Cea Sunrise Person

MY MEMOIR, MY LIFE

Becoming Myself Again: My Experience Doing the Master Cleanse

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Me, feeling like me again

Anyone who’s read my book knows that I’ve spent most of my life rejecting my family’s ways. But I’d like to share a recent experience when trying out one of my grandmother’s routines actually changed my life for the better.

First of all, a note: this blog post is about the weighty issue of weight, and dear readers, I know you are sensitive enough to know there is no judgment here of anyone’s body but my own. Just sayin’🙂

I’ve always been a certain weight in my adult life, and I’ve never had to worry about it much. When I was modelling I was never the thinnest model, but I didn’t want or need to be. At 5’11” and 138 pounds, my figure worked well for the kind of modelling I was doing, and everyone was happy, including me. Later, when I got pregnant with my boys and gained 35 pounds with each, I got back to my pre-pregnancy weight within a few months both times. Then I had Ayla. Right away, things were different with my body after she was born. I managed to lose all the weight but the last five pounds—no big deal, I thought, figuring it would come off in time. Instead, it slowly began to creep up. Over the next few years my clothes got tighter, I bought bigger jeans, I went from my usual size four to a six to an eight, and started to dabble in a ten. According to the super-flattering overhead light above my full-length mirror, I had developed neck-to-ankle cellulite. My eating habits hadn’t changed—I’ve always been a pretty healthy eater, with the exception of too many McDonald’s fries and too much wine—and I’ve never exercised much, so, being in my mid-forties, I figured age must be the culprit. Okay, I thought: I need to exercise. With two small children still at home, one at school, and my writing career, life was extremely busy. But when windows of time allowed I tried—home videos, then pilates and dance classes, but my efforts always fizzled out when other, more pressing needs crowded in. Then I tried cutting certain foods out. I tried Garcinia Cambogia and Do Terra Slim ’n’ Sassy essential oils. Nothing made a difference. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see someone who was overweight, but a stranger’s body. I body I never imagined I’d inhabit, that looked nothing like the person I’d always been. In short, I felt nothing like myself.

Out of sheer terror, I refused to step on the scale. Then one day when I was at Science World with my kids, they made me step onto that scale that tells you what your animal weight is. I looked at my animal and wished I could unsee it. I’d always been the equivalent of an aardvark, and now I was…well, whatever the next animal up from that is—I think I blocked it from my mind. But it was then that the truth hit me in the face: I was more than twenty pounds over my regular weight. That’s when I decided that no matter what was going on in my life, I needed to make a change. I asked my husband for an elliptical trainer for my birthday and promptly started on a fitness program. For two weeks, I exercised every weekday, cut my calorie consumption by a third and avoided gluten and most processed foods. And by the end of the two weeks I had lost…nothing. Not a single pound, and not a single centimetre. I felt panic and depression threatening to take over, but I knew there had to be other ways. Then I remembered something my Grandma Jeanne used to do often throughout my childhood and teen years: the “master cleanse”, which involved consuming nothing but a lemonade concoction for a chosen amount of time. I recall seeing her toting her two-litre bottle of brownish liquid around, wondering how she could possibly do anything so boring and dismissing it as just another of my family’s wacky practices. But I also remembered that she always claimed she never felt better than when she was cleansing. So I did some research.

Many of you have probably heard of the master cleanse: it is not intended as a weight loss cleanse, but rather a colon cleanse. However, it stands to reason that if you’re not eating food, you will lose weight. The cleanse is also apparently supposed to “reset” one’s eating habits to healthier foods. Intimidated and more than a little dread-filled, I was nonetheless eager to get going on it. Though you are supposed to “ease in” with a four-day reduced eating plan, I was impatient and decided to get started the next day. My grandmother used to do it for fourteen days at a time; I figured I could probably manage three to five.

Day one started with the recommended salt flush, meant to get your intestines working with the goal of, um, flushing everything out over the coming days. It was godawful—glugging one litre of salty water, during which time I was seriously challenged to control my gag reflex. I managed to get it down, it did its job and I hardly felt hungry for the entire day. On day two I decided to skip the salt water flush and stick with herbal laxatives. I was hungry and edgy, but I’d heard that day two and three were the worst, so I plodded on. One thing that immediately surprised me was the amount of energy I had—indeed, Grandma Jeanne had not been exaggerating. I’d expected to feel shaky and lethargic, but I powered through my days faster and more efficient than ever. As long as I drank my concoctions just as I started to feel hungry, I was fine. Another thing that surprised me was how much more time I had in the day—I’d never given much thought to how much of each day we spend planning, preparing and eating food. By the beginning of day three I’d lost four pounds, so I was encouraged to continue on.

But day three was destined to be my worst. My husband was out of town, so in the late afternoon I decided to take the kids to Whole Foods with the thought that buying them ready-made meals would save me from the torture of cooking. My kids were particularly unruly that day—Ayla started grabbing random things off the shelves and running away with them, usually straight into another shopper’s legs, as if it were some sort of hilarious game; Emerson was screaming that his foot was itchy and started hobbling around the store with one shoe off; Avery pitched a fit because I wouldn’t buy him an entire thousand-dollar hot pizza just for him, and then all of them threw a head-turning tantrum when I wouldn’t buy them Haagen-Dazs bars. Not to mention that everywhere I turned, I saw and smelled something I really wanted to eat. My stomach grumbled, and I realized I hadn’t had a lemonade for over two hours. And so it was that hungry, crampy from taking laxatives, hassled and harried, sweatpants-clad and losing it with my children, I came face-to-face with a woman I hadn’t seen in ages but had known for thirty years. Mind you, we’re talking about someone whose greatest worldly concern is how up-to-the-second her look is, but her reaction was almost comical: she saw me, registered recognition, and then looked away and pretended not to know me! OMG, really? I thought such shallow women only existed on the Real Housewives. When we got home I tried to prepare myself a lemonade, hands shaking like a drug addict desperate for a fix, while simultaneously heating the kids’ dinner and fielding a barrage of demands and requests. I finally burst into tears, which suddenly made them get really quiet. I drank my lemonade in one long gulp, and felt my sanity slowly return.

