Sucky Santa ...

Think back to the bestest Christmas present you ever received. Everyone has at least one memory like that - I am lucky enough to have several. My childhood was filled with practical gifts like slippers and pj's but there was always that one gift that had danced through my dreams and into my letters to Santa. My treasured Thumbelina doll, my beloved horse statue, new ballet slippers ... all appeared under the tree to thrill me one Christmas after another. When the kids came along, I was rewarded with the most intricately made presents, thanks to their teachers in Switzerland, who had marvelous ideas and school budgets to match! One Christmas, 10-year old Jordan sneaked off to the neighborhood jeweler's with a friend of mine and emptied all but 10 bucks out of his bank account to buy me a gold ring. (I know because he proudly announced the cost to me before I had even torn through the wrapping.) It has never once left my finger in the decade since. A couple of years back, Julia bought me a Swarovski 'Thumper' bunny. She wanted to add to my crystal collection but she also knows how much I adore bunnies. The point here is not about the amount spent; rather, it is about the thought put into the gift. Nothing is worse than the person who pesters you on the day (week, month) before Christmas (birthday, anniversary) to know what you want to receive as a gift. To me, the most thoughtful of gifts is the one that has you wondering, 'How did they know I wanted that?' There is an art in listening to someone, the subtle clues they drop about what they like, collect, saw and drooled over, have wanted but never bought for themselves, etc. People are forever dropping clues, a lot of the time without realizing they are doing just that. The art is in listening and disciphering clues, or just plain noticing what they like.

The opposite side to this coin are the bad gifts. This being the real world, I have received a few doozies in my time. The most recent that jumps to mind is the first Christmas with an ex-boyfriend. He bought me a book and a throw (a blankie). Nice gestures when you consider that I love to read and am usually cold. Not so nice when you consider that he spent a great deal of time at the bookstore buying glorified comics and prolly only saw these items whilst he stood in line to pay for his purchases (yeah, the throw also came from the bookstore). Ok, so maybe I'm being cynical. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt and fast forward to our second Christmas together. He bought me a book and a throw. Ok, so it was a different book and a different coloured throw. It still made me feel like an afterthought and vastly lessened the appeal of the gift.

Here is a golden rule: unless she has specifically asked for it, no woman wants to receive a household appliance. I will repeat this because so many guys just don't get it: unless your wife (fiancée, girlfriend, mom, etc) actually come out and tell you that they want a Cuisinart, panini maker, blender, vacuum cleaner or anything else that will require them to expend energy to actually enjoy the 'gift', do not buy it. By extension, anything that is subtlely disguised as a gift for you - a snazzy dazzy shiny BBQ, tickets to a concert to see your favorite artist, massage oil (when everyone knows you will be receiving and not giving!), or anything that eventually gets housed in the workshop (again, unless she specifically asks you for a jigsaw, do not do it!) is not a gift, it is a sad excuse for a gift. And if you're paused at the beauty counter and wondering whether to splurge on some creams, serums, drops and stuff of the like? Two words: 'anti-ageing' guarantees another two words: death wish!

The grey area here is lingerie. Chances are good that we want some. Chances are also good that we will not wear the stuff you want us to wear, since it (more often than not) comes from Frederick's of Hollywood. (And no, the addition of 'Hollywood' doesn't make it classy lingerie, guys!) While I'm no huge fan of gift cards, if this is the route you insist on embarking upon, you might be best to make up a basket with a Visa gift card, a Luther CD, a bottle of wine and a card that suggests that she spend the money on some naughty underbits that the two of you could later appreciate together. But I still maintain that you venture forth at your own peril!

The lesson here? To a woman, it is not the wrapping, the store it came from or even the cost. It is how special your gift makes her feel. It is knowing that you put some thought into it, spent some time thinking about what she would like (and hopefully love), actually listened to what she has said ... and even some of the things she hasn't said. In the end, it is the thought that counts, after all.

So, what is the best and/or worst gift you have ever received? Post your comment below and make me green with envy .... or cringe right along with you!

Frantic City, Frantic City!

Ahh, October. The beginning of one of my favorite seasons and another reason to jet off ...

