I lie in the dark, with my son's sweaty head nestled on my shoulder, his round little fingers entwined in my hair while he sleeps, and my heart gently murmurs the only truth that I know. I love this boy. With all that there ever was, with every fibre of my being, every ripple in my soul, I love this boy. Nothing will ever be more pure, more right, than this moment. This heartbeat. This second in time, where his warm breath whispers softly on my neck as he dreams. Nothing.
I love this boy.
Down the hall, his sisters sleep, sprawled in their beds, one with the covers kicked back against the muggy August heat, the other with a quilt pulled up tight and tucked under her chin. My heart swells, threatens to burst, overwhelmed by this sudden surge of maternal emotion, unprepared perhaps for the pure strength of it at 2 am. From somewhere inside, a calm engulfs me, for in that instant my world is right again.
My life, with all its' twists and turns, it's free falling cliff drops and burned out bridges, the broken and the scarred, all of it...it slips into place. I am reminded again of my place, my purpose. They sleep, with the innocence that only children possess, innocence that I know the world will take from them soon enough, and even as I acknowledge this painful truth, my heart murmurs out its own promise. If I do nothing else in this life, I will do right by them. They will know warmth. They will feel joy. They will be safe, and they will peacefully dream, as children should.
And through it all, in the midst the realities of day to day life, I will love them.
Fiercely, unequivocally, without pause or rest. I will love them.
And they will know. This they will always know.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Here We Are, in Holland...
I don't think I've shared this here before, but Small 1 has some mild special needs. Parenting her has been a lesson in patience, in acceptance, in frustration, in fear, and most of all, in love. A while back, someone sent me a beautiful letter, written by a Special Needs mom, titled “Welcome to Holland”:
Holland is ugly. Holland is full of storms, full of disappointment, full of obstacles, full of fear. But Holland is also beautiful. Holland is full of rainbows, full of tiny successes, full of hope. Holland isn’t always fun, heck, Holland is rarely fun. But Holland is, in so many way, far, far richer than Italy. I’ve been to Italy. I go there every day with Small 2 and Small 3. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t wish I was there with Small 1 as well, but I know that she is meant for Holland, that her heart, and her spirit, are too big for Italy.
We have no map for Holland. We’ve tried out a few, but none were quite right. I so wish for a map, for a plan, for answers where there are only questions. Here, in Holland, I find our way by following the scenery, letting it lead us where we need to go, struggling to alter it, change it, overcome it, and sometimes even ignore it. After many years of fruitless searches, I gave up looking for a map; we came to a point where the scenery would be the same, regardless of the route. We are fortunate, for our scenery is not as challenging as that of some other people we have met here in Holland. For this, I am ever so thankful. Yet our scenery is different enough that we are here, and not in Italy.
In the midst of all the beauty of Holland, surrounded by windmills and cobblestone roads, stands my little girl. She is looking at me for direction, and instead of having the answers she needs, I myself am lost. I cannot pick her up and spirit her away to Italy, much as my heart yearns too. I cannot shelter her, hide her underground and convince her there is nothing but Holland, that there is no such thing as Italy. She knows. She sees Small 2 and Small 3 enjoying Italy every day. We have crossed that bridge, the bridge of realization. Small 1 knows she is not like all her friends, not like her brother and sister. Some days, I want nothing more than to go back to the days when the only explanation she needed was “Your muscles are special. They don’t work quite like other kids’ do”. On those days, being a parent in Holland sucks. It sucks big, hairy, smelly, old man balls. There is nothing pretty about telling your child that this is her reality, and that you, her mom, her hero, her "fix it" person, cannot fix this. It is ugly, and it sucks, and nothing you do can change that.
Some days, too, I wish her heart was just a little bit smaller, that she wasn’t as brave, as determined as she is. While she fills me with pride every day, she also breaks me. She is convinced that she can get to Italy, that if she tries just a little bit harder, she’ll make it through airport security, and be on that plane. I break, and she breaks, a little more every time she gets turned away at the gate. It pains me to see the dawning realization in her eyes, as she slowly becomes aware that she may never get to go there. She will hopefully, eventually, end up in a part of Holland that looks a lot like Italy, that feels a lot like Italy, where she can live and laugh and love as if she were in Italy, but the reality will very likely still be part of Holland.
