Merry Christmas?

I did not grow up participating in any sort of events or practices of the Christmas season.  We did not celebrate Christmas in any traditional or non-traditional ways.  People all over the world celebrate or don't celebrate for many different reasons.  In a fairly conservative Christian family, we didn't, because we were taught, it is more important to remember that Jesus died for us and by being baptized and participating in communion on Sundays we remember His sacrifice for us.

I have a hard time associating Christmas and all it entails with Christ's birth.  I also can't bring myself to associate it with a secular belief of Santa Claus.  Put this together with a non practising Buddhist background (my husband, most of his family practices Buddhism) and well, I think we are still trying to work out what Christmas is in our family.  I do, however, realize that, at this time of year when millions of people around the world, regardless of religion or denomination, are recognizing Christ, I should not take for granted that He indeed was born of God for us, in order that He could save us.  So, yes, I do need to take this and every other opportunity teach my kids of His great importance.

I would like to think that for us, it is about our family.  Celebrating everything we are blessed with.  It's also about, very importantly, giving.  To those less fortunate and in need.  Giving our time and ourselves to help others, when and where we can.  Sharing what we have.

I struggle yearly with how I am going to 'make it happen' for our family.  Since Jim and I have been married we have spent our Christmas days in and out of the car.  His mom lived about forty minutes away and we would drive to visit her and then his brothers and sisters.  Always on the 25^th because that was the only day off he got.  This year is going to be tougher.  We are both grieving.  His mom more recently and my grandma last December 25.  I have been feeling rather melancholy and there have been a few really crummy days in the last couple of weeks.

Our first year together he went out and bought a seven foot tree and I went, “what in the heck am I supposed to do with this and where will we put it?”  And every year since, he pulls it out and I have to move all of the living room furniture.  I am tempted to just get a painting of a tree that I could hang on the wall for a couple of weeks and then take it down when all is said and done.

A family member on Jim's side started a tradition of buying ornaments for our kids.  I liked it so much, I now do the same.  Each one of our kids gets an ornament and someday, when they start their own traditions, they can take the ornaments with them.

I know that it's important to create positive memories for our kids.  This, for me, is the primary reason I have taken a less hard-nosed stance on the 'no Christmas.'   It sometimes feels like I am giving in to peer pressure.  Argh!  I know what I want to impart to my kids and my hope for what I want them to take away from this time of year.  I also want them to feel like they fit in at school and when they go back in January to be able to participate in all of the fun conversations about how their holidays went and, of course, what they got.

I have, in past years, gone way overboard.  Yes, I admit, I fell into the consumer trap that is “Christmas Shopping.”  It was ugly.  When I stepped back and looked at the excess I was ashamed.   There was absolutely no need for most of the “things” my kids got.  This year though, I haven't done any shopping and that has me feeling like the worst mom ever.   I have not purchased any toys.  The kids keep asking for this and that, every time a commercial comes on with the newest and greatest thing.  We did, however, with Save-on-Foods points, get a Wii System.  So even though I can say I have spent a minimal amount of money on ourselves, this will be a big deal for the kids.  At least that is my hope.

I will make a big meal.  Bake shortbread from my grandma's recipe.  Have family over and go and visit other family and friends.  Mostly though, Jim and I will be working.  We have both taken extra shifts this year.  Maybe because neither one of us want to sit down and think about how our lives have changed so dramatically in the last year.  It's easier to go to work than to think about the heartbreak.  We will get through the holidays, but not without a few tears, I'm sure.  And the kids will enjoy themselves, at least they darn well better.  And then we get to look forward to next year.  Yay . . .

If you wish me a “Merry Christmas” and I don't respond wholeheartedly, know that it's not you.  It's just me, trying to work it out as I go along.

I am grateful for all of God's promises over my life and His comforting presence in my family.

Did I shave my legs for this?

There is a song that makes me laugh and sing really loud when I hear it.  It's by country artist Deana Carter and the title is “Did I Shave My Legs for This?”  Some days, I start to kind of feel like the woman in the song.  Today isn't one of them, but in the very recent past there were a few thrown in there for good measure I suppose.  Maybe I need to feel that way so that I can take a step back and realize how very blessed I am and to not take for granted all that is part of my life.

The days where the laundry pile seems taller than my five foot seven self.  When the kitchen and bathroom and foyer all need to be cleaned.  When I smash my shin on the corner of the coffee table and my youngest daughter spits a straw full of milk in my face (really happened).  As I stood there blinking through milk splattered eyelashes trying to deal with my son who had squeezed the toothpaste too hard and then sneezed all over the tube for a lovely combination of blue and green smear – the thought went through my mind.  Did I really shave my legs for this?

Never in my wildest dream could I have imagined some of the things I have done.  Catching vomit and or poop, sometimes both at the same time.  Trying to console crying children, who have no idea what's going on, as I puked my guts out over the toilet.  Calling poison control because someone decided to try and eat raw pork that was marinating on the counter, or diaper cream, or plum pits?  And the nose wiping – so special.  I also never thought I would ever sound like my mom.  You know – the “what were you thinking?” “because I said so.” and “don't make me come over there!”   I also never thought that certain sentences would ever be uttered - “please don't put poppy pieces up your nose.” “no, marbles do not belong in your ears.” “why is there toothpaste in the tub?” and “how did you manage to get gravy back there?”

It's really great (insert a bit of sarcasm here) when I have to redo a load of laundry because I either forgot to add the detergent or I didn't change it over to the dryer and it soured, or I changed it over and forgot to start the dryer.  Or I step in something of a sticky quality and have absolutely no idea what it is and can't identify it.  Oh, and putting my hand into the crisper to pull out fruit or veggies and realizing that maybe they've been in there just a little too long.

Back to the leg shaving though.  As a woman, it's something I (we) do as personal maintenance.  For me, it's one of several simple pleasures.  Getting a new haircut.  Putting on makeup.  Painting my nails.  I don't do it out of vanity, at least, I don't think I do.  It feels good.   In my crazy days that make up my life, feeling good is a good thing.  It means though, that I have to actually take time to do it.  Time that could be spent cleaning my house, or colouring with my kids, or just sitting and talking about my day with the husband.  That aside, once I've taken that time for me and am feeling downright great, reality smacks me in the face in the form of milk out of a straw and it starts to feel like “what was the point?”  Why did I even bother?  Nail painting usually ends up with one or more smashed fingers just before I head out the door.  Makeup ends up a colossal mess by the end of the day and it ain't a pretty sight.  For a few moments though, it felt really good.

The way I am seeing it now though, looking great and feeling great don't necessarily need to go together.  I can feel great laughing hysterically with my kids and have milk running down my face.  Or getting a sticky, slimy kiss and an “I love you.”  There are days where I feel like garbage, either because I'm sick or just out of sorts, and I spend more time trying to present a put together appearance.  So I might look good on the outside, but inside, not so much.

If I were to ask myself, “did I shave my legs for this?”  I would have to say, with complete certainty, YES!  Yes, I did.  All of it.  The expected and the unexpected.  The sticky, icky bits, and the lovey huggy bits.  All of it.  And I wouldn't change it for anything.

And so, here it is, I am grateful for those few minutes alone, uninterrupted, when I can shave my legs.   I am really grateful for my family and all the craziness that we are and for all that we are blessed with.  Razor blades included.

Crispy mornings . . .