Day four dawned much better, and my weight was continuing to drop. Not only that, I noticed that my skin looked better than it had in ages, and my eyes clearer. My tongue was covered in a lovely whitish fuzz, an apparent sign of detox. On day five my husband decided to join me on the cleanse, so as a show of support I decided to do the saltwater flush with him. No go—my gag reflex was so bad that I could only get half of it down, and it didn’t do the job it was supposed to. That evening, in the ultimate test, I met two girlfriends for a long-ago arranged dinner that I didn’t want to cancel on. We went to Tavola, of all places, where I sat sipping my lemonade while they ate delicious-looking pasta, wine, and my favourite dessert of sticky toffee pudding. It wasn’t easy, but I never felt tempted in the least to cheat. I decided to stretch my cleanse to seven days.

But lo and behold—when I stepped on the scale the next day–day six–I’d actually gained two pounds back, which momentarily made me want to bawl my eyes out. I got over it, thinking it was probably the failed salt flush storing water in my body. I doubled my water intake that day to sixteen glasses, and by the next morning I’d lost the two pounds plus one more. By my seventh and last day, the cleanse had become such a routine that I would actually call it easy. I could have gone another three days (the maximum recommended time for most people), but I had some social commitments coming up that I wanted to be able to at least eat a carrot stick for.

When you are finished the cleanse, you are meant to “ease out” for four days just as you ease in. This step is crucial to avoid potentially horrendous constipation that can occur if you skip it. This part wasn’t a problem. Before I started the cleanse I’d imagined that I would be dreaming of my favourite foods—pizza, pasta, veggie burgers—and jonesing to eat them when I was done. Not so. I spent the next few days drinking juice and eating veggies, and I didn’t crave my old favourite foods at all. In fact, I almost missed being on the cleanse! I missed the simplicity of not having to make food choices, of knowing I was doing something good for my body, of the energy and lightness that came with it. Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy to be eating again, and I’m even more thrilled to have lost twelve pounds in seven days and most of that depressing cellulite. My eating habits have indeed been reset, and since going off the cleanse I’ve continued to drop more weight. No, it wasn’t easy, but most things worth achieving aren’t–at least in my experience. Trust me, if I can do this, anyone can. I don’t know anyone who loves to eat more than me!

What I’ve learned from this experience is that my confidence is more closely linked to my body image than I would like it to be, and that I just have to accept that as part of who I am. But the cleanse has also benefitted me in ways that aren’t physical. Not eating for seven days felt empowering. I feel in control of my body again, in charge of my life and over my own destiny. I think about everything I put into my body now—and for now at least, I have no desire to eat junk food or drink too much wine at the end of a hard day. It’s a valuable tool in my arsenal for weight loss and kicking unhealthy addictions. I know that I can and will do it again. And most important, I look in the mirror and feel like me again.

So thank you, Grandma Jeanne.🙂

xo Cea

Tears, Tribulations and Triumphs: My TEDx Talk Experience

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About five years ago, I read—and was greatly inspired by—Brene Brown’s book Daring Greatly. Near the beginning, she mentioned appearing in a venue I’d never heard of before: a TED talk. I googled it and pulled Brene’s talk up on YouTube, marvelling at her courage as I watched. At the time, I was about three years into struggling to write my memoir, North of Normal, and the thought of even opening my mouth to utter a birthday speech among friends was enough to set my palms sweating with fear. Literally. How does she do it? I wondered. How can she even keep her voice steady with that many people watching her? What I never could have guessed was this: one day in the not-too-distant-future, I would be called on to speak at this very same venue on the topic of fearless.

I have always been exceptionally terrified of public speaking. It all stems from my childhood, naturally—always feeling like the freaky girl from the wilderness with the ill-fitting thrift-store clothes and ridiculous height, unable to break from my own confident-deficit expectations of myself to allow any value of my experiences to emerge. Whenever life dictated otherwise—wedding speeches, group introductions—insecurity and voice tremors dominated. And then my book came out. Public speaking was celebrated and expected. Suddenly, every fear and illusion I’d had about my own abilities and confidence needed to be examined, and quickly. In my first month of being a published author, I did five TV appearances, seven radio interviews, six book club appearances, and a host of other newspaper and magazine media outlets—and that was just the beginning. But nothing could have prepared me for the experience of speaking for TED.

First off, let’s clarify: my experience was not on the level of Brene Brown’s. While she likely appeared before an audience of thousands, my talk was an independently organized TEDx venue comprised of a couple hundred viewers. By that time, a year after the release of my book, I’d spoken before bigger audiences for corporate events. But that didn’t stop the TED franchise name from both exciting and intimidating me—big-time. When I first got the invitation, I jumped for joy, emailed everyone I knew to tell them the news, and screamed it out on all my social media. Then reality set in: I actually had to create a compelling, ten-minute long presentation, and deliver it onstage without notes. But hey, no worries, right? After all, I do consider myself to be rather fearless, and I often expect the same from others.

Needless to say, I researched. I watched the ten most-viewed TED talks, the ten most inspirational TED talks, the ten best TEDx talks of all time. I got the email address of a fellow TED-talker in my neighbourhood and asked her a million questions. And then I crafted. I power-pointed and edited and regrouped, then I sat on the sofa practicing my talk to myself while my kids looked at me like I was a crazy person. “It’s okay, Mommy’s just practicing saying stuff in front of hundreds of people,” I told them, and then they became interested. It became impossible for me to rehearse without two or three of them running around me asking why I was showing naked pictures of myself or talking about some weirdo on the highway. After so much critiquing from the under-ten set, I had the brilliant idea of inviting my girlfriends over for a “rehearsal party”.  I would supply the wine and appies, and they would supply the feedback. Great, right? Right, except my girlfriends happen to be just this awesome: not only did they bring plenty of wine themselves, which resulted in a fun party atmosphere, they brought real feedback that was both supportive and constructive. I’m not sure that I was prepared for it, because the bottom line was this: I had some work to do. Bless them, and bless honesty. I rehearsed about fifty more times before do-day.

