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?
Friday 30 May 2014
Sunday 25 May 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday 21 May 2014
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.
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.
Thursday 8 May 2014
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.
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.
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