Cold crisp mornings.  Frosty leaves crunching underfoot.  A hint of sunshine that barely warms my face.  The colours abound and I have to use the word love.  I love mornings like this.  It's so cold I can see my breath, but the promise of warmth from a sun barely over the mountains keeps me walking.  Down our street, past the reds, yellows and oranges.   The leaves at the top reflecting the sunlight off of them, all sparkly from the frost.

I really like fall.  I can pull out all my favourite soup and stew recipes (kids really like cream of broccoli).  I get to wear my cozy sweaters and fleece pants.  Snuggle a little closer with my kids and hubby.  Good times.

The other morning was so beautiful.  It was as though I was walking down a road paved in gold.  The trees lining the street all had turned their leaves the most beautiful shades of yellow.  They covered the sidewalks and road and then the sun was overhead and it was almost overwhelming.  As though my eyes could not take in all the yellow.  I just stood there and soaked it in.  Then the wind picked up wee bit and I was breathless.  Just yellow.  Everywhere.  Under my feet and around me.  I was having a moment.  Struck by the beauty that I was being blessed with on such a chilly morning.

It got me thinking about God's love for us.  We might not always see it or feel it or even be aware that He love us so much.  He is always there, ever present, faithful.  Watching over us, around us, and under our feet.

I said a prayer of thanks and with a renewed sense of joy made my way home.  Grateful for the blessing of seasons that change and the beauty we get see in each day.

Hold my hand . . .

On Friday October 5 we got a phone call.   It was unexpected, but expected.  If that makes sense.  My husband's mom had been admitted to hospital.  It's traumatic hearing the words “dire” and “nothing can be done.”  Even though we knew what had been happening inside her body for several years, we were not emotionally prepared for that phone call.  Two weeks, three very long weekends, and she passed away.

As Jim and I walked together to and from the hospital on any of the numerous visits we made, we walked holding hands.  Falling into step with each other.  Regardless of how slow or fast we were walking or the number of curbs we had to step up onto or off of, it was always in step.  Holding hands.  Silently sometimes, most times.  Quietly trying to be supportive.

Through our seven and half years together there have been many ups and downs and struggles, but our hands always gravitate back to each other.  That touch of someone who promised to love you through everything.  In times where I have been the one struggling, he has been amazing.  Now, though, it's his struggle.  I am watching his heartbreak and grief and I feel completely useless.  There isn't a thing I can say or do that is going to make this better.

Sure she had a long life.  It was a blessed life too.  Seven children, numerous grandchildren and her first great-granddaughter this past February.  Sure she's no longer suffering, but that doesn't make it any less bearable.  We are going to miss her, deeply.  Our kids haven't quite grasped the finality of it and so we get to cope our way through their heartbreak as well as our own.   This is not an easy feat.  We both find ourselves crying and trying to answer questions so that they will understand on their terms.

We have had so many impromptu conversations that have our kids trying to comprehend what death is.  How do they reconcile what they are learning from the Bible in our home and at Sunday school with all they are learning about their grandmother's Buddhist beliefs and Chinese culture and traditions.  It's a lot even for me.  So I try to wade gently and carefully and with the utmost respect for my husband and his family's way of life.  I hope and I pray that I am doing it right, and if not right, then at least not so far off base that I disrespect anyone in any way.

I reach for his hand and I hold on tight.  I offer my shoulder and a tissue and a hug.  Pouring all the strength I have into him.  Holding on and holding him up.  Side by side, together, forever. 

Parting is such sweet sorrow . . .

China – the other side of the world practically!  That's where they went.   It's pretty amazing and I kind of think there might be a wee twinge of green.  I do not have the courage to do what they have chosen.  Or, I should say, what God has chosen for them to do.  To go and be teachers.

We met in 2008 and it felt like our hearts just kind of bumped into each other and went “friend.”   It is so much more than that.   Time and distance suck, but my heart knows that even as it is breaking because she is gone we are promised to see each other again.  And we will.  Be it two, three, or even four years from now.  And when we do see each other, we will have grown, but our hearts will know each other and I think it will be like no time at all has passed.

The other day, my Ava told me she was sad because she didn't have any friends.   I told her she had lots of friends, but we have things going on right now that make it hard to spend time with them.  She told me she wanted a play date with my friend's daughter.  My heart cracked a little and then smiled.  I had to explain that she would not get to play with her because she was in China and would not be back in Canada for a while.  My heart was smiling because I was just so glad that she was the one person Ava wanted to play with.

My hope, for all three of my children, is strong friendships that will last the test of time and distance.  Those are the best ones.  The ones where it doesn't matter how long it's been, you can just sit down and be in that moment of time.   Heartfelt and honest and open and safe.

I am so grateful for my friendships.  For the women who a part of my heart, forever.  Take me as I am and love me anyway.  True blessings in my life.

Magic Mittens Part Two

We are well into October.  It seemed fitting with the cooler weather to pull out the gloves, mittens, toques, and scarves.  There have been a few frosty, chilly mornings that have warranted a pair of mitts, at least.

As I pulled out my pink ones (my magic ones), it got me thinking.  At the end of September, we had our Terry Fox Walk and raised “Twonies for Terry” for the Terry Fox Foundation, and the Weekend to End Breast Cancer.   October brings us Breast Cancer Awareness and pink mittens.  You know the ones.  And, yes, I have written about them before.

Mine have definitely seen better days.  Some the yarn has escaped the finger creases and needs to be retied.  Some of the threads on the inside are coming loose and I need to restitch them.  All that said, they are still the warmest pair of mittens I own.

More than any of that, though, they make me think of her.  My dear friend.  A true heroine.  It's been a year since her diagnosis.  She has fought through surgery.  Drugs that have caused permanent damages to her nerves.  Radiation that had her suffering through excruciating pain from the burns.  She has more surgery to come.  More battle scars to wear – proudly.  She is so courageous.  My friend, sister of my heart.

On these anniversaries of Terry Fox, Weekend to End Breast Cancer, and her diagnosis, I put my magic mittens on and I think of her.  Dukes up and kick butt attitude and I smile.  How lucky am I that she is my friend.

So I do my best to be friend to her and support her in any way I can and hope that someday, the only time we see “cancer” is when we read about it in the history books.

I can buy “magic mittens” and send “Twonies for Terry” to school with my kids.  I can wear “Livestrong” bracelets and make donations and participate in the BC Generations Project.  On my own, none of these things will even be a drop in the bucket.  Together, with others, passionate and dedicated people, can we make a difference.

For now, I do my small part and proclaim loudly – she is my friend.  She is amazing.  She is a wife, a mom, a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, a fighter and a hero.  And I am so grateful she is a part of my life.


I am including the link for my first Magic Mittens post in case you feel like reading it again. 
 http://ramblingsfrommywalk.blogspot.ca/2012/02/my-magic-mittens.html

Perfect mornings . . .

Week two.  Of school.  Of life changes.  Of walking again - back and forth to school.  Our mornings are like a perfectly choreographed ballet - NOT!  I leave the house feeling like a chicken with it's head cut off.  Heading in a direction towards school and hoping we get there intact.  I almost want to make myself a checklist at the door.

Stroller - check.
Lunches - check.
Backpacks - check.
Jackets - check.
Water bottles - check.
MP3 player - double check.
All three kids - check, check, and check.
Where's the cat? 

What the heck?  How did he get out again?  And now I'm running down the street like a crazy woman chasing my escapee kitty who's acting like he's been possessed by demons.  Have you ever tried to catch a hissing, biting, scratching, fuzzed-out, wide/wild eyed creature with razor sharp claws and teeth to match?  It's just so much fun I want to put a candle on it and sing "Happy Birthday" to add the giggles.

