tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54198220142635445042024-03-13T17:46:59.532-04:00Life With Bellymonster (Liz McLennan)The View From HereBelly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.comBlogger310125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-57496076657784981562014-08-03T15:02:00.003-04:002014-08-03T21:19:06.010-04:00One, Final Love Letter<br />
When I started this blog in 2008, I had no idea what I was doing. 311 blog posts later (312, if you include this one) I still don't, but oh, what a fun, fun ride it's been!<br />
<br />
Six years.<br />
<br />
I have been sharing the "view from here" for six long, glorious years and I am so very, very grateful for all of it. My sons and I have grown enormously during that time and so many wonderful people have entered our sphere, through this blog.<br />
<br />
Thank you all for reading and crying and laughing and sharing. <span style="font-size: large;">There is nothing quite as satisfying as knowing that my words, tumbled onto these pages, have reduced someone to tears or made them snort coffee from their nose.</span><br />
<br />
My heart is full up with the love I've known here at <strong>Life With Bellymonster</strong>. And yet....<br />
<br />
<br />
And yet.<br />
<br />
I have struggled, this past year, NOT to write the stories that fill my heart and mind. Struggled with knowing that even though *I* consider oversharing my special gift, my children may not. <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">They are growing older, wiser and </span>I need to respect that my journey as their mother does not necessarily mean that theirs need to be shared, too.</span><br />
<br />
I've been chewing on this for months now, trying to find the balance between my needs and theirs. <br />
<br />
I've also been thinking hard about the other children in my world - the ones whose faces and stories have taken up much space in my head and my heart. And whose stories I cannot share here. Or anywhere, really, without betraying their trust and their confidences.<br />
<br />
It's a conundrum. <span style="font-size: large;">And it's a sign</span>.<br />
<br />
I don't know what I'll do next, darling readers. I imagine that I'll build another blog, though its content and purpose isn't clear yet, in my mind. I cannot imagine NOT writing, oversharing, inducing coffee-snot and tears. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I am choosing to trust</span> that it will be, though, and that it will be a glorious work-in-progress, like this one has been.<br />
<br />
Like I am. Like we all are.<br />
<br />
In the meantime:<br />
<br />
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for allowing me to share my world with you and for offering me such wonderful, poignant glimpses of yours in return. <br />
<br />
Be blessed. Be good. Be the good, beloveds.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Much love,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bellymonster (and the Reds)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T8FZ6HwDKRc/U96GiCML7DI/AAAAAAAABYg/zcls5mXi2Zc/s1600/IMG_1888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T8FZ6HwDKRc/U96GiCML7DI/AAAAAAAABYg/zcls5mXi2Zc/s1600/IMG_1888.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bellymonster and the Reds, 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com117tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-10517353450383897672014-06-25T21:30:00.001-04:002014-06-25T21:30:30.141-04:00Dear Student...Dear Student,<br />
<br />
In the Fall, <span style="font-size: large;">before you knew me and before I met you, I thought I knew everything</span>.<br />
<br />
Well, maybe not everything, but a lot. <br />
<br />
And I thought that a lot of what I knew was very, <em>very </em>important and that you would see my wisdom and be very, <em>very</em> grateful.<br />
<br />
<em>*Snort-laughs*</em> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Turns out, I was wrong, thinking I had it all right.</span><br />
<br />
And now, as summer draws closer, I want you to know a little of the whole bunch of stuff that I never knew - until <em>you </em>taught <em>me</em>:<br />
<br />
I am, as you now know, not a patient person. I am sort of loud, a lot bossy and prone to talking too much. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But you showed me to be quiet, so that you could think before you spoke. </span><br />
<br />
You needed me to wait, without fidgeting, while you mentally chose the best - or the least number of - words to explain what you needed. And it was hard and I didn't always get it right, but when I did, it was always worth the wait.<br />
<br />
You taught me that there is room and cause for bossy, but that sometimes, kids just need to let loose and do some dancing, shake their sillies out, run amok in an empty gym simply because it's there and it's empty...and that's OK, too.<br />
<br />
In sharing tidbits of your life outside of school, <span style="font-size: large;">you taught me to listen hard for everything you weren't saying but softly enough that I didn't miss the importance of what you did.</span> <br />
<br />
You made me a better mother. You gave me reasons to gather my own children into my arms at day's end and weep into their hair, thanking God for them and their good...and thanking Him for you and yours. <br />
<br />
Thank you for your trust and your ears and eyes and your defiance and your determination. <br />
<br />
Thank you for letting me colour in your lines, for forgiving me my dismal math knowledge and pathetic basketball skills. <br />
<br />
For laughing at my jokes, my dancing and stuff that's sort of gross, actually, but I like watching you laugh, so we're good. <span style="font-size: large;">(Except for showing me loose teeth. That's just plain mean.)</span><br />
<br />
Thank for taking my hand, accepting my word, appreciating my efforts, giving me the best of yours and for encouraging me to bring <em>my </em>best to the table, every. single. day.<br />
<br />
Without you, I wouldn't know all of this stuff and it's very, <em>very </em>important.<br />
<br />
I am very, <em>very</em> grateful.<br />
<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mrs. McLennan<br />
<br />
Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-3318879120773456182014-05-19T07:43:00.000-04:002014-05-19T07:45:21.563-04:00Birthday Letter for BambooDear Bamboo,<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday! You would have been 36, if you were still here. Maybe you still are 36, up there beyond everything.<br />
<br />
