Tag Archives: me

My birth team, plus I love gifs

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Yesterday, Pedram and I met with Lucy, our doula.  We decided to go for a doula soon after discovering that midwives weren’t cutting it for us and there were no doctors to be seen.  Lucy is my yoga instructor, has plenty of baby delivery experience, knows the system here and most importantly, has no agenda.  Her presence calms me because she is super sweet and very informative.  Plus, she calls me ‘darling’ with her amazing English accent.  I love that.

Pedram and Lucy, however, have a bond that I don’t seem to have yet with her.  Eventhough they have only met once, they immediately hugged when seeing each other, which made me realize that maybe I should be hugging my doula.  So then I went to hug her, but it was a little awkward.

In the meeting, it was even more clear that I am the third wheel in this team.  They both pulled out their notebooks, she drawing diagrams, Pedram taking fast notes, and me wondering how many cookies I could eat without them noticing.  They chatted about the birth like two good friends, giggling with excitement, discussing hospitals and options and how cute the baby would be, etc.  And when they asked my opinion, I told them I felt like we were discussing another person, not me.  And they patted my hand in reassurance and continued with their plotting.

Don’t get me wrong, I am so happy that they get along so well.  They are indeed, my team, and I am really lucky that I will have both of them eagerly involved in the labor process.  Lucy has been amazing at presenting the entire process in a way that makes it seem manageable, not frightening.  But sometimes I feel a little out of the loop.

Perhaps it would help if I related it to a story, like Lord of the Rings.  (Pedram has never seen the movie or read the book – shock!).

I am totally Frodo Baggins, poor hapless little hobbit who somehow ends up with the ring.  The ring is the baby, which possesses great power.  It is lovely and perfect and I am carrying it toward the mission to drop it off at Mordor (clearly I am not planning on destroying my baby — don’t think about the end of the mission).

Pedram is totally Smeagol.  He is totally into the ring/baby, and is willing to help me through Middle Earth and all that, but has been completely transformed by the ring/baby, and once I delivery, will be reunited with ‘the precious’.

My Precious!

Perhaps that is not fair, as Pedram is much sweeter than Smeagol/Gollum.  Lets just say that he is the rest of the hobbits, and I am very very affectionate towards him.

I loves him.

Lucy is kinda like Gandalf, she will be guiding us and helping us out, and is more removed from ‘the precious’.  Plus, she has luxurious silky hair, just like Gandalf.  She’ll come and save the day like Gandalf did when the elves and everyone were getting their butts kicked by the Orcs.  And then there Aragorn, who is the king, and we’ll just say that is all the pain relief options available to me.

And so that is my team.  I am Frodo, a little naive about what is going on, but carrying the ring, hoping to make it to the other side with the help of my friends/Gandalf/Aragorn.  My mom will also hopefully be present, but it was decided last night that it might be best to put her in a different room and maybe drug her until the war/birth is over.

I do feel good about this, knowing that it will be a tough, but I am not alone.  I am reaching the stage in pregnancy where I do really need to start thinking about this, and yet I can’t seem to get my mind around it.  I can’t seem to visualize it, you know?  Someone else, perhaps, but I need to come to terms somehow, over the next two months, that the person that Lucy and Pedram are talking about, it is me.  I will be the person…you know…doing that…

Lord help us.

The first three months

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All of these pregnancy websites encourage you to take pictures, weekly if not daily, to showcase your growing belly.  Or to write a daily journal with your emotions and feelings, turning your excitement into a small book that you can reflect back on with pride and joy.  Start early and share frequently, they encouraged!  I was told to express my feelings by then posting the pictures and journal entries with other newly pregnant women on forums, so that we could share our common experience.  During the first three months of my pregnancy, I only wrote one journal entry, with the following line:

“I never thought pregnancy would be so lonely”

At that point, I was just plain sad about everything.  I could not get excited about being pregnant, and I couldn’t fathom the idea that I was going to be a mother.  Suddenly, every horrible scenario in the world was racing through my mind.  Something bad was bound to happen.

