our grace

At every meal we sit down to eat, my kids and I sing a grace. A grace that would surely make my mother bristle, for it is sung, and it is silly, and it is rote. But boy do we mean it every single time. You may know it, but I put a little spin on it, and it makes the girls smile every single time:

OooooOOh,
The Lord is good to me,
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need:
The Boo and The Bean
And the appleseed.
The Lord is good to me,
Johnny Appleseed,
Amen.

open heart

I've been struggling with whether or not I should write about this topic. It feels, in a sense, like an invasion of my ex-husband's privacy. On the other hand, our lives are still so bound up because of the children, that major milestones in his life are milestones in mine. And they affect me, whether I want them to or not.


***

Over a year ago, The Bean was heartbroken and crying; it was the divorce, again. I know that it was over a year ago because it was in our little rental house, that house that brought us through so much, that kept us warm in the coldest, darkest hours. It was in that house, on one of those cold, dark nights that she said to me: if your marriage was a mistake, then I was a mistake, too.

And I was knocked out, emotionally. How could I explain to her that at that point, she and her sister were the only things that made sense in my life anymore?

Oh, no. No, no. Sweetie, you ARE NOT a mistake.

But I know that how we had talked about her conception, that we'd loved each other so much that she was born, had set us up for this very moment. If that love was gone, or if it had been false all along (it wasn't), then her very raison d'être had vanished.

I was telling a wise friend of mine about this conversation a few days after it happened, and she flipped the situation on its head and suggested that perhaps The Bean and Boo were destined to exist, and that Dad and I had married precisely so that they could be conceived and born. I liked this version so much better.

The problem that I bump up against, almost constantly, is one of expectations. I grew up expecting to get married, have kids, and grow old with the father of my children. I would have a house with a backyard. My expectations were basic, so I never imagined that they couldn't be fulfilled. It's not like I was asking for a mansion and a private jet, after all.

So when my reality has not matched up with my expectations, I have had to adjust. I sometimes have the help of friends to turn things on their head, to make new sense of it all. The adjustments have still been painful, though. Unbearable at times, like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. But I am getting used to the incremental changes. I have come to accept that Dad was meant to be in my life as a co-parent. My best friend is someone else. And there are other people around me, to love me and support me.

I've adjusted to these realities, even though tears pour down my face as I write this. It is good; life continues to be good.

I hadn't prepared for the latest, however. He has met someone new. He was good enough to give me a heads up that he was going to tell the kids about her. They've been dating for a year. A year. His reasons for waiting so long to tell the kids are his own, and I am sure they come from a good place. It hit me harder than I expected, but because I am on a different path now, the looking back was short lived, and I continued on my road.

The girls, The Bean in particular, found the news to be a bit of a shock. There were tears. There were hugs. We talked through it, and I hope they got the clear message that Dad still loves them, and that nothing will change that.

The girls met her a couple of weeks ago. They told me the instant they saw me. It was over brunch, and she seemed nice, they said. I told you she'd be nice, I said. Have you met her? asked The Bean. No. So how could you know? The answer was simple: I know your Dad would pick someone good. I meant it, in my head, but my heart sunk a little. I am trying so very hard to make this good for them, healthy and happy for them.

The next milestone, I'm sure, will be a change in living arrangements, whether marriage is involved or not. This is hard. This will be another adjustment. I read this letter this morning and fell apart.

I fell apart because of the deepest conflict in my heart. I (selfishly, I know) want my girls to love me more than anything - until they move on and have their own grown up lives, of course. So when I imagine them loving another woman, turning to her for advice, talking to her in confidence, it tears me up inside. At the same time, I want this woman to be someone who loves my children and only wants the best for them. My girls deserve as much. And they deserve to be surrounded by good women they can trust.

I never pictured this. She was never part of the plan. All I can do is hope and pray that she is good to them, and they to her. Perhaps turning this on its head means realizing that my girls have so much love to give, and deserve so much love in return, that it couldn't be contained between two people. Maybe there needed to be three. Or four. And there are at least a half dozen more, from our church family, who play huge roles in their lives. Opening my heart to this is difficult, but perhaps it's exactly what needed to happen.

the practice of saying No

Bedtime is always a moment of sharing for my girls. If there is something that's bothering them, I can almost count on it being discussed at bedtime. I try not to be too skeptical and choose to believe that it's not a delay tactic, but rather a moment when we can avoid eye contact, since we're cuddled in the dark. It's also a moment of intimacy and of withdrawal from the hubbub of everyday life.

With Boo, I can usually guess what she'll bring up - it's something that got her upset in the day and that caused her to shut down on me. With The Bean, it's always a big surprise.

Tonight, The Bean announced, "I find it really hard to say no."

Man. Not the words I want to hear from my 12-year-old daughter.

I have never had to worry about Boo saying no - she practices on me and her Dad and her sister all the time. I have a pretty good sense that as she grows up, she'll be able to hold her own against friends who want to do something she thinks is stupid (though we're all in trouble if she's the one who comes up with the idea - but that's another matter). But The Bean is a pleaser. I've always known that. Yet to have her voice it in such a direct way was, well, a shock. At least she's self-aware, I guess.

She noticed it this evening when my mom called. Grandma had been dispatched to find a pair of black slacks for The Bean for her choir outfit. Grandma called from the store, announcing she'd found a pair, "not quite leggings," she said, "they are these new things they call jeggings." (Have I mentioned how cute my mom is?) The Bean couldn't even bring herself to tell her grandmother that she was on the wrong track; she handed the phone over to me. I set my mom straight, and she offered to go to another store. Easy peasy.

The thing is this: I can't possibly blame my kid for finding the word no so difficult. I spent the first 35 years of my life saying yes, to everyone, to everything (mostly). It nearly drove me mad, quite literally. I had to learn to say no so that I could keep my self intact.

As The Bean's mom, I could have, of course, gone through the deep philosophical and psychological reasons one must learn to say no. Instead, I focused on the practical, since this child is both pragmatic and logical. We talked through the fact that she wouldn't have ended up with what she needed, and that grandma would have spent money for nothing, and we'd still need to go out and buy something else. That struck a chord. So we're on the right track.

I've asked her to practice saying no. Not just for its own sake, of course, but when she means it. Hopefully she'll have some practice by the time the stakes are higher. Maybe I'll also help her develop a sneer and an are-you-kidding-me side glance. I know she has it in her.

today I remember

War always felt so far away. It was something we learned about in history class. But as I grow older, it feels closer. I see how the scars of wars are passed down through the generations. I see how war begets pain begets war. My heart bears some of the scars of a war I have never known, through my dad. This is his story.

The year of his birth, 1934, saw the "election" of Benito Mussolini in a bizarre referendum on Fascism. That same year, Italy won the World Cup of Soccer in a final match against Czechoslovakia, thanks in large part to the Fascist machine. My dad was born into a time and place deeply steeped in right-wing totalitarianism, to a family that was staunchly Communist. His father was drafted and refused to serve in the Fascist regime. As a result, my grandfather spent his last years in hiding, ultimately dying of pneumonia because he had no way of getting proper treatment. His house, where his wife and six children still lived, was occupied by Italian soldiers, waiting for their countryman to return home. The soldiers mistreated my dad's puppy, killed his favourite calf, beat him when he dared take a bite of a loaf of bread because he was starving. My dad was 5, and it was the beginning of the Second World War.

History informs our values and belief systems, our attitudes and points of view, our joy and suffering. That great big story of millions dying, of the Axis and the Allies, of an entire continent ravaged by relentless bombings - this great big story had among its victims a quiet and wily little boy with deep brown eyes, named Roberto.

I have a hard time completely appreciating what my dad must have lived through. I remember learning dates and names of battles in high school. It was so far removed from real lives that I never stopped to consider that while those things in the history books were happening, my dad and his family were a few hundred kilometres away, eking out an existence. Being beaten down for standing up for their principles.

I only know these stories because my mom told them to me. My father never spoke a word to me about his childhood, about the pain. But I had glimpses.

Once, when I was about 9 years old, he sent me to the Portuguese bakery near our house to pick up a loaf of bread. It was still warm as I carried it home, and it smelled so good that I couldn't help but bite off the heel - and indulge in a few more bites after that. I thought for sure he'd be angry because I'd just dug right in. Instead, I remember hearing his deep, throaty laugh, but also seeing the tears in his eyes. I know now that it must have brought back memories of his own experience of biting into a sweet, hot loaf of bread. But instead of being beaten, I was welcomed with open arms. This was redemption. This was freedom.