Down here, we've spent some time getting ready to plant your garden - it's looking rather lonely, without colour and bright. Apt, really, since that's how it feels without you here on this glorious May long weekend.<br />
<br />
Still, Dad cooked steaks last night and Mum made Caesar salad and in a little while, the Reds and I shall go and get cake makings because Mum only has fancy-cake stuff and frankly, you wouldn't like it. See how I just made that decision on your behalf, all bossy-like? I know, right? Some things just don't change.<br />
<br />
The Reds asked about a zillion questions about you last week, when I told them that your birthday was coming up. I may have cried, especially when Matthew pointed out a black Blazer, remarked on its resemblance to yours (Seriously? He was 3 when you died, how does he remember?) and then announced that he's getting one when he turns 16. Right after he gets a motorcycle.Oh, yeah, he's your nephew, for sure.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rADmP8cUb_U/S3I4ibQHQLI/AAAAAAAAAKM/w1Opg8_NnZ8/s1600/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rADmP8cUb_U/S3I4ibQHQLI/AAAAAAAAAKM/w1Opg8_NnZ8/s1600/scan0002.jpg" height="320" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke says, "Andrew looks cute like that! Mummy looks like a boy."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
And that Luke - oh, Bam, you'd love him. He's ornery and hilarious, all at the same time. And a few weeks ago, he got into some tar. Yes, yes he did. And I didn't wash it off - well, not all of it - just so I could keep you close a little bit longer. Asshats, both of you. Ha!<br />
<br />
Everyone's still sleeping here at the moment, except Molly the Dog, who is also an asshat but she's cute so I keep her. Mum says that she (Molly) reminds her of your Roxy and I'll be darned - she does me, too. It must be the Rottweiler in both girls. In any case, I'm glad that Molly is with us this weekend (though if that gets out, I'll deny it like crazy) as she has provided some comic relief and it's lovely to see her, roaming happily with the Reds. You'd love her.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sNl8Heet-dA/UZmAyyL0SFI/AAAAAAAABIg/q11BbbYlPzA/s1600/IMG_9576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sNl8Heet-dA/UZmAyyL0SFI/AAAAAAAABIg/q11BbbYlPzA/s1600/IMG_9576.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last year's planting session - turns out, pink and yellow are fan favourites...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Scratch that, little brother - the troops are stirring. I'm not the only one up and about now, which means, I'll have to sign off now. We've got flowers to plant and memories to share and of course, cake to eat. It'll be chocolate, in case you're wondering.<br />
<br />
I love you, Bam. I miss you, more as the years pass, which I didn't expect, but there it is. I wish you joy and happy today and always.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
LibisBelly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-1990142521549296362014-04-06T17:03:00.002-04:002014-04-06T17:04:29.599-04:00A Thousand Tiny MomentsThis afternoon, the Reds were a stinky, filthy mess after the impromptu soccer game in our dog-poop and mud-filled backyard. <br />
<br />
One after the other I tossed them into the shower, scrubbing away the dirt and listening to their happy play-by-plays. Sent them downstairs while I gathered up their wet things in a basket and contemplated the wisdom of throwing their running shoes into the washing machine, too.<br />
<br />
From the bathroom, Mark prepared his own shower as I added his clothes to the mix, clucking and smiling at the fact that <span style="font-size: large;">no matter how old boys get, they're happiest when they're dirty.</span><br />
<br />
"Some boys came up the road while Matthew was showering," Mark said, conversationally, as I sorted and tossed. "Three of them, on bikes, in the middle of the road."<br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah?" I stopped then, sharpened my gaze on his face, which was suddenly filled with something I could not place but now recognize as tenderness.<br />
<br />
"<span style="font-size: large;">They asked if Matthew lives here</span>. They're friends of his from school and wanted to know if he could join them."<br />
<br />
I stared at him, processing a flurry of suddenly overwhelming feelings and thinking hard. <br />
<br />
Lowered the basket to my hip and took a deep breath in. <br />
<br />
Blew it out. <br />
<br />
"Huh. I guess it's about that time, eh?"<br />
<br />
Mark smiled then, a gentle one, just for me. "Yep. It's about that time."<br />
<br />
Another deep breath from me, followed by a sigh that came from the very bottom of my heart. "<span style="font-size: large;">I guess this is the part where we trust him</span> to make the right choices and be safe and ride off with his friends."<br />
<br />
"They were all wearing helmets."<br />
<br />
"Well, that's something, anyway," I offered him a tremulous smile of my own before gently closing the door to leave him to his business and his own thoughts. <br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4nJ9jb4Ibhw/U0G-4QQFNCI/AAAAAAAABXo/n1_7cc5EXyc/s1600/IMG_0667.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4nJ9jb4Ibhw/U0G-4QQFNCI/AAAAAAAABXo/n1_7cc5EXyc/s1600/IMG_0667.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Came down to start supper and think about how much I want to stop Time, for just a moment longer.<br />
<br />
Realized - though not for the first time - that letting go isn't a big, huge step.<br />
<br />
It's a thousand tiny moments, just like this one - when the world outside beckons my children to come out and explore, discover and learn...<span style="font-size: large;">my job is to let go and trust them to do just that.</span> <br />
<br />
But I can't help but think, "Weren't they JUST born?"<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-60120415546563852852014-03-28T22:56:00.002-04:002014-03-28T22:58:32.834-04:00Reading, Writing and...I work as an Educational Assistant in a large school. <br />
<br />
The teachers I work alongside are truly called to this work: they are engaging and enthusiastic and encouraging. When I took this job, I didn't expect to find all that they are to and for their students. <br />
<br />
It shames me, actually, to remember how I was prepared to find them lacking in patience and compassion and empathy. <span style="font-size: large;">How I was prepared to know better.</span><br />
<br />
Nothing could be further from the truth of how it truly is inside these classrooms, where teachers give their all, each and every day, to help each and every student find her potential and surpass it. In classrooms full to bursting, these smart and funny women work to inspire, to teach, and to <em>reach</em> all of their kids, even the ones who could care less. Perhaps, especially, those ones.<br />