The very best thing about Holland though? The love. Thank God for the love. There is more love in Holland than one could ever imagine. It mixes with the tears and fills up the canals, rolls over the dikes, falls from the sky like a gentle rain. Everywhere in Holland, there is love. The love is what makes Holland bearable, just as it is love that makes any place home.
As a parent in Holland, there is love to give us strength, but sometimes no amount of strength that can make Holland bearable. Sometimes we are given baggage that we cannot carry, loads that we cannot shoulder alone. Sometimes we break. Lots of times, we break. And when we break, there is more love, love to mend us, to heal us, to pick us up off our feet and help us carry on. Love to once again see the beauty around us, to see the wonder that is Holland.
Today, I'm particularly greatful for this breaking love. It won't take us out of Holland, but it makes it easier to be there.
WELCOME TO HOLLAND
by
Emily Perl Kingsley.
I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It’s like this……
When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.
After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”
“Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.”
But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.
The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.
So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.
It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around…. and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills….and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.
But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy… and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”
And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away… because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.
But… if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things … about Holland.
Holland is ugly. Holland is full of storms, full of disappointment, full of obstacles, full of fear. But Holland is also beautiful. Holland is full of rainbows, full of tiny successes, full of hope. Holland isn’t always fun, heck, Holland is rarely fun. But Holland is, in so many way, far, far richer than Italy. I’ve been to Italy. I go there every day with Small 2 and Small 3. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t wish I was there with Small 1 as well, but I know that she is meant for Holland, that her heart, and her spirit, are too big for Italy.
We have no map for Holland. We’ve tried out a few, but none were quite right. I so wish for a map, for a plan, for answers where there are only questions. Here, in Holland, I find our way by following the scenery, letting it lead us where we need to go, struggling to alter it, change it, overcome it, and sometimes even ignore it. After many years of fruitless searches, I gave up looking for a map; we came to a point where the scenery would be the same, regardless of the route. We are fortunate, for our scenery is not as challenging as that of some other people we have met here in Holland. For this, I am ever so thankful. Yet our scenery is different enough that we are here, and not in Italy.
In the midst of all the beauty of Holland, surrounded by windmills and cobblestone roads, stands my little girl. She is looking at me for direction, and instead of having the answers she needs, I myself am lost. I cannot pick her up and spirit her away to Italy, much as my heart yearns too. I cannot shelter her, hide her underground and convince her there is nothing but Holland, that there is no such thing as Italy. She knows. She sees Small 2 and Small 3 enjoying Italy every day. We have crossed that bridge, the bridge of realization. Small 1 knows she is not like all her friends, not like her brother and sister. Some days, I want nothing more than to go back to the days when the only explanation she needed was “Your muscles are special. They don’t work quite like other kids’ do”. On those days, being a parent in Holland sucks. It sucks big, hairy, smelly, old man balls. There is nothing pretty about telling your child that this is her reality, and that you, her mom, her hero, her "fix it" person, cannot fix this. It is ugly, and it sucks, and nothing you do can change that.
Some days, too, I wish her heart was just a little bit smaller, that she wasn’t as brave, as determined as she is. While she fills me with pride every day, she also breaks me. She is convinced that she can get to Italy, that if she tries just a little bit harder, she’ll make it through airport security, and be on that plane. I break, and she breaks, a little more every time she gets turned away at the gate. It pains me to see the dawning realization in her eyes, as she slowly becomes aware that she may never get to go there. She will hopefully, eventually, end up in a part of Holland that looks a lot like Italy, that feels a lot like Italy, where she can live and laugh and love as if she were in Italy, but the reality will very likely still be part of Holland.
The very best thing about Holland though? The love. Thank God for the love. There is more love in Holland than one could ever imagine. It mixes with the tears and fills up the canals, rolls over the dikes, falls from the sky like a gentle rain. Everywhere in Holland, there is love. The love is what makes Holland bearable, just as it is love that makes any place home.