My dad left his home country as soon as he could, at the young age of 17, living first in Switzerland, then France, and ultimately settling permanently here in Canada. He always called Italy le pays des misères. War had ravaged not only his country, but his childhood. But he found redemption here, in the peace, far away from those memories.

Today I am thankful for those who fought for that peace. Who fought for the freedom of that little boy who was beaten and scarred, for the millions who were tortured and killed, and the millions more who wore and continue to carry the wounds in their minds, bodies and hearts. For the soldiers, the peacekeepers, those who put themselves between the innocent and the violence, I wear the poppy to remember.

whirlwind of love

It happened again. This weekend saw a mini blitz of work done at the house; things that would have been done months ago, except that I didn't have the expertise or I didn't have to tools to make it happen or I just didn't have the time.

Two amazing people descended upon my house with their know-how, their tools and their energy in a whirlwind of love, and we got it done. Mostly they got it done, and I learned a few things along the way. In a short 24 hours, the stairwell and upstairs hallway got painted; my linen closet, which had been unusable because of the crumbling plaster, turned into a cedar-lined, huge capacity closet; The Bean got a backsplash behind her sink; the element in the stove got replaced (I can bake again!); The Bean's bedroom door got adjusted and can now close; I got a light installed in the basement stairwell that was pretty dark and scary; I got a hood fan installed over the stove; and I had my leaves raked, to boot.

There are days when I wonder how I will get it all done. A household isn't meant to be cared for alone. Some days I am near tears, worrying and wondering if I can continue to keep it together. And then the whirlwind descends and I am saved from the fear and the worry, and I am swept up in blessings. And I am not alone. It is good.

change the locks!

I had a dream last night. Jian Ghomeshi was a friend of mine, and he had a key to my house since he came over often. Suddenly, I realised I couldn't be alone with him. When he came over, I made sure that our other friends were there. And somehow I was going to have to change the locks pronto, without him knowing.

I will admit that I am not a regular listener of CBC radio. I was an avid CBC radio fan when I stayed home with the kids; Shelagh Rogers and Annamaria Tremonti were often the only adult voices I'd hear for long stretches in a day. So I've been able to dispassionately watch the Ghomeshi scandal unfold from a distance. Which is why I was surprised to have had such a dream about him and the situation.

***

Just a week ago, I was in lockdown in my office tower in downtown Ottawa. There was a shooting, rumours of multiple gunmen, and Twitter speculation run amok. It was scary. Then it ended and I went home. Commenters said that Canada had lost its innocence; others retorted that Canadians, and Ottawans, are resilient.

Then Sunday night, news on a completely different front emerged about the increasingly-scandal-mired Ghomeshi. Andrew Coyne tweeted, "Okay, NOW we've lost our innocence." It was a joke, commenting on the surprising details of the radio host's confessed sexual proclivities. And I giggled, but as the days wear on, I realise there is a deep truth in that tweet.

A potential terrorist threat is scary, and it rattles us, but it didn't shake me permanently, certainly not personally. Terror-related deaths in the West are remarkable precisely because they are rare. And, to be honest, they do not terrify me. Some might say I'm not letting the terrorists win. What is in fact frightening, and keeps me up at night, is the ever-present threat to girls' and women's personal safety.

As a mom of two girls, I was shaken to be reminded in the swirl of the media/social media analysis that four in ten girls and women over the age of 16 are victims of sexual assault. FOUR IN TEN. Let that sink in. That means that statistically, 6 or 7 of The Bean's grade 7 classmates will be victims of sexual assault. The scariest part is that you can't tell by looking at them that certain men will carry out those terrible acts of sexual violence. Worse, it will likely be someone she knows and perhaps even trusts. And he may even have a voice like silk and a self-depricating way about him.

I think that's why so many people have had such a strong reaction to this: our collective trust has been broken. We are reminded that the nice guys we know may not be all that nice after all. We have, indeed, lost our innocence.

My most visceral reaction is to "change the locks" - keep myself and the girls locked up, inside, safe. While the guys get to walk around and do whatever they please.

It's time. It is TIME that the onus stop being on us, the girls and women, to be the sole keepers of female safety. It is time that boys and men, and women and media, understand that we are collectively responsible for changing the conversation. There are those far more informed and talented than I who have offered ways in which to switch gears, so I won't elaborate here. I will say this, however: I want to raise my soon-to-be-teenage daughters in a time and place where they don't have to be locked up. Let's not let the terrorists abusers win.

birthing

Exactly ten years ago, Boo came forth into this world in what my midwife called a "textbook birth." It was the middle of an autumn night that the stars and the quiet and the warm light of love welcomed her. Like any birth, it was painful and messy and just a touch scary. It was also the most beautiful and mystical experience of my life.

Within seconds of her birth, I sat back, holding her at arms' length, looking straight into her eyes, and she into mine. She smelled like me - I still remember that smell that was so strong and so familiar that I could have found her blindfolded in a forest. I knew her, and she knew me.

I was already a mother; The Bean had taught me how to love like a mother. But it was Boo's birth, the birth that wasn't so scary and filled with lights and nurses and a surgeon, that taught me the painful truth about motherhood. For every single day since that birth, I have lived the mystical beauty of motherhood that is born out of sheer pain and mess and fright. This is the real story of motherhood: that we give birth to ourselves and to our children every single day.

extra curriculars

Getting my kids into after-school extra curricular activities has been an ongoing battle with their Dad. I want them to be signed up for one activity each; he is more reluctant. So until this fall, they had never done after-school activities. If something was offered at school during lunch hour or class time, that was fine. Saturday morning neighbourhood soccer at the kindergarten level is about as much as we did on extra curriculars.

But the kids are getting older, and because they are girls, much of their recess time is now devoted to socialising. Which is important, no doubt, but it doesn't get them moving. And as they progress in the school system, phys ed becomes less and less of a focus. So we need to get their bodies moving, and we need to develop habits of doing physical activity. That is one thing that I missed growing up, and so working it into my schedule has always been a struggle. I want it to be second-nature for the kids.

So I worked up my courage and did something I was never able to do in my marriage - and this is embarrassing to admit: I told their Dad that I was signing them up for activities. If needed, I'd take them to all of them, but they were going to do this because I believe it's important. After a bit of back and forth he agreed, and now I've got the kids doing some fun stuff. 

The Bean is taking fencing, which she began in summer camp a couple of years ago. She is a bit disappointed that she doesn't get to use the metal épée just yet; they have her on a plastic foil, which she feels is totally bogus (or however kids say that nowadays). She's got her own fencing glove, and if she sticks with it, we'll invest in more of the gear. For now, she's using the club's extras. Fencing is a great fit for her because she needs to be hyper-focused on form and what the other person is doing. 

And Boo is in a pre-competitive swim class. She has not been a fan of the idea of taking a class, but she is doing well. The kid is built like a swimmer and she is fast, so it just made sense to put her there. Her biggest complaints: she is the youngest in the class (um, because you're that good, kiddo), that the other kids move too slowly and get in her way (again, coz you're good), and that she doesn't have any friends in the class (which was only true until the middle of the second class).

These activities make us busier than we were and it can be a challenge fitting in everything. It makes me wonder how people have two or three activities per kid per week, plus get homework done, plus have time together as a family, plus have time to just relax. Two evenings a week our schedules are a bit of a dash. At the same time, I get to enjoy the company of the other child while the one is busy in her sport. That's been an added bonus I hadn't counted on. I guess that's my extra curricular activity.

thankful

Being grateful, thankful, opens one's heart to the world. It is easy for me (for anyone?) to fall into a self-centred trap. Today, it's more worries about the house. I'm painting the porch, hoping that the 40% chance of rain holds and we don't get wet. I worry about the bills, about the house, about my job, about my health, about doing it all on my own, about whatever. Yet I can pull myself away from the downward self-pity cycle quickly: I give thanks. It's impossible to give thanks for just one thing, and I cold go on and on with my list.