Caught the cat, kids sorted, and we're on our way.  The sun is shining brightly and it warms my face and I take a moment to breathe.  And then, SMACK!  Right into a spider web.  This is part where I start looking like a crazy woman again.  Or a deranged ninja on crack.  Choice words running through my head.  Full body pat down to find the offending arachnid.  Kids doubled over laughing at me.  Ungrateful little beings.  Maybe I should have stopped next to the guy toking on the sidewalk and asked him for a drag (not really, it was bad enough walking through his haze).

On the way home, it's just me and my "babes", Ava.  Her cold little fingers in my hand, pushing the stroller with one hand.  Stopping every ten seconds to pick a flower or a leaf or look at a bug or an airplane or a colour or "look there's a squirrel!"  Good times.

I am going to do my best to cherish these days with Ava because they are going to go by so fast and before I know it she'll be in kindergarten.  Grateful for the time I get to spend one on one with my littlest.

Making change . . .

I need to make some changes.  Well, probably quite a few changes.   I am trying to get past the  “I'm really mad at myself for being so incapable of taking care of me.”  And the,  “This really sucks and I feel like crap.”  It's not a pity party.  Having struggled with my weight for so many years has caught up with me.  My Doctor called it “metabolic syndrome.”   Ha ha ha.  That's kind of funny.  A way of sugar-coating the fact that I am overweight and have not been physically active enough to have normal blood pressure, normal blood sugar levels, or normal cholesterol levels.  All are just high enough to be out of the acceptable range, but low enough that he won't prescribe medication (I'm good with the no meds).  It's up to me.  Well, just – freaking – great!

A month or so ago there was a blogger who started a “write a love letter to your body” project.  At the time I was colossally busy and by the time I sat down to do it and submit it, it was outside the time line for contributing.  I do think I need to write my body an apology though.  Something along the lines of, I really messed you up good, eh.  So sorry I didn't take better care of you.  I let you go and let myself think that because I was so busy looking after everyone else you didn't matter.  Well, that's about to change and I'm just cranky enough about it to make sure it does.

Today is day four of no refined sugar.  Black coffee.  No BBQ sauce on my salmon.  No mayo on my sandwich.  Fruit and veggies rock!  And smoothies are the best!  Tomorrow, I start walking to school again with the kids, so this slug-slump, it's over.

I'm trying really hard to not be cranky.  I'm going to blame it on the sugar withdrawal.  And the absence of chocolate.  My husband informed me I wasn't being very nice.   I would have to agree.  Making life altering changes are not always fun and enjoyable and jump up and down with glee.   I'm struggling with my internal voice of condemnation and it makes me frustrated, that, at this point in my life, I cannot just ignore the negative thoughts.  That niggling in the back of my mind that wants to undermine me and what I need to do.  I will prevail though.   I don't really have a choice.  Well, I do, but the alternative would be diabetes, heart attack, blindness, kidney failure (doesn't that just sound like a right good time).  I want to be around for my kids and I would love to be around for grand-kids, should I be so lucky.  

So, yeah, changes.  Happening.  One simple decision at a time.  One black cup of coffee at a time.  One foot in front of the other.  Grateful for the wake up call.

Summer Holidays!?

I had this idea in my head that summer holidays meant rest, relaxation, taking it easy.  Not so much when you have three very different children with very different desires in every moment of every day.

As a kid, summer was running around, playing “kick the can” and “hide and seek” into the dark hours of the night.  It usually involved some sort of travel to somewhere far away from home.  And more than likely there would have been a hotel stay somewhere.  It meant running through the pastures and the gardens picking whatever we could get our grubby little fingers on without getting caught and then scolded.  There were swimming lessons to be taken and bike ride adventures and camping in the back yard and watching meteor showers.  Sleepovers and hiking and creek swimming and fishing.

This summer, for me, has been about taking and accepting opportunities to create great memories for my kids.  One after the other, after the other, after the other.  It seems as though June is but a moment ago and September is upon us in a few more days.  I can remember wanting summer to go longer than it did.  I also remember wanting to get back to school.

So when asked, “how's your summer holiday?”  I think to myself, “holiday?”  This momma hasn't had a holiday.  The kids have.  I hope it's been fun.  I've heard a few, “this was the best day ever.”  So that has to mean something.  Right?

It feels like it's been more work than the school year is.  Packing and unpacking and packing again.  Heaps and heaps of laundry.  Collapsing closets, yes closets - the girls' followed shortly after mine and I will be taking Ry's apart to fix it before it decides to attack as well.  Play dates and water parks and gymnastics lessons for Ella who is determined to put herself through a coffee table trying to do cartwheels.  Berry picking and jam making and sandcastles at the beach.  Doctor appointments and dentist appointments and a couple of “please fix my back” chiropractor appointments.

But, and this is big, there have been wonderful visits with family and friends.  Days of wonderful fellowship and evenings of laughter and shared stories.  Pool parties - and a really nasty, five days later, blister-popping-skin-peeling sunburn.  Wiener roasts with marshmallows and kids with sticks.  Front porch visits with my grandpa.  Crazy, out of the blue, summer lightening storms.  Best summer ever – maybe.  Or maybe just the best summer so far.  Summer holiday?  Nope, but I wouldn't change it for anything.

I am so grateful for the time I have with my family.  Moments of unadulterated joy in all this busyness that is our life.  I am grateful for the friends I am blessed with and the time that we've been able to share together through these last few weeks.  God is good and I am grateful and blessed. 

Rathtrevor Beach

Chasing dragonflies on the grass at Royal BC Museum

Beautiful girl, full of joy!

Priceless - Ava is such a little ham sometimes.

Check out my great horns and googley eyes to match.

Royal BC Museum

Little Qualicum Falls Park

Is lunch ready yet?

Ava

Ryan

and Ella.

You know you had a good time when . . .

You know you had a good time when your princess oldest daughter is as grubby as her younger brother and sister.  She is the child who refuses to use outhouses and outdoor park toilets because there are bugs and spider webs and creepy-crawlies – OH MY!  She had dirt stuck to the gum that was stuck to her face.  She was partner-less in the three-legged race, so she asked me.  We came in second, but who was paying attention to that.  We were all laughing so hard it didn't matter.  Her feet were black – so were mine (crocs are really hard to run in).

You know you had a good time when your son tells you his face hurts.  It could have been because he was so happy to play with his friend Hunter or maybe it was because he tried to run inside his burlap sack for the sack race and left his face in the grass on impact.  Poor guy – yes there were a few tears, but he got right back up and tried again smiling the whole time.  He didn't stop moving the entire time and had sweat just pouring down his face and neck.  Which, of course, attracts dirt.

You know you had a good time when the littlest princess has grass stains all over her pink tutu skirt and pink top.  Rolling down hills and losing shoes and going back to get the shoes and rolling some more.  Cake crumbs and jello bits stuck all over her face and in her hair.  I'm not sure I'll be able to get the skirt clean – EVER.  It took some time just trying to get her clean.

You know you had a good time when it seems that all your kids have eaten all day is sugar and you think they are going to be up all night.  I tucked them in at their regular bedtime and within twenty minutes all three were sleeping.

Yesterday was our annual South Burnaby Church of Christ Picnic.  What a blast!  I know I had a good time – my face still hurts from smiling and the wee bit of sunburn I ended up with.   The laughs were as plenty as the food.  From the races to the pinata to the karaoke.  Can hardly wait for next summer.

So grateful for all of the amazing people my life has been blessed with, friends and family alike.

