Tattle-tales in my house! Oh, please, say it ain't so!

My kids are tattling on each other.  A LOT!  It makes me a little nuts.  I do not want to hear every single perceived infraction.  She did this.   He said that.  Because she was going to do X-Y-Z.  For heavens sake!  Stop acting like children!  Oh, wait!  You are children.  Ooooo-kay, I need to deal with this.

Growing up, if we fought and went running to my mom to tell, she'd say to us, “well, just go and say sorry to . . . (whichever of us was the offender).”  Umm, wait, you want me to apologize to . . . , but they're the one who hurt my feelings/took my toy/pushed me/whatever.  How does that work?  Why am I saying sorry to them?  They did ME wrong!  Apparently, when my mom was growing up, her mom, my grandma Louise, did the same thing.  Is there something to it?

This morning, for whatever the reason, Ryan felt an injustice had been done and he was going to tell me about it.   “Mommy, ____ did ______(fill in the blanks).”  So I turned to him and said, “go tell her you're sorry.”  He turns and starts running down the hall, “______, I'm sor - . What?  Mommy!  She did it.  Why do I have to say sorry?”  I had an internal chuckle.  He was really peeved at me and kept trying to get me to scold his sister.   I want them to sort it out with each other, without a referee.

When altercations occur, and I'm being told about them, my first question is usually, “are you bleeding?”  If the answer is no, my response is, “well then, go sort it out.”  There are times I need to get involved, obviously, but my kids need to learn to resolve things without the expectation that I am always going to intervene.

So, am I teaching them/giving them the skills they need to do this with each other?  I hope so.  There are days where I will catch them dealing with each other in a most positive manner, and figuring it out.  Yay, this is good.   There are days, much like the last three or four, where, every-freaking-five-minutes they are yelling at me about it.   I want to just yell back, “enough already!”  But I know that won't work.

So, deep breath, and another deep breath, and let's sort this out.  If your brother/sister hurt your feelings, tell them so.  If you hurt your brother/sister's feelings, please apologize.  Can we please try and get along with each other?  (Mommy and daddy are not planning on any more kids, so you're all you've got – BE NICE!!!).  Keep your hands to yourselves.  Try to ignore the pesty things your younger sibling/s do/does.  And, my all time favourite, if you are tattle-tale, it's not going to be easy making friends.  Kids don't like it when others tell on them.  Even my own children get riled up when one or the other is tattling on them.

Am I getting it right?  Again, I hope so.  I'm doing the best I can in each circumstance, I think.  I am grateful for the increased dose of patience I am currently receiving.  I am blessed each day by my children, the love that pours out from them to me, to each other, and my love for them growing daily.  Being a mom is so great, even on the hardest, most trying, days.

Oranges, Sunshine, and Culture

In my endeavour to organize my garage yesterday I came across approximately 20lbs of oranges.  Huh?  Exactly.  I was wondering the same thing.  How in the world could I be completely oblivious to 20lbs of oranges in the garage?  It was like being on an Easter egg hunt.  Oh, look, another orange, in another bag, way over in the other corner.  Since I was finding them all over the place, I grabbed an apple box and started to put them into it.  And, yes, by the time I was done, the box was full.

So, where did they all come from, you ask?  My mother in law.  She's 94.  She has a lot of respect due her.  Everyone who visits, wait for it, takes oranges to her.  In Chinese culture it is very important to take gifts as a sign of respect to the person you are visiting.  Oranges are symbols of good luck, good health, and prosperity.

When you visit, and are taking gifts, they have to be in certain number groupings.  If you take four of something, it is very bad luck and shows ill intent to the person you are gifting.  The number four in Cantonese translates very closely to the word death.  So if you give four of something, you are wishing death to the person you have just gifted.  Not a good thing.  Eight is a good number because it can sound very much like the word prosperity.  If you take eight of something, it's good for you and the person you are gifting it to.