I fell sick early on and at one point I spent a few days with over 18 hours a day in bed.  I was tired, exhausted in a way I had never thought was possible, spending hours upon hours in bed, sometimes sleeping, sometimes just staring at the ceiling and repeating my morbid thoughts to myself, sometimes just crying.

I cried endlessly.  Randomly.  I had seen a video where a seal fights bravely but succumbs to a group of killer whales, and weeks later the images would come to mind in class, and I would have to leave and run to the bathroom so I could cry for the suffering of all seals.  I cried when one our assignment included caculating the unpaid work of rural mothers in India.  I was just sad.  Really really sad.

I was in denial that I was actually pregnant.  In England there is no official confirmation until the 12 week, so I held out for possibilities that it wasn’t true.  I felt guilty for thinking such thoughts.  And then I would cry about it.  I would eat something I knew I shouldn’t, and then I would cry about that.  I felt horribly guilty all the time.  I felt shame of my own feelings and unbearable disappointment in myself.

I forced a wedge between Pedram and myself.  I refused to cook, I refused to discuss things, I wouldn’t participate in learning more about pregnancy.  He made the doctor appointments.  He bought books and learned about what foods were okay to eat, and then prepared them for me.  I became chronically claustrophobic, and did not want anyone near me, coiling at his reassuring hugs.  Even on the buses and at University, I felt uneasy at the crowds and the lack of private space.  All I wanted to do was lie in bed.

When I had my first visit with the midwife, I tried to explain this all to her — I did not feel myself, and I really really wanted to go back to normal.  Her advice was that this IS normal, that hormones often cause such feelings.  But it didn’t help me at all. I wanted to erase the thoughts in my head, I wanted to be full of energy and joy, I wanted to be confident and not catatonic with anxiety and fear.  The midwife couldn’t help me — I was sent home feeling even more isolated.

I felt so distant from my friends and family, but I refused to share the news with anyone because I couldn’t come to grips with the questions they might ask.

A few weeks ago, I was telling this story to a friend with Pedram present, and at one point I saw his face and realized how unfair all of this was to him.  I did not allow Pedram to share the news, even though he was so thrilled.  Even worse, I wouldn’t allow him to show his excitement, instead asking him to NOT talk about it.  Also, do not ask me how I am feeling, and do not share your own feelings about the baby.  I often told him that I was fine when I wasn’t, and he knew I wasn’t, but was too afraid to try to help.

Pedram was feeling the opposite of my emotions — he was full of joy, raging with excitement, ready to plan and discuss and celebrate, but I asked him to mute it all.  But I did oblige him and ended up telling my sister and one of my closest friends, and they both made me feel so much better.  I was able to share my anxieties and fears and frustrations, and they were sympathetic and reassuring.  They got me — they understood my hesitant responses and gave me great advice.  And slowly the cloud of irritability and sadness started to fade away.  (Not completely though — at one point in Los Angeles, I went around the table and pointed out why I hated each person in my family.  Luckily, they had no problem telling me I was being rude and sending me to bed).

I thought a long time before sharing this.  I don’t have alot of pictures or memories from the first three months, and perhaps that is a good thing.  But I know what I felt was very normal for other people, and in alot of ways, the fears and anxiety are still there.

So maybe it is good to talk about it openly.  I am feeling much better, and am very lucky to have a good support system to help me through my more dark moments.  I still feel a bit out of control with my body, and occasionally guilty or lonely, but overall I am more energetic and less alone.  I share in Pedram’s enthusiasm, am reading more about pregnancy and have joined prenatal yoga classes.  I feel comfortable talking and more in control of my emotions.  Most importantly, I feel more positive about everything, including the idea  that I can be a mother.

A little perspective

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Packing sucks. We have too much stuff that we can’t organize. The professional packers sucked. Our stuff will never get to our new destination. We have two days to figure a million things out. Rusby keeps gnawing at his tail, reopening the wound and increasing the likelihood of infections. We are exhausted, sleeping poorly on our blow up mattresses, camping in our practically empty house, groaning from sore shoulders and aching backs in the morning.