<br />
While I have been assigned several focus students to work for over the course of each day and week, there are several more who have caught my attention and my affection. Technically, I support students academically - helping some to read, others to research and encouraging all of them to keep at their tasks when frustration or distraction loom.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But, as so often happens, I am finding that the greatest lessons? Are my own.</span><br />
<br />
Every day, I carry them home in my heart - these children, and these lessons. Even as I gather up my own kids to receive their hugs and kisses and listen to the chatter about their day, I am often thinking of the children - and teachers - who fill mine<br />
<br />
These are some of the things that I am (re)learning, as a mother, alongside the students I am paid to help teach and it is both humbling and amazing, at the same time:<br />
<br />
<strong>1. FOCUS:</strong> On the lesson, on the words we hear and the ones we don't. Yes, there is much to be distracted by - the computer, the window, our friends, the dishes, the bills, our fingers, our daydreams - but none of that helps us learn. Figure out what's most important and then do it. Finish it. <span style="font-size: large;">Use your juiciest words, your best printing, your most-present-Mummy-face.</span><br />
<br />
<strong>2. SMALL STUFF</strong>: Find and work on the small stuff and build from there - the word (world) is made up of small words (moments) inside the big words (stuff). The big stuff is easier to understand and appreciate if we break it down into more manageable chunks. <span style="font-size: large;">Chunk your words</span>. Savour the moments.<br />
<br />
<strong>3. TIME MANAGEMENT:</strong> If we don't manage our time wisely, we have to stay in at recess or take work home. This means less play time and that someone else will likely have extra supervision duty or have to change their plans to make up for our procrastination. Frankly, it's just not cool.<br />
<br />
In mama speak: Put the damned laundry away so that Mark doesn't trip over the basket in the middle of the night thereby kind of ruining your happy Facebook time with his grumbling and stomping the next day.<br />
<br />
<strong>4. SING:</strong> We live in the most amazing country in the world - sing our anthem loudly and with pride. Sing about the sunshine, the rain, sing the alphabet, the Waiting Song and when your heart really doesn't want to. Make up your own words, your own tune. <span style="font-size: large;">Share your song.</span><br />
<br />
It's hard to stay mad or sad when you're singing, even if it's only in the shower or with the kids before bed. It's also kind of awesome if you can do different voices and a passable air guitar. <br />
<br />
<strong>5. ASK FOR HELP</strong>: There will always be someone who knows more than you or who knows how to help you find what you need. Use the word wall, your dictionary, the Internet, a trusted adult, a wise friend. Ask for help. <span style="font-size: large;">Ask for grace. Ask for support. Ask for love.</span> Be gracious about giving it, too. <br />
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<strong>6. READ:</strong> Read a book. Any book. A real book, not a story on the Internet. A book-book. A story, a passage, a paragraph. To yourself. To your kids. FOR your kids. Because of your kids. <span style="font-size: large;">Just read</span>. A little bit - or a lot - every day. <br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>And you? What are the most important lessons you learned in school?</strong></div>
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<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-29443595432165987722014-01-19T13:21:00.000-05:002014-01-19T18:54:11.335-05:00Joe Clayton: A Love Story* <em>While I was studying Developmental Services at Loyalist College two years ago, my class was visited by a man called Joseph Clayton. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Joe spent most of his formative years bouncing through the foster care system in our fair province before the Children's Aid Society finally tossed him into Rideau Regional Centre - a now-closed institution for society's most vulnerable citizens.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>An adult now and free, Joe talks to students every year - he is, for so many, the face of institutional life and embodies the absolute best of the human spirit.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Joe's</em><a href="http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2011/12/on-resilience-faith-and-courage-joe.html"><em> story is a chilling one</em></a><em> and I don't think there was a dry eye nor a single sound during his talk. </em><br />
<em></em><em></em><br />
<em>Since that time, I have written twice about Joe, fumbling through my </em><a href="http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2011/12/on-resilience-faith-and-courage-joe_14.html"><em>own telling of his tale</em></a><em>. We have maintained a casual email relationship; I am always pleased to see his name in my inbox.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>A few weeks back, he wrote to tell me that his brand-new wife, Cindy, has passed away from cancer. They married in June of 2012 and on November 30th - my birthday, coincidentally - she died.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>This is but the latest in a lifetime of loss for Joe and my heart simply ached for him. I stutter-typed a message of condolence, knowing that it was woefully inadequate, feeling wrecked that no matter how kind my words, his wife would still be gone, his heart broken.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Joe, a man of quiet grace and humble gratitude, accepted.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>A few days ago, he sent me their wedding photo and a story, written by someone in their community. With his permission, I share it here, so that others will be able to see what courage -and love - looks like</em>: *<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A gentleman moved from Sharbot Lake to Kingston Ontario, in the Fall of 2008 to get a fresh start. <br />
<br />
In Kingston, unknown to the gentleman at the time, lived <span style="font-size: large;">a caring lady with a bubbly personality and a huge heart.</span> Both of these people had had similar life experiences in their pasts including a variety of different jobs, previous marriages, and grown children.<br />
