December 1

Facebook has a way of reminding us of anniversaries that we may have forgotten.

Four years ago today, I moved out of my family home and into what was then a dingy little rental house on the outer edge of the neighbourhood. I would spend the next two and a half weeks cleaning and painting, buying and assembling IKEA furniture, and making the house into a home - a little nest - for my girls and me. And I would be surrounded by the very best in people. That day, four years ago, friends whom I am sure questioned why I was leaving and likely wondered what the hell was going on with me, asked no questions and came, and rolled up their sleeves, and helped me move my stuff, and offered hugs. Other friends, some acquaintances, gave me kitchenware and appliances, beds for my girls, a couch and some amazing wood furniture. That night, overwhelmed by the grief but also by the raw compassion, I wrote on facebook, "I'm blessed to have so many amazing people in my life to carry me through the dark parts." This is still true.

The following year, to the day, I wrote an homage to Adèle, thanking her (and her music) for having taken me through a tough year. That album still touches me, though the songs bring melancholy now instead of deep sorrow. There is a sort of hope to them now, too, because I got through that year, and a few more since.

Two years ago, on this day, I quoted Bruce Cockburn, "Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight." I'd heard the Barenaked Ladies' version on the radio as I was driving down the road, and I remember singing along, tears streaming down my face. Things were still hard. I was still really sad. Those words ring true today, as do the ones that follow: "You gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight."

And finally, a year ago today, The Bean left me a sweet little note on my bedside table. I was in a great place. My kids were happy and healthy, our home was safe and warm, and I was simply happy. The note represents how good things were, and continue to be.

Four years. Four years that I feel are split right down the middle at this point. Two years of great grief, and two years of coming out into the light, after having kicked at the darkness for so long. Now the girls and I have a house to call our own. We have never wanted for anything; even those early days were filled with generosity.

I am in a really great spot right now, on many fronts. I have energy and gifts to share with others. There has been so much generosity poured out to us, that our cup runs over. The girls and I have continually learned from that generosity and strive to pour it out to others. Once, our nest was the safe place we escaped to, for safety, for quiet. Now, it is the place from which we take flight and soar. And it is so very good.

She's got this

It was not so long ago that I fretted daily about my kid who has ADHD: how will she get through this world? Will she ever be able to complete tasks without me reminding her of each step? Oh my word, will groceries ever even be possible? The world, especially this fast-paced, stimuli-full world, is too big and weird and busy for this person.

It's been a bit of a road, and we've had a lot of help from teachers and the school administration, but I have a kid who is thriving. She's just 13, but The Bean can not just get through a day, but she is crushing it. She is in a gifted program at school and receiving more-than-respectable grades; she is improving her drawing skills in the art program in leaps and bounds; she's in a choir, and she plays piano for fun; she is learning Spanish and fundraising to prepare for a potential trip to Guatemala in the spring; she is learning html code and building a little website; she has a dozen good friends at school; she babysits regularly to earn pocket money; and she is an incredibly pleasant person (this I am told by her teachers, family friends, church friends, the parents of the kids she babysits, and her friends' parents, so it's not entirely me being biased).

Those years of worrying whether my kid would be okay - in the broadest sense - have dissipated. Last night, when I saw her report card, and she proudly showed me the "Very Good" next to "Organizational Skills," I felt like a weight was lifted. Tonight, Dad and I met with her homeroom/ math/ science teacher, and our relief was confirmed: she's doing great.

She has got this.

the shaky hug

There is a thing that happens to a young girl (I cannot speak for what happens to boys, but I think it might be very similar): around age 10, she goes from being the lovely little stable being she's been since she gave up being a troublesome preschooler, and she moves into the moody stage. At first, it is barely noticeable: in the moment, she loses her temper, then she's back to herself for days, sometimes weeks. But soon the episodes become more frequent and last longer.

