FreshMD

The antidote: knitting

Post up at Mothers in Medicine on why I consider knitting the perfect antidote to medicine and parenting.

Testing Flickr's 'Blog this' feature

Leif's scowls make me laugh every time because they require a concerted effort on his part. He carefully arranges his face and announces: "I'm MAD at you!" In this case it was time to head home after picking wild blueberries on Mt. Seymour in the evening.

Dandelion poetry

Thank you for all your kind comments and well wishes on the last post. As suggested, I plan to link to my Mothers in Medicine posts from here. There's a new one up today.

Island

On the way home as we round one of the final bends before our place, we pass Grey Rocks Island. It's privately owned with a house tucked into the stand of trees. I've never seen any comings or goings; it's always completely still. I imagine the inhabitants lying on the couch reading novels all day. 

As we swing by in the minivan, it almost makes me feel a bit gritty and common, having neighbours and a driveway and a mailbox and all. 

Sanatorium

One of my favourite photos in the album from my grandmother is this one, of her brother in a sanatorium in Harderwijk, the Netherlands in the 40's: 

Sanatorium sounds psychiatric, suggesting a place where one's sanity is restored, but it's an institution for medically supervised recuperation from disease, usually tuberculosis. From a medical and a literary perspective, I was admittedly pleased to discover that a relative had suffered from consumption.

 

I love the button-up pyjamas, the drape of the bed sheets, the sun behind the curtains in the high windows and - most of all - the perplexing X where Oma marked her brother in ballpoint pen.

A walk to the village for Honey's donuts

Home again, reluctantly

We're home. I had a work meeting this morning and felt disoriented for the first few minutes. Then my recent life of novels and beach fires dissolved in the grey Vancouver rain and I felt as if I'd never left.

Now there's a fridge to stock, suitcases to unpack, photos to sort and patients to catch up on.

California 2009

We're in California (again). I wore shorts today, the warm air washing my bare legs like bathwater. My suitcase is full of books and Internet access is spotty. The cherry trees behind the cabin are in blossom and vibrating with honeybees and I saw a hummingbird as fat as a sparrow this morning. I slapped sunscreen onto three sets of lean little legs and the kids wheeled around on their scooters in the lane for hours. We keep setting out bowls of giant strawberries.

I feel like I have been bounced out of a rut I didn't even know I was in.

Decorating with vintage records

I covered one of Saskia's bedroom walls with vintage record covers.

Collected one or two at a time over a year of thrifting, they cost 25 to 50 cents apiece. Most of them are from the 1950's and 60's. The art on some of these is quite wonderful, and I'd admired them for years but couldn't think of a use that would justify relaxing my efforts to stem the flow of goods coming through the front door.

I keep getting asked how I mounted these to the wall. I drove a nail through each one. All those years of renting as a student, where pounding holes in walls was expressly forbidden, make pock-marking my own walls that much more satisfying.

Now I have a drawer of LPs that I'm sure Saskia would enjoy, but no record player. I don't want a 70's one with giant speakers, but I don't want one that's meant to hook up to a laptop, either. Sony makes this attractive option, but spending $90+ US for a machine to play these two-bit records seems a little self-defeating.

So, another corner of Saskia's room done, another one with which we're equally happy. Really, I should be focusing on the adult living spaces: removing wood paneling, getting some hardwood floors installed, finding a couch. But somehow that feels so much more like work.

Striped

The Morehouse striped vest is off the needles.

This isn't a Sunday-best vest. It's meant to be worn Deep Cove-style, with rolled up sleeves, shirt untucked, ferns and pine needles snagged onto the back. When I knit something for a four-year-old, I fully expect it to be rolled around in.

It does work just as well worn reading Beatrix Potter in front of the fire.

The vest was a beginner-level project, knit with undyed Morehouse merino 2-ply in brown heather and soft white on 3.25 mm needles. The yarn was coarser than what I'm used to (but not itchy), and the needles smaller, and I enjoyed the change.

I've recently joined Ravelry, the online knit (and crochet) community, which allows you to organize your knitting projects, yarn stash and needles, and provides an extensive catalogue of projects shared by others. You have to apply to be invited to join, but I think that's just a manoeuvre to inflate members' sense of accomplishment and belonging. It's not like you have to mail them a swatch.

I'm feeling undecided about what to tackle next. A stuffed turtle? Some Elizabeth Zimmermann?

Or call it a season? I've been back to gardening already, we're planning our annual March-break California road trip and it feels like we're barreling towards spring.

Nordic skiing

We took the kids nordic skiing for the first time on Saturday afternoon.

Realizing that  - especially for kids - the anticipation and memory of an event can be every bit as pleasurable as the activity itself, we began to whip them into a frenzy already as we ate our breakfast fruit souffle. They promptly donned boots, snowsuits and mittens and spent the rest of the morning with their over-padded selves wedged into their chairs at the kitchen table, trying to cut out paper Valentines with puffy mitts on.