The various activities of this Thanksgiving weekend alone showed me some of what I have to be thankful for:

• The kids' youth group: every two weeks, the girls hang out with their young friends from our church and another local Anglican church, and they work toward their social justice goals with their peers. I am thankful for our church community.
• Saturday morning movie: my good friend, R, gets free tickets to various events and often shares them with us; it's a great time to hang out with friends and free entertainment. I am thankful for R, and for his wife S who is also a kind friend, and their kids.
• Gardening: I dug up an overgrown flower bed, and made a new one out of a strip of lawn that needed beautifying. When a friend, M, heard that I was looking for perennial plants for my garden, she talked to her Master Green Thumb husband, J, who dug up his garden and gave me - literally - more than I needed. I am thankful for these friends and for what will surely be a garden that is now ready for the winter.
• Dinner with Mom: the girls and I headed to my mom's for Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday. For the four of us, she cooked a whole turkey (for her and me), and a quiche for the girls, plus mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, heirloom carrots, turnip, stuffing, rolls, two pies and pinwheels. We should have invited ten other people over. I am thankful for my Mom, and for plenty to eat.
• After dinner with Mom: tradition in our family has it that you play games after a big family dinner. The Bean, Mom and I played Yatzhee - a game we always played with my grandma. I am thankful for happy memories and for continuing traditions.
• Sunday morning at church: a dear friend, C, who welcomed me into her home and family at a time when my whole world was falling apart, invited me to Thanksgiving dinner with her family. I would have jumped at the chance, but I had plans to be out of town. I am thankful for C and for the love that she and her family have shown me.
• Working with my girls: the girls helped with the garden and brought various junk item from the front of the house to the back, which is a bit of a project since we the only direct access to the back of the house is from inside, so they had to walk around the block. I am thankful for my generous and hard-working girls.
• Drop off at Dad's: this has become my least favourite part of the week. I know that it means I'm going to miss my girls. But I am lucky to get along as well with their Dad as I do. And I am lucky to get the amazing good-byes from them. I am thankful for beautiful hugs.
• Visit with friends in Montreal: I drove out to Montreal Sunday evening to visit with my oldest friend, M, and her partner. I am thankful for our friendship, and for their continued generosity to me. I couldn't be better supported emotionally and through all the work I have, even if I had a sister. Je t'aime, M.
• Painting the porch: I got home in time to put a last coat of paint on my porch. I am thankful that the house improvements are now mostly cosmetic. I am thankful for the strength to get the work done. I am thankful for how lovely my home is looking.

The joy of gratitude has already pushed away the worry of the coming week. It is good.

anniversaries

Dates stick in my mind. I still remember birthdays of childhood friends I haven't seen in at least two decades. I remember strange little dates like the first time I kissed by first boyfriend, or I notice patterns (like I seem to fall in love with people who are born on the 8th of the month).

Today is the one-year anniversary of the kids and me getting the keys to The Little House that Could. A year ago, I nearly panicked at the immense amount of work that lay before me. Tonight, I sit in my cozy living room, with the beautiful woodwork, and I have a measure of peace. It is good.

So it feels incongruent - yet perhaps fitting - that yesterday would have been my wedding anniversary. Thirteen years ago, we got up in front of our friends, family and God to promise to treasure one another, till death do us part. And a sort of death did part us. Here I sit, still sometimes dazed from it all. Some days I have a measure of peace. Some days it is good.

dropped stitches

Two weeks ago I learned that my aunt in Italy - my dad's sister - had died, at age 89. Days later, I took the time, after many years, to finally visit my dad's last living sibling. She is 87.

My girls had never met this aunt. This aunt, a surprisingly spry woman for all she's been through, has not changed, not in character anyway. She still carries the strong family resemblance we all seem to have, including Boo, my Mini-Me: round eyes slopping down in the corners that are at once sad and full of mischief, straight nose, defiant chin. She still tells wry jokes and laughs when she recounts the stories of my dad's shenanigans (he was full of them). She still laughs the same laugh, puts her hands up in faux supplication to the heavens when she remembers the trouble they all used to get into.

This aunt, barely taller than The Bean, wrapped her arms around my girls before we had fully crossed the threshold into her house. She held them, whispering Italian blessings on them. How beautiful, how sweet, she said into their hair. My girls were enveloped, for an afternoon, by my dad's dialect, accent, and craziness. I heard stories I'd never heard; they learned what kind of person he was - and the trouble he sometimes brought onto himself because of it.

This aunt is my last close connection to my dad, and in a sense, to a part of me. Because my dad died when I was just 13, I never had a chance to become curious about who he was as a person. He was my dad and that was it. It never occurred to me to ask about his own mom and dad, what he remembered about his childhood, what he thought of the immigrant experience. I have never seen photos of my dad as a child, and I am casting about now, to find out if any even exist. What did he look like? What kind of kid was he? Was he as much a handful as a boy as he was as a full-grown man?

We knit our personal stories together based on our memories, our experiences, and our family histories. My mom and I are good at telling our stories to each other, and in the retelling, consolidate those memories in ourselves and transfer them to my children. I didn't have that luxury with my dad. The knitting happens piecemeal, and I feel like so many of the stitches have been dropped. There are holes in our collective story, unfinished business I feel the need to go back and pick up. If only so I can hand my girls a more complete pattern to our existence - the origins of our foibles and our strengths.

Even so, I have come to accept that there is beauty in the unfinished, in the imperfect. Perhaps my girls can pick up some of those stitches for themselves one day, and create their own histories from the complex piece we've put together thus far.

permit me to gripe for a moment

I went to a presentation at The Bean's school this evening. It was an introduction to the gifted program to parents of kids in the program. The principal, the head of the department, and the teachers all seem like pretty amazing people. They talked about integrating the kids' learning to their other intrinsic interests, whether they are artistic, sports-related, social-justice minded, or naturally more academic. They talked about the various types of giftedness, about how gifted people - and gifted children in particular - are people who care deeply about things, and how the faculty see it as their role as educators to help nurture that. They talked about a leadership camp where kids get to know each other, but also themselves. In short, they talked about expanding kids' horizons and teaching them to spread their wings.

I was really excited, and happy, to see that my girl is in such good hands.

Then came the parents' questions. They started well enough: what does homework for kids in this program look like? What are the expectations in terms of learning tools (do I need to buy my kid an iPad!)? How can we, as parents, support, what you are teaching them in terms of organizational skills, time management, and stress relief? All great questions.

Then things got weird, or as I like to say it: they got stupid.

One parent said his kid feels like his day of learning is done with school and turns to video games at the end of the day: teachers, what are you going to do about that? My thought: dude, first of all, your kid is learning all kinds of problem-solving and strategic skills (I say this as the former unofficial Tetris champion of my class), and second of all, that's your problem, not the teachers'. The principal's answer: much more patient, with a nod to working with parents to expand a child's interests, to motivate the child in a different direction, etc. Then another parent complained about buses. Now remember: kids are now taking public transportation to school. She basically blamed the teachers because her kid took the wrong bus home on day one. I couldn't abide by it. I spoke up: "That's the parent's responsibility. We practice the bus route with them." She responded back that her kid knew she had to take a certain bus back home but the teacher had told her otherwise. We actually got into a strained, raised-voice conversation about whose responsibility this was (I heard a couple of parents behind me grumble that it shouldn't be up to the teachers).

I had to step back after my third response to this woman, because I knew I wasn't getting anywhere. But I was so angry. We put a lot of expectations on teachers not only to teach our kids what's on the curriculum, but to go beyond that and help usher them into responsible personhood and citizenry. I agree that it's part of their role. But we as parents are responsible for most of that. Why can't we own up to what we are called to do? Also, why can't we accept that our kids make mistakes? That little girl got on the wrong bus because the teacher said, "here's the 600 bus that takes you to the Rideau Centre. It stops here." He didn't say: "take this bus." And even if he had, if the girl new she was supposed to take the 18, shouldn't she have questioned why she was being told to take the 600? And even if she didn't, she made a mistake. At the end of the day, a mom should just say to her kid, "look kiddo, you made a mistake. You're home safe and sound now, and you know not to take that bus. Take the other one, like we talked about."

Instead of letting our kids fall down a little - and letting them learn from falling down - we insulate them and blame others for not cushioning the fall. At a certain point, we all need to get bruises and scrapes. That's how we learn.

The worst part is that these are parents of "gifted" kids - the sorts of kids who are apparently above average at problem solving. Only it sounds like some of them don't even have the opportunity to do that much. At the beginning of the presentation, we were told that the skills of the 21st century are those of problem-solving and good judgment. Let's let go of our kids a bit and give them the space to make mistakes, pick themselves up, learn, and feel proud. They will surely learn to soar much more quickly.

on her own

Today was The Bean's first day of junior high school - grade 7. Her school goes from grade 7 to grade 12. The 7s and 8s have a separate schedule from the bigger kids, but they are all in the same building.

I was more than a little trepidatious to send her out there, and that's not like me. On her first day of daycare, I dropped her off and she skipped happily away. My heart sank a little, but I knew she was in good hands and she was clearly happy. On her first day of kindergarten, she was so excited to be going to school, and she loved the idea of the school bus. I was proud of my little independent girl who was clearly capable of taking on the world - in that protected sort of way. There was always a grown up to lead her to another grown up: I put her on the bus, in the care of the bus driver, who released her into the care of the teacher, who in turn put her back on the bus, then back directly into my arms. Easy.