Day 1, Tuesday, October 4 - I head off to Dorval to catch a flight to Philly. Arriving earlier than my friend's flight, I have some time to explore this HUGE terminal, staffed by some of the friendliest staff I have ever encountered in an airport. After his flight arrives, we head to the funky Aloft Hotel. Just walking into the reception area, with its hip bar tucked away into a corner of the lobby, tells you this is a different kind of hotel. Walking into the washroom into your room confirms it. Once you wrap your mind around the idea of a sliding bathroom door (?!?), you marvel at the size of the glass and tile shower, which could easily accommodate me, my friend, the bellboy and another two people from room service. (Yeah, don't ask how I know these things, ok?)
Day 2, Wednesday, October 5 - I am treated to lunch at Chipotle, which is only fitting seeing as my friend is the one who got me hooked on the place. That afternoon, we hit the highway for our road trip to AC. Atlantic City, a vacation spot of my childhood; the last time I was there, I lost Jordan (but that is another story for another day!) We check in at Caesar's and get ready for our dinner with Terry and her hubby, Tom. We celebrate Tom's upcoming birthday at Bobby Flay Steak at The Borgata.What a night! Besides getting to see Terry again, finally meeting Tom, we dined like royalty! I start with the lobster-crab cake (a baseball-sized delight) served with a basil vinaigrette and lemon-habanero tartar sauce, then go on to the porterhouse lamb chops, served with a red wine sauce and mint pesto. (My mouth is watering even as I write this!) My date and I share a sweet potato gratin and creamed spinach sides before we battle forks over a key lime pie. Great food and even greater company. It was a terrific evening and one I look forward to repeating again.

Day 3, Thursday, October 6 - We check out and head over to Mickey Dee's to leech off their free Wi-Fi. I overhear some Quebecers speaking French at the next table over ... it really IS a small world! My friend and I head to the boardwalk for a leisurely stroll, making our way to the beach and the water's edge. The water is warmer than I imagined and there were even people surfing! We head back to the car, off to the airport and onto a plane ...
Day 4, Friday, October 7 - Ahh, Montreal. We enjoy a leisurely lunch at Arahova and then cross the street for a mandatory stop at St-Viateur Bagel. Later, we drop in for a visit with my friend's babcia before heading back my my neck of the woods to see Jordan and Julia. We continue eastward and sup at L'Ange Cornu in L'Assomption. (I had the monk fish (which I have since discovered to be THE ugliest fish ever!) on a plate that easily measured a foot long. Deeelicious!)
Day 5, Saturday, October 8 - After lolling around, we head off for another road trip, this time to St-Sauveur. We lunch at the original location of Moe's before continuing onward to Mont-Tremblant. We battle through the traffic, comprised of the entire population of Quebec (because everyone in the province was there that day, I am sure and not doing too brilliantly at all with the roundabouts!) After parking, we hitch a lift halfway up the mountain on one of the gondolas and start to make our way through the village, stopping for a beer on one of the many terraces. Before long, the afternoon sun is fading and it is time to think about dinner. We happen upon Coco Pazzo, a lovely Italian place that is tucked away but doing a healthy business. I pig out on linguini pescatore (spelt flour pasta with shrimps, scallops, clams and mussels in a reduction of white wine, anchovy, garlic and clam broth). Thankfully, there is room for dessert because the torta di cioccolata (a heavenly creation of marbled dark chocolate and white chocolate truffle ganache) is something I would drive up there for daily. On a bicycle. With a flat. While in labour. It was just ... that ... freakin' ... good!
Day 6, Sunday, October 9 - We meet up with friends for lunch at Lawrence. A tiny hole in the wall of a restaurant with a nonstop stream of customers. The wait for a table was 45 minutes but the weather outside was nice and we don't mind. (The owner pops out from time to time with chocolate-filled beignets, which doesn't hurt!) The servings are generous and the food is great. Before too long, it is time to make our way back to the airport for our flight to TO. Dinner that evening is at the Lion and Firkin, which just happens to be hosting a 'Who is the worst karaoke singer?' contest. (Note: everyone was a winner!)
Day 7, Monday, October 10 - After popping by my friend's office for a quick boardroom meeting, we dine on monkey brains at Cynthia's for dinner. The service and presentation at this place are impeccable! Back at the hotel, we watch The King's Speech. (Great, great movie - watch it if you haven't already.)
Day 8, Tuesday, October 11 - Quick lunch at the Sunset Grill and I am stuck with the song in my head for the rest of the afternoon. That evening, we pick up Robbie for dinner and discover Cava, a Spanish tapas restaurant on Yonge Street. We make the wise decision to let the waiter run with the menu; he makes excellent choices for us, a few of which are even brought out by the chef himself. Some of the things we sample: pincho of gamay-poached foie gras with plum mostarda, papas fritas (spicy french fries with sage and rosemary), grilled squid with fingerling potatoes, green onions and romesco, and roast quail filled with chicken and served with moorish chickpea stew. We all dig into a warm, chocolate lava cake and a puffy, clafouti-type dessert. Service is terrific; the waiter appears with my jacket before I can even ask for it!
Day 9, Wednesday, October 12 - We stay in for the evening for our traditional pizza/Rummy 500 night. I win for the first time ever but I think it's because my friend's too sick with a cold to mark the deck.
Day 10, Thursday, October 13 - Quiet day; dinner at the Lion and Firkin, where not a karaoke'er is to be heard.
Day 11, Friday, October 14 - Lunch at Mary Brown's. (Think the Colonel before he started serving everything but the kitchen sink with his chicken ... but better!) Then (sadly), off to the airport and home. (Then again, considering the way I ate on this trip, it was prolly for the best - I'll need a complete wardrobe overhaul at this rate!)

