The world became a little emptier a few days ago. A wonderful spirit was taken from this earth, leaving behind a rippling circle of broken hearts. I woke up three days ago to the news that a friend from school had been killed while on vacation in Thailand. We weren't super close, but we hung out, and were tied together by the threads that inevitably bind kids who grow up together in small communities.

Jesse was an amazing guy. He came from a big family (6 kids) and their house was home base for so many childhood adventures. His mom is my inspiration for raising my kids like I do. She raised five boys and a lone girl, and was always ready with a hug for anyone who needed it. She forever has a smile on her face and the most awesome twinkle in her eye.

Jesse was her, in male form. From all accounts, he was equally at ease while hunting or fishing, or when snuggling with his niece or nephew, reading about fairies or dump trucks. I don't ever recall seeing him without his thousand mile grin, or the same twinkle that lives in his mom's eye. He was full of love and laughter, and wherever you went, whatever you did, if Jesse was there, you knew you were going to have some kind of adventure. You also knew that he wouldn't let anything happen to you. He would just appear at home here, with no warning, back from another one of his adventures. You'd be walking down the street, when all of a sudden you'd find yourself warmed, and there'd be Jesse, giving you his special grin. Then he'd be gone just as quickly, off to follow his heart wherever it was taking him.

He was supposed to be home soon. Last week, his mom posted on her facebook about how happy she was that she would soon have all her babies back home. He replied with "maybe!". That's the last post from him on her wall.

The numbness is just now wearing off for me, and I am left trying to comprehend and make sense of the gaping hole that his death has torn in our lives. I cannot fathom the grief that his family is facing. More than anything in this world, I wish life had a rewind button, and we could pull him out of the path of that train. I wish I could go back to last week, when I took his presence for granted, and nievely thought he would just always be there. I see reminders of him everywhere, like his very existance was woven into the fabric of this place, and he's standing all around us, grinning his special grin.

RIP, Jesse. You are so loved, so missed, and so mourned. Your light will shine in all those who now walk thiis world without you. May we, in time, come to face your passing with the same gentle calm and fearless acceptance with which you lived your life. Thank you for all that you taught us, through your words and your actions. You have left us better people than you found us, and we are forever in your debt.

Sometimes, Imagination isn't enough....

I just realized how crazy long it’s been since I updated the blog…oops! Rest assured it’s not from lack of material!

Life has been pretty darn busy over the past few months, and I’m guessing that’s going to be a common theme until Small 3 is deposited at college in 15 years. I swear, I’m going to sleep for a month once the kids have all moved out.

In the meantime, I’ll have to settle for being jolted awake at random times by the crazy things my darling offspring are wont to do. You know, thing like discovering that Small 1 and Small 2 are leading Small 3 around with Baby Dinosaur’s leash, pretending that he’s their dog. Being the attentive parent that I am, I generously allowed them to carry on with their little game, until I heard them locking Small 3 in Baby Dinosaur’s crate. The pitiful whines that floated down the hallway were realistic enough to make me wonder for a second if Small 2 had found yet another abandoned animal and hidden it in her dresser (um, don’t ask how I know that frogs absolutely CANNOT survive in a drawer full of socks and underwear). Small 1 and Small 2 were given a little talk about the appropriateness of caging their baby brother, regardless of how tempting it might seem. I released Small 3 from the crate, expecting to get a tear-filled hug. Instead, the little darling stomped his foot, put his hands on his hips and indignantly informed me that I had ruined their game. He proceeded to tell me that he was a very naughty doggy, and needed to be in time out because he had eaten a roll of toilet paper (a common occurrence with Baby Dinosaur, but that’s another post…). I left them to their game, but a niggling suspicion had festered in the back of my mind, and sure enough, when I checked the Small’s bathroom, their toilet paper roll had a ring of tiny little teeth marks all around it. Not content to merely imagine that he was a naughty dog, my youngest had actually attempted to consume a roll of toilet paper. Lovely.

A Good Day...

I'm determined to have a good day today. So far, it's not happening, but it's only noon...

We started off on the wrong side of the bed, when the Smalls were up at 5:30 and wanting breakfast. Not going to happen, sorry kiddos. They were ordered/bribed/coerced/threatened back to their rooms, and given strict orders not to make a peep unless someone was dying (yes, I have officially become my mother...lovely). Due to the 5:30 fog, I'm a bit fuzzy on the details of what I threatened them with. I really wish I remembered, because it seemed to work: they let me sleep until 7:00. Woohoo!