When the person you are giving the gift to is 94, and your grandmother, it's got to be good.  You cannot just give one or two or three, so the next number up is five, or any other other number after that.  My mother in law gets at least five oranges every time a grandchild visits her.  That is a lot of oranges.  About twenty pounds worth, hiding around my garage.  And the reason for this, she cannot possibly eat them all, so she saves them and gives them to us.  Problem is, I had no idea.  It's a good thing it's been cold outside, otherwise they'd be rotting.

So what in the world am I going to do with TWENTY POUNDS OF ORANGES?  My husband's bright idea was to make orange juice.  So I did.   It was great.  There I was this morning, cutting, and squeezing oranges on the little plastic juicer thing we have.  Took me 30 minutes to get one cup of orange juice.   And of course, the kids each want a turn.  All kinds of fun in the Chow house at 7:30am.  But, ya know, it was the best orange juice ever!  It was like drinking a cup of sunshine on a rainy day.  I'm thinking it's probably because my Chinese nieces and nephews have been tutored in the fine art of selecting oranges.  It's an important task, picking just the right ones.  And there are all kinds of rules to follow in doing so.  If it's not done right, grandma will know.  The skin, the give when you press your fingers in to it, the colour, the smell, size.  I could go on.  Suffice it say, I am really thankful that they've been taught so well.

When I say it was like drinking a cup of sunshine, it's hard to explain.  It was sweet and tangy.  The perfect temperature.  It just hit all the right taste buds for this incredible flavour explosion.  Probably sounds completely idiotic, but it was the best cup of orange juice I have ever had.  And I was the one who made it.  I momentarily forgot it was raining.  All rational thought ceased to exist.  Like I was transported to some lovely, warm, sandy beach, umbrella drink, kind of location.  Please may I stay?

And so, today, I am grateful for my overflowing cup of fresh squeezed orange juice.  For tomorrow morning, I'll start squeezing those oranges tonight.

Green and growing . . .

It smells green.  Yesterday was such a nice day, it had my neighbours out mowing and weeding and trimming and planting and all things yard and garden.  We were visiting Jim's mom so our yard was neglected yesterday, but while I was walking Ella to school this morning, there was a slight mist falling.  I can't really call it rain, but there was wet and it was fresh and it made the yard work from yesterday take on a whole new smell.  Green.

There are piles of cut grass on a few yards, bags of yard clippings at the ready in others.   The little trees and shrubs are pushing forward with spring.  Buds are appearing on the branches and they are working hard to get their little leaves out to see the sun that will be coming.  I love spring.  The promises it brings.  A renewal of sorts.

I have rhubarb in my garden.  You might be thinking, why rhubarb?  My mom make the best rhubarb custard pie.  I will eternally suck at making pie crust.  I have tried and failed so many times, it never works.  But I can make the filling and the kids love it on ice cream.  It's a special little rhubarb plant.  It started sending shoots out about three weeks ago and is now about 12 inches high.  It's from my grandma's garden.  Grandpa dug it out for me a few years ago and it's doing so well in my back yard.  All red stems and glossy green leaves.  It's one of the first fruits that you can pick.  We used to get into grandma's patch at home and try to eat it before it was ready.  One of the most sour experiences you can have.  Or we'd pretend we were fabulous ladies waving our grand fans (the leaves were bigger than our head and they made excellent fans).  Most of the time grandma would just chuckle, sometimes we'd get a finger waggle.  It was just too irresistible to stay out of.

 Spring brings growth spurts.  In the little plants and in my children.  I have been pulling lighter pants out of their closets and they are not fitting.  I could wait until summer, I suppose, and then they'd be capris.  Doesn't really work like that though, so that's too bad.  Shirts, too, are too short.  T-shirts that they were wearing in October before it got colder no longer fit.  It's almost like their little bodies know it's spring and they grow.  Since January, Ella has grown almost three inches.  I am blown away by this because she's always been so little for her age and now all of sudden she's in catch up mode.  It means that I will be having to buy her longer pants and doing a whole lot of taking in at the waistband.

So with all the green and the growing I am excited about all that's to come.  I am grateful that I have a little garden and my kids get to help get it ready and watch it grow.  How great is that?

