My little angels

This is one of my most favorite pictures in the whole wide world. Alexandre with the angel eyes.


Those were the days, when we could wrap them up tight and they were as content as could be.


This is Alexandre in Cuba this past summer. You can already catch a glimpse of the boy he will become, the one that threw a forty-five minute tantrum today because he didn't get what he wanted.You could hardly believe it from this picture if I told you that he's the same little boy that choke-holds his brother on a regular basis.

Winter wonderland

Almost two feet of snow have fallen this week and they're only 50% finished cleaning the streets in the city. C told me that it costs the city $60 million dollars for each snowstorm. That's a lot of money. And when you add on all the layers of winter clothes and winter boots and electricity and gas to run all the heaters, winter can get really expensive here.

I've been trying to get the boys used to the snow. Their day care lady says they don't want to stay outside at all. I say it's the Texan in them. I can completely understand.

Baie St. Paul

Coming into Petite Rivière St. François.

Full moon on Petite Rivière St.-François, at the edge of the St. Lawrence River. This is taken just outside the condo, a walk across the street.

On our way to Baie St. Paul, a 15 minute drive back up the mountain and into the Bay. It's slightly above freezing and perfectly comfortable. My two co-pilots, Alexandre and Jacob.

Pumpkin carving

Be nice to yourself

It's been almost a week since I've written here. I've been spending more time on my memoir of Morocco, revisiting old journals and memories. Even now, I've just spent thirty minutes here writing more, which I just deleted, because this is not a journal of my past, this is a journal of my now.

Alexandre has his third ear infection, this one in both ears like the others. He's on his third antibiotic in seven weeks. Jacob's okay, but snotty-nosed constantly. Seems most of my time is spent flushing noses with saline and chasing after them with Kleenex. Blow harder is their new vocabulary.

I'm forgetting things, which is normally not like me. I miss two of my English classes during these last two weeks, just spaced out and forgot. I also miss an acupuncture appointment last week. And yesterday I take the boys to get their 18 months vaccinations only to find that I already did that a few months ago. I shake my head in disbelief that I did such a thing. How can a few months ago seem like so long ago? I even had this appointment for over three weeks, which means that only a couple of months had really passed. Am I dreaming?

I feel like such a dumb-ass walking out of there with my friend Angela, who came along to help me. She came for nothing. I woke them up early from their nap at daycare for nothing. Nicole at the daycare had to get them ready for nothing. I go on to think about how many other people I've hurt or disappointed in my life like this and stop myself quick with, You may not beat yourself up anymore.

Be nice to yourself.

This is my new mantra.

The other day C is filling out insurance payments to get reimbursed for my psychologist visits and the boys' prescriptions. After writing the word DEPRESSION under the reason, he sighs and says, "I just don't like writing that word. I don't like anything about that word." As I feel the blood rush to my chest and up to my face, I quickly stand up and push my chair in. I turn around and walk straight down the stairs to the basement without answering his calls, "Why are you freaking out? I just said I didn't like that word."

Sitting in the office chair downstairs, staring at a blank desktop screen, I observe myself. What were my first thoughts that made that blood flow like that? Depressed? Why did he have to say that? I was beginning to forget I was depressed. Look at you, how pathetic you are. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have to write that word. Why are you depressed? You've got nothing to be depressed about. Are you faking it just because you don't want to be happy. Why don't you want to be happy, that's ridiculous. Who doesn't want to be happy? There must be something really wrong with you.

You may not beat yourself up anymore.

Be nice to yourself. I sit as the passive observer and watch how my thoughts flow from one abuse to another. This is how I talk to myself. Not just now, this is how I've been talking to myself. All it takes is a tiny spark of misunderstanding, and then there I go like a shooting firecracker, another perfect opportunity for another beating. It's like some sick pleasure in it somewhere, the helpless victim, cowering for another blow while at the same time the abuser, stabbing myself or others to the ground.

I sit in the basement as the passive observer and watch all my thoughts race by. This time I walked away from the situation to watch my thoughts, nonreactive. I went back upstairs, took a long bath while contemplating. What usually happens when I feel misunderstood or criticized or judged? Usually I react immediately. He then reacts and we're on a spiraling escalation to nowhere, forgetting the initial incident because so much extra past and crap has been brought into the picture to cloud it all up. Words fall like boulders. With a foggy haze to wade through afterwards, I'm not able to see that all that happened was something like he didn't like the word depression and didn't like writing it. Period.