Pete and I didn't have any lofty goals for the trip to Cypress Mountain, seeing it as more of a reconnaissance mission. We planned to check out the children's rental options, introduce the kids to locomoting on two extra appendages and perhaps, if we dared to dream, have hot chocolate at the lodge.

And success! Leif glided around like a true Norwegian. He did fall over a hundred times, maybe two, but he laughed every time. At one point I caught him scrambling out of the track, trying to breach a snowbank to ski into the woods in pursuit of bobcats, he explained.

Saskia sailed down hills with her braids flagging behind her, arms outstretched, pink snowsuit-clad legs wobbling.

We were happy that the kids were so game. I think gameness is an undervalued trait, and I hope they maintain it into adulthood.

Ariana was too small for even the tiniest boots, so Pete pulled her in a pulk. Truth be told, I'm not sure we could have handled a third one on skis.

We made it to the lodge. We had hot chocolate and poutine on a scarred wooden table in a dark room that smelled of wet clothes drying.

Happy and tired in the van at the end of the day, we snaked down the mountain with the lights of Vancouver and beyond sparkling orange against a dark blue-gray evening. Mission accomplished, and then some.

 PS The Sony has been hospitalized with a seizure disorder NYD and so I am back to a compact camera (Canon Powershot SD880) for the time being.

Last one before I'm back to patients and disease

One feature of visiting Ontario that I particularly enjoy is the relaxing familiarity of Pete's parents' house. Every year as I set my suitcase up against the south wall of the bedroom and flip open the lid, top-heavy with balled-up socks and wads of underwear, it's like déjà vu.

The kids quickly reacquaint themselves with the wonders of Opa and Oma's house. There's the marvel of a dog sleeping in his bed behind the stove. ("I want to pet his hairs!" Ariana said over and over.)

There's another Christmas tree, with new ornaments to discover,

puzzles to do at the kitchen table,

and grandparents with whom to cuddle.

 

As for me, I read Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life, knit up most of the Morehouse striped vest for Leif, drew up lists for the New Year, roamed around with my camera and didn't have to cook a single meal.

And when my brother-in-law asked me about a pain in his knee, it required supreme effort to recall anything medical.

Even better than brown thistles

So here's the reason we visit Ontario so faithfully:

There are twelve grandchildren and one on the way (that's not an announcement). The oldest is eight and the youngest, to whom I'm trying hard not to be partial, is three-month-old Katja Martina:

Three of the grandchildren are younger than Ariana, and that felt strange. It was odd not to pack a diaper bag and not to request 4L jugs of whole milk whenever Pete's mom headed out to the grocery store. I enjoyed not being responsible for keeping a little one from falling headlong down the spiral staircase to the basement or knocking a glass of red wine onto the cream carpet. Caring for three kids was ridiculously easy, relative to previous years.

My kids have one cousin in BC, but little PJ is regrettably infantile and has yet to realize any potential as a playmate. The Ontario cousins can play Stiga hockey,

* Josh & Saskia

have identical Webkinz (which can be identified by their peculiar scents, according to their owners),

* Saskia & Elle

and share confidences while lounging on the couch.

* Ava & Ariana

One of the best parts of Christmas was watching the cousins open their Christmas gifts at Opa and Oma's place. The afternoon sun slanted in the windows, Uncle Jack handed out the gifts from under the tree and the room overflowed with delighted squeals, shredded paper and one very big and blessed family.

* Opa & Katja

People often ask why I have "so many kids" - "stacks of babies" as one colleague puts it - and, while I think three is fairly modest, part of the reason is that I wouldn't mind being in the position of the matriarch in that first photo myself, one day.

Brown

We're back from visiting the family homestead in Ontario, to which Pete moved on his third birthday. This was my eleventh consecutive Christmas vacation there.

I've finally put my finger on what most defines the southern Ontario winter landscape for me: brown, brown in every shade and texture.

The vegetative architecture amazes me. In Vancouver, generally the expendable plant parts dissolve a month into the fall rains, and the remainder stays green year round. The stark, perfect forms of burrs and spent flowers at every turn were remarkable.

That's the kind of vacation it was - one with all sorts of treasures underfoot, and the luxury of time and energy to enjoy them. I hope your Christmas was similarly lovely.

More to follow.

Snowed in

Looking south from our place this morning. Neighbours staggered up the cliff to the right, Hamber Island to the far left, and SFU/Burnaby Mountain straight ahead, obscured by cloud.

The trails in the woods, over which I've struggled to push a stroller, made for a gentle, undulating toboggan ride to the village. Pete even pulled Ariana down a flight of stairs at one point.

