What You See; What I See.....

What you see: A confused, disordered adult who spills her guts online endlessly.
What I see: An average human being picking up the puzzle pieces, day after day, and slowly but surely seeing a picture get put together. Not so different from you, your neighbor, and your paper boy.

You see a little boy who doesn't know his bum from applesauce. You see a little boy who is wearing bottoms on his noggin.

I'm seeing a whole lot of creativity, life, joy, and kids growing up happy and together.

What you see: An adorable puppy dog. Bringing play and love to the family. Endearing us all with her wide-eyed wonder and soft little puppy fur, and wiggy waggy tail.

What I see: A bum and a ureter. Just seconds from depositing puddles and poops here, there, and everywhere. Then running and hiding in the cupboard when I bellow in my most sincere sinister badgirl voice....... SHADOW!!!!!!!!!!

What you see: The ridiculous plan of packing up two daughters, their two friends, and their auntie and driving to Grand Forks loaded up with American dollars, a couple of granola bars, and a determined plan to shop ourselves into a dither for as long as humanly possible, then drive back home. All in the same day. In March, when the roads are unpredictable and usually snowy and icey. Two days after two accidents.

What I see: One heck of a great memory.

A daughter who is alive and very much 13.

My other daughter- eleven, and great at giggling.

Enough dollar store candy to make Halloween look like a cake walk.

New clothes so exciting that they will probably make my girls satisfied and excited until at least next Tuesday.

*

It's all in how you look at it.

Happy Valentine's Day

It started out innocently enough.
Little did he know that he was rapidly becoming an irresistable chic magnet.

who knew banking could be this (un)comfortable?

I'm an artist; not an accountant. And although I was taught that speaking of money is as shameful as mentioning sex or menstruation, I've got to come clean on the fact that I'm not much good with balancing stuff that involves numbers. So when I went to the gas station the other day and my debit card wouldn't cooperate with their fancy uptown machine, I went to that "la-la-la" place in my head and assumed it was due to some mistake I had made online. It was during a busy time, we were on our way to celebrating Christmas with Brian's family, and the days following that adventure were similarly packed to capacity. So, it was only this morning that I had a few hours to check into the whole banking thing.

Well, actually, I was back to work today, so I got Brian to give the bank a call. Only to learn that their phone lines were jammed due to a storm in Fredrickton and the waiting time was 30 to 45 minutes. Ouch. Brian kept laying the receiver on the counter, baking a couple of layer cakes, then returning to check for a human voice. Unfortunately, the voice didn't wait for him, and eventally Brian returned to a dead phone line....

So, I waited until toddler rest time, and I got on the phone myself. By this point, I had made myself nauseous with ridiculous scenarios of how I'd likely missed so many payments that three men in business suits were very nearly at my back door with large scissors, wielding a copy of our mortgage agreement and slowly shaking their heads back and forth. I humbly waited on the line, praying that the representative wouldn't by this time be enraged by the whole snowstorm in Fredrickton deal. I hoped she had time for a smoke break, with a big old mug of hot coffee to boot.

And the columns were lining up for me. I got a cheery, helpful gal and I even remembered my security password without too many attempts or patient reminders from the representative. I explained to her that something had gone awry on the 28th, resulting in blocked access to my account. I stifled the urge to apologize and offer to bake her an apple pie for her trouble.

Being more an accountant than an artist, she quickly identified the problem. Two cheques that I had depositied had not been cleared due to an error that she could not immediately identify.

I felt immediately relieved, almost shamefully grateful that it had been someone else, and not I who had made an embarrassing clerical error.

But as the woman on the line read aloud the name on the cheque that was in question, my feelings of relief were quickly replaced by nausea that rivalled its counterpart. This time my stomach turned and my tears involuntarily joined the dance.

The cheques were from my dad. My dad, the meticulous bookkeeper. My dad the chequebook-balancer extraordinair. My smart, capable, scrupulous dad.

It is possible that I am over reacting. It is possible that dad had an "artist" day and just didn't quite get all the cheque details right.

