds. You're a sensitive soul Leila, you feel things deeply, and I know that the transitions between your dad's house and mine are incredibly difficult for you. I wish I knew how to make it easier for you. I wish I could explain it to you better, but you're still so little. The days your dad will pick you up from daycare I tell you that "daddy is coming to get you today," and you say, "daddeee" and smile. What you will remember from these days, these hectic early morning days of learning to talk and learning to love I am not sure. Perhaps all we really remember are the feelings behind events. The songs I sing you and the love I give to you. I hope that sticks. I hope you know I've got your back. You are never more than a whisper away from my thoughts; you are a part of me. The best part. You are my strength. My will, my drive. My ability to get up in the morning. You are what keeps me going when everything seems impossible.

Last week I was holding you, wrapped in a towel after you bath and I said, "I love you." And you said, "I ya you," and rested your head on my chest. Something inside me burst open. I don't know if you know what you were saying. How does a one year old grasp ephemeral concepts like love? It doesn't really matter, you said the words, and then you held me.

a love song for Leila, while I'm away

sometimes I miss you, the way Paul Simon must miss diamonds on the soles of his shoes.
days like today, when you're not there at the end of it. waiting, your arms outstretched to point
at trees and cars on the walk home. when there is no one to make dinner for; no reason to go home.

days like this one, I am still with you. my love goes with you, wherever you are, it hovers nearby
an invisible bird, perched, waiting to pick you up if you fall. to clean the dirt from scraped knees and hold
your tiny hand.

there is no line between us child, I am yours and you are mine. this is a song for while I'm away. I will keep the peaches in the fridge for you. I will seal the cherios so they don't go stale. I will buy you a new rubber boot like the one you lost. I will love, even while I'm away.

for my father on his 70th birthday

Congratulations Dad, you made it. I am so proud of you. I think a child's idea of their parent's life is mostly a mythology of stories and hearsay. I imagine you, stoned, listening to Jimmy Hendrix in Victoria at my age, building your first house on Mayne Island a few years later, living in New Jersey as a teenager terrified your new friends were going to steal a car, being followed by the police in Franco's Spain for picking up a Basque hitch-hiker, crying when I was born because I wasn't breathing, these are the stories of yours I've woven together to create an impression of the you that was before me. I know your life has had it's share of struggles. I was there for at least some of them, which is why it makes me so happy to see you here, at this point in your life with a sense of calm; with a sense of contentment.

Thank you for always been there for me and for continuing to be there. Thank you for moving all my things back and forth and back and forth across Vancouver more times than I care to count. Thank you for always having a bed for me to sleep in, no matter where you were. Thank you for buying me groceries when my fridge was empty. Thank you for paying my phone bill when I couldn't. Thank you for telling that asshole that you'd smash his head through a wall if he ever came near me again when I was seventeen. For the record, he never did. Thank you for driving me to school. Thank you for picking me up. Thank you for watching movies with me even when you were sad. Thank you for making the best popcorn. Thank you for helping me run away when I was four. Thank you for rubbing my back and making me hot lemonaid when I was sick. Thank you for driving me to my high school graduation because we both agreed taking a limo was dumb. Thank you for supporting me no matter what decide to do with my life. Thank you for believing in my strength and integrity. Thank you for loving my child and being a wonderful, caring grandfather.

I could go on, dad, the list of things I'm grateful to you for is long and varied, but I'll leave it at that. I am to lucky to have a father whose advice I value and can trust. I think it's taken a while for me to be able to ask, but now that I can, it is a resource I treasure and rely on.

Happy birthday dad, I am so happy I came to live at your house.

Love,

Jocelyn Elizabeth Coburn

of beginings and endings.

Last week, Leila started daycare. We went over on Tuesday for an hour so she could get used to the kids and the place, and she was fine. She played with the dogs and with the two little boys who go there as well. They're five and two. And when I came to pick her up she cried. She was having fun and didn't want to go.

I dropped her off the next morning for real, for the whole day. And again she was fine, she didn't cry when I left and I stayed, listening against the front door for a good ten minutes just to be sure. It was a hard day for me. She's seventeen months old. Not really a baby anymore, just a sweet little toddler who waves at everyone as she walks down the street. But still, so little in some ways. I want to be able to be with her all the time, but I enjoy being my own person again too.