The  south shore of the Cove.

Saskia resists heading out to the woods in the snow. She'd rather sit at home in front of the fire, as would I. I explained that it's good to get out every day, whether or not you feel like it, to avoid cabin fever.

"What's that?"

I defined it, and she remarked emphatically, "I'm glad no one in our family's ever caught that!"

Well, I'm relieved that those times I've been driven stir-crazy at home with the kids appear to have gone largely unnoticed.

A stop for Honey's doughnuts, that Deep Cove specialty that soaks the little brown bag with grease before you've even brought it to your table, and hot drinks.

Can't think of another place in which I'd rather be snowbound.

Tunic

When our driveway is littered with cedar debris, night falls shortly after Saskia comes home from school and my slippers stay on all day, it's time to knit. The last two winters I took on adult projects. This year I'm knitting for the kids, those perfectly small and forgiving recipients.

I just finished Morehouse Farm's Child's Tunic, in their merino worsted weight natural brown heather with white trim. Merino wool is lovely because it's not itchy. I love Morehouse Farm's undyed wool: this brown heather is 65% white wool blended with 35% brown, which is black wool bleached chocolate by the New York State sun.

After placing my order in October, I waited impatiently for it to arrive. I could track its progress online, and it sat at Customs in Montreal for weeks. It didn't seem right that a small box of wool could be regarded as possible contraband, and I was so annoyed with the wait that I decided I didn't want to knit this season after all. But when the parcel arrived on my doorstep one grey, wet afternoon I forgot my resolution and cast on the first stitches before the cardboard was even in the recycling.

I so enjoy that knitting is portable, and that little bits of my travels get worked into the garment. The cast on was done while Pete's mom was visiting; the stitches were divided for the front and back while waiting for the ferry in Tsawwassen; the back was knit in the atrium of the Empress Hotel; a perfect three needle shoulder bind-off was executed in Parksville one evening while deer grazed outside the cabin; and the sleeve cuffs were finished on a Sunday afternoon at home in front of the fire.

No part of this sweater was knit at a medical conference.

Morehouse included a postcard with my order, and Ariana was enchanted when I explained the link between the sheep and her sweater. She carries the card when she wears the sweater, and it's worn and bent with her two-year-old affection. "Wool! Sheep! Sweater!"

This was an easy, beginner-level project. As always, I tweaked it a bit. I knit buttonholes and sewed on some sweet wooden apple buttons, but disliked the cluttered end result and went for a clean crocheted finish instead. I also lengthened the sleeves.

Now, Saskia wants a toque and Leif has requested a vest, scarf and slippers. I'm happy to oblige.

Forcing bulbs

Every day that I'm home that's not rainy, we head out to the yard for an hour or two. The kids tie their bikes together with skipping ropes and I putter in the garden. There are few things that I enjoy more than moving dirt and rocks around while the kids play, squirrels chatter and boats drone up and down the Arm. But it's almost December, and I know our days are numbered.

When I picked up a few hundred bulbs last week, I decided to get some hyacinths and paperwhites (white daffodils) to force indoors this year. The idea of tricking bulbs into thinking it was time to bloom captivated the kids.

For the paperwhites, we put some pebbles in the bottom of a glass (with much analysis of the merits of each stone as it was carefully placed by little fingers), set the bulb on the rocks and added water until it was just touching the bottom of the bulb.

That was Thursday night. On Saturday morning Saskia and Leif literally screamed with excitement when they noticed the hundreds of little roots budding from each bulb. I have to admit, I was pretty impressed myself. And at a dollar a pop, this is the most affordable fun we've had in a while.

For the hyacinths, we set the bulbs in hyacinth glasses, added water, and set them in a dark cupboard in the cellar. They need an eight to ten week chilling period before they can come upstairs to bloom. I'm limiting check-ins on those ones to once a week. 

I do find the term 'forcing' bulbs a little off-putting. It sounds so unnatural. And when I read that a forced bulb will not usually bloom again because of the tremendous amount of energy required, I felt a little pang of guilt.

Hopefully that will abate when I have a windowsill full of narcissi blooming in December.

For more information, HGTV has a good article on forcing bulbs.

Fifth disease

Fifth disease - so called because it was historically classified as the fifth classical childhood rash* - is a common pediatric viral infection that causes a mild illness. It is also known as parvovirus B19, slapped cheek syndrome or erythema infectiosum. More than 50% of children aged 15 have antibodies to parvovirus, through previous infection.

The incubation period is four to fourteen days. The prodrome (early symptoms) includes fever, runny nose, sore throat, headache and gastrointestinal upset, and may last for two weeks. Most children, however, appear well.