<br />
They met at the Round Table Support Centre in Kingston. The lady smile and warm laughter. After they spent time together sharing all aspects of their lives with one another' celebrating that they found each other. They were amazed at how much they had in common and how many of their skills and attributes complemented each other. They fell in love.<br />
<br />
The lady invited the gentleman to move in with her. In 2009, the couple moved back in his former community of Sharbot Lake. <br />
<br />
The lady' s openness and friendly nature was admired and welcomed by the community. The couple continued to learn about each other and share each other' s interests. <span style="font-size: large;">They made a life together</span>.<br />
<br />
In June 2012 the couple got married in a private ceremony with only their witnesses, the minister and the videographer present. <br />
<br />
The newlyweds enjoyed a honeymoon in Perth Ont. In August 2012 they shared their union with family and friends at a wedding reception in the local community hall. The guests enjoyed a KFC banquet and the company of others while viewing the video of their special day in June. <br />
<br />
Then they danced. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oNiOQei7Jw8/UtwWoTcBwoI/AAAAAAAABXY/P9r9Yj9cyDI/s1600/joe+and+cindy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oNiOQei7Jw8/UtwWoTcBwoI/AAAAAAAABXY/P9r9Yj9cyDI/s1600/joe+and+cindy.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe and Cindy, June 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Within months of their marriage the lady' s medical appointment revealed terrible news: CANCER'. Their lives quickly became a series of medical appointments and hand holding. <br />
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Soon after, they both quit their part time jobs. The lady, because of her deteriorating health, the gentleman because he wanted to support his wife. <br />
<br />
Then she could no longer drive. <br />
<br />
In dealing with these changes, the treatments, side effects, and waiting the couple maintained open, honest communication. <span style="font-size: large;">They recognized that the cancer may rob them of their happily ever after.</span> They decided to remain positive, not give up, live each day as it came and embrace the time they had left together. <br />
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The couple adapted to accommodate the cancer but they never for a moment lost sight of what they had with each other. With the support of their family, friends, service providers, church congregation and the community at large the gentleman and the lady faced and fought Cancer. <br />
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The gentleman became his wife' s full time caregiver. <br />
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They had the tough conversations that most couples avoid having - D N R, final wishes, goodbyes.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nothing was left unsaid</span>. The gentleman and lady came together quickly and loved deeply.<br />
<br />
After weeks of in-home nursing care the lady was moved to the hospital for palliative care. The gentleman remained by her side until she died November 30, 2013.<br />
<br />
<br />
This story is dedicated to Joe Clayton and the memory of Cindy Jones- Clayton, <span style="font-size: large;">the gentleman and his lady.</span>Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-8300477699570569302014-01-16T23:39:00.002-05:002014-01-16T23:51:49.318-05:00On Finding Home: A 5-Year RecapFIVE years ago today, we moved to Belleville. <br />
<br />
Wow.<br />
<br />
Can you BELIEVE that? Five awesome, terrible, heartbreaking, glorious, triumphant years.<br />
<br />
Today, this city is home and I am proud and happy to watch my children sprout their wings from here, the place where we are rooted.<br />
<br />
In remembrance, I have selected one post from every year - they are the posts which, to my mind, sum up all that was and all that I was, we were, <span style="font-size: large;">as this place we were simply passing through, came to be ours:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">2009</span></strong></div>
<br />
1. A month after we moved here, to a strange city where I knew no one, my brother died. The shock of that - that he was just<em> gone</em> - and the rage and utter angst I felt throughout the rest of that bitter winter will always be tangled up with coming here.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tic0kSBvozQ/S3I49P-EAzI/AAAAAAAAAKU/gYw8QkLLV2Q/s1600/GetAttachment%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tic0kSBvozQ/S3I49P-EAzI/AAAAAAAAAKU/gYw8QkLLV2Q/s1600/GetAttachment%255B1%255D.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My baby brother, Andrew.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2009/02/farewell-beloved-brother.html">http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2009/02/farewell-beloved-brother.html</a><br />
<br />
Five years later, the rage has passed and while sadness remains, always, <span style="font-size: large;">I believe that I have come to a place of peace.</span> That Spring, I ventured out to explore my new city and to find some friends. My very first friend, Heather, opened her home and her heart to a sad, lonely stranger - at the end of that long, cold Winter, she was the sunshine I needed and today, she is one of my closest friends.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">2010</span></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVKboiBBFRk/TgpmRBFX55I/AAAAAAAAAWs/ls382w8cHL0/s1600/IMG_7515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVKboiBBFRk/TgpmRBFX55I/AAAAAAAAAWs/ls382w8cHL0/s1600/IMG_7515.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Matthew started Kindergarten in 2009. It was a bittersweet experience for me, holding out my first-born son to the world and asking for grace. He was blessed with an incredible teacher that year and while this letter was written for her in 2010, as school wrapped up for summer, it's really for all of the Reds' teachers. <span style="font-size: large;">They have been so lucky, to have compassionate and wise teachers - it has been a true and real joy to watch them thrive and grow and learn.</span> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2010/06/dear-teacher.html">http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2010/06/dear-teacher.html</a><br />
<br />
