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13.11.15

This Time Around

I have two kids now.  It's pretty crazy and pretty awesome.  Some things have definitely been different this time around than they were the first time.


THE FIRST TIME:  I shared my due date with four other girls.  When two of those girls had their babies two and one week before the due date, I was livid.  I did not want to be pregnant anymore and it made me mad that they didn't have to be before me.

THIS TIME:  I was in no rush.  I knew my days with just Sheriff were numbered and did my best to enjoy them in my extremely uncomfortable, pregnant body.


THE FIRST TIME:  My labour lasted roughly five hours.  I cracked jokes, said please and thank you, and even had the courtesy to ask Jon how he was doing.

THIS TIME:  My labour lasted approximately three and a half hours.  I was all calm and contained for the first three hours, but that last half hour I was straight up in fight-or-flight mode.  (If you want to read Logan's birth story, go HERE)


THE FIRST TIME:  My mom snapped some pictures of Sheriff in the delivery room after she was born.

THIS TIME:  I was lucky enough to have Rhonda Steed come take these beautiful pictures HERE.



THE FIRST TIME:  I formula fed since I was told I shouldn't breastfeed while taking my "candy."

THIS TIME:  A friend of mine who works in Labour and Delivery consulted some Lactation Specialists for me and reassured me it would be okay to breastfeed.  So I am.


THE FIRST TIME:  Sheriff didn't really cry for the first week of her life.  In fact, she didn't even cry when she was born.

THE TIME:  Logan was born crying and isn't afraid to let us know when she's not impressed.


THE FIRST TIME:  Jon and I would drop everything to attend to Sheriff when she cried.  Her crying scared us and made us feel like she needed something immediately.

THIS TIME:  Heck, I have a sixteen month old and a one month old.  There's always somebody crying.  Sheriff, Logan, me - crying isn't a big deal.  Haha, just kidding, I'm not crying.



THE FIRST TIME:  Nothing irritated me more than my sisters being mean to Sheriff, like squishing her face to take pictures, burping in her face, etc.

THIS TIME:  I'm lucky if I'm quick enough to stop Sheriff from sitting on Logan while she's doing tummy time or shoving her tooth brush in Logan's mouth.


THE FIRST TIME:  I dressed Sheriff up in the cutest little summer outfits everyday.

THIS TIME:  Logan has spent the first month of her life in sleepers.


THE FIRST TIME:  My arms belonged to Sheriff.  She got to be held all the time.

THIS TIME:  My arms still belong to Sheriff.  I'm always stopping her from doing something crazy, while Logan is wrapped securely to my body with my handy-dandy Mei Tai (which I love and think is the best thing I've ever owned since having babies).



THE FIRST TIME:  It would take around an hour to get Sheriff and I ready and out the door.

THIS TIME:  It takes closer to two hours to get all of us ready and out the door.


THE FIRST TIME:  My daily hygiene rituals didn't change much.

THIS TIME:  Going to the bathroom and taking a shower feel like the most luxurious treats I can offer myself.


THE FIRST TIME:  I was surprised to realize how much I loved Sheriff and being a mom.

THIS TIME:  It doesn't surprise me at all how much I love Logan and being a mom.


12.9.15

Social Media Gaffes

I think I might officially be a grown-up.  Why?  Because I follow Canadian politics.  Which is a huge freaking deal and something to get really amped up about.


Okay fine.  I'll be honest.  Although I do push myself to try and be informed and actually make the effort to vote, what I really relish in during election time are the epic lapses of judgment that come to light due to heightened public scrutiny and the unforgiving evidence a social media account has lurking in the dark and distant past.  Who knew that staying "connected" could come around and bite you in the butt so dang hard?

My personal favourite story of social media betrayal is that of poor Deborah Drever.  Fortunately for Deb (or perhaps unfortunately?), her social media blunders didn't come to light until after she was elected.  Mere hours after the votes were tallied and she was pronounced the new MLA of Calgary-Bow, Deborah's Facebook account revealed her humanity.  And it didn't stop there.  She eventually got thrown out of the NDP caucus after a homophobic picture was found on her personal Instagram account.  Who knew that the posting juvenile actions and jokes on your personal social media accounts would be exhumed by thousands of strangers to your own political damnation?