Today, it was not so easy. Today, I dropped my kid off at a giant school (I remember it feeling pretty big when I went there in grade 9), and watched her cross the street and into that courtyard. She stood around, waiting for a familiar face.

"She's so small," said Boo from the back seat, voicing my exact thoughts.

She was going to have to find her way to the auditorium, then listen carefully for roll call so she would know where to go next. At lunchtime, she was going to have to find her own way to the cafeteria, then to outside, then back in, in time for her afternoon classes. Then, the big test: the city bus all on her own. I was sick with the thought of it, every time it surfaced to my conscious mind over the course of the summer. She is little. She's not quite 12, and weighs all of 80 pounds. This kid could get crushed in those packed buses!

So we practiced yesterday. It didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped, with The Bean nearly missing our stop on the way home, then not getting up quickly enough to make it to the door to get out in time. But there was no more time for practice. At some point, it's showtime. That was this afternoon. I made her promise to send me an email as soon as she got home (we don't have a land line, and there's no use wasting minutes with a call when an email will do).

I was worried when it was nearly 5:00 and I hadn't heard anything. Then I got this email, correct grammar in the subject field and all:

It was a bad bus ride, but I'm home

Hi Mommy, I'm just got home. My bus ride looked something like this: 

- I waited for the bus with T. and another girl from the school

- We got all the way to that shopping centre where you told me not to ever get off at (the Rideau Centre; if you're from Ottawa, you understand my instructions)

- The bus crashed into another bus and the bottom window of the back door was all cracked

- We all had to get off the bus and the three of us sticked together

- We tried to call the other girl's dad but her phone didn't work

- We missed the next bus

- We got onto the following bus

- I got home safely and went to send you an email after going to the bathroom. 

That was my bus ride.  


So yeah, she's got this. Phew.

enough heartbreak for one night

I am heartbroken tonight. This time last night, I read the news that Robin Williams had taken his own life after a battle with depression. While I find the news of his death sad, it is not that news that breaks my heart tonight.

Tonight, I remember my brother, Jeff, and his own struggle with depression that ended with his death, almost 18 years ago.

Today I read articles on depression, articles and posts by distress centres, facebook posts and tweets on how family and friends need to reach out to loved ones.

I do not disagree that we need to reach out to those in pain - that is a given. But I believe it is a mistake to believe that the reaching out alone is a panacea or a cure. That is like assuming that because you've told a cancer victim you love them and are there for them that they will instantly go into remission. Worse, and I know people do not mean this when they say "reach out," it makes those who are left behind after a suicide feel like they could have done more. I could have called one more time. I could have stayed on the line longer. I could have visited more. I could have taken him out more. I could have sent more messages. I could have told him how special he is. I could have….

I could have nothing. There is absolutely nothing more I could have done that would have changed my brother's mind that night when he climbed into his car, turned the ignition, and sat there in a closed garage, waiting, certainly heartbroken at the futility and impossibility of it all. Nothing is exactly what more I could have done. Or my mom. Or his best friend. We all did something. Multiple somethings. But he was sick. We loved him so very much, but he was sick.

Mental illness is so complex. Laymen like me and you cannot fix it. Should we stop reaching out? No. The same way we should reach out to friends and family who are dying of cancer, heart disease, ALS, whatever. Love them. Always love them.

And just as a patient who has chest pains goes to the hospital, those with mental illness need quality care. That's where the help comes from. I don't know how to cure cancer. I don't know how to cure depression. But I can advocate on my loved one's behalf. I can raise awareness by talking about the disease. I can fundraise. I can. So many things.

I have no answers to what exactly one should say or do. I wish I did. But I do ask that we refrain from the easy "just reach out" as an answer. Enough heartbreak for one night.

the close of a chapter

I came home tonight to a thin, nondescript letter that had my full name, including middle names, handwritten on the envelope. It didn't look official in any way. So I was surprised when I opened it. The first thing I noticed was the seal. The second thing I noticed was the legal language. The third thing I noticed was that I'd stopped breathing.

On August 31, the order will be in force, and I will be divorced.

I cried. I texted my best friend. I called another friend. I mowed the lawn, because that's what needed doing.

I came back inside to a text that said, Necessary closure if you're going to move forward and that includes a future that is status quo or completely different. I cried some more. It is absolutely true. No matter what I do tomorrow, or next month, or next year, this part needs to be behind me. I have already begun the next part.

So that chapter closes with these words:

au compte-goute

My moments with the children are measured, drops into a vast bucket. Never enough at a time. Never enough to fill to the brim.

Once, I was drowning. I couldn't breathe. I grabbed onto life preservers; some tore me up a fair bit. A drowning woman can't tell a buoy from a stone. I told him I had to go. I had to be in a wide-open space, alone. He thought I meant without the kids. I could not even fathom the idea of leaving them. Alone includes them.

My moments with the children are measured. Sunday afternoon to Sunday afternoon. With a break mid-week, so it's never seven days.

Once, I would feel relief at the end of the week, when they were leaving to go to Dad. The near-drowning had left me so very tired. I loved them and held them for dear life. We fought and they wanted to know why, why. They wanted to fix it, I know.

The tide turned at some point. The whys abated; my breathing steadied. Now I began counting in reverse, till the moment I would see them again.

We drove the country, those children and me, and I never felt so happy and so free as I was in the great, gorgeous openness of the Saskatchewan prairie. Past the waters and into the wide, wonderful sky. I breathed. We breathed together.

Nineteen days. That's the longest I've ever gone without seeing them. One day, I know it will be so much longer. When one of them decides to go off to school, or to take a year or a few months to travel. Or they move to another city for a job. For now, I live in a sort of denial that those days exist somewhere in the vague future. Last night we broke the 19-day streak. While they were still fighting off jet lag, I picked them up at Dad's and we set out for gelato. Ninety minutes. An hour and a half of chatting, laughing, hugging, teasing, sharing. Never quite enough to fill to brim, but it will do.

our road trip

The girls and I took our little nest on the road for three weeks, from our hometown of Ottawa, to the west coast of Canada. We spent 22 days on the road. Our longest day in the car was about eight hours; our average day in the car between destinations was five hours, though in some cases we spent multiple days in the same location.

I'd always wanted to do that trip, to see the country and explore places I'd never been. We live in an amazingly beautiful country, with such a diverse geography (it is a huge country, after all), that I wanted to see some of it for myself. I'd been to Alberta a number of times, what with my aunt living there on a farm with her family and my brother having settled and raised a family in Calgary. And I'd visited Vancouver a couple of times, but I'd never been to the northern portions of my own province, and never visited the prairies.

I'd caught the family travel bug a few years ago. Back in our nuclear family days, Dad and I had taken the kids for a month in Italy, and a year later, a month in Peru. Those were amazing trips. We had a full list of places to go next: Namibia, Nepal and Bhutan, Morocco, India… The list went on. But once we split up, I was happy simply affording a house in the neighbourhood of my choice. Those kinds of exotic trips were off limits. And even if I'd had the money, I wasn't sure I'd be comfortable navigating those places as a single mom with two young girls.

That's when the Great Canadian Road Trip idea was born. I had considered flying us out to Alberta for family time, but it seemed pretty expensive. And while family is definitely important, and the connections we have with my family there mean everything to me, I also wanted to explore a little more. I costed it out, and driving 10,000 km in my little Honda Fit (to get there and back) wasn't going to be prohibitive. Staying in a variety of accommodations along the way - motels, hotels, camping, family - wasn't going to break the bank.

As for entertainment, with enough research, you can do it on the very cheap. Many national parks are free, and those that aren't, are free on Canada Day. Hiking costs nothing, except for parking in some places. Some museums and one owl sanctuary run on donations rather than entrance fees. You can get into the Calgary Stampede for free on a couple of days, if you arrive before 9; if you don't mind crowds, this works out well. My niece bought advance ride tickets, which saved us about $20 per person (it was lovely that she treated us). Altogether, we spent less than $400 on entertainment over the three weeks.

On food…. there are countless Stampede breakfasts and BBQs that you could theoretically eat for free for most of those ten days! We got a free lunch at a national historic site on Canada Day. Buying groceries on the road is the same price as buying them at home - you just need to be flexible on what you're eating and make that suit your accommodations (some places have kitchenettes, and sometimes you make do with a kettle and Mr Noodles and TVP with cut veggies for supper, which was actually a favourite with the kids). We did eat out a fair bit, but we found places with kids' menus, which are always cheaper. And for a whole week, we were guests with family, so we were well fed and cared for, for sure.