I am constantly surprised at the lessons and learning that come my way. Resilience is the buzzword of my life. Two days before my talk, life—and my carefully defined experience of fearless—challenged me in a big way. A small personal crisis that had been brewing for several months exploded. I spent the night bawling my eyes out (and trust me, I’m not much of a cryer) and the day before my talk, I walked around with eyelids so swollen I barely dared leave the house. If my talk would have been that night, I probably would have been forced to cancel, I was that raw and distraught. My whole perspective shifted. I felt like a fraud. How ironic was it, I thought, that I was about to preach about fearlessness when I was suddenly filled with terror. And who really cared about a stupid TEDx talk, anyway, when my family was at risk of falling apart? So I did the only thing I could: I read my presentation over and over again and tried to take my own advice.

The big day came. Caught up in a blender of anticipation and nerves tempered by a huge dose of who-the-fuck-cares, I brought my husband and an A-list girlfriend along for support. I checked in at the venue, met the lovely organizers, and forced myself to focus, forget, and shove aside. For me, the best part of the event was the distraction of meeting and listening to the other speakers. Tori Holmes inspired me big-time with her story of rowing across the Atlantic. Pamela Goldsmith-Jones has become my candidate of choice in the upcoming election. And the last speaker of the night, Anja Novkovic, blew me away with her incredible story told through original poetry. And when it was my turn to walk onstage, I did it. I got up there and did my thing without freezing or blanking out or pacing back and forth too much like I normally do when I’m nervous.

Okay, great. I got through it without throwing up. So what then?

It took three months for my talk to get edited and hit Youtube, and I gazed miserably at the screen when the screenshot first appeared in my inbox. There was a light across my forehead that made me look like I was wearing some sort of weird 80’d headband. And when I watched it, all I could think about was how flat my hair looked, how I’d chosen the wrong outfit, how my slideshow wasn’t visible behind me, how two of my attempts at jokes bombed, how I wished I could do it all over again because I’d been so stressed out in the days before that I hadn’t had time to be concerned with such things. But still, I had done it. Friends and readers of my book watched it and said they were inspired by it. I had conquered one of my greatest fears, and in the process realized that it wasn’t anything compared to my fear of crisis within my family. As had happened so many times before, I had lived the duality of successful creativity flip-sided with challenging life circumstances. For me, the two seem to co-exist without independence.

Now, with the normal pace of life within my family re-established, I once again feel fearless. But I am also certain there was a lesson in the timing of events, and what I’ve come up with is compassion. How often have I felt impatient with people when they told me their stories of feeling fearful? Just move forward and do something, I would think—and don’t get me wrong, this is still the prescription that works for me and what I truly believe in. But with my flawed human-ness brought into full focus over those days, my compassion has been restored, and for that I am grateful. And here’s another lesson that’s almost too perfect: Brene Brown’s book, the very one that started this journey for me, teaches the power of embracing our vulnerability–and it was my very own TEDx experience that really brought that home for me.

So. Go fearlessly, but never be ashamed to admit your fear when it gets the best of you. And then…move forward.😉

Love, Cea

PS Here’s the talk: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rzueNiggMSQ

At Loose Ends: What’s Next?

I am sitting on my sofa doing nothing. For the first time in what feels like years, I find myself with an hour in front of me that is not appointed to the care of children, housework, shopping, emailing, cooking, promoting my book, or the myriad other activities that make up the daily life of this mom, wife, friend and writer. Ten minutes ago, my husband took the kids on a bike ride and instructed me to enjoy some time to myself. I waved goodbye, went into the house, and, instead of rushing headlong into my next task as per my usual routine, I found myself just standing there not knowing which direction to go. I sat down and promptly got the hiccups. My mind raced. Should I read a book? No, the one I started a few days ago just hasn’t grabbed me. Call a friend? I’m all caught up with everyone. Update my website? Did it last week. Check my email? I just hit refresh for the third time, and obviously no one is urgently trying to reach me. And with that, the inevitability of a singular fact fills my head and causes my stomach to flop over in dread: It is time to get back to writing. Ugh.

Of course I love writing. It is my creative outlet, a main source of my fulfillment and purpose, and now I’m even lucky enough to call it my vocation. It’s been five months since North of Normal was released. I’ve had the publicity flurry, the meaningful exchanges with readers, the book club barrage, the literary festival invitations, and the thrill of seeing my book on the bestseller list for nine weeks. In short, many of the dreams I had about my first book have come true, and I’m incredibly grateful. But the party is drawing to a close, and I know it’s time to get back to work. Though I’ve begun my second book, I haven’t worked on it in nearly a year, and fear abounds. I’m afraid that I’ll reread what I’ve written and hate it; that my writing talent has deserted me; that my second book won’t live up to the first; that I won’t be able to sell another manuscript. So rather than face the music I just sit here, hiccupping away as I complete the last task I can justify before opening the dreaded Book #2 file on my laptop: writing a long-overdue blog entry. So here it is. To all the wonderful friends and family who have championed my book over the past months, to the many awesome new friends I’ve met through book clubs, social media, parties and appearances on behalf of my book, thank you to the ends of the earth for your support and encouragement. I will write a second book. It will be just as good as my first. And I’m going to get on it right this minute.

Just as soon as I get these darned hiccups under control, that is. And maybe by then the kids will be home, with their strangling hugs and boisterous yelling and requests for snacks and boo-booed knees to attend to.

Here’s hoping…😉

Xo Cea

The Family We Choose: An Ode to Friends

Yesterday, as I added my book trailer to my Facebook page, I reflected on the collaborative effort it took to create it. The fact is, if it weren’t for my friends, this project wouldn’t have seen the light of day.