Ironically enough, a few months after the Alberta provincial election and the embarrassment of MLA Drever, MP candidates for the Canadian federal election are learning their own social media accounts aren't sparkly clean either.  For example:

A Conservative candidate really, really had to go to the bathroom back when he was working as an appliance repairman - and a hidden camera caught him


An NDP candidate's husband took a thug picture with some friends and now she's in trouble (oh, and she had a bad day once and vented on Facebook using horrible grammar and swear words)

Oh the humanity!  And I mean that quite literally.  Oh the humanity that social media accounts display and that the public then uses as a perfectly good excuse to start throwing stones.  Because, obviously, no one else has ever done anything quite like these examples.  Don't get me wrong, these examples could potentially have the power to sway my vote, but not because I'd think they were a bad person, simply because I would question their maturity at handling the responsibility of a public office.

With all of this being said, I've decided that I should vet myself here, right now.  I'll probably never run in any sort of election, but with the way things are going it seems like we're all going to start using each other's social media accounts to blackmail everyone anyways.  So I'll just make it easy for my future blackmailers.

My "controversial" blog posts can be found HERE, HERE, HERE, and HERE. Oh and HERE too.

Please forgive me for the following posts I've made on Instagram:

 I apologize for being silly during my Honeymoon and taking a picture pretending to be topless when really I still had my bikini top on behind the coconuts.  Oh, and I'm sorry for wearing a bikini.


I would like to apologize for trespassing.  Because I trespassed on private property to take these pictures.  Sorry.

I apologize for posting a picture of a condom.  I honestly thought this was an ingenious method of applying compression to a really nasty cut.

I'd like to apologize to all Creationists that think Charles Darwin is an evil person, because this Valentine picture I posted refers to his theory of Natural Selection.

Forgive me for posting a hunting picture.  I am sorry for ever killing the twenty something gophers I did that day in a field that was overrun with hundreds.

Lastly, I apologize for posting a picture this gruesome of a dog killing a rabbit.  I realize how disgusting I was for finding it hilarious that our dog literally killed a rabbit on Easter Sunday.

Here are all the horrors hidden deep inside my Facebook account:

I apologize for filming this terrible sock puppet play a couple of my friends did.  And for posting it.

Forgive me for finding it absolutely hilarious to watch my daughter eat a lemon.


I apologize for all the times I have spray painted old sheds on private property.  


 I swear I am not affiliated with any gangs.  I'm only guilty of being the whitest white girl ever and thinking I was pretty bad-A to be throwing down gang signs.


I apologize for taking and posing for pictures that blatantly pointed fun at an ethnic group that obviously has the above pose patented.

I promise this is nothing more than a "Pop-Eye Candy Stick" and not an illicit substance.

I'd like to ask the forgiveness of all animal enthusiasts and PETA for taking part in the domesticating of this raccoon.

And lastly, I'd like to apologize to the Pagan community for dressing up as a witch for a photo shoot with my sisters.

I also apologize for ever making this the caption of my friend swinging around a sign post.

And I am sorry that I had such strong feelings of hatred when Revenue Canada decided to audit my charitable donations during a five year period that I lived in approximately 3 different cities and paid tithing to a million different wards.

I think that is all I have to apologize about.  Well, and there have been several times that I've had to use the bathroom really, really badly and just popped a squat where I was in the great outdoors.  So please forgive me for indecent exposure and relieving myself when I needed to like the poor appliance repairman.

OH - and I don't have a twitter account.  I'm not a twit or whatever you call those twitter users.
31.8.15

Part Six: Summer Dependence

Shortly after graduating high school, I developed a passionate love (... or unhealthy obsession) for those fleeting southern Alberta summer months.  I had always especially loved the summer, but it felt different all of the sudden, stronger maybe.  Perhaps it was because that was the time of year that I could move back to my small town home from the city and sink back into the comforts of a slow and familiar environment.  That's a good enough reason to really, really love a season, right?

With this new found fervor for summer came an equal and opposite reaction to winter.  Being sentenced to life in the city for what felt like a never ending winter each year was the equivalent to hibernating in my books, because it sure wasn't living.

It wasn't long before my love for summer reached new heights, comparable to that of a clingy girlfriend.

PLEASE DON'T GO!!!

LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME!!  I TOLD YOU NOT TO LEAVE!!

I spent the winter months stalking summer.  I reminisced.  I desperately tried to stay in contact with my "summer" friends.  I belittled anything good or fun that occurred during the winter.  And I counted down the days until I would be back with my love.

This all sounds super healthy, right?  Believe it or not, it wasn't.  This was the birth of the very seasonal aspect of my depression.