It was so hard to walk away from her, to know that those long, endless days of each other had finally reached an end. And I'm glad we had seventeen months together. They went on for so long, and were gone so quickly.

no mother is an island.

When I was growing up everyone told me I was going to be special, that I was going to be someone. I felt I was destined for greatness, for somethingness. I wanted to be prime minister or a movie star, or later, the next Che Guevara. After Leila was born and I turned 25, I went through the painful process of realizing that I was just a person, like everyone else. No better or worse, and not destined for greatness. And that even if I was, that greatness would be have be fought for.

If I can tell Leila anything as she grows up, it's that she's good enough. That it is enough to simply love your friends and family. To work hard and be responsible. That getting up in the morning and putting one foot in front of the other is all that you need to do. There is still uncertainty in my life. I live in a one bedroom basement with my daughter and I don't really make enough money to make ends meet, but that's ok. I'm working towards something greater. I'm working towards being a good mother, towards being content . I am blessed to have friends and family who are willing and able to help me. Even if that just means bringing me a bottle of red wine at 10pm and sitting there for an hour and listening to what I have to say.

I've always had this yearning. This just out of reach desire for something that I could never identify. Whatever I had wasn't good enough, it had to be something more, something greater. Maybe I'm just getting older. Or maybe it's just that it's ok not to be special. Perhaps it is because I am the center of Leila's universe, I am her great love right now and so being all things to one person has allowed me to just be.

After Tom and I first split up, I wanted to run away, I wanted to move to Iceland or Nelson or anywhere far far away from the drama and sadness and the people who wouldn't talk to me anymore. But today we went to the Library and stopped off to pick up a new bottle at the kids store by our house. The woman who works there knows Leila by name and was happy to let her run around and play with her favourite stuffed bear and some hangers. Then we went and got coffee and the people there also know us. I paid them the fifty cents I owed them from last time when their debit machine was down and I didn't have enough cash. Leila ran around and showed the ladies who work in the kitchen her new bear. These are the people on the peripheries of her life who have known her since she was just this crying, mewling blob attached to me and now, she's sweet and playful and waves at everyone, and it's ok. It's ok to be stuck in this rainy city for the rest of the foreseeable future. There are worse places. And yes, there are people who won't even say hello to me anymore, but there are also people here who go out of their way to show me kindness and consideration and who have offered me friendship when I needed it most.

Everything is going to be alright.

I keep looking forward and then back again, shoulder-checking in my imaginary rear-view mirror. It's almost impossible to see right now. It's just a blur of lines on the highway. And I'm fighting just to stay awake.


Today, I was crying sitting on the floor of Leila's bedroom and she crawled over to me, pulled herself up and wrapped her arms around my neck and put her head on my shoulder and didn't let go for a long time.

Is that a metaphor? For what? For the impossibility of guilt, of engineering without numbers. I'm angry, but that doesn't make me wrong, it doesn't make me right either. I'm not looking for sympathy, a one way mirror turned inwards showing only the accused.

I just want to pick up my child and go. We'll live on the edge of forever, and you can come visit, but there won't be any phones.

Your first Birthday.

Dear Leila,

Yesterday you turned one. I spent the whole day thinking about what I was doing exactly a year before. Counting down the minutes until 10pm. The exact time you were born. The tenth hour of the tenth day of the second month of the year 2010. You've turned into such a magical little person Leila, I am so happy you are my daughter.

Your dad and I took you out for pasta last night. It's your favourite food. You sat there slurping up noodles with an air of contentment on your face. Everyone kept commenting on what a happy baby you are. You charmed an old couple and a couple with a sleeping six month old,and every server in the place.

This has been a hard year in a lot of ways Leila. Your dad and I are no longer together. We just aren't good that way. But that doesn't mean that we're not going to take you out for dinner every year on your birthday. That doesn't mean we're not going to go to every single silly school thing you ever do. Together. Because we're your parents, and we love you. Because your dad let me listen to the same two Neil Young albums over and over and over again for twenty hours while I was in labour (I think he slipped Paul Simon in there once). Because you're the best thing both of us has ever done.

I was sacred of you at first. Scared of having a daughter, of raising a woman. But the second night you were alive I was lying in bed after your uncle Chris and auntie Chelso had gone home, and you lifted your head up off my chest and looked at me with these hilarious crossed eyes and my heart broke and melted into a thousand pieces. And I still haven't found all of them. I'm still picking them up every time you do something new and sweet. Every time you play peek-a-boo with me. Every time you smile and curl up in my lap with a bottle. Every time you say, "ma ma ma ma".