It was a whirlwind of a trip this time around - two states, two provinces, two countries ... and all over too soon ...

My 22 year long love affair ...

Back in 1989, I was as big as a house while carrying the first of the three children I would bear. Most every person I have ever spoken to has always said the same thing - 'Oh, I don't care whether it's a boy or a girl. As long as I have a healthy baby.' I was not at all embarrassed to admit that I was pinning all my hopes on having a boy. While I passed on having the ultrasound technician tell me what she thought I might be having, I spent every waking moment imagining a male infant, surrounded myself with blue objects and generally refused to entertain the idea of having a daughter. Having been raised in a household with 2 sisters, I had longed for a male sibling - but not just a brother, an older brother ... someone who would have protected me when I was little and then supplied me with friends of his that I could have dated when I was older. Mine was not an ordinary pregnancy; my last month of pregnancy was spent in bed under doctor's orders. I was bored to tears and counted the days to my due date. Kevin's father and I watched a lot of TV during that time and Kevin ended up being named after the main character on The Wonder Years.

Kevin made his way into the world a whole 8 days ahead of schedule, taking less than four hours to meet his adoring public. I don't think I slept much that first night in the hospital; I could not stop staring at his beautiful face; the way his little lips were pursed, how his long lashes rested on his round, pink cheeks. I am actually surprised that he managed to sleep, what with me running my fingers over his soft skin, stroking the little bit of hair he had on his head and touching his teeny ears over and over again.

A lot has happened in the 22 years since that evening. He is still beautiful but now he is also all the other things a parent would be proud of in a man. Kevin is living in town, working and has found a terrific young woman I am happy to consider as a friend.

And my love affair continues ...

Kevin Alexandre Sawchuk Brodeur

My Robbie ♥

Ahhh, Robbie. Recently, I described Robbie to a friend of mine. I told him that Robbie is my 'go to' person - the one I can call at all hours of the night or day, the one who will help me dispose of the bodies without asking any questions, the one I can always go to for advice, knowing it will be blunt and raw and lacking in all candy coating whatsoever. He is my rock and sounding board but he is also my mirror, who instead of reflecting back what I might want to see, reflects back what truly is. Robbie is the place I call when I need a shoulder; I've spent 6 hours driving there, talked his ear off for 4 hours and then driven another 6 hours to come home. He is 'Uncle Robbie' to my children and he has graciously shared his 'Ma' with me - I walk amid his family where I easily feel like one of them.

Ma & Robbie - 31/08/2011

Robbie was in town in late August, giving us a chance to celebrate our birthdays, albeit belatedly. After picking him up at his mom's, where we had an impromptu photo session, we headed to Old Montreal. We roamed the cobbled streets, then explored the Old Port until it was dark before finally settling in at Les 3 Brasseurs for a drink. (I took the advice of our server, Sebastien and had a raspberry beer. Interesting!) We sat and talked and people watched and laughed uproariously (as we usually do) until they started packing up the tables and chairs on the terrace.

Robbie & me - Old Montreal, 31/08/2011

As is always the case when I'm with Robbie, the time flew by way too quickly. I drove him home (he'll maintain that I sped him home but what does he know!) and we may have woken a neighbor or two as we laughed our way through our g'nites. Thankfully, I get to do it all again next month when we wreak havoc on Toronto!