Seasonal depression, or seasonal affective disorder (SAD), is where it all began for me.  I never learned coping techniques to get me through the winter each year, I just chose to be emo all winter because nobody knew how I felt because nobody could possibly love summer and hate winter as much as I did.  I'm confident that because I never developed any sort of resilience in coping my way through the winter, I set myself up to fall a lot harder when things really hit the fan, or when a real major depressive episode came in like a wrecking ball.  Fortunately, after learning to understand myself and my depression and developing a heck of a lot of resiliency, I feel confident in saying that I have a healthy relationship with summertime.  Don't get me wrong, it's still hands down my favorite season of the year, just now I'm actually able to say I'm "living" during the rest of the year.  And I didn't even feel sad that today was the last day of August.

What do you do during the winter to stay happy?  (That is, if the winter is kind of blah to you too...)
28.8.15

Retirement

If everything goes according to plan, next Friday will be my official last day of work and I will be forever retired... at least until I'm done having kids.

Because I like to be secretive, I haven't really broadcasted the fact that I returned to work back in April.  I did so simply to work a quick 600 hours in order to qualify for another maternity leave.  It's been a tough 4+ months, but I did it!  I have huge respect for working single mothers/just any mother who is required to spend her days out of the home providing an income for her family.

I have to admit, this retirement is going to be a little bittersweet.  You see, I've essentially had the same job for the past 10 years.  My very first job at the sweet, young age of 16 was as a lifeguard.  Today I still work at a pool and I still have the same current certifications, instead, I'm now the BOSS.  And I'm 8 months pregnant with my second child.


I like to think I'm a pretty cool boss.  Did you ever have a boss that suggested having a photo shoot for fun?

To say I've loved being a lifeguard and working at a pool would be a complete understatement.  It's been my passion and I'm a little sad to be leaving it behind.  The funny thing is that had it not been for my mom I would have never become a lifeguard.  Once I finished my swimming lessons she just enrolled me in whatever the next courses were and before I knew it, I was a lifeguard.  I'm so grateful for her foresight; she did this because the best paying job in the small town I grew up in was as a lifeguard.  However, she may have cursed having helped me become a lifeguard when I was a young adult struggling to "launch" and always running back to the pool and failing to come up with a life plan.  Haha, and she probably cursed herself even more when I finally decided what to study in university and it was a degree in Sport & Recreation so that I could continue working at a pool... What can I say?  It was fate!

So I guess you could call this my ode to lifeguarding.  I have a soft spot in my heart for all the pools I've worked at: the old condemned Raymond Pool, the Raymond Aquatic Centre, Westside Recreation, and the Mount Royal Aquatic Centre.  I'm so grateful for all the friendships I was able to cultivate with lifeguarding co-workers.  I will always cherish the memories of crazy guard parties, "breaking" into the pool for midnight swims, teaching swimming lessons, playing pranks, and so on.  I'm so lucky to have found a job that I loved and I'm so grateful for all the awesome memories I'll have from these past 10 years.

Thanks Mom for helping me become a lifeguard!  Sorry if I stayed one longer than you were expecting ;)


















7.8.15

You Named Her What?

If you read this blog, you're probably well acquainted with the fact that I named my daughter Sheriff July.  Yes, her name is Sheriff.  Spelt exactly the same way as an officer of the law.

I'll admit there were some moments within the first few weeks of her life where I started to second guess my love of the name Sheriff.  It starts to wear down your name confidence when every single person seems to need to ask again what her name is, ask how it's spelt, and then proceeds to stand there awkwardly and tell you that's a cool name when they've obviously just been stunned.  Fortunately I got over it.

Last week the province released their official "Baby Names of 2014" list.  A lot of news and media outlets hopped on it as a means of quick and entertaining news, and I don't blame them, I love hearing about names.  And Sheriff got her very first little bit of publicity.

Apparently she's the only "Sheriff" in Alberta.

She made the list of 50 most unique girl names in Alberta.

She was then hand picked from that list by a Calgary DJ with Virgin Radio (probably not because he liked it...)


I'll admit I felt pride in having named my kid something unique.  Hopefully she'll feel the same way as she grows up.  Another fun part of having a kid be on these "lists" is seeing the comments people have.  Thankfully I've reached a point where I don't care what people think about her name, so I found most of these comments quite entertaining.

I may be a self-indulgent "parent," but coming up with Sheriff's name has always felt right.

And so, I leave you with how in the world I picked the name Sheriff July for my daughter.

Once upon a time, I was a young girl of only 18 years of age living in Edmonton.  One Friday afternoon a friend and I explored Whyte Ave where I found a book store.  Although I was a poor college student, I splurged on a book called "The Complete Works of O. Henry."