I’m one of those people who doesn’t like to spend money on services. I need a website? I buy the software and figure out how to build one. The basement needs to be drywalled? I drive to Home Depot and corral the sheetrock salesman. So I thought making a short, snappy, enticing trailer for my book would be a breeze. Wrong. After a month of toiling on amateur software, trying to do voiceovers while the kids screamed in the background, and badgering my husband to interview me on camera “just one more time”, I finally produced a piece that rose just slightly above the point of being embarrassing. The first person I showed it to was my close friend Shannon, because as an in-demand reality TV producer (Dr. Phil, The Real Housewives, Love it or List it, etc), I knew she’d be discerning. And discerning she was. After sitting through it quietly, she turned to me and said sweetly, “Um…it’s good. But you know, this is what I do, so…” Right. She promptly offered to help me, and a week later I was sitting on a chair being interviewed by her under her Director of Photography husband’s amazing lighting. Between the two of them, they managed to make me look like I was telling all for 20/20. Bless their talented souls, and talk about true friends.

Next up was editing. Feeling like I’d taken up enough of Shannon and Josh’s time, I assured them I’d have no problem putting it all together on iMovie. Two weeks later, the result looked like some bush-league chop-job done by a talent-free film student. Shedding my pride, I showed my masterpiece to my amazing friend Nicole, actor and voiceover artist extraordinaire. She smiled politely and offered to run it by it to her husband (and my friend) Chris, a super-talented film editor and music composer. “It’s good!” he said brightly on the phone that evening. “It’s just that, well, this is what I do, so…” Right. Once again, my butt was saved when he swooped in, took over my files, rejigged them and laid down his awesome music in the background. Add Nicole’s voiceover coaching, and the end result is something I am truly proud of.

Many times over the years, I have been humbled by my friends’ generosity. There’s my longest-time girl Carleigh, who befriended me on my first day of fifth grade and has stood by me through some of my worst moments. She and her husband even gave me their second car for six months after I got divorced and was flat broke; how’s that for true friendship? And then there’s Heather, a modeling compatriot from when I first arrived in Europe, who took me under her wing and taught me to spread my own–one of the first people who I felt truly believed in me. Suzana, another modeling bestie who used to look after my cat whenever I went out of town, and who now flies halfway across the globe to visit me and fawn over my children. Jenn, who helped me close a business deal just days after I met her when she learned how desperately I needed it at the time. Dianne, who took an interest in my book and wouldn’t let me give up, introducing me to people who were key to my getting it published. Wendy, Traci, Tracy, Tracey, Susan, Cynthia, Janet, Amanda B, Amanda T, Debra, Lisa, Meghan, Jenny, Michelle…the list goes on and on. Each of these amazing women, and many more who are either new to my world or were once a bigger part of my daily life, have contributed the most generous gift there is: their time and conversational skills.

Which brings me to this: if you are one of these friends and are reading this now, I want you to know that I appreciate your support at this time in my life more than ever. As I stand just weeks away from achieving my lifelong dream of publishing my book, I ask you to please forgive my temporary self-involved state–my book, my life, blah blah blah… It’s not like me, you all know that, but this is my year and I have to live this wholly and completely. You all are the family I always wished to have.

Okay, now enough about you and back to me. Here’s the book trailer:

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I don’t take near enough pics of my friends. Here’s one from a couple years back.

xoxo Cea

Growing a Tree: Truth and Fiction in Memoir Writing

ImageOften, when I tell people that I’ve written a memoir about my childhood, I get this reaction: “A memoir? I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night. How do you remember allthat stuff?”

The truth that is I don’t, exactly. Memoir is a complex art, a tapestry woven of personal memories, stories from family members and friends, reminder cues from old photographs, and yes, fiction. Don’t get me wrong–a memoirist’s story is defined by its true-to-life accuracy, but many of the details of it are made up. In fact, an excellent memoir reads just like a novel because it draws on the storytelling tools of fiction. Setting, dialogue, weather, time of day–often it is impossible for the writer to recall these fine details, but they are needed to build the richness and, ironically, the credibility of the story.

I’ve always said that I don’t have the imagination to write fiction, and that is the truth. I have nothing but admiration for such writers, who are able to pull fascinating characters and original plots out of thin air. But memoir writing comes with its own challenges–namely, that you don’t have the convenience of making up events or characters to suit your story. You owe it to your readers, your publishers, and yourself to be as honest and transparent as possible. But there is a vast difference between a fabricated story being passed off as a memoir and using novelistic techniques to tell a true story. The former is a blatant lie or bending of the truth, while the latter is a fusion of honesty and creativity designed to open the writer’s world to the reader. My own writing process goes something like this: Let’s say I’m writing a scene about having a fight with my mother. First, I put myself back into the moment. I know that I was living in Calgary at the time, that I was thirteen, and that the argument was about her boyfriend. I recall that it was daytime and in the summer. From these facts, I build a scenario. Calgary is mostly sunny, so I write about the sun streaming through the windows as we scream at each other. Since I was thirteen, the year was 1983, so I write about the Swatch watch I was wearing. I think about the words we exchanged, remembering only the most important lines, and build on our dialogue from there–knowing what her tone of voice would be and the slang I would use as a teenager. Lastly, I find a way to connect this scene to the one following. And there you have it–the complete truth of recall, decorated by the brush of imagination and probability to create a complete scene.

I look at memoir writing like growing a tree. The solid trunk is the fact or event I am writing about. The branches are the connections to the rest of the story, and the leaves or needles are the details that, in most cases, can’t possibly be remembered. One of my biggest writing struggles was finding a narrative arc to my story. Real life, with its random happenings and less-than-ideal timing, does not provide this on its own. Add that to the fact that my early years were so chaotic–I often lived in a given place no longer than a few weeks or months at a time–and chronological ordering became truly daunting. Many times, I found myself sitting at my laptop, rubbing at a well-worn spot between my eyes as I attempted to organize and filter the many interesting and dull events in my life into a story that made sense, had meaning and would keep the reader engaged. My breakthrough only came when I was able to move beyond my preoccupation with writing about the trunk and allowing myself to focus on the branches and needles. I discovered that the networks between my story blocks were all there on mycomputer screen–they just had to be connected properly. A connection can be as simple as a tangible item carried throughout childhood, a remembered dream, or a second or third meeting with someone important to the story. After that, the needles on my tree are easy–and fun–to fill in.