When Closets Attack or Hurry, Get Mommy the Phone I might Need to Call 911

It started off as any ordinary Saturday.  Maybe a bit later than usual, as the kids slept in.  I got everybody set up with their breakfast and was getting started on the laundry that had been calling my name all week long.  I decided that I should probably get my stuff put away so I'd have an extra empty basket.  I got upstairs and started sorting out what needed to be hung up, what was going onto the shelf, and what needed to go into drawers.

As I started to hang up a couple of skirts there was a colossal noise.  I yelled.  The shelf crashed.  There I was, pinned against the opposite wall, buried in not so folded anymore clothes, and pinned by a 9'9” particle board shelf 16” in depth.  We all know how freaking heavy particle board is right?  It had twisted when it ripped off the wall and had wedged sideways into the end walls of the closet.  It seemed the more I tried to get out the more stuck I got.

The kids came running, the cat came running.  Next up was, “oh my goodness, mommy are you okay?”  “What happened?”   “Holey Moley!”  This all happened around 10:30-10:45 or so.  I still didn't know how I was going to get out.  My hips were pinned and my arms weren't quite long enough to reach around the shelf and get it unattached from the clothes rod, partly because I couldn't bend with the way my hips were trapped.  How is it I get myself into these kinds of predicaments?

I managed to kind of pull myself sideways over the shelf and clothing and get out of the closet.  As I stood there surveying the damaged walls and piles of clothing and shelf and broken plastic brackets, I felt like I was watching an episode of hoarders.  You know, the ones where you can't go anywhere in the house with out stepping on something or other.  My sorted, colour coded, seasonally organized closet was in an absolute shambles.

I am fairly certain I have never seen a spa menu with particle board exfoliation as an option – I wouldn't recommend it if they did.  My right arm was skinned and bruised.  The tops of my thighs were skinned and bruised.  I'm thinking I'll have various bruises showing up over the next few days that I will be attributing to my closet massacre.

Took me almost two hours to wrestle my way through the mess.  I used storage boxes to put my semi-folded clothes into and laid the stuff with hangers over a side table in the bedroom.  Got my tape measure out and made some diagrams with measurements.  Around 2:00pm we had a field trip to Home Depot.  You can do it, we can help.  Yeah, right!  Got great directions for where to go in the store for what I needed.  Explained to service reps what had happened and what I needed and away I went, with “all” my kids in tow.  I have three and I get, “are they all yours?”  Uh, yeah, my amazing circus that comes to town everyday.

Got home at about 3:00pm and started pretty much right away trying to get my closet back to rights.  By 5:00pm I was starting to hang things up again.  I was feeling pretty good about myself when it came crashing down.  AGAIN!  Noooooooooo!  This cannot be happening. bI had all the right tools and anchors and screws and level and tape measure and seriously.  SERIOUSLY!  How is it that I can possibly trap myself in my closet twice in one day?  More bruises, this time blood, and give it an hour and I managed to blister the back of my hand with boiling water making supper.  So NOT my best day ever!

Went on ahead and had myself one those ugly cries.  You know, tears and snot and great racking sobs.  Defeat sucks.  Then I gave myself a good ole pep talk, suck it up, put on your big girl panties, deal with it, and hollered for my husband.  Bless his soul, he comes up and takes a look and says, “hmm, well, it didn't hold.”  Yep, those were my first word too!  No, are you okay?  He just stands there looking at the walls, pretty much destroyed.  Screws and anchors ripping out of walls is kind of like the opposite of a demolition hammer.  It really is a mess.  He helps me get the shelf and the clothes rod out and I have decided that at this point I am done.  I will try again.  Tomorrow or the next day or the next.

Maybe I should be on those Rona commercials.  The ones where it isn't done right.  The big guy in the plaid shirt screwing up all his home renos.  I will not let this closet get the best of me.  I will prevail.  By all that is (I don't know – fill in the blank), I will fix this.  Or end up in the emergency ward trying.

I am trying to find something to be grateful for right now, but having a hard time.  I am grateful that I have clothes.  I will be really grateful when I have somewhere to put them.

We be jammin' . . .

We made jam today.  Yesterday we picked berries and today, after several hours we have more than enough to fill the freezer and to share.  There would have been several more batches, but I ran out of sugar and jars.  Restocked tonight before I came home from work and am ready to get going again tomorrow morning.  Seven pounds of raspberries and six pounds of strawberries go a long way.

It wasn't one of my brightest moves – suggesting we trek out the U-pick at Dreideger Farms, but we did it.  Perhaps not so smart today suggesting we start the jam making process.  It's been between 29 and 31 degrees these last few days.  I was sticky, sweaty, hot mess by the time we were done.  I told the young fellow at the weigh in station that it felt like my sweat was sweating.

I remember making jam with my mom.  Crush, stir, wait, stir, pour, seal, wait.  Sometimes, if it was a cool enough day, she'd make fresh bread and we always had fresh butter.  When it was all said and done we'd get to have a good size slice of fresh bread slathered with butter and jam.  Oh, sweet summer bliss.  When I tell my kids the stories they can hardly believe it.  There are always lots of questions and comments.  They enjoy it when I talk about things I did as a kid and that once upon a time their bamma made jam.

Making jam is like creating a little miracle in jar.  You get everything ready and then you say little prayer that it'll set.  I have had batches not set – still tastes as good, just really, really, really runny.   Part of my prayer is also just thanks and gratefulness that I have the means to make jam in the first place.  And now that my kids are bit older I have this wonderful opportunity to create these great memories with them.  They get to be part of the crush, stir, eat, stir, pour, seal, and wait.  The waiting is hard for them so I gave them each a spoonful of un-jarred product.  The looks on their faces was priceless.  When they realized that we had created something, and that they had helped, it was as though a light had turned on in their eyes.

Back to the miracle in a jar – you start with a few simple ingredients.  Berries, sugar, pectin, lemon juice.  On their own, enjoyable and or useful.  Put together – amazing.  Sweet, sticky, mouth watering goodness.  Sunshine in jar – a mini miracle.  When it sets, it's berry perfection.  And then, depending on how much you manage to make, you get to enjoy it over and over and over again.  One little jar at a time.  Reliving the special memories you made.  Good times and happy memories.

As I was setting jars aside to fill I noticed something that brought happy tears.  Last summer my grandpa gave me a bag of jars.  They were my grandma's.   In doing something that brought such great memories and stories, this was like an extra little hug from heaven.  My heart ached a little and then it smiled.  I was holding a jar that grandma used before she forgot.  She always had a huge stock of jams, jellies, and canning that we would get to choose from whenever we visited, which was often.  More wonderful memories.

Regardless of the heat, I am so grateful that I got to make yummy jam and even better memories with my kids.   I am thankful that we can do things like this together and that maybe someday they will make jam with their kids and remember making jam with me.

Celebrating - eight years . . .

July 17, 2004.  My anniversary.  Our anniversary.  Jim's and mine.  Eight years.  Doesn't seem like that many, and yet it kind of seems like it's been forever and still not long enough.  So how did we end up together?  What made me choose him?

Back in 1997 we met for the first time.  I made him a library card.  I was 21 and he was 35.  I really thought he was super cute and friendly.  He spoke really well of his family and had been talking about flying with his niece to Fort Lauderdale.  He talked about taking care of his mom.  I was crushing pretty good on him.  However, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking, “never going to happen.  He's to old for me and my family will not likely approve.”  So I put what I thought were foolish feelings aside and we developed a friendship of sorts.