Love you kiddo.

Ma ma ma ma

Day One.

(Yes, that's an icepack I'm holding on my boob.)

the finite and the ever-after.

The time that Leila and I have that used to seem to infinite seems much more finite now. These days and days that would hang haphazardly from the string of weeks, and months, are drawing to an end. Soon I'll be working. Soon she'll be with her dad half the week. Soon. Soon. But now, right now, she's in the other room sleeping. And I am here. Waiting to be her mother again as soon as she wakes.

it's been a long time, baby.

Dear Leila,

I missed your ten month birthday, I'm sorry. There's a lot going on right now little bean. Your dad and I aren't very happy with each other. We love you immensely though. Never doubt that. Of all the things in your life that you should doubt, please, never doubt that.

Doubt that the world is round. That floral print was ever cool. That it was a good idea to let you steal Norton's toys. That so-and-so is a good date to the dance. But please, never, ever doubt that your dad and I love you more than anything. I want you to be happy. And I want to be happy. You usually seem happiest when I am. So, I'm trying to make the changes in life to have that happen.

I knew before you were born that I would love you. When you were just this tiny little lump that made me throw up five or six times a day I knew that I loved you then. There was a heatwave the summer I was pregnant with you and I would drink water all day long and then lie with my face on the cool, concrete floor of the bathroom and think of you, who you would be, and how much I would adore you, all the adventures we would have together. I still feel like that, although now you are real, and wonderful and very present. You are the center of my universe and you will always be. I knew I would love you but I didn't know I would love you this much. I didn't know you would become my heart. That it would be through my love for you that I would feel the rest of the world. I've never been very tough. I cry at movies, at books. But since you were born I feel a million times more. You have become every child. Any time I hear of a child being hurt I cry. I can't help it. I understand now. You're it. You're the reason we do everything. The reason we drag ourselves out of bed in the morning is because sometimes you bury your head in my shoulder and wrap your arms around me and then look at me and smile.

I'm here bean. You and your dad are going to spend the next three days together, flying solo, playing games, causing mischief, and I will miss you like my right hand. But even when I can't be with you my love will find you. It will find you on transistor radio waves. It will come to you in the middle of the night in your dreams. I'm in every lullaby that gets sung to you. In every heart that beats close to yours. I'm there, loving you.

oxo

Mom

a house!

We found a new home. A house! Or at least the main floor of it. It's a giant old house close to where we live now but a little farther east. It's half a block to the dog park and it has a yard! I'm not usually prone to exclamation marks, but I guess I'm excited since I've already used two in the first four sentences.

It's the sort of place where I feel like Leila can make memories. We can grow carrots in the back yard and she'll remember the stained glass doors to her bedroom. We can easily walk to New Brighton pool in the summer. There's even a basement we can use. I have designs on tucking a desk away in a corner to write at and I think Tom wants to be able to do whatever is he does with tools down there. I might be getting ahead of myself, but I always thought it would be rad to have a dartboard.

I couldn't face the thought of Christmas alone in this crowded apartment so I was trying to find a cute cabin in the woods somewhere, but now, now I think we'll spend Christmas in our new house, and you're most certainly invited for dinner if you're in town. I'm so excited to put up the white Christmas lights that we had up at our wedding, I'm excited to bake, I'm just plain excited. I'm looking forward to seeing Leila's face as we try to show her how to rip paper off of presents, and Norton's enthusiasm at being so close to his favourite place in the world. I'm excited to meet our upstairs neighbours who have a three year old boy.

This is going to be good, I can feel it.

of family and other open wounds.

I'm having a hard time lately. My parents have decided they're furious with me for reasons I don't understand and don't think are as serious as they do. All my life I've tried not to make them angry except for a few times when I was a teenager when I pretended I didn't care. But I do care. I still care. I hate it when they decide they're not speaking to me. It makes me feel like I have a hole in the center of who I am.

They're not bad people. They work hard and they try hard, but it's like their idea of who I am supposed to be never added up to who I actually am. And every time they're reminded of this they get angry. This time it's different. This time, I'm a parent too. Granted, they've been doing it for twenty four years longer than I have, but I still know what it feels like to love a child. I know that Leila and I will eventually have disagreements, even fights, but I also know that my job is to love her no matter what. My love for Leila is boundless and unconditional, and I will try to remember that at all times.