But regardless of that possibility, I'm going to cry a little anyway. My dad is 86 and he's finally acting his age. It took him an awfully long time to get to that point, and not that long ago, it was him the "old people" phoned in the dead of the night for a ride to the emerg. But in 2007, dad lost his drivers licence. His ability to walk continues to decline. The stroke has affected his ability to make decisions and process information. Tests show that he has had several heart attacks, in addition to the infamous stroke. His arteries vital to his head and heart are significantly blocked.

And so, 2008 is adding up to be another year to process loss.
(and practice my accounting skills..... seeing as the black suited guys didn't snip my mortgage to smitherines.)

Holiday Newsletter

With the approaching onslaught of another Christmas season, she realized that she had never been happier.

Her eldest daughter applied herself diligently to facebook and was acqiring the necessary skills of well-applied mascara. Her mother's nearly retired dream of entering her into pagaents seemed once again within reach.

Second born had recently been observed staring longingly at Avril Lavigne's album cover, twirling her hair wistfully, and reaching for a darker shade of eye liner.

The boy had been so easy to care for. He'd spent hours in his bedroom, entertaining himself and saving his allowance for a couple of more challenging video games. His wrists showed promising ripples of strength from the dedication and commitment to acquiring new levels.

The little one, indulge-ed wonder child never ceased to charm all with his crescendoing whine and demands to all possessions of all persons entering his territory. He showed tremedous potential for politics and was sure to appeal to a wide population with his spiderman slippers in one hand and the pink tutu in the other.

And Mr Perfect Family member had never looked better in workboots; slicing and dicing in the kitchen, never ceasing to entice more and more members into his Moosewood pyramid scheme cult.

Nope, things could hardly look better, she mused, studying herself in the mirror. She'd grown into forty with so much grace, and no signs whatsoever of impending crisis.

Their mortgage was practically untouched, so engaged had they been in the various celebrations of life, and learning to love their neighbors. And the echoeing spaces of their now baby-free home was soon to be filled with the piddling and whining of a perfect little puppy. The cat couldn't be more excited.

No, it could not be denied.
They were practically perfect in every way.

Oh, Brother

Sam has not had many "real" haircuts in his short lifetime. Usually, I notice him peering out from underneath a mass of blonde bangs, stick him in front of the tv , and hack away at his hair until his eyes become visible once again. Today, however, I had time to stop in at the local hairdressing shop and book him in for a haircut that doesn't look like he's been put under the lawn mower. It became immediately apparent that Sam equated the hairddresser's chair with the dentist and the medical laboratory. He cried and cried and tried to curl up into a ball to escape the scissors and electric razor. We pulled our best tricks out of our bags- me, the victem hair-cutter, and the stylist behind her. We chatted about the interesting figures on his plastic cape, the candy we would feed him if he sat nicely, and the little children across the street on thier way to the park. Outside, his big brother zoomed left and right past the window wearing his ski mask against the November chill; reaching new speeds on the scooter thanks to the accelerating effects of the wheelchair ramp. Even our efforts to point out his favourite big brother's antics refused to stop Sam's river of tears.

Finally the hair was cut. I made my rounds apologizing to all the customers who"d had to put up with the wailing and drama, and made my way to jackets and home. By this point, big brother Micah had come into the shop and was guiding Sammy's hand to turn the wheel of the tantalizing candy dispenser that mommy always refused to feed quarters into.

Micah had observed that his brother was not exactly getting the whole "spa thing". That all Micah's efforts to distract him with speedy scooter-ing had been in vain. So, he'd raced home, gone upstairs to get into his allowance stash for some quarters, then speeded back to the salon on his bicycle. He'd been sure to hurry so as to get back in time to reward his little brother for surviving the haircut. Sammy quickly changed his tune, stuffing yellow and green peanut M&M's into his mouth, and with a friendly "Whaddya say?" from Micah, even remembered to shout a grateful "Thank you!"

I'm sure Sammy thinks of his big brother as a bit of a hero, but I think it will be many years before he remembers and becomes fullly aware of just what a hero his brother really is.

And I've got to say, I'm feeling a little starry-eyed myself.

Pinch me. Or not- Its the Weekend.