It went along with us meeting up for an occasional cup of coffee or lunch together.  Visiting, laughing, enjoying each others company and then going our separate ways.  I would recommend books for him to read and it gave us more to talk about.

In 2002 I transferred to another location.  I had a couple of weeks left in Walnut Grove and was hopeful he'd come in.  By my last week I'd given up hope of seeing him.  We hadn't exchanged numbers (I could have easily gotten his, but didn't want to go all stalker-ish) so I had no way or reason to contact him.  I figured, if he'd wanted me to call he'd have given me his number.  It's a girl thing.

Little did I know, my supervisor had seen him and told him that I was leaving.  He came in on my last day, late in the afternoon.  Nothing like leaving something down to the wire (that should have been a sign of things to come).  When I saw him, it was as though my heart was about to leap form my chest.  He came, he came, he came.  Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, went my heart.  His words, “I don't think I can keep coming here and not ever see you again.”  S-A-Y W-H-A-T???  Okay, ummm, yeah!  There was a fair bit of thought gathering going on.  He wanted to stay in touch with me.  Then it was, “maybe we can go on date sometime or something?”  Or something!  Yipeee!  And then, “Oh crap.  I have to tell my dad.”

I shouldn't have worried.  My dad, my mom, my grandparents, they all loved him.  By December 2002 we had each met the families.  And he was telling me he loved me.  Well, whaddya know.  I loved him right back.  Still do.

I loved how he took care of his mom.  I loved that he had great relationships with his siblings.  His friends were great people.  His nieces and nephews adored him.  I watched him develop relationships with my family and my heart smiled.  He was willing to come to with me to worship services any and every Sunday that he didn't have to work.  He promised me he would continue to do this with me and with any kids we might be blessed with.  That was the clincher.  I knew I could easily spend the rest of my life with this man.

We exchanged our vows on July 17, 2004 in front our closest family and friends.  I would do it all over again.  My grandpa officiated and I will never forget how special that memory is to me.  I will also never forget how crazy hot it was.  About 42 degrees.  Whose dumb idea was it anyway to get married on the hottest day of the year in the Fraser Canyon?  His poor mom (she looked beautiful) was wearing polyester.   My dear friend Lisa was 12 weeks pregnant and my sister was three weeks postpartum.  Our friends and families were all half-cooked by the time it was all said and done, but I have to say, next to the births of my children, BEST DAY EVER!   And yeah, the wedding, it's just a day.  The marriage, we're working on our lifetime.  And it just keeps getting better.

I am so grateful that he chose me.  Grateful that I was given the opportunity to choose him.  Grateful that we get to share this journey together.  Walking together, side by side, holding hands, forever (and no, forever, is not long enough).

I am standing in the ocean . . .

So there I was.  Standing in the ocean.  Looking out and all I could see was ocean and sky.  I could feel the water rushing around my legs and I could hear the pounding waves.  I inhaled and sighed.  Salt water smell – there is nothing like it.  The sun was shining and warm breezes were blowing across the beach.  I felt quite insignificant.  A speck on the horizon.  If you squint really, really hard you might see me from the beach wall (I was having trouble seeing where I had parked the umbrella).

Yep, a dot.  A grain of sand.  Then my thoughts led me down another path.  In order for there to be a beach there needs to be a whole lot of sand.  Each grain is important.  Individually, a grain.  Side by side by side by side, and on – a beach.  A place of bliss and contemplation.  Joy.  Excitement.  Adventure.  Discovery.

I stood in the water in awe of this gift we have been given.  Caretakers of earth and each other.  Each one of us alone, perhaps not so significant.  Together, a force to be reckoned with.  That I can stand in an ocean and look at the horizon and know that in God's eyes, in my husband's eyes, in my children's eyes, I am important and significant.  In the whole scheme of things, a grain.  In my family, the glue.  This isn't me trying to make myself more important than I think I am.  However, I do know, in my family, I am the glue.  I am the packer of the suitcases and shoes and jackets.  I am the orderer of the meals in restaurants.  I am the kisser of the boo-boos.  I am the lunch maker and laundry washer.   I think my family could manage without me, but there would be a lot of adjusting that would have to be done to get things working the way they do now.

Sometimes, as women, as moms, we discredit ourselves and our worth.  How sad that when asked what we do, we respond with, I'm just a stay at home mom?   Or I do this and that and I'm a mom.  I am trying, just for myself, to respond – I am a mom!  I am doing the most important job right now.  I am growing my kids well.  They will be the next generation of the beach.  My little grains of sand that are worth more than all the gold in the world.  Each with their own gifts that they will take with them and share with others. 

I am standing in the ocean and I am grateful.  Grateful that my feet carried me.  Grateful that I am part of something so vitally important.  Grateful to be blessed so fully.  I am standing in the ocean.

Island holiday in brief . . .

Holidays are great, holidays are fun.  Holidays are for everyone.  Maybe not the faint of heart.  My general theory of packing is to make sure I have enough because I really don't want to have to do laundry while we are holiday-ing.  The last thing I want to be doing is looking for and sitting in a laundromat.  It never fails that I end up packing way too much.  Jim is pretty simple.  It grosses me out, but I guess it's a guy thing.

We spent a day walking around the harbour in Victoria and took one of the harbour taxis across and back to the popular fish and chips shop.  A full day at the Royal BC Museum.  Part of day three traveling to Parksville and then hanging out with the critters at Little Qualicum Cheeseworks Farm.  Two days (full days at seven plus hours) on Rathtrevor beach.  And one day hiking around Little Qualicum Falls and exploring Coombs Market (the place with the goats on the roof).

That was the simplified version of our holiday.  I found myself watching my kids and thinking about all the times we visited the island with my family.  And about my honeymoon.  We spent time in Tofino, Ucluelet, Parksville, and Victoria almost eight years ago.  Watching my kids in their excitement makes the sleepless nights and early mornings so worth it.  Seeing their joy when they come across a shell or a sand dollar.  Watching deer walk across the motel parking lot.  All the different coloured moths and butterflies. S macking a beach ball around the pool.  Each of them flying their kites, tyring to see whose was higher.

At one point on the beach, Ava and Ella had dug a small lagoon.  Ava laid down in it quite proudly.  When she got up, she said to me, “mommy, where is the sand?”  My response was, “where isn't the sand?”

I think the funniest thing was when we arrived back on the mainland.  We were about 15 minutes out from the ferry terminals.  I turned around to check the kids.  All three were asleep - heads lolling, drool running, and itty-bitty snores emanating from the back seats.  I guess they were about as tired as I am feeling.

I am feeling so grateful for our time away and so grateful to also be home again.  I'm always glad for the opportunity to get away and just be together with my family without having to do all of the everyday household tasks.  However, it's nice to be sleeping in my own bed and knowing that I will be waking up in the morning at home.  It's almost like my body is sighing with bliss right now.

Sneak attacks and cattitude . . .

Our cat Clement has attitude.  A major dose of “cattitude.”  More on that in bit.

I need to write about my son.  How incredible he is.  Incredibly wild could be an apt description, however, I choose to use the words “all boy.”  This is good thing.  If he was only partly boy, I'm not sure what that would look like.  He is dirty – all the time.  He smells like dirt and sweat and sunshine and rain, depending on the weather that particular day.  He has a really difficult time focusing on any one task.  Think of the movie UP.  The dog is talking away quite animatedly when all of a sudden he just barks out, “SQUIRREL!” and runs off.  That is my Ryan.  I tease him and and call him “squirrel boy.”  When I do, he knows he needs to listen to me.