My mother's father, my grandfather, would occasionally get mad and her and inform her he wasn't speaking to her and I remember how it made her feel. She would be so sad and empty. I remember feeling protective of her and angry at him for hurting my mother. I wonder if she remembers this. I wonder what it is my parents see when they think of me. It's taken me years and years not to see myself as deeply flawed and awful. But I know I'm not. Years ago, my counsellor made me draw up a list of ten things I liked about myself. It took me hours, and I'm pretty sure one of them was, "I like my impeccable taste in Star Treks, TNG forever!"

I want to make peace with my parents. I want to prevent this from happening in the future. I want Leila to know her grandparents. But if I can't  have that, then I want to find the strength to let go, to know that I am good person whether or not my parents tell me.

happy nine months, baby menace.

Dear Leila,

I would have written this yesterday, on your actual nine-month day, but you decided a couple of days ago that you are undergoing your first existential crisis. In baby terms, this means you screamed for two days straight. We're working through it together and you seem much more at ease with your existence today.

You've now been an outside baby for as long as you were in an inside baby. You're turning into a totally awesome tiny human with definite opinions and preferences. You have just mastered pulling yourself up onto furniture and it delights you to no end. So much so, in fact, that when you're standing you'll often look over your shoulder with a big grin on your face to make sure your audience fully appreciates your accomplishment.

You still don't have any teeth, but that doesn't stop you from eating a ton. Your current favourites are pitted kalamata olives, humous, cheerios and mango baby food. I especially like that you like olives. It makes me feel related. This is important since people are constantly telling me how much you look like your dad. In fact, no one has told me that you look like me. Although there are times when I am looking at your face that I feel this strange twinge of familiarity, like I am looking at a part of me reflected in you.

Lately, you have learned the joys of making a mess. You like to pull leaves off of plants, dirt out of pots, cotton balls out of the bag, laundry out of the hamper. Sometimes in the morning while I eat breakfast I put your toy basket on its side and let you remove all the toys. You think this is pretty much the best thing ever. And I think you're pretty much the best thing ever.

Love always,

Mom

sakineh ashtiani

This woman was supposed to die today. She hasn't yet. But Iran isn't saying when or if they will spare her. Only that the West needs to stop interfering with their justice. They say Sakineh is an adulterer (a crime she supposedly committed after her husband's death). For this crime she has alternatively been sentenced to death by stoning, whipping and hanging.

The politics of Iran vs. the West aside, I can't help but feel compelled by this case. There is something so painfully beautiful about this woman's face. About the love that Sakineh's son has for his mother. His tireless campaign to save her, so much so that he is in  jail now too. Her lawyers have been forced to flee the country, and her life is stretched out for yet another day.

 Before Leila was born I was terrified of having a daughter. I was scared of all the things that come with teaching someone how to be a woman. What if I fucked her up? What if I made her feel bad about herself without knowing it? And it's hard to figure out how to be a woman. At least I found it hard. I never knew where the line was on certain things until I'd crossed it, until it was too late and I was in over my head. This somehow, put it all in perspective. So this woman allegedly cheated on her dead husband. Something she confessed to only under torture. In essence, this woman has been convicted of being female. Had she been a man, there would have been no repercussions for her actions. I am still scared for my daughter, and for everyone's daughters because this is so wrong, so tragic and so incomprehensible.

For a more comprehensive overview of what's going on with Sakineh, go here.

If you would like to sign a petition to send to world leaders to try to pressure Iran to save Sakineh go here.

I am not in the habit of trying to get people to take action on political issues, but I can't keep from thinking what if she was my daughter, what would I want people to do? The answer, of course, is that I would want her to be protected at all costs.

first world problems in a time of cholera.

I just read an article about cholera in Hati. My first world problems are all in perspective now. Turns out that going to the laundry mat is a lot better than dying of explosive diarrhea because I was washing my clothes BY HAND in an infected river.

ok seriously, this is awesome.

When presented with pitted kalamata olives or vanilla arrowroot cookies, Leila chose the olives. We are like taste bud twins. Raaaaaad.

change of scene.

If we lived in Nelson, we could own this house. Or this house.