In memoir writing, constant decisions need to be made about what, who and when to write about, but the most important is the how to write it. Our earth holds many trees–evergreens, deciduous, fruit, nut, weeping and sky-reaching. The how is the tree one chooses to grow through storytelling. During the writing process for my own memoir, I grew and subsequently chopped down five or six different trees before settling on the right one. In other words, the truth of a life story may take many forms depending on the way one chooses to write about it. My first draft was a chronological tale written from an adult’s perspective. Another began with the present and flashed intermittently back to the past. A more recent one had emails to my mother beginning each chapter. In the end, I settled on a chronological telling of my story from a child’s perspective, morphing into a teen’s and adult’s perspective as the story progressed. All of these versions told the truth, but they were very different accounts of one story. You get my point: memoir is stylized truth that, at its best, fuses a creative blend of honesty, intimate perspective, and timeless beauty.

Xoxo Cea

My Little Mommy Experiment

When I was pregnant with my first child, I heard this a lot from mothers: “Being is a parent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” I would smile and nod, secretly thinking that these women must have led pretty cushy lives if the act of raising a child could lead them to such a conclusion. I was confident that my experience would be completely different. After all, at the age of thirty-five, I had survived more than my share of drama including a wilderness lifestyle, near-death experiences, and truly disastrous parenting. As a model, I’d succeeded in an industry notorious for failure, had traveled the world on my own from the age of fourteen, and lived through many of the issues associated with bad childhoods and jet-setting lifestyles. I was certain that I would, if not breeze through parenthood, at least find it a lot easier than life’s other challenges.

Nine years and three children later, I am here to tell you what you’ve probably heard a million times before: Being a parent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done–by far. In fact, I sometimes wonder if everyone else has a secret to making it easier that I’m just not clued into. Mind you, I’ve never had childcare and I’ve looked after my children at home while running a business and writing a book, but even the “easy” days with the children often seem difficult. I know from observing other children and other parents’ comments to me that my children are, if anything, normally on the more “well-behaved” end of the spectrum. But still, I sometimes find myself thinking, oh my god, this is just too hard. Is this normal? Do other people’s kids have this many meltdowns/tantrums/fights/ per day, or do I just have a harder time coping with it than other moms?

So I decided to do a little experiment. On one particularly awful day about six months ago, I decided that instead of crying, I would document it. While the kids slept, I wrote down everything that had happened that day. My intention was to use it to compare notes with another mom, which never actually happened…until today. I am going to share it here for two reasons–first, because I would love to hear your own thoughts and stories, and second, because I want other parents out there to understand this: if you are ever struggling, you are not alone.

Let me preface this by saying the most obvious thing in the world–that I love and adore my children beyond description, and that the following story has nothing to do with my love for them or my understanding that they were simply going about their business of being normal children. And no, this was not a typical day–my husband being out of town and my being ill, among other things, contributed to the mayhem. But to be honest, it was also not the worst parenting day I’ve ever had!

I wake up at 8AM, exhausted from not enough sleep. When I say “wake up”, I mean the time I actually get out of bed, as opposed to the five or six times I’ve been awoken in the night by children and insomnia. Quite simply, my two youngest children are horrible sleepers.

            As I change Ayla’s (17 months) diaper, Emerson (3) goes to the bathroom. I go in to check on his progress, as he has recently been potty trained. The toilet seat is covered in pee from his attempt at emptying the potty’s contents into the toilet. Mixing praise with admonishment, I clean up the mess. He throws a tantrum when I won’t let him unwind the entire toilet paper roll. While this is happening, Ayla hits her head on the corner of the countertop and starts screaming. I run to her, which only increases Em’s cries. I end up with both of them in my arms, each screaming in an ear.

            Breakfast time. I get Em’s cereal, which he proceeds to spill all over himself and the counter. I clean it up and get new clothes for him. He throws a fit when I try to dress him, though, because he wants to wear a shirt that’s in the laundry. I finally get him settled with a toy and head to the bathroom for a shower. I put Ayla up on the countertop to play with the water and toothbrushes to distract her while I shower. Halfway through she starts screaming because her leg gets caught behind the faucet, so I get out of the shower to help her–and see that she’s put enough toilet paper into the sink to make the water nearly run over the edge. Soaking wet, I fix the problem and get back in the shower, even though she’s screaming inconsolably by now because I’ve done away with her beloved TP. The cries continue as I dry off, put lotion on, and dry my hair. No makeup for me today, as I can’t bear even one more minute of this crying. I scoop Ayla up and bring her into my bedroom, trying to distract her with my hairbrush. As I’m getting dressed, Em wanders into the bedroom and starts jumping on the bed. Ayla joins him, finally distracted from her misery, and there is peace for exactly one minute, which I use to pull my clothes on and attempt to accessorize. Then Ayla pulls Em’s hair, and all hell breaks loose. I spend the next twenty minutes alternately comforting and scolding each of them.

            I make my way into the kitchen, and get myself a coffee and a piece of toast while I try to check my email. As I’m doing this, my phone rings. It’s Avery’s (almost 8) school, saying he is sick and would I please come and pick him up. Avery, who has a different dad than my other two kids, was dropped him off at school this morning by his father and it’s my day to get him back. It’s pouring rain out, so I stuff the kids into boots and jackets and head out the door. Before I pick Avery up I need to hit the post office, a place that’s famous for bringing out the worst behavior in my two youngest. Bracing myself, I get them out of the car and speak to Em about expectations, good behavior and subsequent rewards, which he seems to understand. But the minute we get in line, my worries are founded. The store is eerily quiet, the silence punctuated only by my children’s gleeful laughter as they try to rip envelopes from hooks and the sound of my own manic voice demanding they stop. There are four women in line ahead of us and one behind. I watch as one by one, their eyes avert and their lips purse. Emerson finally settles down when he discovers a cool card on the counter with coins in it. I warn him to be careful, and miraculously, he is. He turns it over in his hands, asking questions, until the post lady plucks it from his fingers and says, “let’s not ruin it, or no one will want to buy it.” Steam emits from my ears as I pluck it out of her hand and pointedly return it to my son. “Since when is looking at something ruining it?” I growl at her, slamming my package down on the counter. Yep, told her.