Because he is a boy and is also very physical – thinks arms legs, hands and feet constantly in action – I will wrestle with him.  I know, not really a girly thing to be doing, but I know he needs that outlet sometimes and I can handle whatever he dishes out, whereas his sisters cannot.  So I'll say to him, “hey, you need some love?”  He perks up because he knows we can get carried away and just tackle each other for a bit and there won't be any punishment for his actions.  I do encourage him to be careful , cause sometimes, yes, it really does hurt.

The other night we were wrestling and pillow fighting.  Ryan figured a running start with the pillow might give him an advantage when it came time to follow through on contact.  He went running into the family room and ran from one end of the house to the other.  Clement was observing the activities and was just staying out of the way.  After a couple of passes through the house Clement launched at Ryan from the back as Ryan went by.  It was pretty funny.  Here's this barely two pound cat, launching a sneak attack from behind on a kid who outweighs him by more than 60 pounds.  I was gutting myself laughing.  Ryan came running a second time through and Clem launched at his front, attached himself to Ryan and proceeded to attack Ryan's groin area.  Being the ever concerned mother, I doubled over laughing hysterically.  Here's this kid running across the room with this cat attached to the front of his pants.  I almost wet myself I was laughing so hard.

It got me thinking about my little brother Levi.  He slept upstairs with us as kids and when he'd wake up during the night, like us, he'd have to make the trek downstairs to mom and dad's room.  Soggy diaper, wooden stairs, dark of night.  Pitter, patter, sit down, step, step, slide, bump.  We had a not very nice Siamese cat at the time.  I never witnessed the attacks, but squealing occasionally woke us up.  There Levi would be, sitting on the steps, scooting down on his bum.  The cat lying in wait.  Listening for each step, slide and bump.  There were thirteen steps.  Then he'd have to walk along the wall and across an open area between the dining room and the utility room to get to mom and dad's door.  The attack usually happened at the end of the wall.

Cattitude.  My word for a cat with attitude.  Clement holds a grudge.  If you torment him, he doesn't forget.  He just waits for an opportune time to seek out his revenge.  You can be sitting quite peacefully on the couch and all of sudden there are pains shooting from your foot radiating outward and up.  This sneak attack usually has some yelling and possibly a flying cat.  Other times, it can end up being a head attack.  At night, if the door is left open, any limb that is not covered by a blanket is fair game (I am concerned that we may not have given him an appropriate name – Cujo might have been better suited to his demeanour).  Ryan has done his fair share of tormenting Clement and I knew it was only going to be a matter of time.  As I was watching our crazy cat launch itself at my son, it reminded me of his uncle enduring similar attacks in the late night hours.  I'm waiting for the night it happens to Ryan, I really believe it will.  Our house will be awoken by squeals of fear and perhaps also pain.

I am grateful for antics that lead to great belly laughs.  I am grateful for the times I can physically engage with my son.  Bonding on a whole different level.  And I'm grateful for our crazy cat.  He's so entertaining.

The Butterfly Dance and other Dramatic Endeavours

A little game of remember when coming up, but first, the dance of the butterfly.  Or, my daughter's final dramatic event of grade one.

Ella's class has been studying the life cycle of the butterfly.  It starts out as a larvae, turns into a caterpillar, then the pupae, and then, voila! a butterfly.  As a class, they came up with the idea to do a dramatic dance about the butterfly's life.  They read the books The Very Hungry Caterpillar and The Lorax.  It took about 40 minutes to perform and it was really cute.  Ella and one of her classmates were selected to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar and were caught up in case of the giggles at one point that the adults chuckling as well.  Part of it might have been the other classmate who was wriggling around on the floor as the caterpillar.  Needless to say, it was fun, imaginative, and childlike.  A great time.

A couple of times it became almost painful to listen to.  And I don't mean this in an unkind way to any of the kids performing.  They worked really hard to do the presentation for us.  Some of them haven't quite got the voice projection yet.  So I literally could not hear them when they were reading their parts of the story.  Also made more difficult by the whine from my other two as to when it was going to be over.

It got me to thinking, this is the remember when part, about all of my dramatic endeavours as a kid.  My parents sat through Christmas and spring concerts through elementary school and yearly plays and presentations through high school.  And I was in every one.

When I was performing it seemed so incredibly dramatic and what we were doing must have everyone's full attention because, heck, we were doing such a fabulous job of being entertaining.  Right?  Maybe?  Maybe it was entertaining because I was trying so hard in grade one to not touch the boy in grade two who was the shoemaker.  I was the wife in The Elves and the Shoemaker and every night I had to go to sleep on this makeshift bed beside him.  I was practically off the bed in my attempts to not get near him.  Maybe it was entertaining when the two brothers started arguing about whose line it was in Charlotte's Web.  Or when part of the set caught on Katherine's dress during our rendition of The Taming of the Shrew and the fireplace fell down.  Or when the phone got ripped off the wall in Cheaper By The Dozen.  Maybe it was the distress of my having to wear an absolutely awful dress in Our Town and complain about being fat (it sort of went with the theme of my life at that time).

I remember, for the most part, having fun.  We did have fun.  And my mom always worked really hard on costumes for me.  I think of our days of dress rehearsals fondly, most of the time.  And our teacher, Ms. Houston was always so great.  Then I think, I really hope my kids will get the same enjoyment out of it as I did.   I am so proud of Ella.  She did a great job.  I'm pretty sure my parents felt the same about me when they were sitting the audience.

As the mom, now watching my own daughter, it's pretty stinking awesome!  And funny and painful and it takes a fair bit of patience.  To sit and to listen and to silence my other two.  How great though, that I get to be in the audience now.

So, so, so grateful that I get to watch this progression of my daughter through school.  She was a beautiful butterfly yesterday.

Fighting Melancholy

I am soooo looking forward to this school year being over.  Don't get me wrong, education is a very good thing.  But I'm ready for this round to be finished.  It seems to have gone by incredibly fast, except for these last few weeks.  They are dragging, and I mean, drrraaaggggiiiinnnnnggggg by.  Homework every night, packing lunches, reading and spelling.   I just feel done.

Part of the done feeling might be the weather.  Part of it might be the melancholy.  Fighting it hard right now.   I see sunny beach pictures and I want to be there, right now. RIGHT NOW!  I've done a bit in my garden, but the rain is so not helping things out.  Everything is prepped, I just don't see the point of putting things in that are going to rot.  Colossal waste of money.

Every morning as I attempt to wake Ella, it's “I don't want to get up.  I don't wanna go to school.  Do I have to go?”  Umm, well, so sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, but, it's time to get up.  NOW! Jim's days off have been really scattered, so planning anything has been pretty much non-existent.

I'm complaining. I don't want to.  It's just kind of turned into that.  Really, in the whole scheme of things, I have nothing to be complaining about.  Sometimes though, the melancholy happens.  And then the battle ensues.  Trying to tamp down those negative thoughts and feelings.  That ugly ticker tape that runs circles around my brain space and has me doubting my worth, my value, my being.  Ugh!  It frustrates me that things that have been said to me over time can still literally and figuratively bring me to my knees.  They are so unimportant in my life.  They should not matter.  And yet, somehow, I let them in, give them a foothold, and get myself pulled into an ugliness that should long be forgotten.

These last few days have been ones in which I have struggled.  Trying hard to see all the positive.  It shouldn't be so difficult.  I have a great husband, amazing kids, wonderful family members and the best friends a girl could ask for.  My prayers are just pleas right now.  A plea for peace of mind.  A plea for the dark thoughts to be taken away.  A plea for the sun to please shine.