Campfires, outhouses, and technology . . .

So on Wednesday, which also happened to be the nicest day last week, after the snow melted, we got to have a wiener roast.  Oh, fun, fun, fun.  My kids absolutely love going to grandma and grandpa's house to roast hot dogs and marshmallows.   The bonus was being there with some of their cousins.  Seven kids all total, running around, taking turns on the teeter-totter my dad built, chasing each other and the dogs, and helping cut green branches for our hot dogs, and climbing trees, and, according to my kids, it was the “best day ever.”  We had so much fun.  Even though it was still really cold, yes there was snow on the ground in the morning, it was an absolutely beautiful day.

It's so nice having a place that's not so far away, and when we get there, I can just let the kids loose.  42 acres of freedom.  We walked to the farthest end of the property line and the kids went wild running through the saplings playing hide and seek.  I remember doing this through the rows of corn that my mom and aunts used to plant (our garden was bigger than the lot our house currently sits on).

They think it's really cool that grandpa built a little house out behind his garage that they can go into and be peeing outside.  The novelty of outhouses and oh to be child again (not really, but it's such fun to see their reactions).

My mom bought easter egg candies and figured, why not.  So after hot dogs and pop and marshmallows and chips, let's throw in some more sugar.  Yee-haw and yippee-ki-yay and don't give your chocolate to the dogs please!  It was a good thing there's lots of space to run freely.

Around 3:30 the wind and sunshine was starting to take it's toll on the kids' energy levels, so it was into the house and wash hands and faces and what do we do now.  Between two iPads, two iPhones, a Nintendo DS, and the wii, all seven kids, my mom, my sister and I were all occupied.  It was the funniest thing.  Youngest child is two and a half and the oldest is almost eight.  It was so quiet you could have almost heard a pin drop.  It's never that quiet in my parent's house when there are that many kids there.   My dad and my grandpa came in and started laughing.  We were completely geeked out.   It amazes me at how quickly little kids are catching on and learning how to use all the technology.  It makes me feel so completely ignorant that I can't figure out how to play “Bejewelled Blitz” and “Angry Birds.”

My brother created a door stopper app (free for download) that you can put on your touch screen phone and pull it to make it boing.  It's funny and it's kind of addictive.  You just pull it.  Well, after about five minutes of this, my Ava turned to her grandma and said, “I want to go to the next level.”  We lost it.  We were laughing so hard there were tears.  Somehow, after playing “Monkey Math” and other games, she knew that there just had to be another level.  Go figure.

It's an interesting contrast.   The fire and the outhouse.  Followed by a technological immersion.  I am so grateful for these kinds of days with family and sunshine and kids who are so tired out that they sleep through the night.  We really had a wonderful time.

Memories of my grandma . . .

Tomorrow would be my grandma's birthday.  Or rather, if she were living, tomorrow is her birthday.  I will be going to the farm.  The place I grew up.   It is the second visit back since she passed.  Walking across the yard past her house.  Going over to visit grandpa at their house and she isn't physically there.   March 21, 1929.   Mae (Lindsay Ewing) Krogsgaard.  Born on the first day of spring.  Seems fitting I suppose.  Moving forward.   Remembering.

Some of you may have heard these words before.  They are the ones I spoke at her memorial.  And it seemed fitting to repeat them given the day.  They are my scattered thoughts in the days after she passed.

Tea parties – sometimes with special cups that she'd take out of the kitchen china cabinet.

Making shortbread.

Sleepovers.

Playing dress up with all the fun clothes in the end bedroom closet.

Canned cherries and canned peaches for dessert – she often let us pick which one we wanted.

Doing dishes together when I could hardly reach into the sink – she'd get a stack stool and lay a towel across the sink counter edge to help keep me dry – I still do this and every time I do I think of grandma.  And she'd be humming the whole time that we stood there washing and drying the dishes.

Grandma taught me how to crochet

She helped teach me how to make and ice a cake – always a much sought after item at bake sales and auctions.

