A Small Revelation

Oh, how long it's been! I cannot offer any excuses. Once I realized how much time had gone by since I last attended to my dusty little blog, I realized that may have been just how long it has been since I have attended to my soul. I confess to being overwhelmed by other obligations.

Life has become busy. I considered myself fairly warned. More experienced mothers and wives have explained this to me: Your children grow up and become more independent, but you become much busier. The activities begin. It's the beginning of the mom-taxi years. Picking up and dropping off. Laundering soccer uniforms and slicing oranges. Lunch boxes and spelling tests at the kitchen island. Oh, and don't forget to fit three to four days of work in there somewhere, a few make-ahead dinners, the epic home renovation project and quality time with that guy. My husband.

Seems part time pursuits of passion, like writing, reading and hopelessly daydreaming while staring out a window overlooking my rose garden have fallen right off the roster. But that doesn't mean that she's not in there. My inner daydreamer, writer and creative genius is always there, just below the surface, aching to get out. To be paid attention to in a most lavish fashion.

This morning is a regular morning. I am at home with my children, husband is at work and the first day of October has greeted us with gray skies. We're in our jammies and I am nestled into my writing nook (ceiling leak and drywall repair be damned) tapping away at these keys.

I had a revelation today. I may never have a luxurious grand sweep of time to attend to my creative longings. Maybe for now this is it. Me in my jammies with a steaming mug of fresh coffee surrounded by the tiny bits of inspiration that make up my crazy, wonderful life. And it is enough. With these few thoughtful lines I have appeased her and pacified the cries for attention. Perhaps some of the greatest creative works in the world have come to be in this very fashion. Here's to chipping away!

Now to hit the scary "Post" button before I convince myself this piece is not polished enough, exciting enough, glamorous enough or ANYTHING enough....

Lavender dreams

It has been about a month and I am embroiled in a love-hate relationship with our new-old house. I look around and am intoxicated by the airiness and space all around me. Then I am overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work ahead of us and I want to get intoxicated.

It seems in both life and renovations certain things must happen in a certain order before one can actually proceed with the project of desire. I call it the can of worms effect. Let me give you an example. We would like nothing more than to replace the mish-mash of worn, outdated flooring throughout the main. But, we were warned, don't bother putting down a beautiful new floor until you fix that ceiling, which would mean new drywall and don't forget the potlights, which would mean we might as well get the plumbing sorted out for the master bath located above said ceiling, which could potentially mean gutting our bathroom to start fresh, which could mean doing the kids bath since we'll already have the plumber handy.... and so on.

So, in an effort to stay positive, upbeat and sane I decided to start small and work on rooms that require no modification to the structural, electrical or plumbing. This is how my daughter's room was elected to be the first finished room in the new house. Besides, she is the one adjusting to a new school, new friends, new surroundings and it would be nice for her to have a little sanctuary to retreat to when she gets home. It seemed paint was a logical place to start. Initially she wanted her same paint colour, a pale lavender, then it was light blue and hot pink polka dots, then back to lavender. This was much to our relief. Turns out neither my hubby nor I were quite prepared for our little girl to have a blue room, however girly the shade. I showed Sofia all the tear sheets I had collected from design mags before she was born and shortly after. Everything was lavender, lilac, pink and white. She seemed impressed that I had collected all these images with her in mind. The next day she tapped my arm and said, "Mum, I think I still want a lavender room."

I found myself at the paint store buying what I thought was the same paint as her old room. It was not. It was more akin to grape hubba bubba than lilac or lavender. I added more and more white, mixed and mixed and mixed and finally matched the paint to the original swatch from her old room. I will not disclose exactly how much white paint we used, but if anyone is in need of purple paint, let me know, I have gallons! Another tricky paint discovery: her new room, though larger, has a smaller window and different directional exposure. This means the identical paint looks darker. It's crazy. But with crisp, white bookshelves, crown moulding and baseboards and white painted antique furniture with sparkly glass knobs, let's face facts- it's going to be adorable. Her vintage crystal chandelier is already up and sparkling and her Eiffel Tower collection is just waiting to be displayed.

Confession: I have a feeling Sofia won't be the only one enjoying the restful lavender tones and the prismatic glow of the chandelier after a long, hard reno-filled day. But only one of us will be sipping a chilled bubbly rose.

My Life Under Renovation - Part Two

Today in a rare quiet moment I managed to write a few paragraphs. With one child in school and the other, miraculously playing contently, I brewed fresh tea and consulted my favourite little gem called Your Home As A Sanctuary by Josephine Collins



It is a modest hardcover design book given to me by my thoughtful hubby as a Christmas gift. This volume is filled with stylish, almost minimalist but never austere interiors. Simple spaces flooded with light and filled with favourite objects. These are not the homes of Hollywood royalty or any other kind of royalty for that matter. Just real places of real people who assembled their living spaces with care and attention. Not just to the paint, flooring and furniture, but to the space within the space. Which, if you think about it, is just as important as all the stuff we put in our homes, though sadly it is usually given much less thought.

Does your space reflect who you are? Would a first-time guest walk in for the first time and immediately get a deeper feeling for who you are just by looking around? Some of us will gasp in horror at this concept, especially those of us living with small kids on a constant rotation of strewn toys, messy finger prints and inevitable disasters. But those are superficial wounds easily mended with toy bins, elbow grease and that most fleeting element, time. I am talking about the essence of our homes.