So here's where we went and an overview of what we saw and did (links to the touristy parts I found most worthwhile):

• Sudbury: Science North and the Big Nickel
• Pancake Bay Provincial Park: camping, and gorgeous beach
• Wawa: a quick stop to see the big goose
• Pukaskwa National Park: camping and beautiful hiking
• Thunder Bay: Terry Fox memorial, chilling out
• Dryden, Ontario: murals and painted benches - a good stop between T-Bay and the Peg
• Winnipeg (3 days): Lake Winnipeg, The Forks, Trolley tour, laundry (this was a cultural adventure, I assure you), St Boniface
• Yorkton, Saskatchewan: stop over between the Peg and the Toon, though we were caught in an area that as under a state of emergency, on account of flooding
• Saskatoon (2 days): the conservatory, Mendel Art Gallery, Batoche National Historic Site, Wanuskewin Heritage Park
• Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan: passing through to our next destination, we visited the Burrowing Owl Interpretive Centre, for Boo, who loves owls
• Southwestern Saskatchewan (2 days): Grasslands National Park, Great Sand Hills
• Calgary (4 days): we stayed with my niece (I never tire of telling people I was literally a child when she was born, so it's not so painful when I say we stayed with my niece and her husband!); we visited Heritage Park, the Stampede, the Royal Tyrell Museum, hiked (sort of!) in the badlands and saw the hoodoos
• east of Red Deer (3 days): we stayed with my aunt and uncle on their farm; my mom was also visiting there. The girls got to jump hay bails with their second cousins, and explore the farm
• Sorrento: we visited with the girls' aunt on their Dad's side, along with her extended family who invited us to stay with them at a retreat where they were staying
• Vancouver: we visited Kits beach; we made it to the Pacific!

I had an amazing time with my girls. There were moments of spats between them, but over all, they got along splendidly. There was never once a "are we there yet?!" despite the length of some of the legs of the trip. They mostly shared their bed well, though there was one night I had to separate them. They were always up for a new adventure. When I got frustrated or annoyed at a destination being less than anticipated, I tried not to show it. This allowed them to form their own opinions. It means that they have great memories of our Winnipeg hotel, when I think it was an absolute bust. All they need, really, is a pool with a slide, and they are happy as clams. That's definitely a life lesson for me.

I wonder what kinds of things they will remember from this trip. I know that they've been talking about their cousins - both first and second cousins - a lot. They have already asked that next year's trip consist of Alberta only and that we spend as much time with these cousins as possible.

For me, the sheer beauty of our country will stick with me, as will its vastness. There is so much to explore.

the long (and quiet) road back

On June 21, we loaded up the car, jumped in at dawn, and headed west. For three weeks, the girls and I explored chunks of our beautiful country. From the north shores of Lake Superior, to the strong, wide beauty of the prairies, to never-quite-enough family time in Alberta, and finally to the west coast, we got to get to know a few pockets of Canada. And a few more pockets of each other.

Today, I sit in the too-quiet solitude. After three straight weeks with my girls - the most I've had since the separation - I have had to say goodbye. I dropped them off with their Dad, who is visiting with some of his family in BC.

And then I drove home. All 4600 km over four days. Alone.

After sharing moments of excitement, teaching them about geography and history, and hearing them sing their little hearts out, the drive was solitary.

I realised, for the first time, that I don't just love my kids. They are my two most favourite people. They are smart and funny and kind and wildly random. They have grown into two very different people, with their own ideas, opinions, and big fat hearts. They are, for lack of a better word, simply beautiful.

I miss them.

do one thing every day that scares you

"Do one thing every day that scares you." This is a modern proverb that gets lumped in with so many others on facebook, twitter, lululemon bags, and inspirational posters.

What if just getting out of bed is the thing that scares you?

Anxiety is an invisible disorder that many people deal with daily. When I was a young mom, with a newborn and toddler, the idea of leaving the house to pick up a carton of milk terrified me. Putting snowsuits, hats, mitts, and boots onto those little bodies, then getting myself ready, then taking the stroller down the stairs of our apartment building, while carrying the baby and coaxing the toddler… It felt impossible. I didn't have a name for it at the time, but it was anxiety.

That anxiety dissipated with time and through learning how to ask people for help. It also helped that my girls, The Bean especially, became more and more independent quite quickly.

It was years before I felt the anxiety again. But the next time, it was different. I felt deep, yet hidden, anxiety within my marriage. And I felt even more anxiety leaving the safety of that relationship to head into the unknown. I had a panic attack - the only one I've ever had - after visiting the house I ended up renting. I was not prepared for the fear that would nearly paralyze me. But I did it, step by step, day by day, I got out of bed and did something that scared me: I got on with living.

Owning a house, one that has needed more work than I ever dreamed of taking on, has brought with it its own challenges. Feeling anxious was a natural state for me from September, when I put an offer on the house, through to March, when the last of the big repairs were done. It was only one evening when I finally sat down to knit for the first time in over half a year, that I realised that something was different. The anxiety had fallen away. I felt peace.

The peace was relatively short-lived.

***

My whole life I've wanted to drive across Canada. I've wanted to experience the big sky of the prairies, to see all the strange natural sites there are to experience, and yes, to see the giant road-side attractions. So when I bought a car over a year ago, that dream started to come into focus. And when Dad said he'd be taking the kids to Vancouver this summer during his time with them, suddenly this was doable: I could take three weeks to drive with the kids from Ottawa to Vancouver, and drop them off with Dad who would later fly them home. And they wouldn't have to endure the drive back. Perfect.

I've got the trip all planned out, from our first day in Sudbury, to camping on Lake Superior, to exploring the Peg, to Stampede in Calgary… But there is always more planning I could do. And I'm used to travelling with another adult - sharing the responsibilities. We set the itinerary, he books the hotels, I research the sites. We set out in the morning, I take the pictures, he tells about the history of the place. Now it's all on me.

I've been feeling that now-familiar throbbing of my upper body, the weight of something - fear - on me. The thing with anxiety is that it is not rational. Putting snowsuits on kids is not complicated. Driving for 600km is not complicated, finding the pre-booked hotel in a new city is not complicated. But I'm scared.

I have thought about just cancelling. It wouldn't be that hard. But then we'd miss out on so much. I'm also excited about this trip. I think it's going to be amazing. So, I'm going to follow the advice of that latter day proverb: for four weeks straight, I'm going to do at least one thing (likely many) that scares me. First stop: Science North.

feeling out loud

When I imagined being a mom when I was younger, I never really imagined what my kids would be like. I certainly never guessed that I'd have one that was so much like me that it would almost be painful to see.

My kids are a pretty good mix of Dad and me. But The Bean is more Dad, and Boo is more me. It took me a few years to realise how much Boo is like me. Mostly because I wasn't fully like me for most of my life.

As a very young child, I was loud and talkative and full of passion. I won't dwell on what turns out to have been a somewhat difficult childhood because of my dad's alcoholism or his later long, drawn out battle with cancer that left me and my mom on our own when I was 13. But those life experiences dictated that I needed to be quiet, to suppress my chattiness and to smother my feelings. Because those things were too big, and there was no room for them in our lives. Cancer took up most of the air time.

It took me years to find that loudness, the passion, the zeal, and the plain old self-confidence I was born with. It took a while, too, to really see it once I'd found it. Here's where I finally saw it: in a conversation about Boo.

Last summer I spent long, warm evenings falling in love. In friend-love with a lovely person who taught me a lot. He taught me that I can have a passionate disagreement about politics and still respect and care for my opponent. He showed me that exploring different parts of myself isn't so scary. And he reflected myself back to me.

Over a glass of wine on a patio one night, I was telling him about Boo (cf so vain).  About the kid's amazing self-confidence. About the passion. About how she just seems to get joy out of being obstinate. He chuckled, looked and me and said, "I wonder where she gets that."

I gave him a side glance, with a great big question mark.

"Come on!" he said. "She's just like you."

So she is, I realised in that moment. That's me I'm watching walking around out there, with this confidence. With those convictions. With the deep, deep feelings.

I have always been sensitive. I have always felt things deeply. But only recently have I rediscovered that and let myself feel everything just as it is. No more filters. So tonight I sit here, feeling everything quite keenly. Including a sweet sadness. I miss that friend. People come in and out of our lives, and I believe that we learn so much about ourselves if we pay close enough attention. I am thankful for the friend-love and the experiences. I am thankful for having learned that I, too, feel out loud like Boo. And I am thankful tonight for all those out loud feelings.

the letter

The Bean was accepted into the gifted program at her junior high school!