I love you, Robbie!

My Julia ♥

Julia Kristine Sawchuk Brodeur - 2 1/2 yrs old

I never wanted to know the sex of any of the babies I carried yet I was certain Julia was a girl long before her birth. Everything about my last pregnancy was different - my cravings, my weight gain - I was about to have some competition in my house full of men! I knew I was in for a interesting journey with this kid from the very ride to the hospital; she was intent on bursting into the world while her father seemed determined to observe every red light and speed limit as though they had been handed to him on two stone tablets up on Mount Sinai! At the hospital, Dr B barely had time to snap on his second glove and lean forward before Julia plopped herself into his hands. I didn't realize it then, but her unconventional arrival was to be a trailer for the movie of her life ...

Julia and Dad (March 2 1997)

After poor Jordan's history-making bout with colic, Julia was an almost maintenance-free newborn. She quickly learned to sleep through the pandemonium that underlined Kevin and Jordan's every waking moment. I'm almost ashamed to admit that her father and I went off to bed one night, only to realize that we had left her sleeping in the swing in the middle of the pitch black living room, but she was just that easy a baby ... well, until she started walking, that is! It wasn't enough for Julia to learn to pull herself up by holding on a piece of furniture; no, Julia then had to climb that piece of furniture. Coffee tables, wall units, bookcases - if it had a foothold, Julia was determined to scale the thing. More times than I can remember, I would turn my back on her sitting in her high chair, only to look over my shoulder and see her straddling the tray, impish grin on her face and hands on her teeny hips, looking so proud of herself. A mere week or so after learning to walk, she decided she was tired of that activity and started imitating her brothers as they ran throughout the house. Julia hated being strapped into a stroller, preferring to walk on her own. And I do mean 'on her own', since having her hand held was yet another restraint she did not accept. She was a fearless child - heights, distance, stairs - you name it, she mastered control over it. Julia was not a great rule follower, instead she made them (or broke them). Nothing illustrated this better than one of Julia's favorite stories: In Switzerland one morning, Julia and I walked to her pre-school, a little less than ten minutes away. Once there, she refused my request for a hug or a kiss and skipped off instead to greet her friends. I pretend to pout, waved g'bye and left the schoolyard for home. About a half hour later, I hear a knock at the front door; opening it, I look out, my eyes being pulled downward by the 4 year old standing there. Looking around and not seeing anyone, I incredulously inquire what she was doing home. 'You looked so sad when you left that I came home to give you a kiss and a hug,' she stated simply, ready to return to school on her own. I grabbed for my keys and we returned to l'École Rose, much to the amazement of the teachers there, who told me that no one had ever pulled off a coup like Julia had that day.

Julia and Mom (March 26 1998)

Things have not been sweetness and light every day of Julia's life. She has inherited a very healthy dose of hardheadedness from both her parents, which on the positive side means she is able to easily assert herself but on the negative side, makes for some heated exchanges between parent and daughter. (Julia piercing her own eyebrow at age 14 without parental consent immediately springs to mind ... ) The adorable baby evolved into a beautiful child who has grown into a stunning young woman. Yet somehow, this fact seems lost on my Julia, who goes on about her life completely unassumingly. She is doing well in school, is healthy and happy. As a parent, you cannot ask for much more.


For the record, Julia's father and I were never 'trying for a girl'. The plan all along was to have three children; Fate just happened to make the last one a girl. While I maintained throughout my pregnancy with Julia that a third son would be a welcomed addition to the two we were already raising, I've come to understand the magic in the bond between a mother and daughter. There's an old Irish saying that goes, 'A son is a son until he takes him a wife, a daughter is a daughter all of her life. The older Julia becomes, the more truth I find there to be in that adage.

Julia (Summer 2010)

Happy Birthday, my Jordan! ♥

Jordan - 2 days

Happy Birthday to my darling Jordan, who hits the limbo year of 20 today. No longer a teen, not quite 21 either. Limbo-land.