As Josephine puts it so eloquently:

“You and the people you live with are the most important elements of your home… Your home sanctuary is a place for your spirit to rest as well as your taste to be expressed…. It is the one place where you are completely free to express yourself, your hopes and dreams. It’s also a showcase for who you are, and where your guests can feel completely at ease and see the best you in your own environment… It should have an atmosphere that encourages the pursuit of heartfelt ambitions and desires”.

That’s a mighty tall order for your average suburban dwelling, yet I think it can be done. Homes, like their inhabitants, evolve over time. Our homes are a living, organic thing that grows and changes just as we do.

As I prepare to move my family into a new space, I will be giving this concept a lot of thought. Family life can be hectic and the best laid plans for our interiors can easily be railroaded from an insightful evolution to dashing to the local big-box retailer because company is coming and they probably won’t enjoy sitting on cardboard boxes full of mom’s books, even if they are draped in pashminas from Paris.

Despite the unavoidable busy-ness of our household, I will try to be true to staying on course with plans of remaining thoughtful in my acquisitions for the new place. A little openess never hurt anybody. Besides, kids love running around in big empty rooms. Frankly, as long as my girlfriends and I have a spot to sit and sip lattes or wine I think life is good.

A Trip for Three (and a half) To Paris

Ah, Paris in the fall! Arguably the most beautiful and romantic of European cities. The perfect place to stroll along the Seine or down lovely treed boulevards with your lover... and three-year-old.... and baby-to-be.

That's right. My memories of Paris include strollers, maternity jeans that refused to stay up and a sippy cup leaking milk on my husband's laptop. Isn't it romantic? Indeed, I had a few high expectations and pre-conceived notions to hurdle over once we learned we were going to the City of Lights. And pre-conceived they were, since we planned the trip before... before I got pregnant, that is. Before we realized we would have to tote our three-year-old. Before our lives changed forever.

It wasn't as though we could change our minds either, we were going to attend my sister's wedding, after all. If we didn't go, we would miss the wedding which would be unacceptable. Also, we knew this fact: if we didn't go now, it would be a very, very, very long time before the opportunity would come around again with a new baby on the way. And so we packed our bags and stroller and car seat and toys and blankies and to Paris we flew.

I was worried about what to wear in Paris. It is, after all, one of the most stylish cities in all the world and I, for one, didn't want to look like a slobby tourist. I was at the point in my pregnancy commonly known as "the beer gut stage" meaning that my belly had pooched out enough to be noticed, but the rest of me could pass for normal. I was growing out of my cute little regular clothes almost daily forcing me to spend travel dollars on stupid maternity clothes.

{Sidenote: Let it also be known that with second pregnancies, one's body gives in and surrenders to the wee babe a lot faster. With Sofia, no one knew I was pregnant until month eight unless I told them. It's also probably attributed to the caloric difference between craving watermelon during a heat wave in August and baked goods and chocolate truffles over Christmas and Valentine's.}

I realize that maternity clothes have come along way since the days of printed smocks and denim jumpers, but I can be a bit of a fashionista. I would rather have visited any other city in the world pregnant than Paris. There's just something about Paris in the fall that makes you want to put on your sexiest jeans, most stylish coat, tall, shiny boots, a fab scarf and dark glasses and parade down Champs Elysees in style. At least to me that only seemed appropriate.

This was not my fate. Nope. I was blossoming daily and destined to spend my days in gay Paris wearing bell-shaped knit tops, jeans with an elasticized waist band and (gasp!) runners. We walked everywhere. No boots, no designer denim, no adorable waist-cinching blazers for me. I was headed into a deep, dark fashion depression and the hormones (irrational at best and hysterical, even psychotic at worst) coursing through my veins did little to help matters.

I placated myself by eating endless croissants, cheese and baguettes, but with no vin to wash it down it just wasn't the same. We saw the sights, toured the Louvre, climbed the Eiffel tower and had an amazingly great time with our three-year-old in tow. I should give my sweet little Sofia props for being the most charming, sweet, well-behaved toddler tourist in all of France! With her sunshiny curls and luminous green eyes the Parisians were eating out of her cherubic little hands. She gave an Oscar-worthy performance as far as I was concerned. She was practically a celebrity amongst le French kids and their nannies at the playground in the park beneath the Eiffel Tower!

About halfway through our Paris adventure my husband, who knows me better than I know myself at times, dragged me into a shoe store and commanded me to sit down. Italian men know when their women need new shoes. An hour later I left wearing the cutest tall black suede wedge-heeled boots. They were high, but not too high; sexy, but not overtly skanky. They were pregnancy-chic! I was yanked from my fashion depression, elated by the new shoe high commonly experienced by shoe addicts.

I spent the rest of my time in Paris buoyed in height and spirit by my new boots and the fact there was still the big night- my sister's wedding, at The Ritz, no less. This wedding would fall into "the most amazing places to get married" category on anyone's list. And, as bridesmaids, we were to don not the predictable matching dresses and other accoutrements, but anything we wanted. As long as it was the most fabulous thing we could muster we were free birds.

I chose a rather slinky- by pregnant standards, anyway- matte jersey, empire-waisted BCBG gown in chocolate brown with a built-in sequined bosom. It was gorgeous and showed off my baby bump in a particularly glamorous Angelina Jolie kind of way. Of course, nothing less than stilettos would do, at least for this one night. So bronzy- brown strappy sandals with a rather fetching ankle strap and gold accents on the heel were de rigeur!

All too soon our week in Paris came to an end. To this day, every time I see those boots or that gown I take a walk, or should I say waddle down my own personal memory lane of fashion. And of course back to Paris.... I can practically smell the intoxicating scents of crepes and handbags right now!