I remembered reading some of his work in grade seven and having really liked it and the book looked old and vintage-y, so I couldn't resist.  (I guarantee you're familiar with at least one of his short stories, such as "Gift of the Magi" or "The Last Leaf."  One of my personal favourites is "The Cop and the Anthem")

Anyways, while gobbling up his complete works, I came across a western-type short story of O. Henry's that had a character that was none other than.... wait for it.... a sheriff.  I remember stopping where I was in the story and repeating the word over and over in my head.  It sounded right, like it was meant to be a girl's name and I was so surprised I hadn't heard of a girl named Sheriff before.  So I jotted it down on this little slip of paper that I had been keeping names on (admit it, what girl doesn't have one of these lists going?).  That was 7 years ago.  And that name never ever left my list once.  In fact, it has always been at the top.  And now it's the name of my first born.

Where did her middle name come from you ask?  Well, when the reality of actually having a daughter named Sheriff started to blossom, I began to toy with the idea of giving her a middle name inspired by a fictional sheriff.  It didn't take long to remember my most favourite western I've ever watched/read (and probably the only one at that): Lonesome Dove.  Oh how I love Lonesome Dove.  The name of the sheriff in this particular western is July Johnson.  And he is an admirable character at that.  And July is probably my favourite month of the year.  So it all made sense.  And it rolled off the tongue nicely too.

So there you have it, the story of where the heck I got the name Sheriff from and the fact that I'm okay if you don't like it.  In fact, I'd prefer you to not name your kid Sheriff, that way she stays more unique ;)


16.7.15

Story with a Song I

As a kid I remember this old VHS tape that was kept with the family collection of Disney videos.  It was unmarked, yet we all knew what was on it: the home video footage from my parent's wedding.  I don't really recall a lot of details from the video, but I remember watching it more than once.

I remember the part where one of my mom's cute little flower girls (either Emily or Karli) slipped on the sidewalk while walking away from the temple.  My mom stopped and helped them back up.

I remember my mom's exquisitely lacy, ruffly and obviously from the 1980's dress.

I remember the cameraman going around at the family dinner quizzing down family members on advice for the newly weds.  My Uncle Al was just as funny as ever and rocking a mean mustache.

What I remember the very most though was a musical number performed by my Aunts Connie and Colette.  They sang "Can't Help Falling In Love."  And because I remember that most, I've always really liked that song.

- - - - - 

This July 19th marks seven years since my Dad's near fatal horse accident.  It's still crazy to look back to that summer and realize just how very close our family was to losing him.  After being bucked off a young horse he was trying to break, the horse proceed to stomp on his abdomen, causing him to nearly bleed to death due to a severed renal artery.  Our family was told to say our goodbyes not once, but twice.  By nothing short of a miracle, he's still here with us today.

After the roller coaster ride of not knowing whether or not he would make it, our family was blessed with a reprieve when the coast was clear.  My Dad was going to live and he was coming out of his coma.  And he was a real jokester while doing so.  We began to wonder if the horse had stepped on his head too, because some of the things he was saying were just plain ludicrous (such as the friendly life advice he offered me: "Kristen, do not become a gynecologist").

We later found out that while coming out of his coma and metabolizing the drugs that kept him unconscious he suffered some quite terrifying hallucinations.  Across from his bed was a medicine and linen closet.  But what he actually saw was a room full of severed heads rigged up with wiring that was running the hospital's computer system.  I believe he even saw some dead babies in there too, which explained why he was always so weary of the nurse watching over him as she kept going over to the closet to retrieve things ("Can we trust her?").

When we eventually found this out, a lot of the silly things my Dad did made sense, especially his raspy singing.  My Dad is a whistler, whenever things get awkward, contentious, or my Dad is just plain uncomfortable, he whistles.  Since he had been intubated for so long, he didn't have the strength to whistle, so he resorted to singing.  And what song did he sing?  "Can't Help Falling In Love."  

I'm so grateful that my family was able to pass through this trial and that we still have my Dad with us today.  I'm grateful for my parents and the example they are to me in striving to live a celestial marriage.  I'm grateful that we were blessed with the opportunity to laugh so quickly after shedding tears (even if it was at my Dad's expense).  And I'm grateful that even after all those years, my Dad couldn't "help falling in love," during a time of fear and uncertainty.

Enjoy my current favourite version of the song "Can't Help Falling In Love."