We were supposed to stay with close friends, occupying their apartment while they were on vacation. But last Friday, we got a call from a mutual friend who came home to her apartment and smelled smoke, went upstairs to see flames, called the police and had enough time to grab her kids, her dog, and a handful of personal items before it was too late. The firefighters controlled the fire, but not before serious damage was done. She can’t live there, and most of her belongings are a mess.  Pedram and I tried to help, we set up her family in the vacant apartment, and then promptly stopped our complaining about our trivial issues. Why is it that some one else’s tragedy puts your own life in perspective? We are so lucky. Why do we need reminders?

I could take notes watching our friend handle losing her house and her possessions.  She is so upbeat, so amazing at managing the reactions of her children, and so incredibly strong. She is a model of adaptation and perseverance.  Her opposite-of-wonderful insurance company has been scamming her to get some cash from the disaster, and even then she has been positive and confident of resolution.  She calls us and invites us over for dinner, eventhough she has a millions things to do and the reality of knowing that SHE HAS NO HOME.

Truly inspirational.

And then there is this:

U.N. declares famine in Somalia; makes urgent appeal to save lives

I have been reading the news for the past two weeks, wringing my hands in the distinct feeling of frustration and helplessness.  This is the worst famine in a very long time, and human lives are at risk everyday we do not act.  As Pedram’s work has been on the Horn of Africa, I have become more and more familiar with the area and with the impact of droughts on the region.  It is so hard to sit here in Canada and read about it.  The numbers are staggering — 3.2 million people are in need of urgent care, 29,000 children have died in the past 3 months alone.

If we are all a part of a human family, how can I do nothing while people are suffering, struggling to live?  The international community knew this was going to happen, the aid agencies aren’t able to get the help to those who need it, the leaders don’t care people die, it is a mess. And I don’t know what to do. Pedram and I have been brainstorming, and have a few ideas. But if you know any other action I can take, please share.  I personally like this link, which breaks down the giving from many major organizations.

I realized by reading this article (thanks Shirin), why I am hesitating giving to some of the large mission organization.  Recently there was a commercial for the famine on Comedy Central that showed some incredibly disturbing images. I get very agitated when pictures of people starving, mothers mourning, children suffering. The reality is harsh, and I find that some journalist manage to portray tactfully and bring awareness. Others use it as a marketing campaign. I know that the people at the Red Cross and other organizations have good intentions. They feel passionately about the crisis and want me to feel the same. But I don’t want to react from my gut everytime these ads make me cry and write a blank check.  I want to be more involved in the efforts, somehow.

And I am still trying to reconcile knowing what I know and feeling the need to do something about it.  All suggestions welcomed.

The difference between us

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Growing up in Luxembourg as a child, Pedram was taught by his teachers to keep his desk clean, his pencils and pens stacked neatly, his paper filed properly.  As a result, Pedram is the best suitcase packer this side of the Canadian Rockies.  Honestly watching him put away items is like those Volkswagen commercials where 25 people come out of a car — I am not sure how he does it.  (on a side note, he is also really good at folding clothes and sheets).

As opposed to the Brussels to Montreal move, this time we have hired professional movers to come pack our things and ship them to England.  We knew they were arriving today (Monday), and in preparation I put a few things here and there.  Pedram, who has no patience, started packing in advance.  He bought boxes and packing tape, and managed to fill 5 boxes before I managed to convince him that we are actually paying people to do this for us.

I imagine in his head, he is sorting and organizing all of our things into appropriate boxes.  He managed to guess (correctly) how many cubic meters all of our belongings are, so he must be mentally disassembling, wrapping in bubble, stacking and packing things into a truck.  When someone asked me how many cubic meters our belongings are, I went from room to room, eyeballing all of the furniture, and came up with 22.  The answer is closer to 5.