I remember being about 12 or 13 and getting so mad at my mom, and just yelling at her and slamming my bedroom door. And I remember that feeling of being utterly out of control; it was frightening. My mom was incredibly patient with me. She never yelled back (I am guilty of having done this), never told me to cut it out (also guilty). I was allowed the space I so desperately needed, and the opportunity to come out of it, with dignity. I have learned that the outbursts are out of my girls' control. I try to remind myself of that. In a house of girls, we'll all have to remember that, from time to time!

The Bean has learned to recognize when it's a hormonal outburst. She hates it, but she sees it for what it is. We came up with a "cure" a while back, and it seems to be working on Boo now, too. It's pretty simple: when one of them is in a grumpy mood and she just can't shake it, I give her a hug - not just any hug, though. It's a shaky hug. It's always welcome, but it looks reluctant from the outside, at least at first. She's usually slumped and I'm doing all the "work" of the hug. Here are the instructions, in case you want to try it at home:

• take slumpy, grumpy girl into your arms
• hold her close
• bounce from side to side
• say, "shaky hug, shaky hug, shaky shaky shaky hug."
• repeat as needed

It sounds ridiculous. It looks ridiculous. It feels ridiculous. Which is precisely why it seems to work: within seconds, she softens, and a few seconds later I get giggles. 

The thing I've learned is that they just need an excuse to come back - back to me, back to themselves, back to us. To repair the frayed bonds of our relationship. It's clear that it's what they each so desperately need and want, but don't know how to do. Silliness seems to do the trick. It's easy for anyone to get sucked into a vortex of anger and to feed it and not let go. But how many times do we just need a little release of frustration, and then let it all go? I know I do. So I try to afford that to my girls. 

It turns out it works on grumpy women, too, by the way. Just the other day, The Bean noticed a dark cloud over my head, and came over to me to give me a shaky hug. It fixed everything.

in memoriam

My dad loved me. That is a singular truth that I can never doubt. It was a quiet, adoring love. He walked the floors with me when I had colic; he carried me on his shoulders when I got tired of walking; he taught me to ride a bike and to do cartwheels; we played pool when I could barely see over the edge of the table (milk crates came in handy). We had a good time together, even if it was just me sitting on the couch next to him, telling him about my day.

My dad suffered. That is another undeniable truth. For seven years, he suffered from various forms of cancer, their treatment, and his recoveries. I barely remember times from before he got sick, from when he was a strong, wiry construction worker, tanned dark brown from the sun, hands rough from an honest day’s work. I do remember putting on his steel-toed boots and hard hat, wanting to be like him, to channel his strength. Those memories are vague. What sticks with me most are those moments on the couch, talking to him, watching TV with him, witnessing his ability to turn the air an Italian blue in his frustration with hockey referees. There were other moments when I had to be quiet, oh-so-quiet, because daddy had a headache again. He would bind a rag around his head, for relief, and lie perfectly still in a dark and silent room. He didn’t smile as much those later years; he didn’t laugh much at all, which looking back, is tragic for a man with a loud and easy laugh.

My dad was human. I am not the kind of person who canonizes the dead. My dad was a good man, but he was just that: a man. Not superhuman, not perfect. He had a difficult childhood; he struggled with alcoholism; he had a temper. He was also incredibly generous, helping out family, friends and neighbours who needed an extra pair of hands to repair or move something. He was a trickster. He was a flirt. He was charming yet dark. He was all of these things, and so much more.

I don’t miss my dad in the same way I’ll miss my mom when she passes. I only ever knew him when I was a child. I do have moments, though, and they sneak up on me, when I think, dad would have laughed so hard to see my girl do this, or, dad would have loved this, or, dad would have been so proud of me.

It was 25 years ago today that my dad finally let go, telling my mom days before that he knew I’d be okay, that I was growing up and didn’t need him anymore, not in the same way. He let go, with full faith that everything was going to be okay for me and my mom. My mom was there as he drew his last breath early that morning so many years ago now. She later told me it was the most peaceful, moving moment she’d ever witnessed. I missed him for a good long time. Today, he is present in my heart, in my memories, in my daughter’s hearty laugh. But more than missing him, I remember him, in all his glorious imperfection.

falling in love

The first time I fell in love, it was that crazy, headlong, teenage sort. I remember looking into that boy's eyes and just begging him to see in mine all the over-the-top emotions I had. It was giddy and it was good, and it was young. It lasted a year or two, and we grew apart, which was what was meant to be.