In fact, the school they attend, their teachers and their friends are some of the biggest reasons we've chosen to remain here. We are settled, they are thriving. Everyone is happy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">2011</span></strong></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nCSIFZ-8nh0/Ssf-5edRtqI/AAAAAAAAAJE/cF0Xi_09fuY/s1600/IMG_7176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nCSIFZ-8nh0/Ssf-5edRtqI/AAAAAAAAAJE/cF0Xi_09fuY/s1600/IMG_7176.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke being...well, Luke.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
This is one of my favourite posts about Luke, but it's also one of my favourite posts, period. I think that it's easy to get caught up in all the things our kids do that drive us crazy, instead of focusing on all the stuff they do that's good. Maybe it's just me. <span style="font-size: large;">In any case, one day, I will frame this and hang it on Luke's wall</span> and he will know how much joy he brings to my life.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2011/06/its-small-stuff.html">http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2011/06/its-small-stuff.html</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">2012</span></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8v1WHo0Znjo/UMAYUO_2SbI/AAAAAAAAA-E/Dr5RnDVEExo/s1600/I+Love+You+ASL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8v1WHo0Znjo/UMAYUO_2SbI/AAAAAAAAA-E/Dr5RnDVEExo/s1600/I+Love+You+ASL.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Without question, 2012 was a challenging, illuminating year. <span style="font-size: large;">Everywhere I went, it seemed, I was learning lessons</span> - and not just the ones at Loyalist College, where I studied Developmental Services. <br />
<br />
This is my most-shared post ever. At last count, it has been read by 1400 people - clearly, it struck a chord with friends and strangers alike and I am delighted to share it here:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2012/11/to-love-stranger.html">http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2012/11/to-love-stranger.html</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">2013</span></strong></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ixI-WBQWYmE/UtiyOxY0QtI/AAAAAAAABXI/scr7ZWZZcBU/s1600/Grad+Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ixI-WBQWYmE/UtiyOxY0QtI/AAAAAAAABXI/scr7ZWZZcBU/s1600/Grad+Photo.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: Jerome Lessard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I graduated from Loyalist in 2013. It was a transformative two years and walking across the stage to accept my hard-won diploma, with <span style="font-size: large;">my parents and my sons in the audience, was one of the proudest moments of my life.</span> <br />
<br />
From my classmates, my professors and from all of those I was blessed to support, I have learned some of the most important lessons. I have and will carry them, always, in all the years ahead: <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2013/04/with-my-heart-in-their-hands.html">http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2013/04/with-my-heart-in-their-hands.html</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And so...five years later, we have known huge love and huge loss. Bought a house, got a dog, lost our minds. We are thriving, we are growing, we belong.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, this last one is that for which I am most grateful. <span style="font-size: large;">Here, in the city by the Bay, we have found our place, our people, our future.</span><br />
<br />
I am home.<br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-80496594728829776112014-01-03T23:48:00.001-05:002014-01-03T23:50:25.634-05:00This Poop Shall Pass....Poop.<br />
<br />
It's all I think about. <br />
<br />
Molly the Dog's poop, that is. I realize that things are likely a bit confusing, since my last few posts have been about my friend, Molly and now <span style="font-size: large;">I'm writing about my dog, Molly</span>, the one I've never mentioned before, ever.<br />
<br />
We just got her. Molly the Dog, that is. She was a Christmas Surprise for the Reds and the end result of much begging on my part and much receiving of favours on Mark's.<br />
<br />
What? <span style="font-size: large;">Oh, like you don't let your ovaries make poorly-thought-out decisions, too</span>. Phfftt. You have kids, don't you? See? Ovaries win.<br />
<br />
In any event, she's adorable and I'm utterly smitten with her gorgeous face.<br />
<br />
I am not<em> as</em> smitten with her toileting habits and find that I am experiencing a ton of low-level anxiety about it. This is eerily similar to the script that played in my mind during Matthew's first few months of life:<br />
<br />
"<em>Is she awake? Should I play with her? Does she need a bone? We really should get home, the dog might be missing us. Did she poop? Is that poop? I smell poop. LUKE, DON'T STEP IN THE...poop."</em><br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
In the week since she's been ours, I have gone through six rolls of Jumbo paper towel, one and half bottles of "Nature's Miracle" which promised to take the smell and the stain out of my carpets, but hasn't, a pack and a half of pee pads and one pair of slippers. Oh, and Matthew's tennis ball:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4mGn_gOqlq8/UseSF7Od-TI/AAAAAAAABWw/bnqom-Z6tbs/s1600/IMG_1178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4mGn_gOqlq8/UseSF7Od-TI/AAAAAAAABWw/bnqom-Z6tbs/s320/IMG_1178.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Molly and Matthew, playing kitchen hockey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I lost a pair of black leather shoes on Day Two, a snuggly grey blanket on Day Four and my mind by Day Seven.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Last week, she shat on the heating vent.</span> It took me half an hour to find the poop because the heating vent is brown.<br />
<br />
It's a good thing she's cute because I am becoming "that" person on Facebook - asking for direction from my friends and then cursing when all their advice conflicts and confuses me.<br />
<br />
Today, I spoke to a dog trainer on the phone for TWO HOURS. Two hours, alternating between bragging about Miss Molly and threatening to throw her from the nearest window. Thankfully, the trainer talked me out of the latter.<br />
<br />
Between Luke, who still wets the bed most nights and Molly, who wets, well, everything, I feel like I am wiping and cleaning and drying things, all of the time.<br />
<br />
I know it will pass. This too shall pass. <span style="font-size: large;">THIS SHIT SHALL PASS</span>.<br />
<br />