As a parent in Holland, there is love to give us strength, but sometimes no amount of strength that can make Holland bearable. Sometimes we are given baggage that we cannot carry, loads that we cannot shoulder alone. Sometimes we break. Lots of times, we break. And when we break, there is more love, love to mend us, to heal us, to pick us up off our feet and help us carry on. Love to once again see the beauty around us, to see the wonder that is Holland.
Today, I'm particularly greatful for this breaking love. It won't take us out of Holland, but it makes it easier to be there.
Monday, September 19, 2011
How Lucky I Am....
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
― A,A Milne…Winnie The Pooh
How very lucky I am, indeed. And how very hard goodbye is. The Kid Store relocated last month, so that I could return to school. I found myself so caught up in the details of the move - the packing, the sorting, the storing of our lives - that I forgot about the emptiness. I forgot about that void that comes from saying “goodbye”, from turning your back to those who you love, and slowly walking away. Actually, I’m not so sure that I forgot about it, it was more that I pushed it away and refused to acknowledge it’s existence.
I think that if I had attempted to manage all of the logistics of the move, while being conscious of what we would be leaving behind, I never would have gotten past the point of filling out my application to the college. How can you sit down and “sell” your children on a move, try to make them see how it will really be a good thing, if your own heart is tearing up at the thought of leaving? No, it was far better that I “forgot”.
I forgot about the emptiness of an vacant house, how it becomes but a shell once it has been stripped of all possessions, how its walls seem to echo sadly with the memories of children laughing, of bedtime stories snuggled on the couch, of friends and family gathered round the dinner table. I forgot how it would hurt to run my hands down the beam where my children had stood to be measured, always convinced that they had grown “so, so, so big, Mama!” and to know that I could not take it with me. I forgot the emptiness that would engulf me as I sat on the beach in the moonlight one last time, scared out of my mind by the magnitude of what I was about to do. I forgot how strange it would be to see our entire life packed into boxes in the back of a truck, ready to be unloaded in a new situation, ready to fit wherever they are placed.
If only our hearts could be so easily convinced. Instead, my heart yearns for home, for what was left behind, for the warm arms of a community that welcomed me and my children home, and held us safe and snug when we needed it most. It breaks a little more some days, days when all I want is to be sitting in my best friend’s kitchen, chatting about nothing, while our kids run around in the back yard. Days when what I need most is for my Mom to stop by with a paper bag of steaming, fresh muffins…big ones for me, and special baby ones for her grandbabies. Days when I want to be able to walk down the road and smile and wave at the same people who smiled and waved at me when I was my children’s age, walking with my own mother. Days when I long to be snuggling my nephews and neice, and enjoying the time with my siblings. Days when I am troubled, and want so much to be able to knock on my Aunt and Uncle’s door, sit in their cozy nook with a cup of mint tea, and just know that they are there.
I convinced myself to forget I would be leaving all that, and instead focused on what we would be gaining. This is a fresh start for my little family, our “new beginning” as it were. This here, is the rest of my life, the time when I start actively working towards something that will provide us with security and stability for many years to come, that will allow me to give my children the life they deserve. I cannot allow myself to be sidetracked by all that was left behind - far to much is weighing on my doing this right. And that’s a scary though in and of itself. I’m on my own now, really and truly. it’s frightening, and yet, at the same time, it’s freeing. Sink or swim, as it were.
So now I putter around our new house, painting this, rearranging that, and slowly, every so slowly, it is becoming home. We are happy here, despite all that we miss, all that I still “forget”. We’re making it, the kids and I, together. I have to trust that soon this house too will echo with memories, with the laughter of new friends, with squeals of delight as my children see that the lines on the new beam creep higher. And one day, if/when the time comes to move on from this, our new “home”, I hope that we have become so happy and immersed here, that I have to once again make myself forget what leaving really is in order to go.
For now though, I take comfort in knowing just how truly blessed I have been to have had something that made saying goodbye so hard to do.