Today, the movers have arrived.  They are professional in the most broad sense of the word — we are paying them for their work.  But watching them handle our belongings, inexperienced is probably a better definition.  The boxes they have packed are bursting open, my lovely frames are haphazardly wrapped in paper before being jammed into loosely taped boxes, and there are random questions, like “is this vase breakable?”.  But I know that they will get the job done, that I need to just relax and be fine with the situation, and to occasionally give feedback like “that is very precious, maybe add another layer of paper and some bubble wrap”.

I am now sitting on the couch, eating a bagel and drinking coffee, surfing the web and playing it cool.

Pedram, on the other hand, cannot be in the house.  I see him watching, cringing, shaking his head and wanting to unpack everything and repack it.  I imagine if I wasn’t here he would probably pay for the guys to go to lunch and take over himself.  He tried giving gentle suggestions, he tried making kind observations, but in the end he just couldn’t handle it.  I send him out to go get drinks just so he can avoid the messy transfer of our kitchen ware.

He is now sitting outside, taking deep inhales and exhales.

Old and can’t bike up a hill

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Why is riding a bike up a hill so difficult at the beginning of the biking season?  And am I the slowest bike rider in all of Montreal?  It wasn’t like I was trying to take my time, I was actually late, but I couldn’t pedal any faster this afternoon.  The legs were struggling to pull me up the hill (low grade) with all the stuff I am lugging around with me, like a yoga mat, and I swear, a 70 year old man flew by me.  Is it the bike?  Or I am really that out of shape?

**

Last night I received a spam email from my no longer living friend.  And it was so obviously spam that I deleted it without thinking twice.  Tap on the ol’ iPhone, and voila, it is all gone!

But that is not true.  I did feel some of the same feelings of denial that I used to have, and for a flicker of a moment, history had changed.  It was like a blink.  But it existed.  For a flash of a moment, he still existed.

Is that normal?  Not to get spam from Barnaby, but for me to react this way.  I think so, right?  I was completely fine afterwards, but I wonder about these brief moments of denial.

**

This picture has nothing to do with anything.  But try to spot the white belly of a happy dog rolling in grass, and a tightrope walker practicing.

We’ve been spending alot of time in the park.  The weather has been outstanding in Montreal.

**

So today I was talking to my aunt, doing some catch up after a few months.  She gave me an update on my grandmother and all my family, and told me some great stories.  I love speaking to her because she is always so supportive and encouraging.  The best part is that she never interferes in her children’s lives.

Small tangent:  Persian parents will always say that they never interfere in their children’s lives.  In fact, they may brag that they do not interfere.  But it is not true.  They are always meddling in their children’s lives.  But my aunt never does, not even in a subtle manipulating way that is so effective.

Today, my aunt told me that I should enjoy my life while I am young.  And then she reminded me that I was getting older, and that I should start planning for my future more seriously.  And then we played out different scenarios of how we would live our lives if we knew that we would live as long as my grandmother.  It was only when we got off the phone that I realized it was strange that we were talking about it as if it is only a hypothetical scenario.

**

In order not to draw too much debate, I can’t go into the details of the following story.

Today, I spoke with a foreign person at work, and they made a comment that made me react in the following way:

1 – holy moly, I can’t believe he said that.  They must be fed such nonsense in that country, that the people would believe any of this is true.

2 – holy moly, I am so brainwashed with how people living there are sheltered

3 – which one of us here is more convinced that the other person is completely filled with propaganda?

**

Isn’t it wonderful how tulips can look like this two weeks ago

And this week they look like this?

**

C’est tout.

I be a yogi

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I am taking part in a Moksha Yoga 30 day challenge, which means that I will be doing yoga 30 times in the next 30 days.  Surprised?  Like the time I signed up for and then ran the marathon?  Or when I became vegetarian on a dare?

WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF??