But the sooner this shit passes OUTSIDE? The happier we'll all be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qy7Yz20dyEA/UseScujGyiI/AAAAAAAABW4/w63fN0PMnh4/s1600/IMG_1191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qy7Yz20dyEA/UseScujGyiI/AAAAAAAABW4/w63fN0PMnh4/s320/IMG_1191.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke and his Molly. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-86223705371054466752013-12-09T16:01:00.000-05:002013-12-09T16:01:57.114-05:00A Message from Molly<em>Last month, I posted <a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2013/11/why-i-dont-want-baileys-for-my-birthday.html">about my friend Molly</a>, who has opened her home and her heart to her nephew, Seth. Molly and her family have been struggling financially since then, as Seth's arrival put a strain on their already tight budget.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I asked for help from all of you, as several local agencies could not find the resources for this amazing family. And, my friends, bless you, you came through - for me, for Molly, and most importantly, for Seth.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>As of this writing, you have donated, either in cash or gift card or gift, almost $800. To help out a family you don't know, simply because you were asked to do so.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I am proud to know you. Prouder still to call you my friends. THIS is what love looks like. THIS is what community truly means. THIS is what being the good feels like:</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lR-ghrh3EpE/UoFIaBfeRbI/AAAAAAAABWc/H0wV2VR-GvM/s1600/Be+The+Good.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lR-ghrh3EpE/UoFIaBfeRbI/AAAAAAAABWc/H0wV2VR-GvM/s1600/Be+The+Good.jpg" /></a></div>
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
FROM MOLLY:<br />
<br />
When Seth came to us, we knew we'd make it; just not sure how. <br />
<br />
Already raising 3 children on a tight budget, overnight, we had a fourth. We were told immediately that we would be his guardians until further notice. <span style="font-size: large;">There was no ceremony, no time to prepare and no instruction booklet. </span>I navigated all the resources I could think of. <br />
<br />
After doors repeatedly closed in my face, people turned their backs, I told his story....and someone listened. <br />
<br />
She heard my words, felt my feelings and cried my tears. Her beautiful heart took our story to bed with her. Finally!! Someone was going to help us. <br />
<br />
That help was just going to come from the community; rather than agencies. <span style="font-size: large;">I slept better that night knowing such good people do exist.</span> Compassionate human beings.<br />
<br />
Thank you on behalf of my children, for making life a little easier to live. Thanks to all of your kindness, our load has been lightened. <span style="font-size: large;">Now that our worries have been spread out among so many people, they are much lighter to carry.</span> <br />
<br />
We can spend time laughing with our children and forget some of our troubles. <br />
<br />
Your kind hearts are beautiful; and your love is felt. <span style="font-size: large;">You have brought joy where there was struggle</span>.<br />
<br />
Please know that your gift of compassion has been received and has found it's place in the hearts and eyes of our little ones. <br />
<br />
And thank you from an angel of a boy, Seth, <span style="font-size: large;">who gets to be a kid this Christmas</span>. <br />
<br />
Bless you all and your families this Christmas!<br />
<br />
Love, Us.<br />
<br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-4414305702484630442013-11-11T16:16:00.001-05:002013-11-13T21:10:43.546-05:00Why I Don't Want Baileys For My Birthday...I have a friend who is beautiful and bright and loving. She is raising beautiful, bright and loving children. Three of them.<br />
<br />
And as of a month ago, a fourth. <br />
<br />
Seth* is her nephew-by-marriage and due to circumstances beyond his control, he is, at the tender age of 10 and a mere two years into his new life here in Canada, without a home. Without family.<br />
<br />
When the police called my friend, Molly*, because she is one of two "kin" close by, she raced to the station to get him. The police officer handed Seth over without ceremony. Handed over the boy's backpack as well - all that was left of his old life, tucked inside.<br />
<br />
Into her car, into her heart, she tumbled the quiet, doe-eyed boy,<span style="font-size: large;"> promised him the safety of her home, the solace of her arms, the love of her family, for as long as he needed</span>.<br />
<br />
A month in, Seth is indeed loved and seems content in their sphere. He is polite and helpful and achingly beautiful. But he doesn't speak of the reasons he now shares a bed with his cousin and must be content with a winter coat he didn't choose and that doesn't match the snow pants Molly managed to find in his size.<br />
<br />
As for the other things that hurt her mother's heart, Molly can barely speak of it at all, but I can:<br />
<br />
While Molly's home is filled with love and light and laughter, it is <em>not</em> filled with enough money. Not nearly enough.<br />
<br />
Of course, there are social workers involved because Seth's life has been fraught and difficult, since coming to Canada, for the chance of a better one. And so naturally, there are meetings and visits and calls and follow-ups several times a week. There is now endless driving for Molly and her husband, who ferry Seth to visits with his case workers and his stepsisters, three, sometimes four nights a week, from our city to another, half an hour away.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But there is no money.</span> <br />
<br />
Molly receives <em>nothing</em> from social services, for S's keeping. <span style="font-size: large;">She doesn't <em>want</em> to need a dime from the people who are supposed to help, but the plain truth of it, she does.</span> There is no money to be had - not now, not for Christmas, not to fill Molly's car with the extra gas needed to drive Seth to his appointments, for school trips or new shoes or a bed of his own. <br />
<br />
Not. one. penny.<br />
<br />
If Molly was a foster mother, vetted and approved by the very agency that hastily approved her lovely home as suitable for Seth only <em>after</em> she'd tucked him into it, it would be fine. Then, there would be a monthly allowance for his care, for gas, for clothing, for living.<span style="font-size: large;"> But because she is "kin", there is no funding. There is nothing in place to ease the financial burden that a growing, active boy can place on a household budget already stretched thin.</span><br />