Then things started breaking. Things like the toaster (not such a big deal today, as we're out of bread), the broom (slightly more concerning, given the state of the kitchen floor), the dishwasher (would have been a crisis, were it not quickly fixed), and then finally, the vacuum. All in the span of about two hours.

Yeah, I'm trying really hard to have a good day, but the universe appears to be conspiring against me.

On the brighter side, the dishwasher worked fine once I dislodged the offending Lego from the door seal (don't ask), and after 30 minutes of tinkering, I managed to get the vacuum working again (copious amounts of hair wrapped around the beater bar, requiring complete disassembly of the motor head. With screws that were recessed so deeply that nothing but a Gerber attachment was skinny/long enough to reach them. And lots of help from the Smalls. And the baby dinosaur running off with the beater belt. Is that what they mean by "quality time"?).

Sitting on the floor of the girl's room, with the vacuum in pieces, and tools spread out around me while the Small's clamoured to be the first to "help", I was reminded of a similar scene in our old house. Frustrated with the lack of maintenance response, and faced with a plugged sink in our only bathroom, I got out the trusty old pipe wrench, and set to work. The Smalls were very interested, and crowded around. Forty minutes later, as I was cursing beneath the sink, buried waist deep in the tiny cupboard, Small 1 offered up some helpful advice, in the form of "Mom, don't you know that fixing things is a Dad job?". Ever my defender, Small 2 quickly piped up "it's okay, she's not a normal mom!"
Umm...thanks. I think?

Back to today....

We also managed to get all the Small's rooms cleaned up (and vacuumed!), with everyone pitching in and working together. It's times like that when I just sit back on my heels and look at my children and think to myself "with all that I do wrong, I must be doing something right". Usually the thought is barely completed before Small 3 beans Small 1 with a Thomas the Train character, or Small 2 is caught building a lake for her Barbie to swim in. But it's the thought that counts, right?

So now I'm taking a breather, the immediate housework completed, the Small's rooms identifieable once again, the ever present laundry pile staring at my reproachfully. My happy children are running around outside, chasing the baby dinosaur (our dog, btw). The occasional cry punctures the laughter, but the tears are quickly dried by the other Smalls, and the game resumes once again.

Yeah, we're doing just fine.

No Worms On The BBQ!

We were gardening this morning, trying to get all the various veggies planted into the ground before they grow legs and walk away. Since we've only been living in this house for a few weeks, there was some maintenance to be done on the garden beds, mostly weeding and turning the soil. The beds were rather overgrown, so there was much weeding to be done. I've always thought of weeding as a chore, yet one more box to check on my list of gardening tasks. Today though, the Smalls were helping (in a loose interpretation of the word, that is...). To them, weeding was not a chore, it was a treasure hunt. The most coveted treasure of all? That would be the mighty.........earthworm.

Yup, they squealed with excitement at the appearance of each wriggling pink treasure, loudly proclaiming each one to be more wonderful than the last. Small 1 and Small 2 quickly decided that their calling in life was to run a worm farm. After much discussion about the proper home for said farm (the watering can was ruled out, as was Mommy's gumboot...a good thing, since Mommy was still wearing her boots...) they settled on a discarded plan pot. Once the worms were safely tucked away in their new home, a debate arose regarding what the most appropriate food for the little darlings would be (the worms, not the Smalls). Small 2 pitched a rather persuasive argument for pizza and ice-cream, but Small 1 held her position and firmly decreed that they had to be fed...................poo.

By this point, the weeding was finished, and I was pretending to be very busy planting the squash, so the Smalls wouldn't notice the tears of laughter (or were they tears of fear regarding where this would lead?) running down my cheeks. Small 1 went on to inform Small 2, in that perfect "Big Sister" tone, that her teacher had told her that worms eat poo. (For the record, I'm pretty sure she just misinterpretted that particular science lesson, and that the Grade One teacher isn't actually going around telling kids that worms eat poo) The conversation carried on, turning to the type of poo they'd need for the worms. Since their thought process was pretty neat, and because I'd just finished poop scooping the yard (and therefor niavely thought that they'd realize there was no poo to be had) I let them ramble on. Correction. I was going to let them ramble on, until I heard Small 2 whisper to Small 1, "let's check the diaper pail".