When we arrived home tonight after a lovely dinner and visit with friends, I noticed that there was a letter from the school board in the mailbox, addressed to me. I opened to read the happy news that The Bean is officially registered in the junior high school of her choice, that she is in the pre-Arts program, and that she was accepted into the gifted program.

As I read the letter out loud to her, The Bean's eyes lit up and she jumped up and down, so happy to hear that she was in. It was funny because in my mind there was no question whether she'd be accepted. This time last year, we got The Bean's "diagnosis" after a battery of tests over the span of more than a month: this kid is gifted. Oh, and she has ADD, but that's another story. To her, though, this was a big question that was weighing on her mind. She was hoping and hoping and hoping some more. And finally the day has come.

The gifted program will be great for The Bean, for more than one reason. The child is bored in math class and has been told by her sixth grade teacher that she could teach it better than the teacher herself. Last year, at the age of 10, she had the reading comprehension of a 12th grader. She makes connections between ideas that demonstrate a unique thought process that sometimes astounds me. So the more challenging learning environment will be good for her. But the smaller class size and the fact that she will be with the same people in the same class, more or less, for the rest of high school is a very good thing for her. She will be less anxious and less distracted by what class she needs to go to next. Routine is what keeps this kid on the rails. Familiarity allows her brain to slow down and focus in. This will be very good.

As The Bean jumped into my arms when she heard the news, I knew that this is what it will feel like in six years when she gets those letters from colleges or universities. Great surprise and relief on her part, a warm I knew you could do this on mine.

Way to go, Beanie. Can't wait to watch you soar some more.

things I've learned from online dating

One Friday night, after much thought and consideration, I signed up with an online dating site. I answered some questions, chose some pictures, and wrote a short profile. Three short weeks later I took  my profile down. The whys and wherefores can be discussed another day. But in those 21 days, I learned a fair bit about myself and about life. Here are those things, in no particular order:

Being honest saves everyone lots of time
I realised very quickly that I had to be 100% honest about what I do, what I like, and what I want. Otherwise, I'd be attracting a guy that wouldn't be a good match. And when guys were honest with me, I could tell sooner whether it would work. So when Jason told me that his latest hobby is sport shooting - this just after he told me was going ATV riding with buddies over the weekend - I knew that our upcoming date was going to be a disaster. So I cancelled. He responded with, "yeah, I wasn't feeling the warm fuzzies either."

There are lots of people out there whose paths I will never cross
And for good reason: we have zero interests in common. Cf Jason, above.

Certain types of facial hair make me suspicious
Moustaches and soul patches. Take that for what it is.

Visual cues are everything
This isn't about looks - not exactly. How a person carries themselves, including what they wear, what kind of hair they have (and facial hair!), whether they are smiling, and so much more, provides clues to who they are as well as their interests. If a guy didn't have a picture of him smiling, I wasn't interested. If his smile made his eyes twinkle, I was smitten. How traditionally "hot" a man is doesn't really matter to me. How real he is, and how his genuineness comes across is key. And there are the guys who just don't do it for me. **I feel like this particular item on the list deserves its own blooper reel, complete with guys in mullets, and the one guy who is holding his pug while wearing a beige t-shirt with a larger-than-life pug face on it. The thing is, there is a woman out there for that guy. It's just not me.

I prefer men to approach me
This one surprised me a little. And it could be that in general men prefer to approach women, because I had a lot more luck with men who approached me first than with men I approached. In fact, of the dozen or more men I messaged first, only three got back to me, and those conversations fizzled immediately. Whereas the men who approached me were more interesting and the conversations went somewhere. This might also be that I'm not good at consciously picking a good match but I can attract one. The jury is still out...

There are more dudes with motorcycles, per capita, on that website than in real life
Just an observation.

Some people shouldn't be dating
I don't mean this in a mean way at all. But some people have to deal with their shit. There was one guy who introduced himself and we chatted a bit. I realised early on that we didn't share the same worldview, even though we had some other things in common. I let him down gently (but firmly - see Honesty, above) after about eight message exchanges over two days. His response was to go on a multiple-paragraph tirade on how I had no idea what I was talking about, that he was a great guy and I didn't know what I was missing. His response was very aggressive. I had dodged a bullet. That dude shouldn't be seeing anyone until he gets over his rejection issues.

I like a guy who can talk - but also listen
I kinda knew this, but I picked it up really quickly. One guy sent me one- or two-word responses to my questions. He had such a great smile, but I just couldn't handle what seemed like air-headedness to me. Another guy would answer questions in a sentence or two, but not ask anything back, thus killing the conversation. I really shouldn't have to work at it. Yet another man seemed smart and lovely, but I got the sense that he would never listen to me. He wrote me responses that took me 15 or more minutes to read. And there were so many questions. His messages seemed breathless in excitement. This guy would never shut up. There's got to be something in the middle, right?

I'm not quite up for the active search
I deleted my profile because while I'd like to date someone, I'm not ready to go after it actively. I've met men and been on dates, the old fashioned way. They obviously didn't work out (hence the online dating profile), but it was so much easier. So for now I'm just taking things as they come, now armed with the things I've learned.

she knows what she wants

I'm off to the outlets this weekend in my semi-annual trip across the border. Dad and I have inventoried clothes at his home and mine, and now I have a long list of summer clothes the girls need.

I sent The Bean an email asking what colours or types of clothes she wanted. This is the response I got:

In terms of colours, I won't like something neon or grey. A black and white tank for example, would be good. But not a crop top. Even if I have an undershirt under it, I don't want one. I'm just warning you that there might be a lot in the store. They're in style. And for the sundresses, please let them be just to my knees. No shorter, no longer. One maxi dress is enough. And I don't want anything with vertical stripes. For the swim suits, no stripes; I have enough of those. Unless they're diagonal stripes. That's okay. Oh yeah. And please match the bathing suits to the swim shirts. Thank you. I know I'm picky, but there's a lot of things I won't wear. And I don't like most stuff in style. It's ugly. 

I love the combination of self-awareness of what she wants and the slight condescension that is starting to emerge - telling me what is in style nowadays, and all. I'm wondering what stores she thinks I'm going to?

the wisdom of children

I have a nasty habit of fretting over the things I'd always hoped I could give my kids but couldn't deliver on. Like a backyard, or a swing set, or a pool, or a big house, or…. any number of things that I pictured in my view of The Happy Family.

Yesterday, we went to the Great Glebe Garage Sale, an annual pilgrimage northward to buy funky old books and yummy baked goods, and to take in the festival atmosphere. As we crossed the Landsdowne bridge over the canal, we saw a man carrying one of those plastic frog sandboxes over his shoulder. Boo pointed it out and laughed at the over-sized haul.

I asked the kids if they are ever sad or disappointed that they didn't have a sandbox or a kiddie pool in a backyard when they were smaller.

The Bean simply said, "no." Boo gave me this look that only nine-year-old Boo can do: it's an are-you-nuts look.

"Why would I be sad about that?"

"I don't know," I said sheepishly, thinking, well, I'm a little sad that you didn't have that. "Maybe you would have had more fun," realising as I said it how dumb it sounded. We were at the park all the time, which was way more fun than just about any backyard, and it included more kids.

"Well, I wouldn't want to have had one."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I would be a different person."

Here, I had to stop walking down the sidewalk. I just looked at her, likely looking rather perplexed because she immediately explained.

"Every little thing counts, Momma."

Here I stand before you, exactly who I am because of every little thing that has happened in my life. And I am thankful for every last bit of it. Because frankly, I like this person. Thanks, Boo, for the reminder.

fragile

It is the hardest thing to admit, even to myself, but here it is: I'm fragile.

I'm floating along happily in my life, knowing that my house needs a few more walls painted and maybe a little TLC here and there. I call up a couple of contractors to get a sense of what work and money are involved in a potential reno of my back room. It doesn't look good. And whamo! I'm not floating along happily anymore at all. I begin to worry. I'm hurt. I'm scared. I'm anxious.

It happens in other areas of my life, too. I think things are going okay, then the smallest things derail me.  With the back room, I could just shrug and say, well, that will have to wait. But I don't. I fret. I wonder how long it will take me to get there. I worry it'll never happen. I actually worry the house will fall down. Good gracious, how did I get to be like this?

I realise that I'm still recovering. Still getting my feet under me. Be gentler on yourself, my friends say. Don't try to do it all. But if I don't, who will? How in the world do people do this on their own?