Ask me how over this city I am. I've wanted to leave for so long, it's almost the only constant. Where I want to go changes, but wanting to leave never does. Tom doesn't. He suggested Maple Ridge as a compromise. But Maple Ridge is actually my idea of hell. It's not that I can't stand Vancouver, it's just that I don't feel a connection to it. I don't feel satisfied here. I know that to an extent, the only zen you find in a place is the zen you brought there, but I really think there are certain places in the world where it is easier to tap into that inner peace.

I want Leila to have a yard. I want her to be able to go outside and create imaginary stories that she narrates to herself. I want to live in a house that doesn't share walls with my neighbours. I should be grateful for what I have I know, but I can't shake this feeling of slight unease, like I'm in the wrong place. It's like one of those dreams where you're making lattes at school or taking a bath at work. The actions and locations just aren't meeting up.

seriously?

I actually think I'm going to murder my landlord. We have bedbugs again. The laundry has been out for five days. The people downstairs suck. The bathtub faucet has been leaking for over two months. Oh, and did I mention we have fucking bedbugs again? My right arm is covered in giant, itchy, red bumps.

So aggravating. I don't want to move right now because we're hoping to buy a place in January or February, but I also don't know how much longer I can live like this before I'm reduced to mailing anthrax to the slum lords who run our building. (DEAR GOVERNMENT I'M KIDDING).

I want Leila to live somewhere safe and secure without awful bugs attacking her. So far, she hasn't been bitten, but I don't like thinking that she might. Also, they spray in here so often that I'm sure it can't be good for her. It seems ridiculous that I'm constantly feeding her organic food and we come home to a chemical ridden, bug infested apartment. Oh yeah, there are cockroaches too.

Saying, "at least we have a good view" is really not cutting it for me anymore.

every girl needs a dog

All afternoon Leila crawled around Norton and stole his toy out of his mouth. He would gently wrestle with her for a few minutes while she giggled, then he would give up and go back to his spot on the couch, and Leila would would crawl off in delight with her prize. It's amazing for me to see how much she loves him. He makes her laugh when he licks crumbs off her hands, and every time he comes into her view she flaps her arms and screeches with happiness.

Tonight, I went and visited Otter. Otter has been my family's dog since I was in grade five. Otter is a half golden retriever and half mystery dog. When she first came home I slept on the floor next to her kennel for the first three nights so she wouldn't be scared. Growing up, I was always allowed for go for walks by myself if I took her. She is so long-suffering that once, after an episode where she'd been digging in the backyard so much she'd rubbed all the black off her nose, she let me colour her nose black with a felt. I still feel guilty about it. I have cried away broken hearts into her fur, and fed her my early culinary attempts. She loves almost everyone she meets and is remarkably gentle with little kids. She has always, always been there when I needed her, gently putting her head on my lap and looking up at me with big, confiding brown eyes. She has tenderly snuffled Leila, and has tolerated Norton who always tries to play with her even though she is, "so over that." Once, she played tug-of-war with him over a stick at the beach, but she doesn't like to admit it publicly. It was hard to say goodbye to her tonight because there may not be that many more hellos. Hellos where she come running out to greet me, her tail wagging so hard it almost touches her ears. So Otter, please know that I love you so much, you're a good dog, thanks for everything.

Otter loves me despite my choice of tea cozies, I mean hats.

auntie manders wins at life again

Yesterday we had a family day with Amanda. We had breakfast and then went and hung out with parrots at the Bloedel Conservatory in Queen Elizabeth Park. Then came home and made pie. What a perfect Saturday. Thanks for the photos lady.

eight months

Dear Leila,

today you are eight months old. It's your first thanksgiving this weekend and you've become such a little charmer crawling around smiling at your family.

I feel like we're finally starting to string days together into weeks, months even. Before, when you were brand new, everything was just a series of randomly occurring events. Each day we would wake up and tackle every problem like it was the first time. We could never put together time in a way that made sense. We couldn't learn to repeat days into patterns, into weeks, into time. In those early months I felt like we were floating through a void and all we had to keep us afloat was our love. You clinging to me and me to you, bouncing on the blue exercise ball in a poor attempt to emulate the rhythm of waves.

Now that you can laugh, and play and eat bites of my french toast everything is different. You still reach for me when you need me, but now, that's not all the time.

I love you small human,

Mom

Happy babies know that puppy toys are better than human toys.