― A,A Milne…Winnie The Pooh
How very lucky I am, indeed. And how very hard goodbye is. The Kid Store relocated last month, so that I could return to school. I found myself so caught up in the details of the move - the packing, the sorting, the storing of our lives - that I forgot about the emptiness. I forgot about that void that comes from saying “goodbye”, from turning your back to those who you love, and slowly walking away. Actually, I’m not so sure that I forgot about it, it was more that I pushed it away and refused to acknowledge it’s existence.
I think that if I had attempted to manage all of the logistics of the move, while being conscious of what we would be leaving behind, I never would have gotten past the point of filling out my application to the college. How can you sit down and “sell” your children on a move, try to make them see how it will really be a good thing, if your own heart is tearing up at the thought of leaving? No, it was far better that I “forgot”.
I forgot about the emptiness of an vacant house, how it becomes but a shell once it has been stripped of all possessions, how its walls seem to echo sadly with the memories of children laughing, of bedtime stories snuggled on the couch, of friends and family gathered round the dinner table. I forgot how it would hurt to run my hands down the beam where my children had stood to be measured, always convinced that they had grown “so, so, so big, Mama!” and to know that I could not take it with me. I forgot the emptiness that would engulf me as I sat on the beach in the moonlight one last time, scared out of my mind by the magnitude of what I was about to do. I forgot how strange it would be to see our entire life packed into boxes in the back of a truck, ready to be unloaded in a new situation, ready to fit wherever they are placed.
If only our hearts could be so easily convinced. Instead, my heart yearns for home, for what was left behind, for the warm arms of a community that welcomed me and my children home, and held us safe and snug when we needed it most. It breaks a little more some days, days when all I want is to be sitting in my best friend’s kitchen, chatting about nothing, while our kids run around in the back yard. Days when what I need most is for my Mom to stop by with a paper bag of steaming, fresh muffins…big ones for me, and special baby ones for her grandbabies. Days when I want to be able to walk down the road and smile and wave at the same people who smiled and waved at me when I was my children’s age, walking with my own mother. Days when I long to be snuggling my nephews and neice, and enjoying the time with my siblings. Days when I am troubled, and want so much to be able to knock on my Aunt and Uncle’s door, sit in their cozy nook with a cup of mint tea, and just know that they are there.
I convinced myself to forget I would be leaving all that, and instead focused on what we would be gaining. This is a fresh start for my little family, our “new beginning” as it were. This here, is the rest of my life, the time when I start actively working towards something that will provide us with security and stability for many years to come, that will allow me to give my children the life they deserve. I cannot allow myself to be sidetracked by all that was left behind - far to much is weighing on my doing this right. And that’s a scary though in and of itself. I’m on my own now, really and truly. it’s frightening, and yet, at the same time, it’s freeing. Sink or swim, as it were.
So now I putter around our new house, painting this, rearranging that, and slowly, every so slowly, it is becoming home. We are happy here, despite all that we miss, all that I still “forget”. We’re making it, the kids and I, together. I have to trust that soon this house too will echo with memories, with the laughter of new friends, with squeals of delight as my children see that the lines on the new beam creep higher. And one day, if/when the time comes to move on from this, our new “home”, I hope that we have become so happy and immersed here, that I have to once again make myself forget what leaving really is in order to go.
For now though, I take comfort in knowing just how truly blessed I have been to have had something that made saying goodbye so hard to do.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
And Now, Joy and Relief
My last post was one of mourning, of grief and sadness for a wonderful life cut far too short. My heart still aches for Jesse's family, for his friends, and for our community. Ever so slowly, the wound is healing, but there is still a raw, jagged hole in the very fibres that entwine our small community.
Today though, I am rejoicing, praising God (and no, I'm not exactly religious), thanking the heavens, the creator, whatever higher power I can think of. For as Jesse was taken so fast, so early, a very close friend and her family were not.