The poor kids wonder why I'm suddenly teary or silent or frustrated. They offer hugs. Those hugs go a long way, kind of like glue for the soul. To mend this broken mama.

to be so loved

There is a school of thought, and an entire series of books, dedicated to the notion that people have different ways of expressing their love - different love languages. I have tried and tried to decipher my "one" love language, and I can't. But I do know that I have a dominant one: physical touch.

I'm a very tactile person. When I walk into a clothing store, before I can take any item seriously, I have to touch it. That's what gets my attention. I've always been like that. So it's no surprise that it's how I show my affection. Anyone who has seen me with my girls could have guessed it, too. I hug them, tug them, pet them, grab their cheeks and chins, smooth their hair. I can't stop from reaching out to them if they are around me.

Boo is very similar in her "love language." The Bean is less so, in that way. But what they both do that is the same as me, is that they are very demonstrative. At 11 and 9, they still show me how much they love me far more than I would expect. Every morning, we walk to the bus stop, and every morning just before they climb into the bus, Boo asks me to "wave out the window." So I dutifully stay put, instead of jumping on my bike or running to my own bus stop, and wave at her and The Bean as they wave back to me from their respective seats in the bus. And I don't just get a wave. I get excited, wide smiles. I get blown kisses from both. Every. Single. Morning.

It has been like this forever, since that day that Boo had to scramble up onto the first step of the bus when she wasn't quite four years old. So I take it for granted. But our new neighbours, whose kids take the same bus at our new stop, comment on it. Every. Single. Morning. I get told, "wow; it must be nice to be so loved."

And so it is.

heaven

A good friend of ours passed away today. He'd been battling cancer for eight months, and was moved to a hospice recently. The girls made him this picture. I brought it to him on a visit last weekend.

I wonder if heaven is a state of being amidst all the beauty you've had the joy of experiencing in your life? If it is, I'm sure that Al will be surrounded by so, so much. And I'd like to think that this is there, too.

We love you, Al.

melancholy

Words, words, words. Words are a big part of my life, my girls' lives. I have two degrees in English literature; I work in public relations; I make a living using just the right word to convey the message - and I coach others on how to do the same. Words have always been big for the girls, too. From baby signs at ten months of age onward. Everything has to have a word for them. And if a new word pops up, they ask me for a definition.

While having to provide definitions on the spot and being treated like some sort of living dictionary can be frustrating, it is often an eye-opening experience. I never use a dictionary when they ask. We try to figure it out from context, or we feel our way through it, or sometimes I just make a gesture. We use words so much, that we sometimes forget their wider meaning. The word just is what it is. That definition, of course, just isn't good enough for my girls. So when we feel it out, I try to convey not just the literal meaning, but its undertones and sometimes its etymology.

So about a year ago, when we were listening to the radio and heard some old REM song, they asked me what the meaning of the lyrics was. I paused. Songs are a tough one; often the meaning is not in the words, but in the imagery and the tone of the music. So we talked through it a bit. Boo said, "so it's a sad song."

"Not exactly. It's melancholic."

"What's that?"

Good question, Boo. So I thought about it, and felt through it a bit and came up with this:

"Melancholy is when you have a happy memory of something, but you're sad because it's gone."

That's what I'm feeling tonight, that one word that means so much. Not for any one thing in particular. But there it is - and a vast expanse of it.

revelations on the bus ride home

To the dad and his 10-year-old daughter on the bus: thank you. For your beautiful conversation. For the laughs. For the obvious love you share. For just being.

I watched the pair sitting across from me, having their conversation, and I smiled the whole way home. There was nothing particularly funny or engaging about their conversation. Except maybe that they were interested in one another, actually listening to each other. He was asking her about her day; she was talking about some dance routine she was practicing with friends.

"You know the eighties?"

"Yeah, I was kinda there," he responded.

I caught the eye of another passenger and we both giggled a little. The girl was oblivious to the little joke he was telling - mostly to himself - but she got that her dad was listening, and she continued on, talking about Madonna ("do you know who that is?" she asked).

It reminded me of my girls. We have full-on conversations now. It's amazing. They've been away at their Nana's for part of March Break, so I haven't seen them, but I got to talk to both of them over lunch today. Boo was the first one on the line. She was so excited to talk to me. But within about four minutes, I could tell she was getting antsy, then she blurted out: "do you want to talk to The Bean now?" I wasn't ready to let her go yet. I knew she had so many more interesting things to say. So I kept her on a bit longer.

It was so different from even just a couple of years ago. They would go stay with Nana and Grampa and the conversations I'd have with them over the phone were stilted:

"What are you up to?"

"Playing."

"What are you playing?"

"With the doll house."

Now, the conversations begin with me asking what they are up to, and they pretty much go on a long monologue, which I love. And we laugh together. And I throw curveball ideas at them, and they hit them out of the park.

I never used to find older kids very cute. I never even really noticed them. Now, I think that 4-6th graders are the coolest human beings on the planet. That girl on the bus - I couldn't stop listening to her and her stories about her day and her friends and what they've been doing. She, and my kids, have got so much going on. And they are interested in the world, and my girls are even starting to be interested in me.

Today, Boo asked me what I was doing, at work. So I told her I had lots of meetings, and between the meetings I was helping my team and answering their questions and talking through ideas. She thought that was neat. Then The Bean asked what my office looked like (they haven't been to my office since I began my new job in November). I started to describe it, but then I just took a few pics with my iphone and sent them to her. She saw them later in the afternoon and told me I have a beautiful office. Ordinary conversations, but they become extraordinary with the realisation that these types of conversations didn't exist for them until recently.

I wanted to reach out to that dad and his girl and thank them for making my day. Maybe also to tell the dad to enjoy this time with his girl. Then, I realised I didn't really need to; he was clearly enjoying her. Maybe that's what made it so fun to watch them. But it was certainly a good reminder to me to enjoy my two girls. Time keeps ticking along, and they just get more and more fun.

roof diaries

Today was the big test. The first thaw and rainfall since my roof was fixed (for context read "respite"). I've tried not to think about it for the past six or so weeks; this roof that may or may not be leaking, a drainpipe that may or may not need replacing. I pictured by kitchen and upstairs hallway walls being ripped up to replace the central drainpipe. The mess. The replastering. The cost.

I checked on my upstairs hallway wall and thought for sure I saw a new line of moisture. I checked the kitchen and touched the wall and was convinced that it felt damp.

I called the roofer in a panic. He came within 20 minutes. As he walked in, I told him I wasn't 100% sure that the walls were damp. But they sure felt that way.

Bill, my amazing roofer, came in and looked at the walls. He explained how old plaster behaves, with the lime and its instability. He touched the walls, knocked on them, took a good look. Nope. Everything is fine.

I apologised profusely for making him come out on a day like today, a day of rain and ice and plain messiness. He smiled and said it was fine, that sometimes we think about something so much that it's hard to tell. I felt like an idiot.

I am relieved. I must admit, too, that I am still watching. Not completely satisfied that this is over. Here's the part where I start to build trust. Trust in the work that Bill did. Trust that my house isn't a total wreck. Trust that, in fact, not everything that could go wrong, will.

Maybe we're turning a corner, this little house and me. Maybe I've cared for it enough in our first four months together that I've address all its bobos. Maybe we can just start living in the house now. That would be nice.

mixed messages

Last week, I brought The Bean to an open house at the local high school. Besides the twin startling realisations that my daughter will be attending junior high next year AND that it will be at my alma mater, it was an interesting experience.

I have decided that the school is either really good at marketing (I work in public relations, so it's hard for me not to see the world through that lens) or it really is a great place to study and grow up. There is a gifted students program. There is an integrated arts program in junior high, as well as a concentration in various art media in high school. There are sports teams. There are social clubs and committees.

At the welcome plenary, the principal talked about how the school views its main mandate to be forming citizens of the future. Yes! I thought. This is exactly how I see my role as a parent. To grow these little humans into responsible human beings, to be good people. The rest will follow from that.

There was a lot of lip service to this by all the presenters, including the head of the physical education department, who talked about having students give out medals to others for sheer grit and determination. It's all about effort, not about outcome. It's about heart and strength, not about how many goals you've scored.

And then it was time for the highlight reel. The principal flipped through nearly a dozen notable graduates of the school. This former student founded her very own non-profit when she was still in high school, and today the organization ensures fresh drinking water for dozens of communities in Africa. And this alumnus played for Team Canada in Vancouver 2010. And this person is a high profile musician in a famous philharmonic. The list went on. Impressive, indeed.