Without the haze and some 20 minutes of time, keeping the storm to myself where it belongs instead of spewed all over someone, two things happen. One, I see now that all that happened was he didn't like the word depression. And two, it's okay that I am like I am.

I come out of the bathroom and over to him on the couch watching t.v. "Come here my little de pressy," he says, and kisses me on the forehead.

Nothing like a crisp autumn day to pick up leaves. By the end, my hands were frozen.

500 apples

Earlier this autumn my family and I went out to the Lassonde orchard. Lassonde is one of the largest producers of juices in Quebec. Our tenant that lives upstairs is the director of public affairs and each year he invites us to this annual festival of apple picking. Lassonde opens a part of their orchard for family and friends of all its employees for apple picking, apple juice drinking, candied apple eating, everything apples. It finished at 4:30 which is exactly the time the last car drove out and exactly the time that we drove in.Mario hands us four huge heavy duty bags, points out to the hundreds of apple trees lining the land, and set us free.

I came home with so many apples that I didn't know what to do with. Surely there was no way to put them all into the refrigerator. I looked up every apple recipe I could find. I got to peeling and coring and peeling and coring and on and on, over an hour I spent just peeling and coring. I made a huge pot of homemade apple sauce to can, made several apple pies, an apple crisp, and I still had apples left.

I was so proud of myself for being all Betty Crocker, so when my Texan friend that moved to Detroit sent a mass email out asking if anyone knew what to do with 500 apples, I was happy to share my recipes.

It backfired. I should have known. This friend was, after all, Kristina. I should've expected it when I got this response in return:

"Ahem...I'm not the one baking fucking apple pies and CANNING applesauce. Methinks Dorian has seen the movie "Baby Boom" too many times!"

Well, of course, I was a little bit embarrassed after that. My friend Susan, who's sensitive like me, must've felt it. She wrote:

"Dorian, your feelings better not be hurt. If it makes you feel better I’ll admit to the fact I have a crab apple tree in my yard.
I just let mine rot."

After that, I kind of forgot about it. I never responded to anyone about it. Life moved on. I even talked to Kristina last week and we never brought it up.

But yesterday evening I got another message from Susan. She wrote...

"Since the Martha Stewart apple comments, you disappeared.
I’m worried."

To which Kristina promptly responded back...

"Have no fear. I talked to her the other day. She's fine, but she WAS laid up in the hospital, after an unfortunate apple orchard incident. Seems some punk ass bitch beat Dorian to the tree with the Macintosh apples, and they got into it. Punches were thrown, harsh words were said, and as they were rolling around, fighting over apples, they got hit by a tractor. Dorian was lucky - just a few scrapes and bruises. Punk ass bitch girl was not so lucky. The tractor severed her pickin' hand."

Yeah, Kristina knows I can be a tough ass. She tried to beat me up once in high school, but it didn't work. We got in a fight one night while I was driving, so I pulled to the side of road, got out and went around to her side. By that time, she was out of the passenger side and coming my way with her prancy little ass. She punched me in the face and I grabbed her hands and wouldn't let go. Bitch was handcuffed by my force. I wonder if she'll tell the same story. Knowing her, I doubt it. She probably thinks she won.

Susan will kill me but I have to say it. No one I know has been invited to view my blog yet, so I'm safe for now.

Susan responded with this...

"What the FUCK?!?!?
Dorian, are you OK?????? I really was/am worried.
I knew it wasn’t like you to put your tail between your legs and hide when bitches like me and Kristina come after you and this story proves you’ll fight till the bitter end.
That will teach her to fight a TX HO, stupid ass Canadian.
On a serious, note I’m glad you are ok.
Let’s talk."

Sounds like she gets it, doesn't it? I talked to her earlier today and she told me that she and her husband were laughing while reading it. Then an hour later she went up to him and said, "I hope she's okay. I just can't believe she'd fight like that in front of her boys."

He said, "Honey, your blond is really coming out now."