I remember putting rollers in grandma's hair and laughing our faces off while I did.

There were countless times I left school early because I was sick and I'd spend the day on grandma's couch watching daytime TV.  Sorry grandpa about all the carpets I made you clean.

Grandma hated frogs.  Actually, I think hate is a pretty mild word for how she felt about frogs.  And yet, she's got the biggest collection of them this side of the amazon thanks to her kids and grand-kids.

Grandma was always calm, compassionate, hospitable, gentle, smart – she could easily whoop your butt at scrabble – she'd always get the triple word score with a Q or and X – and you could bet that she'd win at checkers too (but I think she cheated at checkers) she claims she never did.

Grandma had a quick wit – one that sticks with me is, and I don't even remember the conversation, but the word stupid came up and she turned to me and said, “stupid, you should see so and so, they're really bent over.”  It took a few minutes.

Grandma had an easy laugh.

I never, ever heard her speak ill of anyone.

She was so incredibly patient.

I wondered often if she had eyes in the back of her head, because we didn't get away with too much.

One on one in grandma's presence I felt like I was the most special kid on the planet.

She was fiercely protective.  When Levi was in the hospital she'd try so hard to not show worry or fear when the phone would ring, but she was also very honest.

If you played last bat with her – she always won – every time.

Grandma was always well put together, her hair, makeup, hose, heels, everything in place – unless she was in the garden.  And her garden was always something to behold.

Grandma had such strength of character.  She was tough, but not hard.  She did not have an easy life.  She lost her mom and her dad and still remained so faithful a servant.

She walked the walk – her actions spoke more than any words she ever used.  I am so grateful and blessed that God saw fit to let me have her as my grandma, a visible example of what it means to love.  Love is an action word and she demonstrated love well.

December 25 is a day that people around the world hold dear for many different reasons.  I think grandma was blessed with the ultimate gift on that day.  She got to go home.  To peace and rest and joy.  God gave us the gift of knowing that we're going to see her again someday.

I thought about editing my words, but changed my mind.  My thoughts are the same today as they were two months ago.  I was blessed with a wonderful grandma.

Boys are gross . . .

Boys can be so gross sometimes.  I am being made ever more aware of this phenomenon on a daily basis through the actions of my son.  I shake my head in utter disbelief and wonder, often out loud, what in the world is he thinking.  Just a small peek into the inner workings of his brain.  That part that makes him do such, to my way of thinking, gross things.

I didn't teach him to spit on dead flies in the windowsill.  I never told him to go put mud all over his sister's ride'em car until all colour is completely indiscernible.  I don't know why he chooses to blow his nose when he doesn't have a tissue.  He brings a whole new level of ewww to my life.

I threw a rock once upon a time.  I was aiming at his knees, really and truly.  He ducked, not so bright a move on his part.  The rock got him square between the eyes.  I got into some serious trouble.  He was being gross.  He had picked up a filthy, dirty, wet, muddy sock and was swinging it around at us grade 5/6 girls.   I, ever the defender of the weak, took matters into my own hands (literally, in the form of that rock).  I can see my son in that boy.  I can see him thinking, gee, this could be interesting.  What would happen if I did . . . . ?  Fill in the blank.

Maybe it's a kid thing.  I did some pretty gross things too.  Usually without a lot of forethought.  Maybe he's me all over again, and maybe there is lesson in there somewhere.  Maybe as his mom I need to deal with these ewww moments differently than I have been.  Maybe I need to lighten up.  I don't know, but most of the time I'm either trying really hard not to retch or laugh, sometimes both.

Somehow or another, I will raise him into a young man worthy of a young woman.  And then someday, he can be a father to a son.  And I will tell all of his stories and he will shake his head in disbelief.

I love my son so much.  My girls too.  I read something once.  An expression.  Having children is like having your heart walk around outside your body.  It's true.  My heart, in my three children.  Living and beating outside myself.  I am so grateful for them.

Meals and mathematics . . .