            When we get to Avery’s school, I park thirty feet from the entrance and ask Em to wait in the car with a now-sleeping Ayla, because I know I will be back in two minutes flat and getting them in and out of the rain again will be a huge ordeal. He agrees, but by the time I get back into the car with Avery (who seems absolutely fine to me, btw) Em is screaming as if he’s been attacked by an ax murderer. I comfort him, apologize, and drive to the grocery store to pick up some soup for Avery. Once there, Ayla commandeers a mini shopping basket on wheels and starts running wild with it. As I chase after her, Em decides it’s all a big fun game and grabs his own cart, mowing down unimpressed shoppers as he runs in the opposite direction from me. I put Avery in charge of going after him while I round Ayla up. I pick her up and she starts to scream, so I put her under my arm like a football, where she writhes furiously. Ignoring dirty looks, I herd Emerson to the cash register while Avery badgers me with requests for gum and chocolate. As I’m typing my info into the pinpad to pay, Ayla and Em start ripping the wrappers off chocolate bars. This is when I yell. Loudly. Stuffing the bars back into their wrappers, I throw Ayla over my shoulder and grab Em’s arm and pull them out to the van, Avery in tow. When we get to the car, Ayla tries to escape into the backseat, so I grab her and plunk her into her car seat. As she screams and arches her back, I manage to buckle her in only by pressing my elbow into her chest while yanking the straps around her body.

            Back at home, it’s lunchtime. Avery likes the lentil soup I bought, but Em and Ayla both take one bite and ask for pickles instead. I bribe Emerson into finishing his soup by promising we’ll make cookies later, but Ayla is a different matter. I give her a bowl of mashed carrots and peas, which she normally loves, but she protests by throwing it across the room and leaving a splattered orange mess across the floor, window, and chair. As I’m cleaning it up, Em asks if he can watch The Incredibles. I put the DVD in, and then make the huge mistake of turning it on for him. He utterly and completely melts down, insisting he wanted to be the one to press the PLAY button. I concede to temper the storm, even though this means ten minutes of pressing buttons to get back to the beginning of the DVD, all the while listening to Ayla scream because she slammed her finger in a door, she can’t get a toy from under the bed, and the cat ran away from her. Em finally gets to press his beloved PLAY button, he settles down, and I run to Ayla. As I’m comforting her, Avery comes by with the cat’s toy and randomly whips it at Ayla’s face. It doesn’t hit her, but she starts to scream, so it’s time for a teaching moment with Avery.

            It’s cookie-making time. The kids clamor around me, competing for counter space. I turn my back for a minute to use the microwave, and Ayla gets hold of the egg carton. I make a lunge for it, but it’s too late. Three eggs fall onto the counter, breaking into a messy puddle of yellow. I look at the clock, wondering if it’s too early for a glass of wine.

            While the kids eat their cookies, I finally manageto check my email. There is a message from my editor that needs to be attended to. As I’m responding to it, Ayla climbs up beside me and starts pressing buttons on my laptop with her chocolate-smeared fingers. I bat her hand away, so she tries to close the computer screen as I’m typing. Just as I’m finishing up the email, my husband, who is out of town, calls on Skype. Em and Avery come rushing in at the sound of his voice. We chat for a few minutes, me bridling Ayla all the while as she tries to kiss the computer screen and hammer buttons. Suddenly her laughter turns to a cry, and she throws up all over the keyboard. Lightning fast, I grab a cloth and clean it up before it can drip into the cracks. Remy tells me he needs to head to a meeting and says goodbye. The minute his face disappears from the screen, Em melts down into an inconsolable puddle of misery because he didn’t get to press the hang-up button. I let it ride for a bit, but when his tune hasn’t changed ten minutes later, I try to call Remy back. He doesn’t answer, which sends Em into such a state of outrage that I carry him into the bedroom, place him in a chair and close the door so he can cry it out.

            By late afternoon, the clouds have magically disappeared along with Avery’s mystery ailment, so I send all the kids outside to jump on the trampoline. Ayla, wise for her months, decides to don her helmet. For the next thirty minutes, I act as umpire and nurse as my children collide, laugh, scream, and sustain injuries the likes of WWF.

            Dinnertime. I’m currently battling a cold and a pulled muscle in my back, so I go on a house-wide search for Advil. As I’m looking, the children follow me everywhere like pint-sized groupies, getting underfoot and front-of face, pulling everything from cabinets. No Advil, no Tylenol. The thought of piling the kids into the car to go and get some is unbearable, so I call upon my neighbor, who kindly dispatches a bottle of Tylenol over via my messenger Avery. Hooray–the best thing that’s happened today.

            Since Remy is out of town, I’m making deli pizza and broccoli for dinner. I set the kids up with building blocks and leave them in the living room. As I put toppings on the pizza and chop the broccoli (about ten minutes time), I intervene no less than four fights between the three of them and assign two time-outs. At one point, Em yells at the cat when she retaliates against a fur pull from Ayla. “Don’t hurt my sweet baby girl!” he says. It’s adorable, but I can’t help thinking of a cartoon I once saw of a hunter running to the rescue of a lion stuck on some train tracks because he wanted to have the thrill of the kill for himself. And I’m right, because a few minutes later Ayla is screaming bloody murder about a swat over the head from Em.            