I haven't yet touched on one of my passions here yet, so I better mention it briefly. I am a Child Restrains Systems Technician (CRST), or a "carseat tech", as it is more commonly known. I volunteer my time helping parents keep their children as safe as possible in their vehicles.
My friend Anne, is also a tech. Last week, they were in a horrific crash. Miraculously, Anne, her husband, and their three daughters escaped relatively unscathed, despite their van being destroyed. A crash that should, by all rights, have produced fatalities, instead resulted in one child with a broken leg, another with burns from ehr carseat, Anne having an injured neck and arm, and her husband, Jeff, with a bruised lung. That is it.
Anne's children were saved because she used her knowledge as a tech to ensure they were as safe as possible in their vehicle. Her older daughters were in harnessed carseats, properly installed and appropriate for their size. Her younger daughter, though well past the minimum age when facing forward is legal, was rear-facing. She was the only one who escaped the crash with NO injuries whatsoever. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. It brings home the message we techs are constantly trying to get across to parents: rear facing offers your child the best protection. I cannot say it enough: rear face your children to the limits of a CONVERTIBLE car seat, preferably one that fits children up to 40-45lbs. At no time should a child under two years of age be forward facing. Their tiny necks cannot handle the forces that are present in even a somewhat mild collision, and tragedies occur. My three (almost four) year old son still rides rear facing, quite happily.
Here is a link to the story of Anne's crash. I hope you will take a moment to read it and see for yourself just how important it is to ensure that EVERYONE in travelling in your vehicle is properly restrained - seat belts for the adults, and appropriate seats for the children. It is, truly, a matter of life and death.
.
I am ever so thankful that Anne knew what she knew, and that their family was spared from what could have been far, far worse. I give thanks to whatever higher power was watching over them that night (we have our suspicions). I send love and healing strength to Anne, Jeff, and the girls. And I hug my own babies just a little bit tighter, then go out and check their seats just one more time. Because you just never know. You never know.
Today though, I am rejoicing, praising God (and no, I'm not exactly religious), thanking the heavens, the creator, whatever higher power I can think of. For as Jesse was taken so fast, so early, a very close friend and her family were not.
I haven't yet touched on one of my passions here yet, so I better mention it briefly. I am a Child Restrains Systems Technician (CRST), or a "carseat tech", as it is more commonly known. I volunteer my time helping parents keep their children as safe as possible in their vehicles.
My friend Anne, is also a tech. Last week, they were in a horrific crash. Miraculously, Anne, her husband, and their three daughters escaped relatively unscathed, despite their van being destroyed. A crash that should, by all rights, have produced fatalities, instead resulted in one child with a broken leg, another with burns from ehr carseat, Anne having an injured neck and arm, and her husband, Jeff, with a bruised lung. That is it.
Anne's children were saved because she used her knowledge as a tech to ensure they were as safe as possible in their vehicle. Her older daughters were in harnessed carseats, properly installed and appropriate for their size. Her younger daughter, though well past the minimum age when facing forward is legal, was rear-facing. She was the only one who escaped the crash with NO injuries whatsoever. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. It brings home the message we techs are constantly trying to get across to parents: rear facing offers your child the best protection. I cannot say it enough: rear face your children to the limits of a CONVERTIBLE car seat, preferably one that fits children up to 40-45lbs. At no time should a child under two years of age be forward facing. Their tiny necks cannot handle the forces that are present in even a somewhat mild collision, and tragedies occur. My three (almost four) year old son still rides rear facing, quite happily.
Here is a link to the story of Anne's crash. I hope you will take a moment to read it and see for yourself just how important it is to ensure that EVERYONE in travelling in your vehicle is properly restrained - seat belts for the adults, and appropriate seats for the children. It is, truly, a matter of life and death.
.
I am ever so thankful that Anne knew what she knew, and that their family was spared from what could have been far, far worse. I give thanks to whatever higher power was watching over them that night (we have our suspicions). I send love and healing strength to Anne, Jeff, and the girls. And I hug my own babies just a little bit tighter, then go out and check their seats just one more time. Because you just never know. You never know.
Friday, February 4, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 2, 2010
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.
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.
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