I have just finished prepping ingredients for supper tonight.  It got me thinking about the number of meals I have prepared since I got married in 2004.  Breakfasts, lunches, suppers.  Food, food, and more food.

I request your indulgence for a moment while I do some math.   If I made three meals a day every day since July of 2004, approximately how many meals have I made.  It works out to 1095 meals per year.  Over eight years, that's 8,760.  If I live to age 70, and am still making meals, it works out to 47,085.  Keeping in mind that we do occasionally eat out and visit others where meals are prepared by someone else, it might be around 45,000 as a guess.

If I do the math based only on say a 26 year time span (up to age twenty for my youngest child) it calculates out to 28,470.  28,000+ opportunities to feed my children.  Balancing out fruits and vegetables, carbs and proteins.  Opportunities to teach them to make healthy food choices.  Opportunities to nourish, not just their bodies, but their souls.

Food is fuel, but as a momma, it's love too.  I love my kids and I want them to be healthy.  For each of the opportunities I have to place food in front of them I am thinking about their body's needs.  What they need to grow.  What they need to make their little brains work at optimum potential.

My heart melts when my son says to me, “mommy, that was the best breakfast/lunch/supper ever!”  Even if he does say it almost every day or two, and the meal just happened to be vegetable broth with veggies and an egg or two dropped into it and a handful of noodles.  I know that I have just checked another meal off of my 28,000, and it feels good.

Sitting at the table, focusing attention on each child.  Letting them talk about their day.  Giving them opportunities to guide suppertime conversations.  Feeding their souls with words and actions and grace.  And sometimes it feels like a three ring circus or dinner and a show, but we get through it and I have three more meals tomorrow to have another go at it.

And so feeding my children is a loving act.  I have to think about and plan and make positive choices because I love them.  And so I make them eat their vegetables – at least half anyway.  I can't imagine being a mom in a place where I could not feed my children.  And so I am grateful that I live in a place where I have access to fresh fruit and vegetables, and rice, and chicken.   A place where my husband has a job and we can afford to get those necessities for our children.  Counting my blessings daily.

Early mornings and warm little bodies . . .

So my dear husband works early.  Like, unearthly early.  Crack of crazy early.  I try to sleep through his morning getting ready rituals, but fail most mornings.  Sometimes, I fall back asleep.  Bliss, oh, bliss.

This morning, not so much.  I woke up.  At 5:07am.  Sleep will find me again.  Nope!  At 5:36am I hear my short legged son, thundering up the stairs as fast as his little legs could carry him.  You would've almost thought the hounds of hell were after him.  Panting at the side of my bed he breathes out, “mommy, can I snuggle you?”  I adjust myself, my pillow, move the blankets aside and snuggle him in.   He's a warm little body, runs pretty hot most times.  So this replacement heat is nice.  He's trying to settle in in.  I can hear his thumb go into his mouth as he gets so close it's hard to tell where I end and he starts.   His hand goes into my hair.  Twisting it and rubbing it and trying to soothe himself back to sleep.   I can hear rattling around with things on my night-stand, but am not completely coherent so I pay it no mind.  I'm waiting to feel him relax and his breathing to even out.  I fall asleep before he does, I think.

And then the the sound.  A screeching sound that very quickly lifts the fog of sleep away.  Why is my alarm going off?  It shouldn't be going off right now.   We have no reason to be awake right now.   It's only 8am, but it's spring break, we can sleep in, and can't get it turned off fast enough.  He slept through it, but Ava did not.  My son, the alarm clock culprit.  I have told him more than once to “PLEASE LEAVE MOMMY'S ALARM CLOCK ALONE!”  We've been late to school because he decided he didn't like my music and turned it off before I heard it to wake me up.

The mornings when we get our leisurely snuggles are the best.  It usually starts with Ryan and his mad dash up the stairs around 6:30am.  Then Ava will wake up around 7:00am and ask for cartoons.  I usually oblige.  Two little warm bodies, one on each side.  Around 7:30am, Ella will wake up and come looking for us and we make room for her too.  I have it so good.