            My phone rings as I’m sliding the pizza into the oven. It’s my friend Shannon, who I’ve been trying to catch up with for two weeks. Within five minutes, Ayla is shrieking to get up in my arms, Em is yelling about a show he wants to watch, and Avery is tapping me on the shoulder because he wants me to input my password for an update on a video game. I pick Ayla up and put her on my boob (17 months old, sooooo ready to wean her) and input the password as I’m talking. Em finally gives up and announces that he needs to poop. I actually relax for a moment, until Em comes out of the bathroom, bottomless, and proceeds to make a long brown smear on the sofa with his bum. I excuse myself from my phone call, grab his arm and haul him back into the bathroom. There, I review potty procedure with him, but by this time he’s moved onto more pressing matters. “Mommy. My wee-wee is too long!” he says, gazing down at it in horror, and indeed it is. I assure him it will shrink back to its normal state once he stops touching it, and then I go into the kitchen and open a bottle of wine. It’s only five o’clock, which means three more hours until the kids’ bedtime.

            Since Poppie is out of town, the kids get to sleep in bed with me. Em drifts off and Avery lies still, but Ayla is hell on wheels, rolling around and kicking her brothers. I get up with her, put Neil Diamond on, and she finally settles into my arms. While I’m dancing around the darkened room with her, Avery gets up twice to report first a tummy ache and then a headache. I know he’s looking for sleep-time stall tactics, so I simply tell him to go back to bed. When Ayla finally drifts off, I lay down with her. Like magnets, the boys roll toward me. I sit up and look at the landscape of our bed. We have a king size mattress, and four bodies are crowded onto one-third of it, leaving me with a pencil-like sliver of space at the very edge. I lay down again and close my eye, reflecting on my day. I think of Em this morning, when he saw me in my nightie and said, “I like your dress, Mommy, it’s really cute!”. I think of Ayla, who stubbed her toe and then spent the next few minutes trying to kiss it better. I think of Avery, who told Remy he looked like a Minecraft head when his picture froze on Skype. And then I think of the key gems from my own mouth today, which included, “your sister is not a drum” “no playing on the iPad while you’re pooping” and “the toilet brush is not for brushing our hair”. And, despite my exhaustion, I actually start to giggle. Quietly, of course, so I don’t wake the little ones beside me. For they are angels, after all.

So, there you have it. Tell me, fellow mommies (and daddies!), how does this day rate compared to your experience…horrible, average, or (gulp!) better than normal?

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My little angels on a better day

Xoxo Cea

 

 

 

Olive You So Much

My 23-month-old daughter is addicted to olives. And when I say addicted, I mean this: I’ve never taken crack and have no idea what its hold feels like, but I can only imagine that Ayla is dealing with the toddler equivalent. I mean, it’s bad. Deep in the throes of her dependence, she’ll do anything to score one of her beloved little fruits, including breaking into the fridge, turning on the charm, screaming, thrashing, and even forgoing sweets in favor (which I guess is a good thing). I don’t dare cook with them, for no sooner will they be chopped than my back will turn and the lot will be devoured. She’ll take any type, although she does favor small, black, pitted Kalamatas. When we go to the grocery store, I have to sneak them into the cart lest she spy the container and furiously try to rip the lid off to get her fix. As just happened the other day, in fact. There we were, breezing happily through the deli section when she caught me doing the deed. She made a grab for the tub, and I gently pried it out of her vice grip. She started to howl, so in the interest of trying to avoid a scene, I gave her “one olive for each hand”. She swallowed them whole and started screeching for more. Determined to finish my shopping and not give in–not to mention that my 3-year-old son was busy “shopping” for everything in sight–I remained firm and tucked the addictive substance under a floppy head of lettuce.

Well. Have you ever seen a toddler shriek so fiercely they throw up? That’s exactly what happened, right there at Extra Foods, in front of an audience of both sympathetic bystanders and highly annoyed fellow shoppers. And it didn’t end there. My normally sweet little angel proceeded to scream in the car until we arrived home, whereupon she stopped long enough to down a handful of her beloved morsels like a child starved. Using my best distraction tactics, I eased the tub back into the refrigerator and slowly backed away. But then I saw her eyes set upon her empty bowl, and I knew beyond a doubt that hell was once again about to break loose.

So what does all of this have to do with writing? Not much, except to say that the olive issue has become one of my daily battles as I’m attempting to practice my craft. Pursuing a writing career with young children and no childcare is both possible (which is why I love it) and very challenging (which is why some days I feel like drinking before noon). Often I’m forced to write in the eye of the hurricane, with the kids running around me, and lately a lot of that storm has involved the dreaded O-word. So, is it time for an intervention and trip to Mediterranean food rehab? Stay tuned…

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Don’t let the angel face fool you! 

Xox Cea

From There to Here in Eleven Months, or Editing the Manuscript: Fantasy vs Reality

One week ago, I took a package down to the post office and slapped it onto the counter with a silly grin. Never mind the odd glance from the cashier; I was there to mail the final proofread pages of my manuscript back to my publisher, and it was my moment to celebrate! After all, after eleven months of editing my soon-to-be-released memoir, North of Normal, my work was done. Um, say what? Could this really be true? Not venturing into the bottomless-pit-of-fodder of the 30+ drafts I’ve worked on over six years to make my book good enough to get an agent, and then a publisher (I’ll save that for another day), what I will talk about here is the difference between what I imagined the editing process would be like versus its reality.

Before I got a publishing deal, I spent more than a little bit of time staring off into space when I should have been writing, daydreaming about what it must be like on the other side. From my own terrain, that of a hopeful would-be author, I imagined the editing process would go something like this:

1. Editor reads manuscript, loves it and buys it

2. Editor goes through manuscript, marking where I should delete or expand, and returns it to me

3. I make requested changes

4. Editor rereads, praises changes and sends to proofreader

5. My book goes to print

Can someone say this chick is green? As it turned out, there was a whole team of lovely folks whose job it was to help me rewrite, reevaluate, and rejig my book. In actuality, the process looked a lot like this:

1. Canadian editor reads my manuscript and buys it, and a week later a US editor reads my manuscript and buys it. They even tell me they love it! Yay, I got the first point right.

