mother's day

Relationships between girls and their moms are complicated. Even in the best, closest relationships, there are minefields and frustrations to be navigated, even among the great fields of love and support.

When I was in my 20s, I probably would have said that my mom was one of my best friends. For so long, it had been just her and me, working through life's tough bits, arm in arm. We survived my dad's cancer and his ultimate death; we later held onto each other through my brother's suicide and our resulting deep and seemingly unending grief. Then, she helped me through the very earliest years of my kids' lives.

Things started to shift when I was in my 30s. The more I grew as a person and uncovered - or rediscovered - who I am, the more I grew separate from my mom. I think it was the inevitable separation that happens when one is not much like one's parents. Our values are different, our worldviews are not the same; this causes tension. I still love her and want to care for her, especially since she's on her own, but there are moments - sometimes many moments - of strain.

This is a very hard thing to admit. Mother's Day is a difficult holiday, with people posting about their "best mom ever" and all the great things they do with their mom. Or with others telling their friends to appreciate their moms while they are here because one day they will be gone.

My mom absolutely did the very best for me. She loves me deeply. She worked hard to give me a good life and to give me all the things she thought I needed and wanted - she still does. And for that, I do appreciate her. And I love her, unconditionally. Love doesn't need to be bound to getting along, and it doesn't need to mean that we don't see the flaws or don't feel the rift. It also doesn't mean that we don't feel pain for what we wish it could be.

To all those who don't have picture-perfect relationships with their moms, it's okay. To those whose moms cause some measure of anxiety, or from whom they are estranged; to those whose moms are a handful or don't quite know how to love us the way we need to be loved; to those whose moms try but just always seem to miss the mark; to those who have found surrogate moms around us - from aunts to in-laws to neighbours to church moms; to all of us: it's okay if you're not posting great declarations of love today, and you are not alone.

girls taking up space

I've got this girl who is indeed loud and sometimes gross, and she definitely takes up space. At 11, she's too young to use the boyfriend excuse, but I'd like to think that her NOs will continue to be as loud as they are unapologetic. She is sarcastic, in ways I'm only beginning to discover. She's got a band of girl friends whom she guards with fierce love and devotion.

Of course, time changes kids into teenagers, and with those changes come a backing off for many girls. My sincerest hope, though, is that time and hormones won't change my girl too much. She is a force.

Two Christmases ago, she decided to sign up to be one of the two centurions in our church's Christmas pageant. I thought it was interesting, and I was just glad that she finally wanted a speaking role. She explained later that she took the role because no other girl had done it; she really wasn't all that interested in the armour, sword, or even the lines. I frankly had not noticed that no girl had done the role before. This past Christmas, another girl put her hand up for centurion. I'd like to think that Boo had something to do with that.

She's also the kind of girl who reads books geared to boys because she thinks it's ridiculous that they are marketed at only one gender. One of the books on her shelf is For Boys Only, sitting next to Lumberjanes. She explained she needed me to order the book from the Scholastic catalogue because if it was for boys only; she needed to know the things that they were learning, so that it wouldn't be just for boys anymore. I couldn't argue with that, and I forked over my first Scholastic cheque in years.

This girl has grown up in a time where women can make more money than their male partners without it being an issue, where men share in daily chores, where gay marriage is a given, where gender is more fluid than it has ever been. And yet she is able to perceive the continued, ingrained gendered roles that I, as a feminist, have not noticed or stopped noticing.

So as annoying as the loudness can be, as vexing as the clear NOs are, I'm glad she is who she is. She can keep kicking at the walls of the boxes that many of us no longer see.

pieces of me

Tis the season of summer camps and sending kids off. It marks a reprieve for parents from the everyday madness, business, tiredness, and overwhelming responsibility of children. It allows parents to celebrate the kids being away.

Except for the divorced parents. At least, except for me.

I only get to see my kids 50 percent of the time. That gives me tons of me time, tons of time with friends, tons of guilt-free late hours at work, tons of kid-free errands. In a way, it's great. My parent self is well-rested and far more patient than I'd ever been as a 100 percent-of-the-time mom.

Here's the thing, though: I miss my kids like crazy in the summer. I get three straight weeks with them, which is AMAZING. But then, they are off to be with their dad, for three straight weeks. Then away at camp for another week. Then some time with grandparents. I now have long evenings of Netflix, knitting, catching up with friends, reading - whatever I want. It sounds like a dream to most parents, but it isn't always.

Some evenings, like tonight, I ache for my girls. At 11 and 13, they still like to hug and to cuddle. I still tuck them in and snuggle up before bed. We still hold hands - intermittently - when we go for walks or run errands. I miss all of that. And their goofiness. Oh my goodness, the laughs we have.

They are not easy all of the time, and we have our struggles, moodiness, disagreements, and squabbles. But I even miss that.

I'd always wanted to be a mom, but I never imagined what a big part of me my children could be. And what a big part of me they take with them when they are away.

silence

I've been processing the Orlando tragedy/violence/senselessness. Friends post thoughts and prayers and pride photos. Others post articles. Gay friends ask allies to step up.

All I can do is watch in silence, transfixed, trying to figure out why this time I am passed rage, passed words.

The world is so broken.

My biggest goal as a mom is to teach my kids to love. It's that simple: everything else - the kindness, the generosity, the understanding, the acceptance, the good - it all comes from love. And my kids are incredibly loving in so many ways.

Which is why I couldn't bring myself to tell them about what happened in Orlando. I don't want them to be living in a world where a group of people gets massacred because of who they are. I don't want them to live in a world that runs rampant with speculation about Islamic terrorism when the only fact we have is that the murderer was Arab. I don't want them to live in a world where people are hurting so badly that they are driven to hurt others in the most horrific ways imaginable.

I precisely don't want them to be able to even imagine those things. I don't want them to witness the brokenness of this world. But I know they see it, every day, and they ask and wonder about it. Why is it so? And I have no answers, but to say, our job is to love. Our job is to take those pieces - the broken ones - and to love them to wholeness.

I believe in God, and I believe in prayer. I also believe that we are the body of Christ; we are his hands and his feet and his heart. Our acts of love are in fact answers to prayers.

So what can I do, my kids do, to answer the anguished prayers? I'm still working on that. I think part of it is seeing the humanity and brokenness in everyone. And the kernel of wholeness inside each of them, of us. To include the marginalized. To stop and talk to those who have no one. To give that street kid a lunch and a dry place to eat on a rainy day. To say good morning to those I run into every day. To provide a word of encouragement to anyone, because we never know who's struggling.

Maybe the answer is to beat back the silence, the sense of futility. To do. To go on and speak out, to rage, to cry, to hold. Perhaps the silence is what I need to overcome more than anything.

Kids, we should talk.

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.

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.