<br />
A little while ago, I sat with Molly at her kitchen table - the same one around which three social workers sat when they told her that Seth would likely be hers for several months yet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lR-ghrh3EpE/UoFIaBfeRbI/AAAAAAAABWY/Mq1hV9cBysA/s1600/Be+The+Good.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lR-ghrh3EpE/UoFIaBfeRbI/AAAAAAAABWY/Mq1hV9cBysA/s400/Be+The+Good.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of: Pinterest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I sat and heard this story and watched Seth play, joyfully, laughing, with my own sons....and I cried.<br />
<br />
I cried because Molly is trying so hard to do the right thing by this boy, who has lost everything. She remains gentle and loving and is trying to stay positive, but finds it hard. Harder still when those closest to her have begun to question whether this was the "right decision" for her family. Is there nowhere else for him to go? <br />
<br />
She is taking on too much, they say. This is too much. He is too much.<br />
<br />
And here is where I may have lost the plot a little and slammed my hand, HARD, upon her table, furiously wiping my tears away:<br />
<br />
"Molly! You made the right decision when you flew down to that station to get him. You made the right decision when you promised him a soft place to land, for as long as he needs. Is it hard, doing the right thing? Absolutely. Right doesn't mean "when it is convenient, when it doesn't interfere with other plans, when it isn't too much."<br />
<br />
Molly was speechless, so I took a deep breath and plowed on:<br />
<br />
" This <em>boy</em> isn't too much. For God's sake! This boy needs you. <span style="font-size: large;">He needs a family, a community....he needs a village.</span> And it SUCKS that the very services designed to help create that, won't. It sucks balls, to be frank about it. But since they won't, let's find people who CAN."<br />
<br />
In the larger scheme of things, dear readers, Seth needs more than you or I alone can give him and I hope that, in time, he will be reunited with his parents, but for now...for now, Molly is doing her best to give him a home and the love of family. They just need a little bit of help.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And so, my friends, here I am, asking for yours.</span><br />
<br />
Molly could use gift cards for the following:<br />
<br />
Groceries<br />
Gas <br />
Phone cards (Seth's bio-mother lives out-of-country and he misses her very much)<br />
Clothing stores<br />
<br />
Seth has discovered road hockey and loves it, but doesn't have a stick of his own or any equipment. Do you have any that your children have outgrown? Can you get it to me so I can get it to him? <br />
<br />
Do you have any Belleville Bulls tickets that you might be willing to part with, to give this family of five - now six - a fun evening out? <br />
<br />
Any other suggestions, ideas, small and grand gestures will be happily, gratefully accepted.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Will you be the village this boy deserves?</span><br />
<br />
Please. Be the good. <br />
<br />
Message me at <a href="mailto:bellymonster2005@yahoo.ca">bellymonster2005@yahoo.ca</a> if you can help.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Belly<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. I'm turning 40 this month. In case you were thinking of getting me a little something...<br />
<br />
In lieu of Baileys, wine, chocolate or anything else delicious I might love but surely don't need, would you consider a gift card for Seth, instead? I can't think of anything that would make me love you more. <br />
<br />
Just sayin'.<br />
<br />
<br />
P.P.S. Have set up a separate-from-mine bank account at Scotiabank. Any/all email money transfers can be sent to <a href="mailto:bellymonster2005@yahoo.ca">bellymonster2005@yahoo.ca</a> and they will be funnelled directly into that account. I can/will provide confirmation #s and am so beyond grateful to all of you who have already sent gift cards, dropped envelopes by my house and contributed to "Molly's Magic Account" <br />
<br />
Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're making life better for an incredible family! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-80445850464942191062013-10-11T09:13:00.000-04:002013-10-11T10:45:56.842-04:00Love, 10 Years Later...A decade has passed since I became Mark's wife. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zn0jf7AsH_4/Ulfv-Rq27rI/AAAAAAAABVk/KtgQJ9-3HmY/s1600/Wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zn0jf7AsH_4/Ulfv-Rq27rI/AAAAAAAABVk/KtgQJ9-3HmY/s320/Wedding.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">October 11th, 2003</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Had anyone told me, back in high school, that the boy with the gorgeous curly locks would one day be the father of my children, I'd have run away, laughing.<br />
<br />
"I mean, yes, he's adorable," I might have said, "but marriage is not in my plans. Kids? No way. <span style="font-size: large;">Besides, he drives me crazy and we argue too much."</span><br />
<br />
A lifetime later, we are married with kids. He still drives me crazy and we still argue too much. <br />
<br />
<br />
And yet...<br />
<br />
This man, who once drove his boxy Chevette so fast over back-country roads, I think I peed my pants a little, now sometimes steals my car and fills it up with gas and always leaves money in the cup holder so that I can fuel up with to-go coffee without scrambling for change.<br />
<br />
This man, who can sometimes go days without speaking to me, <span style="font-size: large;">will happily sing duets in the car, while in the back seat, our children laugh in delight,</span> especially when he deliberately warbles off-key. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
This man, whose temper is fierce, spent the week after my brother died soothing me with gentle words and tucking me into bed when I simply could not stand a moment longer. <br />
<br />
On the anniversary of Andrew's passing, he knows to run a bath with bubbles and presses a tissue into my hand, even before my tears begin to fall. Of all the things he has said to me about the loss of my only sibling, this is the one that both breaks and soothes my heart the most:<br />
<br />
"<em>Your brother was mine for a little while too, Liz. I was proud of that. I loved him. Miss him, too</em>."<br />
<br />