I am grateful that there are only eight more days left in the school year.  I am grateful that I have the means to make lunches for my daughter to take to school.  I am grateful that I woke up this morning and got to spend some quality time with my kids and my parents in the same room.  I am grateful my husband's bike rides to and from work were safe and he is here watching the news right now.  I am grateful for the peonies my husband and kids picked – they are sitting so beautifully in a vase right now.  All good things are from above.

The unending gift of laundry . . .

There is a pile in my house.  It's never ending.  As soon as I think I've conquered it, it rears up again and I stare at it in defeat.  It's laundry.  It just never goes away and most certainly can't take care of itself.

As I stood over the washing machine yesterday, I was praying and petitioning to God over family and friends and my kids and my husband.  Measuring and pouring soap and starting the wash cycle.   Trying to remember all of the gifts in my life.  Sometimes, though, I really don't want the gift of laundry.

The wash cycle finishes and I transfer all of the wet clothes over to the dryer.  It's a mundane task.  It doesn't really take a whole lot of thought.  Clean out the lint collector, set the time on the dryer and start it.  Turn back to the washer and add more soap, start the water running, put the clothes in.  I can most certainly think of other things I would much rather be doing.

Decide I need to get a handle on all of the mending that's been piling up.  Missing buttons, separated seams, hems that need to be taken up, holes in the knees.  Another heaping pile of stuff I'd rather turn a blind eye to.  I got started and before I knew it almost two hours had gone by and I'd hemmed six pairs of pants for my boys, replaced two lost buttons, and repaired a dress and a pair of pants that were torn.  As I surveyed my accomplishments (I was feeling pretty good about the repairs, cause it's pretty great when you can fix something and have it not “look” like it's fixed) I prayed again.

Too many times there are things I wish I didn't have to do.  I wish I could walk away from and not deal with, turn a blind eye to.  They are not necessarily dramatic things, maybe slightly life altering, but usually, it's about an attitude.  Mine.  It needs a run through the washing machine.  Maybe alterations here and there.  Repairs.  Upkeep.   Remembering WHO is in control and that my prayers and petitions are heard and answered in the way they need to be answered.

My bigger picture had me being humbled by something so mundane as laundry.  Service to my family, taking care of their need for clean clothes in good repair.  My attitude went through the wash with the dirty towels.  It didn't come out all fluffy and sweet smelling, but maybe something close.  Refreshed and having a different perspective of what it means to daily be of service to others.

I am learning to be grateful for the gift of laundry. 

My bucket list?

These last couple of days there has been a recurring conversation, or rather conversations, around me.  Mostly about things people want to do before they die.  Seems morbid, in a way.  But also kind of hopeful in another.  Having goals to achieve.  Whether they are exciting or not, they mean something to the person putting them out there.  On this train of thought, I'm doing this post a little differently.  It's my list of things that I would like to see happen, or hope they will happen, in my lifetime.  I haven't written all of them down, because there are things that are still very personal.  A bucket list, as they are being called these days.

I want to be a grandma.  Seems pretty far off right now, but it's there.  If my children wish to have children, I want to be around to enjoy them.

I would really like to go to Scotland.  My great grandfather, James Lindsay Ewing was born in Sterling Castle in Scotland.  I want to go there.

I want to take my family to China.   Jim was born there and I would really like my kids to see where their dad, aunts, uncles, and grandparents came from.  I also really want to see the Great Wall.

I want to see my kids graduate.  Not for me, but for themselves.  To see them realize that they can do anything they put their minds to.

I want my kids to realize failure.  They will learn that they can fail and then pick themselves up and carry on.

I want to know that I taught my kids what it means to make choices and how to make them for themselves.  Good, bad, or ugly.

I would love to do a road trip across Canada with my family.  Chows on an adventure.

It's not a very long list or even all that interesting as I sit here and re-read it, but these are things that I think about when someone asks, “what would you wish for?”

Going deeper, I hope to show my kids what it means to have faith, to believe in a God who is bigger than they are.  To be moral, upright people who want to be of service to others.  I want for them to be content in all they say and do.  Even in the not so great times, to be content.  Happiness is great, but I think contentment can bring greater joy that is more lasting.  And on that note, I am so grateful and content with all that I have.  If something else comes along, then that's a bonus.

I took my kitty to church . . .

It feels as though I have a fourth child.  The amount of care Clement (he's a boy, so it can't be Clementine) needs is almost equivalent to a child.  Granted, a child growing in fast forward, because this week we tried litter (potty) training.  It didn't go so well – more to follow shortly.

I warm kitten formula every two to three hours and bottle feed him.  He needs to be washed with warm cloths in stroking motions like a momma cat would do it.  When I do it, he purrs and it's lovely.

He's starting to interact with the kids.  Playing and biting (he's teething) and swatting at them.  They think it's hysterical.  He gets himself rolled over onto his back and then it's all four legs and his tail going in five different directions.  He snuggles into warm spots and get comfortable, usually causing giggles with the kids because he's made his way into an armpit.

We took him to church with us.  Smiling and laughing.  I'm thirty-six and I took my kitty to church.  It's funny, really it is.  I have never, ever, done this, ever in my life.  Nor did it ever cross my mind that I would ever do this.  But I did.  There's a reason.  He has to be fed frequently.  We attended church services and then planned to visit Jim's mom.  Knowing we were going to be out of the house for the better part of the day, I did not feel that leaving him home alone to get hungry was much of a choice.

So, I took my kitty to church.  I left him in the nursery in his little box, snugged in all nice.  Checked on him a few times and fed him just before services were over.  This meant that when everyone was dismissed I was holding him sleeping.  The looks on the kids' faces when they realized he was real was just the best.  Most of the kids, and a number of adults, had never seen so small a kitten.  It was really neat to be able to facilitate that for them.

Then we took him to see Jim's mom.  Oh, to see her face light up like it did.  Wonderful!  Truly wonderful.  She had pets as a child and so for her it was like going back to that place where she was with her parents and family and the memories were good.  My heart was set to smiling.

Litter (potty) training is going to be interesting.  Thanks to my mom for the pointers after the fact.  I tried to put Clement directly into the box we’d set up for litter purposes.  He promptly stuck his face in the litter and ate up a huge mouthful of clumping cat litter.  Like he hasn't got enough issues with regards to his bowels and bladder.  I have to rub his tummy and back to get him do his business and it's a process, I tell ya.  With the dietary changes that went on in the first two weeks, he's still adjusting.  Add in a tummy full of grits and we got ourselves a good time – not.  So there I was trying to pick grit out of his teeth and get a bottle of water ready for him to drink.  Clumping cat litter is almost like cement – a little bit of water and you've got a chunk of mess.

I have a feeling, that, if he continues to thrive, he's going to be a very big cat.  I keep telling Ryan, “be nice to your little brother.”  He just laughs.  I told him that Clement is going to remember how he's being treated and if it's not gentle and kind, he'll grow into a cranky kitty.  It seems to be working.  The girls just want to be little mommas.

I am so thankful for this little addition to our family.  He's certainly taking up space in my heart.  I am so grateful for this opportunity to teach my kids that little bit extra in terms of compassion and gentleness. 

Kitty Heaven?

My garden has gone through a few changes.  It has me drawing parallels between how I take care of my kids.  Are they a reflection of each other?  Am I doing enough to grow my kids into emotionally, spiritually, and physically fit people?