The truth is, I love this yoga studio, and have always wanted to up my practice from once every other month to maybe once or twice a week.  But I can’t seem to motivate myself, so this incentive* was a good chance to up my game.  Today it is day 5 of the challenge, and I am hurting all over, but still able to walk, which means I can go to yoga after work tonight.  I even rode my bike to work this morning!  This justifies the brownies at lunch, and the banana bread for breakfast.

(When I signed up, I was told that part of the 30 day challenge is to give up something to help make my practice more sustainable.  She first told me it should be something like sugar or caffeine, and I shook my head NO NO NO, and finally she recommended that I try something more spiritual, like giving up on judgment.  I was relieved to know I had this option, and have given up judgment for the week.  Which is a total lie.  Try giving up judgment for a day. It is impossible.  So I now I just end all my sentences with “not that I am judging”.  Am starting with awareness.  Don’t judge me.)

Yesterday, the only time I had for yoga was their 7am class.  Here is how it went:

5:45am – Alarm goes off.  I silence it quickly.  No one heard. I can now skip yoga in peace.  Back to sleep I go.

5:46am – Rusby heard the alarm, and is ready to start the day.  He is running around in circles outside our door.  I am laying still.  Maybe Pedram will think he is dreaming.

5:50am – Dammit! Now both of them are awake.

5:55am – Just finished a long argument about why I should not go to yoga this morning.  No one cares.

6:05am – Am just not going to go.  Not going to go.

6:07am – Pedram kicks me out of bed.  Guess I am going.

6:15am – Brushing teeth. Oh sweet goodness. I am a MESS.  I can’t go to yoga looking like this.

6:20am – Mat?  Check. Towels? Check.  Water bottle?  Check.  Change of clothes?  Check.  Shower stuff?  Check.  Really?  There is nothing I am missing?  Nothing?  Guess I won’t miss the bus then.

6:32am – At bus stop.  Who are these people up at this time?

6:46am – At yoga studio.  Teacher is unbearably chipper. Says that he is “grateful for my presence this morning”.  I cannot think of response.  Also, trying not to judge.

6:55am – In room.  It is hot.  And full of people.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE??

They are crazy, that is what.  What a bunch of losers.  Not that I am judging.

7am – Class begins.  We all need to make intentions. I roll my eyes.  The instructor encourages us to bring our good energies to the room, blah blah blah.  Definitely not judging people who believe in this mumbo jumbo.

7:02 – First downward dog is always the worst.  Am so stiff.  Am so tired.  Need a pedicure.

7:07 – Pranayama breathing.  Does yawning repeatedly count as deep inhales?

7:16 – First flow.  Hurts.  Cannot hold warrior poses any longer.  Another flow.  Runner’s pose.  Ow.  Another flow. Another flow.  Am so hot and dripping sweat.

7:32 – Holding triangle pose for so long, I think my thighs have gone numb.

7:40 – Look at me!  I am a tree!  I am a mountain!  I am a toppling tree!  I am an eagle!  I am a dancer in dancer’s pose!

7:55 – I am a boat, I am a rabbit, I am a camel!  I am a bridge, I am a wheel!

8:06 – REALLY ANOTHER DOWNWARD DOG???  Another flow?  You can’t be serious.  Am so hot, so sweaty.  I will NEVER come back here!

8:08 – I am a pigeon!

8:15 – Shavasana!  Woohoo! Nap time baby!!

8:17 – Class is over.  We reflect again on our intentions, but this time I feel it.  Yes, good energy, am so glad I brought my wonderful intentions and shared it through this mornings practice.  My fellow yogi are so brave and wonderful, the world is awesome.  Yes, instructor man, I will face the world today with compassion.

Really, I don’t understand why I don’t do this more.  Morning yoga is so wonderful, I am totally ready for the rest of the day.  Pedram should have come with me, lazy dork (not that I am judging) is probably still in bed.

I am not sure what I am hoping to get out of this, except a better yoga practice, a bit more flexibility and a greater sense of wellness that I see in other people who are yogamasters.  And maybe some balance so I stop falling over and running into things.  We’ll see how it goes.