The smell of portabello mushrooms with red pesto and feta cheese steaming on the barbeque and wine waiting in my favourite cobalt blue goblet is the sweetest way to kiss good-bye to my last two daycare babes on the cusp of a glorious weekend. Excellent company, impassioned conversation, and the promise of hours with my textiles yet to come send me to bed early with a smile clung to the corners of my lips.

Saturday morning dawned with no dreaded alarm or glommy eyes begging for more rest. No sweet smelling babies to crawl across my favourite drafting table- the wide expanse of floor covered in colours, swirls, checks, and strips of delicious piecing potential. There is an hour or two of cutting and sewing before Jane lures me away to our favorite haunt- the local thrift shop whose windows boast promise of half price. We come away grinning- a perfect pair of skates for a dollar. Two large housecoats perfect for repurposing; one in swirls of old fashioned colour and the other a soft pink chennille. A bag of fabric scraps apparently hoarded since the 1970's, complete with vintage patterns of ladies underwear, bridal wear for dolls, and fashion clothes for those 21 inch fashion barbies we never had back in the day. No ugly sweaters or cougar accessories, but who can survive too much stimulation before noonday?

Time for a toasted tomatoe before loading the girls up for a day in the city. We begin at Value Village where new heights of joy are found in a pale purple chennille bedspread, a heavy green spread perfect for carpet bags, two vintage curtain panels, an old broach, and a packet of placemats perfect for Christmassy table runners. Then off to the real world- the mall for Arianna's skinny jeans, a soft sweatshirt for Jane, and even a little something new for mama.

We've spent much of the day, enjoyed each others company, and taken a break from the regular monotony of sibling rivalry, dishes, tidying, and homework. As though that were not already too much to hope for, peaceful ride home is followed by the surprise of an unsolicited meal of pork tenderloin, baby potatoes, and stuffed tomato whipped up by the sweet love of my life.

Sometimes life can have a storybook quality. Moments or hours that are too much to wish for, but are true and real. And now, off to church- where the music will fill me, beginning in my heart, radiating down my limbs, and ending in that happy lump in my throat.

Family Traditions

(Thank you God, for my family)

"Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.” ~George Eliot

*thank you Brandy



Its a tradition that began long before any of us had children of our own. Every autumn, the family and all its counterparts make the trip to Riding Mountain National Park to celebrate Thanksgiving.

We always hike the marsh, and at the end of the weaving plank walkway is a gazebo where we have probably posed for a drillion or more family photos. Then there is the treasure hunt, another hike along the lake that is cleverly disguised as a candy hunt so that the children beg for it every year. Uncle Mel's trail mix has become another favourite legend. It was initiated the year he arrived with a rough tote filled with nuts, raisins, chocolate, and candy. Which works out well for my preferred weekend parenting style. Book in one hand, a magazine in the other, and the dimples of my cellulite holding coffee, dark chocolate truffles, four dozen vintage buttons, some scraps of unbleached cotton, and a gin and tonic. Whenever the children approach something relating to hunger I just glance up and scream at them... GO EAT THE FRIGGIN TRAIL MIX!! DO I LOOK LIKE A CARING, ENGAGED MOTHER RIGHT NOW?!



And then of course, it goes without saying that there are hours and hours of family bonding.

No Screen Sundays

(just don't scroll down and notice that I'm writing this on Sunday. That would make me a hypocrite.)

Every fall and spring and new year, and possibly days in between, I get the undeniable urge to write down some goals and good intentions. Some directions to move into. Some intentional plans to pull into focus the rumbling, fumbling grey matter above.

*

At the end of August, I forced my sometimes pliable husband to sit with me and agree on some good intentions for our family life in the new school year. As much as I love screens, and couldn't possibly convince anyone that I'm above all that technology, pretty colours, lights, and sounds..... THEY DRIVE ME UTTERLY INSANE. I like to blame it on the fact that I grew up without any screens whatsoever. We never, ever had a television, and since humanity had just recently left the dank caves, home computers were unheard of. (unimaginable). I like to pretend that this has caused the inability in me to know what balance is. That I was raised on such purity that my "inner child" craves the silence (hah! eight kids!) and creativity of our farm house years.