Mean Mommy Award #5638469 was unanimously bestowed upon me when I cut them off at the back door, and informed them that, sadly, worms do not eat poo, and would be much happier with some apple peels and carrot ends. Crisis averted, I finished planting the veggies, and was chatting on the phone when I noticed the BBQ lid opening and closing (this is never a good sign, unless it's dinner time). It got very quiet on the other end of the phone (and across the street where a party was just getting started) when I suddenly yelled out "NO worms on the BBQ!". (The phone silence lasted all of .25 of a second before it erupted into uncontrolled laughter...thanks, Mom)

Why exactly were they going to BBQ the worms? With angelic little faces, they calmly informed me that their pot was actually a worm ranch and that's what ranchers do: they BBQ stuff. For the sake of the worms (and my soil, who am I kidding...) I took one for the team and earned yet another Mean Mommy Award (you should see my trophy case!) by mandating that all worms were to remain in their pot.

Now I just need to clean the dirt out of the BBQ....

Feel free to come by for dinner any time...I hear the Worm-Kebabs are pretty darn good!

Welcome to Chaos....

Like many other parents, my goal is fairly simple...I try to stumble through the day without letting anyone know that I'm not sure what I'm doing. I'd say that about 90% of the time, I don't have a clue if I'm doing this whole parenting thing right. (The other 10% of the time, I'm sure I've irrevocably scarred my children and ruined any chance they ever had to lead a normal life.)

You see, I'm doing this on my own. No one to bounce ideas off of, no one to tag team with when the little darlings (there are three of them, by the way) wage a full on frontal assault on my parental authority (which happens far too often for a 3,5, and 6 year old, I think...do they take “Parental Weakening 101” in the womb or something?). No one to pat my shoulder and hand me a stiff drink when they reduce me to sobbing quietly in the corner, rhythmically thumping my head on the wall (I'm kidding. Sort of. I do have a very good friend who provides me with wine). It's hard. To be Mom and Dad, to try and guide their little spirits without crushing their little hearts, to sew Halloween costumes and chop firewood, to bake muffins and repair the leaky drain under the sink, to constantly be trying to do so many things at once, yet be forced to accept the fact that I am unable to do everything that needs doing, no matter how thinly I stretch myself. At the end of the day, one person cannot be two people, no matter how hard they try. My children have a hole in their lives, where their father should be, which breaks my heart. (They do see him, but geography makes those visits few and far between). We struggle with that, but we work around it, and get through our days. They are healthy, happy children, who light up my world like no ray of sunshine ever could.

Which is not to say that I get it right all the time...just last night I took myself out of the running (for about the 15 thousandth time) for “Mommy of the Year”. Small 1 and Small 2 were fighting. Over what, I can't remember, but they were NOT impressed with each other, and were showing it by screaming at the top of their lungs. Since I couldn't begin to understand what the problem was, and because they were both out of control, I sent them to their room. This prompted Small 1 (she's 6, in case you're wondering) to scream at me “I'M GOING TO SELL YOU TO THE GYPSIES!!”. The funniest part of that threat is that she has no idea how tempting her offer really was...

(Yes, I've threatened to sell my children to the Gypsies before. Actually, my personal standby is the “Kid Store”. Naughty children go to the “Kid Store” and Mommy gets to pick out a new one. Works every time. Before you run away in a horrified dash to Child Protective Services, I'd like to challenge you to find a mother who hasn't threatened to sell/trade/give away her child(ren) at least once in their lives. If you do happen to find one, rest assured that she's either a) lying; or b) still pregnant.)

But I do okay, and we're making it. I'll let you in on a little secret I stumbled upon a few months ago: my kids don't need me to be perfect. They need me to make them a healthy breakfast in the morning, but they don't really care if it doesn't get cleaned up until lunch time (or dinner time, since we're being honest here). They need me to wash their clothes, but really, they can wear them just as easily from the (clean) pile on the couch as from their dresser drawers. They need me to help them brush their teeth and wash behind their ears (although they'd tell you differently), but they don't think worse of me if the towels in the bathroom don't match. They need me to read them a story and tuck them in at night, but they rarely notice when the middle third of the book gets skimmed over.

Most of all, they need to know that they are loved, that my heart beats so much stronger and more vibrantly for being their mother, that nothing in this world comes before them. When they lay their little heads down, and close their tired eyes, they only need two things...to know that they are safe, and that they are loved more than they could ever fathom. If they know nothing but this every night, then I figure I'm doing just fine. Until the Gypsies knock on the door, that is.

*In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that in the 15 minutes it took me to write this blog post, Small 2 and Small 3 toilet papered the living room, abruptly ending any idealistic fantasies I had been harboring about a nice relaxing evening. Anyone need a few hundred feet of ready-to-use TP?*