So this morning, as I was waiting for sleep to reclaim Ryan's wiggly, little boy, body, I was thinking how I needed to just absorb it.  It's not going to last.  I wouldn't trade it for anything.  Not even extra sleep.  And even though I am not operating on all cylinders today, I had the best morning ever.

I am hugging my kids extra tight today.   Horrible, awful things that people do have me shaking my head saying prayers of safety and thanks.

I am so grateful for the snuggly little morning invaders of my bed.

Love lessons and mom guilt . . .

I was driving to work earlier today thinking about lessons.  Lessons I am trying to teach my kids and lessons I am learning from my kids.  Parenting lessons.  We don't sign up for classes and get a grade that says “yay!  You're now qualified to be a parent.”  Doesn't work that way.

We are blessed with, if we're lucky, an example of what good parenting looks like, but sometimes not even that.   I have been gifted with an awesome set of parents and two amazing sets of grandparents, but I only get the end result.  I can see where my own parents are today and that they made it through all our younger years.  And my grandparents, I can see the results with aunts and uncles and cousins.  I didn't get to watch from an outside perspective how my parents dealt with us.  And my kid brain that was and my mom brain that is are two completely different things.  To try and reconcile the two would be impossible.

So how do I impart on my children the things they need to know?   They are each so different in how they take it in.  For instance, my almost five year old son, Ryan, completely tunes me out after the first six words are out of my mouth.  I'll be trying to explain why he needs to be kinder to his sisters and he'll look at me and tell my hair is soft.  Huh?  My Ava just makes goofy faces and has now learned how to roll her eyes.  Great, just great.  Ella is uber-sensitive and I have to choose my words very carefully, otherwise, I'm dealing with tears.  Ugh!

I love them dearly, all their responses and reactions.   How I deal with each can leave me with a hefty dose of guilt though.  Mom guilt.  The kind of guilt that has me questioning any and all responses and reactions over and over and over.  Am I doing this right?  Are they getting it?  Are my expectations too high, they're still very young?  I can be their friend later, right now, I have to be their mom.  And no one ever said being a mom was an easy job.  Nuff said.

So guilt aside, am I getting it right?  Most of the time, I hope so.  Every once in a while there is a moment when one of them speaks and I realize they are using my words.   Wow!  It's working.  I am getting through and they are retaining and using it in the context of the situation they're in.   Be calm my heart.  It's so hard to not jump up and down cheering.

And so there it is, the love coming through.   I love them, therefore I teach them.   To be respectful, to themselves and to each other, and to those around them.   To be thankful and grateful, for what they have and to share what they can with others who do not have.  To be kind.  To be kind.   To use words not as weapons, but as tools.  To build up and not tear down.  So many other things to teach and learn, and we'll get there.

With my heart wide open, I love my kids.  How could it possibly be any other way?   I am so grateful to have them, precious gifts that they are. 

A happy birthday love story . . .

So given that it is my husband's 50^th birthday today, I thought I might share the beginnings of our love story.

1997.  A good year.  I started a permanent job with the library system.  It was August and we were wearing sweaters because the heating and cooling systems never worked properly.  Morbidly hot in the winter and sub-zero in the summer.  Anyway, there was some laughing and joking going on between myself and a couple of coworkers.  We had started offering free internet services (sans filters and rules) in the library.  So we often had interesting customers looking up even more interesting things.

In walks Jim.  Heart does this little pitter-pat.  Palms get kinda sweaty.   He wants a library card, his nieces and nephews have internet, they want to send him email, and how does it work.   I can most certainly help you with that.  Right over here, I'm going to need some ID.  I start entering his info, and then STINK!  He's fourteen years older than me.  But he's soooo cute.  And his smile.  Yep, I'm smitten.

A few cups of coffee over the years and a lunch or two and we're pretty good friends.  And that was it, because I couldn't entertain the idea that I would be taking someone to meet my parents and having him be closer in age to them than to me.  What would they think.  My dad especially.  If my dad didn't approve it'd be over before it started.  So we were friends.  I dated some, but my heart still kept going back to Jim.