Jordan - 9 months

20 years ago today, Jordan came into the world and changed mine. 1991 was a brutal summer, marked by a heatwave not unlike the one we are presently experiencing. That in and of itself would have been hard on a newborn, but in addition to the heat, Jordan developed colic. The only respite his father and I had from his incessant howling was when we held him. And so we did, for what felt like 27 (yes, 27!) hours a day some days. That child was strapped onto my chest in a Snugli to the point where I felt as though he and I were one person. Thanks to Jordan, I learned a great many things back then - I learned how to prepare and eat a meal with one hand, I learned that it's possible to drown out a screaming child if it means you get to grab a 90 second shower for the first time in two days, I learned how to pee with a small human being strapped to my upper torso and I learned that everyone and their brother has a s'posed cure for colic, because after all, I must be doing something if my kid is still breaking the sound barrier with his cries, right? Nothing soothed me more than bringing him in to the pediatrician's for his first month appointment. This woman, who had served as my own pediatrician growing up and had a career spanning at least 40 years + at that point, spent 45 minutes trying to soothe Jordan in her arms before declaring him to be one of THE worst cases of colic she had ever encountered during the course of her medical practice. Jordan's bout of colic went of to last a total of 5 1/2 months, something I still think is a record in the world of newborns. Thankfully, I was already blessed with Kevin, who at only 21 months himself, happily played and didn't demand any extra attention, which unfortunately, I simply did not have to give him at the time. Jordan was not not an easy child by any stretch of the imagination. After colic came the night terrors, episodes where he would wake without waking, not realizing where he was or even who I was. I would rush to his side, try to calm him, get him settled and return to my own bed, only to barely fall asleep before the fun would begin all over again, usually 4-5 times a night. Jordan was about 3 1/2 years old before he actually slept through the night! Because of all the drama of his infancy, I was hard pressed to convince his dad to have the third child we had always planned for. Julia was almost the baby that never was, something that Jordan will probably jokingly tell you he still wishes had happened. In the end, Jordan went from being the child who required the most attention to the one who was the least hands on of my pack of three. Jordan is one of the most 'go with the flow' people I know, fazed by little and adaptable to most every situation I have seen him encounter thus far.

Jordan - 3rd birthday (with big brother Kevin and cousin Gabrielle)

My Jordan has grown into a young man that I'm proud of, who still ends every conversation with 'I love you, Mom', takes out the garbage without being told (most times!), and puts others before himself. If I had one complaint, it would be this - you grew up way too fast, Jordan. I think I actually miss those days of colic ...

Time - a healer of nothing . . .

Today is the day my mother would have celebrated her 75th birthday. I say 'would have' because my mom passed away back when she was 48. I too am 48 now and cannot imagine leaving the world at this point in my life.

Back in 1999, I wrote about my mom, sharing it with very few people. I re-read it last night and realized that my sentiments haven't changed. I also decided to share it with you all. Happy Birthday, Mummy ...

I mourn my mother almost every day.

Reading that sentence, you would think her passing had only recently happened. The fact is my mother died way back 15 years ago. Still, there are days when it is as fresh as though it had happened only yesterday.

My mother was an amazing woman. I know most children believe that of their mothers but as an adult, I have come to realize the extent to which she truly was amazing. She was a wonderful daughter, wife, mother and a friend to many. Her involvement in her children's lives went beyond what I saw my friends' mothers do - bake sales, chaperoning all our school trips, helping with hair and make up at my ballet recitals, organizing wonderfully detailed birthday parties - the list goes on and on. My mother taught me a great many things that I have carried on into my adulthood, both through her words and her actions.

My mom was very demonstrative in her love and never needed an excuse to pass along a quick hug or kiss. A hand around your shoulders as she helped with homework or brushing a stray lock of hair from your eyes as she listened to you speak - her touch was everywhere. She was never too busy to help, listen or get involved in whatever required her attention; my mother was a firm believer in leaving the rest of the world to get along on its own because her kids would not be young and around the house forever.

My mother was the one who convinced my father that I was old enough to date and worked out a better curfew for me when my dad thought I should be in earlier than I wanted to be. Never was there a moment when I did not feel as though she was in my corner. Often, I would joke about becoming a mother myself and moving back home with 12 children in tow. My mom would laugh and say she would love it – and somehow I just knew she would have.

Then came the winter my mom was scheduled to be operated on - a routine procedure. My father and sisters and I sat and waited and finally, the doctor came. The news was completely unexpected and horrendous. My father insisted my mother not be told and my sisters and I numbly agreed with him. All the while, I wondered how my mom would look into my eyes and not know the truth.