The second time felt very similar. I was still quite young, and we were good for each other. We spoke in superlatives, telling one another that we loved each other more than anything, that this was the best love there could ever be, that we would love each other forever. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't last forever.

The third time I fell in love was a slower process. This person came into my life through what felt like stealth; I hadn't planned on meeting her, and I hadn't foreseen the immensity of the love I'd have. It took me months to get used to the idea of her, and when I finally met her, I felt more of a sense of overwhelming responsibility than anything else. I do remember the moment I began to fall in love, though. She was still incredibly tiny, barely able to hold up her own head. We were with another mother and her baby daughter, who was howling. The Bean was sitting on my lap, in a doll-sized sweater my mom had knit the night she was born, and she turned her face up to me and seemed to ask, "aren't you happy I'm not that baby?" I looked at her, relieved she was so calm, and smiled. I know, kiddo. I know.

The falling in love after that has been a journey. Because I already knew how to love in this new, connected way, I was able to easily fall in love with my second baby. The first moment I looked into her eyes - she was maybe a minute old - I fell deeply in love. This love grows and grows, in ways I hadn't imagined. Every day, these two surprise me, and I love them more for the people they continue to become.

And now, there is a whole new sort of love. Falling in love with a partner, as a grown woman and as a mom, is a completely different experience, one I couldn't have imagined. The superlatives are gone. The urgency has disappeared. It still feels like fireworks and butterflies, but it also feels more solid. I am deeply, and so very happily in love with D. I am prone to grand declarations, but I have learned to curb them. I cannot, in all honesty, tell him that I love him more than anything. That statement is reserved for my children. The best part is that he knows that and is entirely comfortable with it.

My children have taught me that it's possible to keep falling in love, even through the hard parts, perhaps because of the hard parts, to keep falling deeper and deeper in love. To learn more about the other, to grow and to allow to grow, to watch and to respect and to encourage one another through it all. Perhaps that's how love is sustained day after day, year after year: to fall in love today with the person you are today.

the better half myth

I could never fully express why, but I had always cringed when a man would talk about his partner or introduce her as his better half. It bothered me somehow. It seemed to put a lot of pressure on her to be a better person, perhaps more organized and capable, all the while letting him easily off the hook to be the typical hapless, clueless male.

But there was more to it, it turns out.

***

The process of healing from my divorce has been a long one. I hold marriage as sacred, and it was supposed to last forever. Period. So when it didn't, there was always a little hope lingering at the back of my mind - if not in my heart - that perhaps we would find our way back to one another. When I was finally able to let go, I found my life to be quite full and fulfilling. Or maybe I was able to let go because I was whole again.

Last fall, I remember thinking quite regularly that there really wasn't much room in my life or my house for a man. All bedrooms in my three-bedroom house are occupied. I'd started sleeping diagonally in my double bed (not even a queen sized bed!). My very large closet was full with my clothes and accessories. The weeks I didn't have the kids were occupied with friends, house projects, and hobbies. My life was pretty full. I was whole. I was happy, plain old happy.

And that's when it happened. I met someone, a whole person, whose life was rather full, too, with work and friends and family and volunteering. He was happy all on his own. So was I. That's where the magic happened: neither of us needed the other, but we sure liked each other's company.

***

I don't want someone who would tell me, à la Jerry Maguire, "you complete me." I want someone who is already complete, and who reminds me of all the amazing things I'm capable of, and who loves me for all of it. Someone I can support and encourage in his strengths and abilities, and to love him through his weaknesses - and he through mine. Neither of us is a half of anything; we are each our own whole person. And it is so very good.