2002.  A really good year.   I applied for and finally got the full time job I had been working towards for six years.  It meant leaving though.  Leaving a place that had become like a second home to me.   My friends I worked with, my customers were like extended family, and Jim.   I found out in August that I'd be starting in September at the new location.  Every day I went in hoping he'd come in before my last day so I could tell him I'd be leaving.  Each day that he didn't show up was little more heartbreaking.   I had decided that it must not be meant to be and had resigned myself to not seeing him ever again.   I could have phoned him, but I didn't want to be stalker-ish, so I left it.

On my very last day, in the late afternoon, he came in.   And cue angels singing.  Our conversation went something along the lines of him declaring that he couldn't see himself going along and not ever seeing me again.  And could he come and see me at the other location.  And could he have my phone number.  And could he take me out to dinner sometime, like a real date.  Yes, yes and yes!   Thank you Harry Potter.

I would recommend books and we'd each read them and then talk about them.   Harry Potter was a favourite and our first date was to the second Harry Potter movie.  That's why Harry gets a nod.

Around mid November we made plans to go to my parents.  The big introduction.  He's never really said whether or not he was nervous, but if he was half as nervous as me, then I'd say he was pretty nervous.   My parents loved him right away, and still do.  That was a major stepping stone.  And my grandparents loved him too.  All right then, we were good to go.   Except, now I had to meet all of his family.  He's the youngest of seven in a Chinese family.  His mom didn't speak any English and I was worried.  Culturally, was I going to be accepted?  Would I fit in?  All these questions and more filled my head, and to top it all off, the big meet and greet was going to be over Christmas dinner at his brother's house.  No pressure right.

It went really well.  His family was so gracious and accepting of me.  By January 2003 he was telling me he loved me and that I was the one.  But, and it was a big one, he needed to date me for at least a year before he would marry me.   I knew that he was it for me too.  I could do a year.  It was a long year.

By January 2004 the rings were on order and our date was set.  Best decision I ever made.  July 17, 2004 we said our “I do's.”

I used to think 50 was sooo old.  Now I just smile.  It's great.  He was the best person for me and he's the greatest dad to our kids.   I am well and truly blessed.  So, Happy 50th honey!  Here's looking forward to another great year.

The Unbearable Weight of Grief

Perhaps other post have been leading to this one, perhaps not.  I have not wanted to write it, but it's been a weight, a pressure, heavy on my chest.  And maybe by writing it I can move forward, allow it to release.

My reservations about writing are numerous.  Mostly I don't want sympathy or sad words.   I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings or make them uncomfortable.  I also have a fear of opening up so deeply about something I am trying so desperately hard to work through.

One of my last semi-coherent conversations with my grandma went along the lines of her asking who I was.  My precious grandma, who I saw almost everyday of my life for the first 18 years of my being, did not know who I was.  She hadn't known for a long time, but this time she asked because she couldn't remember that two sentences ago I had introduced myself.   That's what we did.  We'd see her and tell her who we were, it was easier that way and we could save her the embarrassment and sadness of not knowing who we were.  So she asked, and I told her.  She looked at me for several seconds and shook her head, no dear, I don't know who you are, and the sadness was there in her eyes.  I looked at her and said to her, ”You might not remember my name or who I am gramma, but your heart knows who I am.”  She reached up and patted my face with her soft little hand and her eyes got kind of misty.   I will not, in this lifetime, get to hug her, or kiss her cheek, or hold her hand again.  And it hurts, so incredibly bad.   Physically hurts.

I attend church services and certain songs have me rupturing into tears.  The fight or flight response kicks in and I need to escape, to hide somewhere away from this overwhelming grief.  She used to hum.  All the time, humming.  In her garden.  At the kitchen sink.  Folding laundry.  All the old hymns and I can't breathe, let alone sing, past the painful knot that made it's way into my throat every time one of her songs starts.