The medical treatments came and went and my mom only got more and more sick. I went through a stage where I found any excuse to be away from the house - I could not bear to see her that way. Racing out of the house one day, I passed her on the front balcony and bent down for a quick kiss. She smiled and told me it was good that I was going out; that people my age did not need to be hanging around the house all the time. I stopped and our eyes met. I knew at that moment that she knew ... and that she knew that I knew. Nothing more was ever mentioned about it between the two of us.

Despite her illness, she managed to plan my older sister's bridal shower and wedding pretty much single-handedly. Everyone marveled at my mother but I was not surprised. This was my mom doing what my mom always did best, keeping things running smoothly for the rest of us. A good time was had by all and my mother was elated.

In the weeks following the wedding, my mother weakened considerably. Friends paraded through her room, saying their good-byes and my mom consoled each and every one of them. Finally, my father insisted she be allowed to leave the hospital and after obtaining the doctor's consent, she came home. Her final two days are almost a blur to me now - my sisters, father and I slept in shifts because although my mom was semi-comatose, we wanted someone to always be there for her. We did our crying elsewhere in the house, never near my mother. At one point, I lay down beside her - just to be near her as I had so many times before. I watched her sleep, thinking of happier times and without meaning to, I quietly began to cry. Her eyes suddenly opened - clear, focused and alert like they had not been in days. Her arm reached out and with strength I thought she no longer possessed, she pulled me close to her, soothing me as I wept. I fell asleep in her arms and when I awoke, my mom had returned to the way she had earlier been - curled up and seemingly no longer aware of any us.

I was the only one awake the morning she died. As my father lay sleeping at her side, I checked on her, taking her temperature and monitoring her pulse. Noting it was erratic, I pressed my ear to her chest and listened to her heartbeat as it faded, the sound seeming to sink deeper into her chest and farther away from me, until I could hear it no more. In a way, my mother and I had come full circle - she was there for my entrance into the world; I was there for her departure from it. She was finally gone and never before or since have I felt more alone.

With the passing of the years, I have been reminded of her on an almost constant basis - the yearly parade of birthdays, Mother's Days and Christmases all stream by, highlighting her absence; the sharp pang of envy I feel at seeing my friends with their own mothers. I wonder what my mom would think of the woman I’ve become - whether she would be proud, whether she would approve. I watch my own children and have moments of such frustration that my mother never lived to see their faces - especially the granddaughter who carries her name and looks startlingly like my mother.

Life goes on and it is said that time heals. Time heals nothing. Time is simply a space where you try to learn to deal with your pain, your sadness and the gaping hole in your heart. In the years since my mother's passing, I haven't healed from the loss. Instead, I have learned to accept the part of my heart that lies empty and will forever yearn for a few moments more with my best friend.

Do you have anything to declare?

My last birthday saw me turning 48. I had long been dreading that number, fearful of it really. To me, it represented my mother's age at her passing and it freaked me out to think of being the age she was when she died. It was a shitty birthday, literally spent alone ... just me and my gloomy thoughts ...

I've spent a great deal of time since then taking stock of things. Myself, my life, where I've been, where I am, where I want to be. One glaring fact leaps out to me.

I let my bar slip.

By that, I mean what I was willing to accept of myself. What I was willing to accept of others. What I was willing to accept in a relationship. I forgot the rule that says no one can make you feel like crap unless you let them. And I let them.

With the coming of the new year, I resolved to change my luck. I chose to surround myself with the positive and rid myself of the negative. People, thoughts, situations - if they weren't positive, then to the curb! My only surprise has to do with the speed with which my life has shifted. And my bar? It's hoisted high again, back where it should be.

My latest revelation is about location. I've come to realize that I'm not where I belong. While I'm not quite sure where that place is, I know it's not here. So yesterday, I headed to the passport office in Laval to renew mine after almost 10 years. I've been inspired. I have a feeling I might need it and I want to be prepared. Who knows? Maybe I'll finally discover the place I truly belong ...

Happy Birthday, my Kevin

October 23, 1989. I spend hours doing what millions of women before and after me have done. I laboured. At 3:50 in the afternoon, he was born. A beautiful child, healthy and pink and looking nothing like the squalling, withered newborns you often see on film.

Fast forward to today. I'm suddenly the mother of an adult man and at a loss to explain where the time went. All I know is that I love him ... and I miss him ...

PS Thank you, Julia, for your support of the idea of this blog and your help in designing it. You are and always will be, my favorite daughter  :)