13.6.15

Part Five: The Shrink

I feel a little guilty for the lengthy break I've taken from blogging about depression, mostly because I hope I didn't lead anyone to believe that after starting to "take candy" things were just magically cured.  Because they weren't, not even close.

So, just to recap things, I started to "take candy" almost 3 years ago.  Initially the plan was to stay on them for a year, however, they did their job so well and the thought of possibly relapsing to the depressive mess I was before has made me decide to stay on them indefinitely.  And I'm super cool with that.

Now, where was I?  Like I mentioned in Part Three, taking anti-depressants did wonders for my depression.  Jon started to see glimpses of the girl he thought he was marrying and I started to think that life after marriage might be not that bad.  There were the odd occasions where Jon and I would argue or I would be annoyed by something petty and my mind would start to spiral back into the unhealthy, depressive patterns I had previously been held captive by, but for the most part, things were good.  That is until Jon and I were thrown headlong into our next trial as a married couple: the miscarriage.


Don't let my blog post on the ordeal fool you, I was a mess.  And my depression came back with a vengeance.  It quickly became clear that my candy probably wasn't going to be able to get me through this alone, so my parents and Jon began to strongly encourage me to seek counselling.  When I was initially diagnosed with depression, my doctor also wrote me a prescription for "Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy," but since the anti-depressants were working so well, I hid the little note for CBT even deeper in my purse.  Fortunately, since I now had the proof that what my doctor recommended actually worked, I didn't need quite as much convincing to set up some counselling.

Rather than going back to my doctor to seek a referral to a psychologist, I made a quick phone call to the LDS Family Services in my area.  I explained that I had been diagnosed with depression and was prescribed CBT.  This information was taken down and reviewed in order to place me with a counsellor best matched for my situation.  A week later I was placed with a wonderfully intelligent woman who had a private office out of her home.

Now, why the heck did I go through LDS Family Services?  Well, if you're LDS, wouldn't you want to be seeing someone who already has a grasp of the ideals you've been taught and are striving for?  Although my faith is second nature to me, and anyone else belonging to it, a therapist who is not familiar with that particular aspect of your life probably won't be able to see the whole picture of you and your situation.  Which is why I'd recommend going through LDS Family Services to anyone who is LDS.  But what if you don't like the counsellor you've been placed with?  It's perfectly fine to ask for someone else.  In order for counselling to work it is absolutely essential that you feel comfortable with the person you're speaking to.

And so it began: the chapter of my life where I was seeing a shrink.

Was I scared?

Absolutely terrified.  And embarrassed.  What if someone I knew saw me?!  I would die.

FYI:  Someone I did know saw me.  A lady in my ward met with the same therapist right after I did.  And I didn't die.

Did it work?

Yes.  A thousand times yes.

When all was said and done, I ended up only needing to visit the counsellor four times.  I saw her once every two weeks for two months and that did the trick.  And it ended up being completely different from what I was expecting too.  I didn't have to lay on a fancy divan while she furiously jotted down all my flaws and idiosyncrasies and I wasn't constantly bombarded by the response of, "...and how did that make you feel?"  Instead, it was a lot like visiting with a new friend who just wanted to listen to me vent and then give advice.  Except her advice and knowledge had credentials backing it up.  The first visit was spent entirely with her getting to know everything about me.  She then took the time to develop an understanding of how I handled situations that were stressful or uncomfortable for me and what my thought processes were when things would get me down.  From there she helped me think of ways in the past that I had coped with different situations and how I could apply those coping methods to the new situations that would come my way.  It was all actually quite refreshing.  She never made me feel stupid.  She never told me I was wrong in my thinking or actions.  Instead, when all was said and done, I left feeling like I had solved the problem on my own and that she had merely asked questions that guided me to my own solution.

Would I recommend counselling to someone struggling with depression?

Absolutely.  I would also recommend that counselling is the first treatment sought when diagnosed with depression.  I realize that advice is completely backwards from how things went down with my own depression, but I am confident that in some situations, counselling may be all it takes to get back on your feet.

Do I think if I had done counselling first I wouldn't have needed medication?

Hmm.  I'm going to say no.  When I think back to how very sick I was, I'm confident I would have needed anti-depressants to get back on my feet regardless of whether or not I had counselling first.

One last thing worth mentioning about counselling is that if you're going to go in completely skeptical and cynical about everything, just don't go.  I strongly believe that in order for counselling to work, you need to be willing to open up and make yourself a little vulnerable.  You could be seeing the best therapist in the world and they wouldn't be able to do a thing for you if you refuse to even let them try.

An excellent example of a person counselling wouldn't work for.