*incentive is an interesting word — I am PAYING for this, which is why I go everyday.

Springtime

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Today I wrote a descriptive email to Pedram about springtime in Montreal.  It had so many pretty adjectives in it, describing my emotions from the positive digit weather and the melting snow, the blinding sunlight that creates actual warmth, and the knowing smiles on everyone’s face in Montreal, relief that we have survived another bitter cold winter.

Later, Pedram called me and told me that he also was excited about spring, and that it was 15 degrees (Celsius) in Brighton today, and everyone there was also very happy.

And I told him to shut up.  Yes, it was a little harsh, but you cannot compare the spring experience anywhere else in the world to what it is like in Montreal.  Cause in England, it can be 15 degrees, and it could be summertime.  Or the fall, or even a weird break in winter weather.  In Montreal, springtime is a change in attitude, an actual shedding of layers, a mentality shift.  We have not had a day over zero degrees since December, when winter reared its ugly face and rendered us all cold and shivering for the past 4 months.

Springtime is not just a little warmer weather or a few flowers blooming.  Spring is going outside without your winter boots, long underwear or a wool hat.  Spring is drinking coffee without gloves on.  Spring is getting produce you can do more with than make soup with at the grocery store.  Spring is EMOTIONAL, it is a smile bubbling up from deep down within yourself.  One that you didn’t know you had within you.

Spring is knowing that you are going to see your MAN (yeah, that’s right) this Friday in Seattle for Naw-Ruz, and then you are going to bring him back to Montreal with you for a month so that you can bask in glorious printemps together.

Spring is asparagus.  And artichokes.  Spring is Rusby frolicking on a patch of exposed grass.

Spring is watching endless coverage of earthquakes and tsunami and nuclear meltdowns, and still being able to feel mercy and warmth when hearing about stories about people survival, and the love and compassion of neighbors.

Spring is hope.

 

by James White

 

 

 

The ramblings

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So I have been asked to put down my daily thoughts so that something exists on this site and gives people a chance to procrasinate from whatever they are meant to be doing.  I am pretty sure the ramblings below will be disappointing, but in order to continue the habit of writing, there will be many more posts like this in the future.

I am still in denial about my move to England later this year, and suddenly I prematurely nostalgic for the silliest things in Montreal.  It occurs to me that I will be living in a true anglophone city for the first time in 4 years, and little frenchisms are suddenly so endearing.  For example, after a brief discussion on the bus, I spent the entire bus ride thinking about the phrase “Mesdames”.  Basically, the word means “ladies” in french, but there is something great about how the word Madame, a word that is used in the franco and anglo speech often, is really two words — “ma” and “dame”, which can be translated to “my” and “lady”.  And to make it plural, they change the “ma” to “mes”.  Isn’t that the cutest thing ever?

And I guess the term “my lady” itself is pretty endearing.  Perhaps this is something that I can look forward to in England, where people are proper and polite, and would utter such things, such as the cab drivers who call me “love”.  Sometimes the word itself is slurred, and all I hear is “luff”.
Speaking of luff, this is a good song to sing to yourself when you are experiencing the pangs of relationship heartache that can only be felt through long distance.  Really long distance.  Like across the ocean.  It is shame Pedram is sleeping now, cause I would call him right now.  And probably 300 other times during the day.  Just to say that I need you so much closer.

Speaking of music, I have to give my two cents on the current Radiohead album.  Because I live in the hipster neighborhood of Montreal, and you have to have an opinion on this.  And most likely, if you don’t love it, you have bad taste in music and just don’t get the entire music scene.  Which is why, to my relief, I actually like it.  Which means the hipsters probably don’t, reminding me again that I don’t have the artistic sophistication to understand amazing music.

