Vivian's third birthday and Halloween

Butterfly, caterpillar, mom

Because a blog is a perfect place to display family photographs, I give you photographs of Vivian’s third Halloween and Nora’s first. Also, here are some pictures of Vivian’s third birthday.

Hard to believe that it was three years ago last Sunday that we went to the hospital, and I got to see my newborn daughter for the first time. It goes without saying that a twenty-three hour labour ending in a C-section was extremely hard for Erin (but she bore through that like a hero), but I think I was still fit to be tied. Here’s her description of the moment from her journal, The Mongoose Diaries

James is here, suddenly, finally, in a gown and hairnet, blue and yellow. There’s a stool beside my head and he sits down. “Sweetheart.”

“There’s the strangest stuff in my head,” I say, and tell him about it.

“It’s funny,” he says. He looks pale and tight, and he’s not looking at me. “The things you think.”

They are still pricking and tugging but it’s distant now. “I think that’s better,” I tell them. “And maybe the table is tipping?” It’s probably not. Or not much. I’m not really going to fall on the floor. I feel seasick. “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,” I tell James.

“I remember,” he says. Because once, before we had even thought of kissing, I vowed in his hearing to marry the first man who recited Sonnet 29 for me. Or at least before I had thought of kissing him, because he memorized it, and years later delivered it on one knee. He looks terrible now, charged and tight as a wire, and from this angle I can see right up his nose.

They are still pricking and tugging and it’s irritating. It makes it hard to get my nerve up, hard to calm down. When are they going to start, damn it?

James stands up, suddenly — he’s like a whole crowd, coming to its feet, a linedrive to left-centre.

“Sir,” a medical snaps. “Sir, SIT DOWN.”

He sits down. His hand comes up towards his mouth and his eyes get wide. “Oh,” he says. “Oh.”

And I still don’t understand what’s happening. I’m just watching him. “Oh,” he says, again. “I think. It’s — it’s a girl.”

Cake time!

Cake time!

It's an umbrella!

It’s an umbrella!

Moose Brolly

It’s a moose umbrella!

Moose coat

To go with the moose coat!

Haaaapy Biiiiirthday to Meeeee!

Happy birthday to meeeeeeee!


The girls match! Nora is being held by her grandma Pat.

Cake located!

Ooo! Ooo! Cake! Can I have some!

Nora doesn't get it.

Nora doesn’t get it.

Cheers, Obama

Strange how I’m caring more about an American election that I can’t vote in for a Canadian one where I did, but at least I have the excuse of having in-laws who have worked in the Obama campaign. So I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the Democrats will pull this off. The Republican campaign has well nigh self-destructed, and Sarah Palin is dangerously unprepared for the job, in my opinion, so it goes against my sense of justice that these guys should be rewarded for such a poor campaign, and such a poor eight years in office.

I’ve heard the cynics, left and right, who note quite rightly that Obama is unlikely to meet the expectations he’s raised, but the challenges facing America were always more than one man could solve, and I can’t help but notice that the Obama campaign is keeping in touch with its volunteers, and all of those people who have sent campaign contributions.

Because if Americans want change, ultimately they’ll have to be the ones who bring it about. Obama’s message come inauguration day may be that he’ll have to talk over the heads of the corporate interests, over the heads of the power elites, over the heads of the vested, to the people of the country who, until 2008, were too disengaged to vote. One drop of water can’t wear down stone. It takes a tide. And I hope Obama’s supporters are aware of this.

Come January 2009, their work will just be beginning.

Good luck, America.

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