2. Since my book is bought by HarperCollins in both Canada and the US (not always the case – often they are bought by difference publishing houses in different countries), my two editors decide between them that Iris from Canada will be my main editor. I must say here that both she and Claire, my US editor, have been two of the most awesome people I have ever e-met (they are in Toronto and New York respectively, so we haven’t met in person yet). Encouraging, insightful and respectful, they’ve been way more enjoyable to work with than I could have predicted.

3. Nearly two months after Iris buys my book, I haven’t heard another word from her by either phone or email. I know that my pub date is more than a year away, so there’s no big rush, but secretly I’m freaking out a little that she’s completely forgotten about my book/reread it and decided she hates it and just doesn’t know how to tell me. But then my first advance installment arrives in the mail, and I relax a bit. Surely they wouldn’t be sending me money if they’d changed their minds? I muster up my courage and send Iris a check-in email. She responds enthusiastically, apologizes for being busy and tells me she’s looking forward to getting started on my book. Phew!

4. Three weeks later, I get a detailed email from Iris with the changes she’d like to see to my manuscript. Because I’m highly motivated/obsessive-compulsive, I bang out the edits in about two weeks. Iris seems a little taken aback by my speed, but praises my efforts and tells me she hopes to read it in the next few weeks. I grin gamely and vow to craft out with the kids every day to keep my mind off her future potential reaction.

5. As promised, I get a detailed response from Iris about a month later. Overall she’s happy, but she wants a few more tweaks. My husband occupies the kids, I work on the ms over the weekend and send it back to Iris on Monday. Once more, she admires my speed and politely tells me she’ll get to it “as soon as I can”. I sigh and break out the glue gun again.

6. A couple weeks later, Iris lets me know she’s happy with the changes and ready to send it to copyediting. Hooray! I assume this is the last step until first pass pages. Hahaha.

7. About a month later, I get an email from a lovely woman named Noelle. She is the managing editor at HarperCollins, and she lets me know that both she and my freelance copy editor, Allyson, have read the ms and are sending it back to me with their markups. Excitedly, I open the document to take a look. Omg, horror of horrors. There is virtually not one single page of my whole, entire, ninety-thousand-word manuscript that does not have a red (for Allyson) or blue (for Noelle) comment or edit on it. Instructed to either accept or reject changes with my own color, green, I get to work. I seriously cannot believe how many times I use the words “terrified” (nineteen) and “crunched” (twelve). Thank god for thesaurus.com.

8. After sending the ms back to Noelle, she and Allyson (who is amazingly fabulous, by the way, the perfect combo of brilliant, critical and reassuring) both reread it and return it to me for a few further tweaks. I’m doing an awesome job, Noelle tells me, which makes me embarrassingly and disproportionately happy. And as soon as I finish this round of edits, she adds, the ms will be ready to send to Claire. My tummy feels a little nauseous, just for a sec.

9. Though I adore Claire, she intimidates me the tiniest bit. At this point I haven’t communicated with her a lot yet, and she’s such a legend in the business that I can’t help worrying a bit about her reaction. Claire reads the book and gets back to me with her comments. Thankfully there aren’t many of them, because they are all valid and, um, served without sugar. Ack!

10. I incorporate changes based on Claire’s comments and send the ms back to her and Iris. Perfect, Iris says, now she’ll just forward it on to legal. Say what? There’s another little twinge in my tummy, but this time it’s similar to the way a customs officer makes me feel like a criminal just for coming through his lineup. No worries, Iris assures me, their lawyer just need to be on the lookout for possible libel issues because my story is a true one.

11. HarperCollins’ US lawyer reads the ms and calls me to go over a few things. She just wants a couple of identifying features changed, and that’s that. She lets me know she’ll be sending it on to the HC Canadian lawyer next, and we end our final email convo by exchanging cute pics of our kids. Happy day.

12. A week or so later, I hear from Iris again. She’s had their Canadian lawyer look at it and sends me a list of her notes. Clearly, things in Canada are a little different. The Canadian lawyer not only wants several additional changes, she also wants some validation that my story is real. I know there have been some issues with fictionalized memoirs over the years, so this turn of events is not totally unexpected. I send photos, school and divorce records, and a list of contact people from my former lives. Iris has a brief and reportedly pleasant phone conversation with my father, and everything’s A-okay. I stop obsessing.

13. I get one more email from Noelle, asking me to deal with a few last-minute tweaks from Allyson, my copy editor. I do so, and Noelle sends the ms on to Iris.

14. Iris asks me to draft the changes suggested by the lawyers. She then sends my response on to Doug, her assistant, to key these edits in so that we don’t get too many drafts circulating, of which there are currently about twenty between myself, Noelle, Claire, Iris, Doug and my agent Jackie. A bit of confusion ensues as to which one is the most recent.

15. Doug inputs the final changes and sends the ms back to me for approval. I accept, he sends back a message saying it is now going to proofreading before being sent to typesetting. Once again, I assume my job is done. Not so.

16. A few weeks later, I receive a package in the mail from HarperCollins Canada – my typeset manuscript!! I spend a few minutes drooling over the layout and marveling at its physical likeness to a real book. Then, while my husband plays with the kids at the park that weekend, I sit on a nearby bench and proofread and mark it up as instructed. As much as I had been dreading reading my ms for the thousandth time, to my surprise, I enjoy the process. The typeset pages give me enough distance from my own writing to feel like I am actually reading – yes, a real book!

17. Three weeks before Christmas, I receive a very special item in the mail: an advance reader copy of my book. This is essentially an exact mockup of the book, minus input of final proofreading edits and reviews on the back cover. I hold it in my hands, and for a moment I really am filled with the feeling I had hoped for: a sense of pride and accomplishment.

18. Just before Christmas, I receive my US first pass pages to proofread and mark up. I complete the edits on a day just before New Year’s, and voila – here we are. A much more involved, detailed and rewarding experience than I’d ever imagined. I’m happy and relieved to be finished, but also a little achy inside, because despite everything, I really did enjoy writing this book, as well as – yes – the editing process. I guess that can only mean one thing: time to start writing another one!Image

My husband holding my advance reader copy, peekaboo Emerson in the background

Xoxo Cea

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