The rash that follows has two stages. Stage 1 involves the slapped cheek phenomenon, with circumoral pallor (white area around the mouth). Stage 2, which follows one to four days after the facial symptoms, consists of an itchy rash in a lacy pattern of raised, red areas over the trunk and extremities. The rash persists for one to six weeks, and may be exacerbated by sunlight, heat and exercise.

Fifth disease, which is primarily transmitted by respiratory droplets, is highly infectious. 50% of household contacts of an affected person will become infected; 20-30% of teachers exposed to an infected student will catch the virus. The infectious period precedes the onset of the rash. So Ariana, frightful though her appearance may be, does not pose a risk to other children. Children who have been diagnosed with fifth disease may attend daycare or school.

5-10% of children (usually adolescents) and 60-70% of adults develop short-term mild arthritis one to three weeks after the initial infection. In children, the knee is most commonly affected, and in adults, the hands. The joint pain typically improves spontaneously after two weeks.

The diagnosis of fifth disease is a clinical one; blood tests are not typically performed. Treatment is symptomatic only. There is no vaccine.

The transmission rate to the fetus in pregnant women who contract fifth disease is 30%. The risk of miscarriage is 2-6%. Parvovirus can also cause fetal hydrops and congenital infection syndrome. The risk is greatest in the second trimester, and least in the first. Pregnant women who have been exposed to parvovirus should see their physician for blood tests to confirm infection, and serial ultrasound follow-up of the fetus if necessary.

Do not diagnose yourself or your child from the Internet, not even based on physician blogs, thorough and accurate though they may be. There are other conditions that resemble fifth disease, such as rubella, measles, enterovirus and drug rashes. And although fifth disease is usually benign, it can lead to serious complications in some patients, particularly in those who are immunocompromised. An experienced clinician should make the diagnosis.

For more information, check out the Canadian Pediatric Society or Merck. For the unique perspective a physician-mother has on diagnosing her own child with fifth disease, see my related post at Mothers in Medicine.

* The other pediatric exanthems are: measles (first), scarlet fever (second), rubella (third), Duke's disease (fourth) and roseola (sixth).

Cathedral window quilt

Check out the circa 1950 hand-stitched cathedral window quilt I purchased won on eBay:

I'd been keeping an eye out for something along these lines (vintage, handmade, multi-coloured on a white background) for Saskia for years, and given up on thrifting anything remotely similar.

This is a blanket I would have loved as a kid. I would have spent hours dreamily acquainting myself with all 780 coloured windows. And when it arrived from Texas, folded neatly in a slender box, Saskia loved it instantly. She picks out her favourite fabrics, and the ones she thinks others are most likely to appreciate (her choice of red gingham for my mom was spot on). She sets up game pieces in the squares, tucks her stuffed animals into it, and reads with it draped around her shoulders.

I'm no quilter, but I'm fascinated by the construction of this thing. I can't quite figure out all the loops and folds. The fabrics are beautiful, and I love to wonder what their origins were. When it passed inspection by my visiting mother-in-law last week, I was almost as proud as if I'd quilted it myself.

Now I need to stop putting together Saskia's room and focus some energy on the rest of the house. Believe it or not, Pete and I just ended a year of sleeping on mismatched single mattresses pushed together on the floor. And we weren't sharing any nice vintage bed linens, either.

Gala and jonagold

When we went to a Christmas tree farm for the first time last year, I expected to wander through a still, winter forest with an axe over my shoulder, pulling a sled. Hunting for a parking spot in a packed lot, and then marching through fields of tidy aisles of six-foot trees with hundreds of other people was not the natural experience I had hoped for.

I had some of the same sentiments picking apples this year. I had envisioned a quiet old orchard with ladders leaning against the apple trees; I would do the climbing while the kids played in the shade of the trees, collecting the fallen fruit into baskets. Then we would milk a goat and dance to accordion music in the autumn afternoon.

The reality of the Apple Barn involved first navigating through throngs of preschoolers, arriving by the bus load for their annual pumpkin patch visit. We made our way past the jumping pillow, the thirty-foot slide and the petting zoo to the orchards, which were mercifully quiet. The trees were all dwarf varieties, not big enough to cast shade, planted in long, straight rows.

I was disappointed, but the kids were thrilled. When Saskia picked an apple and marveled at the leaves still attached, I was sorry that I hadn't introduced her to fruit-on-the-tree earlier. Ariana knew better than to eat fruit we hadn't paid for, but that didn't stop her from kissing her picks repeatedly.

Leif abandoned picking to watch the wasp on apple action. He was spell-bound.

We took home 40 pounds of apples. The van was filled with happy crunching on the ride home.

I think we're going to hunt for apples with leaves attached every fall. Maybe next year we''ll venture a little further afield to the Okanagan, or just find a local backyard apple tree on Craigslist.

(Thanks to Mary for the Apple Barn recommendation.)