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.