We had a blip (trauma) in our week that had my kids asking some really hard questions that I wasn't sure I wanted to answer.  Make that, maybe I didn't want to answer because I don't have all the answers and I was afraid.  There is that word – afraid, fear, scared.  So many thing I don't do because I am afraid. Of what?   Is that a scratch the surface for the answer or a have to dig really deep?  And sometimes I like to take the easy way.  It means I can skirt around the yucky stuff – at least for a little while, because eventually it catches up to me.

So growing a garden and growing kids.  They need a lot of tending.  Soil needs prepping, weeds need to be pulled, you have add fertilizer, make sure you plant in appropriate places, prune.  The list goes on.  With kids, they need lots of tending too.  You work to prepare their hearts to receptive of the lessons you want them to learn.  You do your utmost to curb them of inappropriate behaviours.  By your own example you help them to grow.  Moments show themselves as opportunities to guide and teach.  And by steady direction – verbally or non-verbally – you get them growing in the right direction.

This past week, one of the little kitties we were taking care of died.  My kids' hearts were broken.  The devastation they experienced was like nothing they've ever gone through.  Jim walked through the door at the end of his day and was met with incoherent and inconsolable children.  They were crying so hard they could hardly talk and he had no idea what going on.  Through my own tears I explained to him what had happened and could he please help by digging the hole.

Upon first discovering that little Chrysanthemum had died I had to try and find the right words.  This is not an easy task.   I couldn't try and make it all fluffy and nice.  I feel that if I had tried to do that I would be doing my kids a real disservice.  All my growing up years I have been taught that animals do not have souls, and therefore, do not go to heaven.  So how do I find a middle that is acceptable for myself and tender for them to help them cope.  And then thinking, this would be great time to get into my bible to learn for myself.

Ryan's first question was, “mommy, can we have a funeral?”  My response was “of course.”  I set about finding a small box and some soft cloth.  Then it was each of the kids wanting to touch and stroke and kiss the kitty goodbye.  Can we get any more heartbreaking?  I asked each of them in turn, “are you ready for mommy to put the lid on?”  Got the okay and then I couldn't get the box in the hole.  Jim didn't dig it deep enough.  Cue internal hysterical laughter.  So there I am trying to get this done and the kids are sobbing and I can smell barbeque so I know the neighbours are out.  It was going from bad to worse.   I'm sure the neighbours were thinking “what in the world is going on over there?”  I finally got the hole big enough and then they each wanted one more chance to kiss and touch and say goodbye.  Lid off one more time and questions one more time and relief – it fits in the hole.  Flowers laid, picked from my garden, and let's go inside and have hot chocolate.

Ava's memory of our evening, “I'm sad.  Our kitty died and we had a funeral and then mommy made hot chocolate with marshmallows.”  Ryan just wants another kitty.  Ella's not saying too much.  She keeps things pretty close.

Back to hard questions though.  Ry just kept peppering me.  “What will happen to the kitty?”  “Is it going to rot?”   "What if the worms eat it?”  I was trying to explain ashes to ashes and dust to dust and decomposition.  I used a banana as an analogy. Starts out green, gets a bit yellow, then brown, and then mush.  It was the best I could come up with.   In the end, I just said to him that God takes care of all of us.  If He's doing that, then He's also taking care of all the animals, little kitty included.  Then he threw the, “will great grandma and uncle Levi help take care of the kitty?”  And I said, “Well, I suppose if they had the opportunity they would take very good care of the kitty, but God is looking after it.”  And I got an “okay, mommy.”

I should say I am grateful that this happened and that my kids can learn that animals die and it's really sad, but we are all going to be okay and it's not going to hurt forever.  In my head they seem like the right words, but in my heart, I'm not ready for them yet.  I am grateful that my kids are pretty resilient.  It seems they have taken things in stride and are moving on, that's good thing.  I'm also grateful that we still have Clementine to focus our attentions on.

New little family members . . .

I have babies in my house.  Yep, I'm a new mommy to two little kitties who are 13 days old.   I got suckered.  My bleeding heart, look at life through rose coloured glasses, take care of those unable to take care of themselves, suckered.  When my mom called me on the brink of tears, distress almost palpable through the phone lines, I said yes.  And now, I am wondering how I am going to part with these two little babies who have clawed my hands to shreds and wiggled and purred their way in to that place in my heart reserved for soft, cuddly, little beings that need my help.  Seems I've kind of got it bad.

Two weeks ago my parent's cat birthed six little babies.  The first one did not make it.  It was, according to my mom, not a normal size.  It's head was over large and she thinks that momma cat may have sat on it as it's spine was at an angle that it should not have been.  Almost eight hours later, she birthed five more little babies.  Four days post birth she disappeared.  It's possible she suffered some internal injuries and just left to die quietly.  It's also possible that an owl had breakfast or a coyote had lunch.  However it happened, it's sad.  Mom and dad realized by end of day five that momma was not coming back and quickly stepped in with bottles and syringes to feed them.  Both of my parents work full time, so there was no way that they were going to be able to feed the kitties every two to three hours as they were going to need.  Mom put the call out to my sister and I and we answered.

As a mom, any baby in distress sets my heart to aching.  I want to just wrap them up in my arms and make it all better.  Obviously, that will never happen, but when and where I can, I will.  So here I am, with two babies.  They need their faces washed and their tummies rubbed, bottles and syringes with warmed goat's milk, and they need to be nurtured.  They crave touch.  As soon as one of us puts our hand in the little bed we've made for them they start to climb – fast.  And when they get snuggled into a crook of an arm or neck they start their little engines – their purring is a most beautiful sound.  I like to think that it's their way of saying “thanks for taking care of me” and “you're doing a good job.”  When they roll over in my hand, bellies exposed, you know they feel safe and secure, and that is a really good thing.

We have divine instruction to look after the animals that are put into our care.  There's scripture that instructs us to take care of the animals, to not abuse them.  And so, I am caring (go big or go home, in real deep, loving these little babies) physically for their immediate needs and emotionally on my part in ways that I maybe didn't really want to, but deep down, maybe needed to.

It's going to be very sad in our house in six more weeks when they're old enough to go to new families.  My kids have become attached.  I have become attached.  They help with the holding and stroking – a lot.  It's their favourite thing to do.  They're learning what “really gentle” means and that the kitties are babies not new novelty toys (this is a tough one because all they really want to do is play with them).

When all is said and done, I am grateful that we are able to have this opportunity with our kids and they get to see all that is involved with caring for these little babies.  Growing up on a farm we saw life and death on a regular basis, but we never got to be the ones caring for new kittens.  This is a new experience for me given the sheer number of critters I grew up with, I never had an opportunity to be momma to kittens.  Especially not kittens who were less than two weeks old.  I'm glad I get to do this and my kids get to help.  And, hopefully, babies will thrive and my kids will get to see the end result as positive.

Anyone want a kitty in six weeks?

So I have to add an update here at the end.  I wrote this post over a three day period.  Yesterday, just a few hours after I finally posted it the little dark haired kitty died.  Devastated does not even begin to describe how my kids are feeling.  How does one deal with their children's first heartbreak?  She/he (not sure of the gender) stopped suckling from the bottle, so I was using a syringe.  Breathing got laboured in the early afternoon and by 3pm, when we got home from school, it was over.

Ryan wanted a kitty funeral.  So we found a box and some soft cloths.  Dug a hole and buried it and then the kids all put flowers around.  We are now sifting through all the emotions and I'm trying to find answers for them for some tough life questions.  Prayers and positive thoughts would be great right now.