And finally, I knew that people were disappointed that Arcade Fire won the Grammy for best album, but it was only recently that I talked to someone who was truly upset about this.  She was confused that a band who isn’t on Ryan Seacrest’s show won something.  And for a moment I tried to defend the Montreal band, but then realized I was talking one of those crazed tween-like fan who has a bad bad case of Bieber fever.  So I represented Canada well, saying that between Arcade Fire, Justin Bieber and Drake, half the performers on the Grammy’s were from the Great White North, and that soon Bieber will get his…ummm…well deserved praise.  I once had the most intense crush on Joey McIntyre of NKOTB, and I know what it is like to be blinded (and deafened) by blond hair and dreamy blue eyes.  There is no need to explain that his dance moves don’t really count for musical talent, and that his songs get stuck in your head…in the worst way ever.  There is no point in trying to reason with someone who is so madly in love with a 16 year old icon.  Plus, I knew fully well that I would never win this argument against my sister.

One time admittance

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Yesterday, we ordered some delicious kebab take-out from a local place in Montreal.  In the car, we suffered the 10 minutes it takes to get home, enduring by eating the bread.  Rusby, who was with us (which is why we didn’t eat in the restaurant), licked his lips continuously, smelling his first kebab in a confined space.  We flew in the door at home and devoured the food as fast as possible, which is, in my opinion, the only way to eat kebab.  When I reached the stage of fullness, where I was satisfied and probably could stop eating, but was still planning to consume much much more, I decided to put aside some pieces of joojeh kebab and barg for Rusby.  This careful maneuvering of kebab to the side of my plate caused Pedram to give me his “what are you doing” look.  And I explained to him that Rusby is part persian, and it is our duty to ensure that he enjoys some kebab as well.

Pedram is used to this.  I often claim that Rusby needs his antioxidants, which is why we need to give him blueberries.  Rusby also needs his belly rubbed for digestion.  So Pedram rolled his eyes, but still  asked if I thought it was a good idea to feed our dog human food.  And I said it was.

It was not.  I am not willing to admit when I wrong too often, especially when Pedram is involved.  This summer, we had a random fly problem, which culminated with the largest fly I have ever seen coming into our kitchen.  It was so large that it couldn’t fly too high, and so I took out the fly swatter and killed it.  It was late at night, and I proclaimed that I would leave the fly carcass on the floor overnight, to show other flies that we were serious and that our home was not friendly territory.  If I could have pitched its head on a stick, I would have.

The next morning, Pedram woke up early and called me in the kitchen.  The fly carcass was about 5 feet from where I left it, being marched towards the door by something like 10,000 ants.  My plan had failed, and the bugs in our house had multiplied exponentially.  And even then I was not prepared to say I was wrong.  No apology was offered.

Back to last night.  When I fed Rusby the kebab in his dog bowl with his dinner, he inhaled it, eating it so fast, he forgot to chew or taste.  I just thought this was him being as persian as a dog can be.  But then, later, when we went to take him for a walk, he cough twice, and then vomited everything he had eaten (included pieces of kebab still intact) on our hardwood floors.  It was so gross, so repulsive to see, that my reaction was to go vomit all my kebab in the bathroom.  Then both Rusby and I lied down on the floor and rubbed our bellies.  Pedram was not amused.

And so I give him this present, this one time admittance, that perhaps it was not a good idea to give the dog kebab.  This special gift is due to his departure from Montreal today.  He is now in England, starting a new job on Monday at the University of Sussex in Brighton.  I will be joining him sometime this year, but between now and then, we will be doing the lovely, always delightful long-distant thing.

For those of you who know how I feel about cross-continental moves, I am sure you are aware that this decision did not come easily to this household.  If anything, I was convinced that our next move, which wouldn’t be for another 3 years, would be further west.  And maybe a smidge south.  But this job is a great opportunity for Pedram, and I am proud of the professor.  It will be hard to leave Montreal, as we have had a great experience here, but it is time to start the new chapter in our life.  And sadly, this chapter starts with us apart.

But maybe this chapter, and the 2011 year, could also start with me admitting that sometimes, I can be wrong.  I hope this brings a smile to his face and eases the transition to England that he will have to do alone for the next few months.  But remember, this is a one-time occurrence.