*

So, I foolishly came up with the notion of "no screen Sundays". Not because my parents had taught me that cards and homework on the sabbath were sins, (they didn't.) not because I think it irreverent to humour hollywood on the Lord's day... well, I wish I were that holy but I'm not. I just thought that I wasn't really willing to make it Saturday since that's the day after Friday and some saturday mornings, there's nothing better than a bunch of brain dead kids in front of the tv and me not being side-show-daycare-lady for a change. So I picked Sunday. I also reasoned that we'd be more likely to remember undone homework due on Monday if the tv was off. And that out of sheer boredom and desparation, everyone would come to church with me instead of watching Bing and Bong in their underwear.

*

And its had the desired effect. Children get their homework done. (or sit and cry about their homework, but its a start, right?) Children haul out tape and crap out of the recycling bin and make tvs and computers for their play mobil people. (at least they're seeing some action...) Wildly stimulating and educational comic books get read. Block towers are built and conquered. The hamster's cage is cleaned. Flute practise gets done. Friends come by, dress up breaks into hysteria. Children actually ask to go visit grandma and grandpa.

*

BUT THE NOISE!!!

oh the noise.

*

I nearly succombed today. I nearly suggested that after they clean up the twelve thousand blocks, the fabric scraps, the milk jug lids, the shoes in the porch, the baskets of laundry and miscellaneous, the playhouse people, the markers, the waffle crumbs, and the bionicle pieces, that we should reward ourselves with an episode of America's Funniest Home Videos. Oh, how close did I come.

*

But thirteen odd years of trial and error parenting whispered in my ear..... You know where that will get you. Every sunday from now until eternity the children will use that as a bargaining chip. You know that you suck at saying no. You know that they will see your weakness and rub you with it.

*

So, I did the mature thing.

I made them all go to bed early, after doing all the housework.

*

Then I came down to use the computer in some peace and quiet.

A Gal Like Me Has Got No Right To Struggle With Depression

... or alternately, The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music.

(It just depends on how comfortable you are with pretending that life is a romantic adventure, or whether it relieves you to know that everybody's got shit and small potatoes to deal with.)

How well I remember that house on the hill where all was alive with the sounds of children, and kittens, the dog Daisy, the pretty hens, and the refreshing melodies of cascading gin.

Its time for a refresher course in all things rural, so I thought I'd unschool the children for a few days and haul them off, kicking and screaming, to spend a few days in paradise. Well, screaming with joy as they ride the moterless lawnmower down the hill is more accurate....

So, as if that's not enough to pull my chin out of my navel, tonight Brian and I are taking our daughters to Rainbow Stage to sit in the outdoor concert hall and experience the production of The Sound of Music. I've not been to the stage since I was a teenager so it goes without saying that the girls have never been. Julia Andrews is like an old family friend. I grew up adoring the story and although we never had a television, the Von Trapps felt like family from all the hours I'd spend lying on the living room floor listening to their sounds of music and studying the faces on the record album, pretending I was the youngest in that family instead of my own.

So, a few more hours to get on the old timecard, and then a chance to indulge in the last glorious days of summer.

My heart shall be blessed.... by the sounds of music.

Summer

"Hi. I'm Sam. Remember?"

I guess its true what those blue-haired ladies in Safeway used to say.... "They grow up so fast..." At the time I wanted to shove my screaming, mangey crew at blue-grandma and say; "Oh, yeah?! Well how about you take them for an hour so I can shop? Or a week, if it goes as fast as you say, you romantic old biddy." But I'd twist my features into an imitation of a grateful smile and pat them on the arm instead. (Dementia. Odd what memories it melts away...)

Well, its been thirteen short years of parenting now, and we just realized yesterday that we've done a week of activities with practically no tension. No meltdowns. No peeing of the pants. No packing the stroller. None of it.

And we even had fun!

The summer list of good intentions has a few tick marks on it now. Zoo? check. Folk Fest? check. Beach? check. Fishing? check. Picking strawberries and raspberries? check. Tinkertown? check.

Maybe I'm growing over-confident here, but with this successful unfolding of events so far this summer, it seems a good weekend to take the girls and their friends on a camping trip to Birds Hill. With temperatures in the mid-thirties. In a tent. With precious few shade trees.