But it all gave me pause. Where was I in there? Where were my classmates? What about the stay-at-home mom who raises her own free-range chickens, grows organic produce, and is raising three amazing children? What about the kindergarten teacher who takes care of nurturing dozens of small children by day, and returns home to do the same with her own two by night? What about the middle manager in the federal government who toils away to make her workplace an enjoyable place, all the while taking her responsibility as a public servant very seriously? The list goes on.

We tell our children that trying their best is all we want, but then we show them that what we value most is people who make a big splash. Why aren't we celebrating those who are simply good people? I am not saying that the dozen or so alumni who were profiled aren't excellent people. I have no way of knowing. That's the point: the principal didn't talk about the content of their character, but rather of their achievements. I am so much less interested in that than in who they are, how they treat others.

Of course I want my children to be extraordinary. The thing is, I think they already are. And neither of them are piano virtuosi, or math whizzes, or on the verge of founding their own organization. They are good people, with big hearts. They try hard, and since they are human, they sometimes fall down. They get back up. And that's the point, I guess.

Are our expectations and our words of encouragement at odds? How do we walk that fine line between encouraging them to achieve and being content with exactly who they are?

As I was growing up, I was told I could do whatever I wanted when I grew up. Ironically, that put a lot of pressure on me. It was only recently, only once I learned that who I am is exactly what I want to be, that I was happy. I want my kids to be happy now, comfortable in who they are. Perhaps the secret is in learning to be the very best of ourselves. The achievements, whatever shape they take, will come from that place.

selfishness of love

A few years ago, as my girls had passed the pre-school years, I began yearning for another baby. My partner and I had taken some pretty permanent steps years earlier to avoid unexpected surprises. The urge was strong, nevertheless. We even discussed - well, I urged, he reasoned - having things reversed. He would ask me, "but why do you want another one?"

The answer was never strong enough. Because I want a cuddly little baby to love and hold and care for, isn't exactly reasonable. But I got to thinking: does anyone ever have a child for a logical reason? I know many people who think that couples who are childless by choice are selfish. I came to the opposite conclusion: having a child is a selfish endeavour. There is no logical reason to want to create another human being to be on this polluted, violent, fear-filled earth. Whatever the reasons cited, they are for the parents' benefit. (As a sidebar, I always tell the kids that I had Boo so that The Bean would have someone to play with. But that's selfish, too: it keeps The Bean happy and keeps me from having to entertain her endlessly.)

That's not to say that we shouldn't continue having children. And it's not to say that being a parent isn't the best thing that ever happened to me - because it is. But that's the point: it's the best thing that ever happened to ME.

So it got me to thinking about romantic relationships. I've been single for a little while now. I have moments of wondering if I'll be single for decades like my mom was; after my dad died, she was single for 18 years! I tremble a little at the idea. I don't want to be alone. I want to be in a good, caring relationship. But… again, the main reasons seem selfish. I want someone to talk to at the end of the day, I want to be held when I'm sad and to have someone to toast my accomplishments. I want someone that I can care for and who will care for me.

I get bogged down in these thoughts, and it reminds me of a Friends episode where Phoebe is convinced that people never do nice things for others; they do them for themselves. Because it makes them feel good, one way or another. In her view, there's really no such thing as a truly selfless act.

Here's the thing: I think she's right, in a way. I love being helpful to others and taking care of my kids and my friends, and a partner, and even strangers. It makes me feel good. That's the point, though. I think that the good feeling is there so that I'll do it again. It's what makes us human. We're all connected to each other. We thrive in community. We're hard wired to take care of each other, to want to connect and be with one another.

I write this on my one evening of the week that the kids are with Dad, and I am alone. In a quiet house. Wanting to be with them. But also yearning for a partner. Selfish? Maybe. But I am ready to open my heart and care for someone, and have him care for me.

freedom

In Sunday school class this past week, the kids were asked to describe what freedom means to them. Here's what my girls wrote:

The imagery in both of them floored me. We need to ask kids about concepts more. They get things far more than we imagine.

so vain

For a few weeks now, I've been composing an entry in my head. It was entitled "Boo's self awareness." I was going to write about how she knows how smart, pretty and funny she is. But also about how she knows she is a diva and can be a handful. With her self awareness comes this amazing self confidence. It's really not the kind of confidence that can be taught. This kid was born with it. When she started walking, she had this amazing swagger; spine erect, shoulders back, she walked around like she owned the place. I laughed about it then, and still do.

I was going to write about how the other day she was setting up her Playmobil barn set, with the kids and all the animals inside - even the mice and the birds - getting ready for the imaginary coming storm. "Because," she said, "I'm like that. I like to take care of people and animals, and make sure everyone is safe and comfortable." What child knows herself to notice that she is like that?

And I was going to write about how she looks at herself in the mirror, not scowling or questioning, but fully, completely happy and satisfied with what she sees. I said to her a couple of days ago as she peered at herself in the full-length mirror in my room, "you know you're beautiful," not as a question, but more as a matter of fact comment. "Yeah," was her unselfconscious response.

These thoughts of her self confidence were on my mind, and I was feeling pretty proud of her, in the midst of an episode that shocked me a bit and caused a huge revelation.

Boo was saying something about how she's pretty, and I jokingly started singing Carly Simon's "You're So Vain." Boo asked me what vain meant. As I started explaining it - it's when a person feels that they're really beautiful or really good at something - something made me stop. Wait a second. I want her to know that that she's beautiful and good at things. That's not vain. Or if it is, then vanity can't be a bad thing.

Until relatively recently, I didn't think, not really, that I was beautiful. I didn't like my body. There were parts of my face I'd change if given the opportunity. I wasn't confident in many of my abilities, either. I was always taught to minimise my successes, achievements, gifts. And now that I am proud of what I have accomplished thus far in my life, happy with my body and how I look, I find it hard to admit it. Because so few people seem satisfied with who they are. We're sold a story that who we are just isn't good enough. That's why the beauty industry and the weight loss and fitness industries are doing so well. And the self-help sections in book stores are full of "be a better person" advice. I'm not saying there isn't always room for improvement. But at some point, isn't it okay to say, "I like who I am"?

So I stopped myself from finishing my thought to Boo (and The Bean, who was also in the room) about vanity. I just told them, "be proud of who you are; it's okay."

The teen years really are just around the corner. I wish I'd had half the confidence Boo has (and I am working hard at instilling it in The Bean). Because all too soon, there will be girls who will say, "she thinks she's SO special (or SO pretty)," which is meant to minimise who she is, take her down a peg. But I want her to think to herself, or even perhaps to say, "damn straight I am" and mean it. And own it. And walk around like she owns the whole place.

respite

It is the January thaw. Without fail, every year, there are days in the middle of the deep freeze, when we get a respite of a sort. If you can call freezing rain and icy, impassible sidewalks and streets a respite. The thaw wreaks havoc in all kinds of ways. I remember living in an apartment where the stairs to our second floor flat were enclosed but unheated, and apparently not waterproof. The constant thawing during the day and freezing at night turned the whole flight of stairs into sheer ice. The bottom six or seven steps were a frozen slide. It was awful.

At least then we were renting. And while we weren't in control of when it would be fixed, at least we didn't have to pay for it, and we weren't responsible for the logistics. Now, the thaw has wrought havoc on my house. The house I own. The one for which I have complete and sole responsibility.

The roof is leaking. The roof, which I know was done in 2008 and appeared to be in good condition in September, is leaking. I have a hunch that it's the central drainpipe (it's a flat roof). And I have the good fortune (cue sarcasm) of having the drainpipe on my side of the semi-detached home. So my kitchen wall has a single tear of a dried, rusty stain on it. And my brand-new ceiling in the upstairs hall is showing signs of dampness.

My first reaction was, perhaps obviously: Are. You. Kidding. Me! I would have thought that my next would have been to cry, but it wasn't. Perhaps after having seen the guts of much of my house, seeing more isn't so daunting. I honestly believe that it's all fixable. I don't have endless buckets of money, but it's all fixable. But I am feeling down. I haven't much energy left for the logistics of it all.

Moments before I discovered the damp ceiling, a neighbour I met only this afternoon dropped by to invite me and the kids to dinner a little later in the evening. I accepted. Then I discovered the damage, and I so did not feel like going. But it was a blessing. I met a very kind man and his two lovely children - a girl Boo's age and a boy of 14. The six of us got to know one another over a delicious meal, and not once did I think of my house and its spilling guts. A respite. A real one.

Wish me luck. I hope I can sleep tonight. I have a tendency to let things roll over in my mind again and again to the exclusion of sleep (I didn't have one peaceful night's sleep through the two months of intense renovations). I need to learn to let go of it. Goodness knows it'll be there in the morning.