We've crossed the two month mark.  I count the days, I do.  I don't know why, but I do.  I look at my calendar and I dread the day of her birthday.  It's this month.  And every bit of information scheduled on my calendar is leading up to her birthday.  And then the three month mark.  And four.  And life goes on.  Without her.  Sure, there's the cliché, as long as I remember her, she's in my heart.  And it's better that she's not suffering anymore.  I've used those words on myself.  And they don't really help make the hurt go away.

So I write it down.  Let it out.  Release it.   Maybe in some small way this can help.  I'm hopeful.  I'm eternally grateful that I had my gramma for the time I did.  I just want more of it.  One more hug and kiss on the cheek and having her know who I am.

I will wait.  For the pansies to bloom.  And I will smile when I remember her.  I will probably also cry some.  And because my gramma hated, loathed with every fibre of her being, frogs, I am going to get one.   A big, smiling, cement one.  It will sit guard over my garden.  Maybe I'll talk to it when I talk to my plants.  And I will remember her and her gentle ways.  Her soft smile.  Her humming.  And I can find the song in my heart.  And the pain will lessen.

Making bread . . .

There is something about making bread.  All these little things happening at once to create something warm and comfortable.  The warm water, sugar, egg, oil, yeast and flour.   They each have a task in creation of the bread.  The house gets all warm and cozy, because you can't make bread in cold air, it won't rise.  Getting your hands into the dough, that sticky sweetness that just smells so good.  Watching the yeast work and seeing it growing out of the bowl.  The anticipation of what's to come.  Comfort food at it's best.

I can remember my mom telling me a story about her mom, my grandma Louise.  My mom just turned 60, she'd probably hit me for telling that.  She spent some growing up years on farm in the middle of Saskatchewan, where your place of birth was written as regional latitudes and longitudes.   Her mom would bake bread all year long, several times a week for their family that ended up being 11 kids and two parents.

When her mom was pregnant with a younger brother, at least 50 years ago, her dad had to ride to the nearest town to get a doctor.  Her mom was in the middle of making bread and she started into labour.  She kept at the break making, a task that need to be done.  Halfway through all her processes she went and laid down and had my uncle.  Cleaned herself up, set uncle on the bed all cleaned up, and finished baking her bread.  Wow, and wower!  My grandma, an amazing woman.  In my somewhat spoiled life, it would never occur to me that this could even be possible.  And yet it was and still is in some countries of the world.  She had a task to do, it needed to be completed, and she did it.  At suppertime that night there was fresh bread and a new baby.  And, I'm going to wager, a very tired mommy.

So when I take down the flour and yeast and sugar and salt, and get out the eggs and oil, and run the warm water, I think of my grandma.   Both of them actually.  Amazing women, who had jobs to do and did them, very well.  And I have the belief that they are both in heaven hanging out with each telling stories about their kids, grand-kids, and great grand-kids.

I am grateful that I was blessed with two very amazing women who are wondrous examples for me of what it means to be truly godly women.

Coffee with friends . . .

Another rainy morning.  Something to look forward to though.  Coffee and a visit with a good friend.   One of those easy mornings chatting and laughing and redirecting two short ones.  Ahh, bliss.

It's so great to have someone with whom you can have a really good laugh.   The kind that has you wiping away tears and running for the bathroom from laughing so hard.  Not about everything, but some things that just really deserve a good laugh.  Sometimes the conversations are quiet and heartfelt and deep.  Balm for the soul.  And other times, laughter.   The really big laughter that has you doubled over holding your sides and trying not to blow coffee out your nose.  The best heart medicine ever.

So when my son asks, “mommy, does God laugh?”   I tell him, “I think so.”  There are a lot of great things to laugh about.

Apparently, laughter also burns calories.   I need to do way more laughing, I guess.  Maybe add in some canoeing motions, burn extra.   So on top of all those great chemical releases that happen in the brain when we laugh, I can loose weight too!  Fabulous!   I'll have to have coffee mornings more often.

Bottom line, I'm so grateful for amazing friends that come over to visit and for the laughter that gets generated when they do.  Best times EVER!