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.