Where's that blue-haired lady when you need her?

oh, Those Darn Kids

Far be it from me to offer any advice on parenting because then you'd probably start watching my kids for all their weaknesses and flaws and then you might be tempted to come around and criticize me and I don't want that. (Did I sound defensive? I'm sorry; I meant to sound threatening....)

There's a funny thing that happens when you make your kids do jobs. A few months ago I had a rant about how insane I was going, how tired I was of wiping and washing and picking up after everyone, how annoying I found it to see people so relaxed in my presence. I insisted that I no longer do any supper clean-up and that I would not even involve myself in delegating duties. This was to be a war fought by the army of dad and the legions of offspring. The first few days or weeks, I had to physically remove myself from the room or the house because of the significant resistance that was met with this non-negotiable proposal.

Its still ugly a lot of the time. But there's a new dynamic emerging. There's a weird bonding that happens when these wild ones have to band together to complete a task. (and their dad is a task master. He won't accept a sloppy job. He won't do a "mommy" and do it for them.) Amidst the screaming, sometimes crying, sometimes racing around the table, there is the presence of an almost hysterical giggle. Annoying, but invaluable. Often, the craziness that envelopes dish-washing time (and I make them use the sink and not the dishwasher. I think its a good life skill.) spills over into after-dish-washing time. I'll hear them rumble down into the basement for a life-in-the-eighties costume game. Or we'll get a fashion shoot of bubble beards. Or Micah will give himself vacuum hickeys after getting the floors clean.

Its like after hating each other through the process of figuring out how to work together, they lose some of their selfishness and actually begin to like one another.

Besides, I usually forget to bath them. At least this way I know that their kinda clean. -ish.

My Kid is Gonna Be Thirteen!

She's a nice kid.

~

She and her friends are fun to hang out with.

~

There are some neural connections being made that don't always involve someone's wallet or someone's self-interests.

~

She learned to take responsibility for her own academic career this year.

She's pretty.

~

She's not a klutz like her mother.

~

She is creative.

~

She has confidence.

~

~

~

Clearly, there is a loving God.

Fragile But Strong

Bad stuff happens to everyone. People lose children, siblings, health, the sanctity of their marriage. Finances crumble, friendships end, hopes die. And so there is nothing unique about pondering the likelihood of caring for my aging parents. There is nothing unique about feeling hollow and frightened that my brother died before I was quite used to his diagnosis. Still, a wise friend pointed out, its the first time its happened to me, and that makes it unique.

I, and my world, are forever changed. I want to navigate all this "properly", deal with stress appropriately, remember and rely on the one word that God impressed upon me some two years ago: REST. And so in ways I feel strong and determined.

But in other ways, I'm a stupid little kid in water wings, trying to swim upstream.

Family

We all have moments were we feel utterly alone in our oddities.

The absolute best remedy is to go back to where it all began: the gene pool.

The second day of our raucous cabin getaway, we were joined by a few of the old folks. My dad made it down the steps without any disaster, much to our relief. Uncle Johnny, Tante Tina and mom (Tante Nita to some) were young and spry by comparison.

Cousin Grace joined us from Hamilton, citing some pressing need to be with family. Her colleagues and students would have to carry on without her.

Who knew we shared anything? Not me.

But over wine and hysterical laughter, we learned things that defined us as having sprung from the same soil. We share quirks and fears, oddities and exhuberances. The time went by too quickly.

The quiet of the cabin gave room for some of the nausea in our stomachs to spill from our eyes. There was space to voice the unspeakable grief for Ken's daughters. There was oppurtunity to compare stories of our childhoods, and hold up our perceived realities to those who also walked similar paths. There was just enough time to recognize some character similarities that must have come from our shared genetics.

Perhaps the shared reality of our recent losses made the time together even more precious. Too young for so many funerals, we have however met over cold and still... brother....cousin... and auntie. We stand a little closer now, sheilding one another from the chilling winds. There is no way to imagine what the next four seasons will bring us. But they will find us square shouldered, standing together strong amidst the change.