We are not a perfect couple, despite 10 years of trying. Most of the time, we're not even close. <span style="font-size: large;">Instead, we stagger through the lows and float through the highs and bring each other coffee in apology or affection, depending on the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JHfgs6TnOwY/UlfxAIxfjsI/AAAAAAAABVw/fHJ7epwVFTA/s1600/Santa+Parade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JHfgs6TnOwY/UlfxAIxfjsI/AAAAAAAABVw/fHJ7epwVFTA/s320/Santa+Parade.jpg" width="304" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
We can have a conversation without words, <span style="font-size: large;">make each other laugh with a single one, with a glance, with a memory.</span> <br />
<br />
He accepts - for the most part - that I will move the furniture around every month and I have resigned myself to planning for his habitual lateness and inability to notice that the toilet paper roll needs replacing.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, he brings me a book for no reason, just because he can. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, I shave my legs for no reason, just because I can.<br />
<br />
And day by day, year by year, decade by decade <a href="http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2012/06/dear-husband.html">we are muddling through</a>. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We have just had the best summer of our marriage</span>, despite the stress of preparing the house for sale and then the wrenching process of NOT moving.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4nJUQNN0Dxw/Ulf0SyLuzmI/AAAAAAAABV8/d86YpauJBJ8/s1600/Smiling+Mark+and+Liz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4nJUQNN0Dxw/Ulf0SyLuzmI/AAAAAAAABV8/d86YpauJBJ8/s320/Smiling+Mark+and+Liz.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We spent most of our evenings together on the porch, listening to our world settle into sleep and listening to each other. We spoke of things long-buried, we laughed at our own foolishness and shared hopeful dreams for our future.<br />
<br />
One night, towards summer's end, I turned to my husband and said, simply: "This is the first year in a long time that on our anniversary, we'll have something to truly celebrate."<br />
<br />
And this man, he got it. He knew it, too. And he took my hand and smiled. "I think you're right. It feels good, doesn't it?"<br />
<br />
I snuggled closer and sighed. "Yep. Sure does."<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hRdrwH0dfdQ/Ulf253X5WVI/AAAAAAAABWI/aXTP4pVWv2M/s1600/Grumpy+Mark+at+Wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hRdrwH0dfdQ/Ulf253X5WVI/AAAAAAAABWI/aXTP4pVWv2M/s320/Grumpy+Mark+at+Wedding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sigh. Typical shot of the two of us...<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Happy 10th Anniversary, Husband! </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>I love you.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Wife</em></div>
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-19580720967465744462013-10-04T21:58:00.002-04:002013-10-04T23:56:35.313-04:00Luke is SIX!Darling Luke,<br />
<br />
<br />
This morning, when I crept into your room, I found you already awake. And grinning. (Neither thing happens regularly. son, so please forgive my surprise.)<br />
<br />
"Happy Birthday, SIX-year-old!" I crowed, diving into your bed intending to cover your face with kisses.<br />
<br />
"Mummy! I've been six since midnight, you know. That's almost six hours already!"<br />
<br />
I covered your face with kisses anyways, in between giggles that I couldn't hold back.<br />
<br />
Six going on 12. Seriously, kid. You crack me up like no one else and I wouldn't have you any other way.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FQy4dPBxZlQ/Uk9MBmhzuOI/AAAAAAAABUw/V_80tyEfK-c/s1600/Boys+Are+Silly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FQy4dPBxZlQ/Uk9MBmhzuOI/AAAAAAAABUw/V_80tyEfK-c/s400/Boys+Are+Silly.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A "modest" Luke, suiting up...<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I love your fire and your shy - they are a potent mix of traits that will always draw people to you, often despite your best efforts. I love the way you seem to know, instinctively, who needs a gentle touch...and who needs a swift shove, instead. <br />
<br />
Trust your heart, Luke. Though you might be hurt by letting someone else hold it, I hope you will<br />
never regret the decision to do so. <span style="font-size: large;">It takes enormous courage to be vulnerable and every day, in so many different ways, you show your brave self countless times.</span> It's one of my favourite things about you.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jPoXMVj3NMU/Uk9P_m-zz2I/AAAAAAAABU8/z7y7Krnc7UQ/s1600/IMG_0514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jPoXMVj3NMU/Uk9P_m-zz2I/AAAAAAAABU8/z7y7Krnc7UQ/s400/IMG_0514.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke the Brave</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I love your deep loyalty and affection for a select few. <span style="font-size: large;">From the moment you were born, you have always known your own mind and planted your feet firmly.</span> And while I know it is not easy being the younger Red, you wear your adoration for your brother well, my boy. He is lucky to have you. We all are:<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zg6VgIsj0xM/Uk9sKgeovFI/AAAAAAAABVM/d9mwhL2O5as/s1600/IMG_0549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zg6VgIsj0xM/Uk9sKgeovFI/AAAAAAAABVM/d9mwhL2O5as/s320/IMG_0549.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brudders McLennan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You amaze me, Luke, with your quiet observations - often bang-on - and with the absolute delight that blooms on your face when you are pleased: a favourite song in the radio, matching socks, non-rumbly sheets and realizing that you read an entire book all by yourself. I cannot tell you what it does to my heart, to see your smile, watch it reach your gorgeous, soulful eyes. <span style="font-size: large;">It's like seeing the sun on a cloudy day - how could anyone not look at you and feel joy?</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4LoHUvDJVrs/Uk9Jv3d9isI/AAAAAAAABUg/RZ49k9U4B6I/s1600/IMG_9820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4LoHUvDJVrs/Uk9Jv3d9isI/AAAAAAAABUg/RZ49k9U4B6I/s320/IMG_9820.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing like no one is watching...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lj0l8TN7WUU/Uk9JkSiheiI/AAAAAAAABTk/0UOGy3rSvBE/s1600/Grouchy+Luke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lj0l8TN7WUU/Uk9JkSiheiI/AAAAAAAABTk/0UOGy3rSvBE/s1600/Grouchy+Luke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lj0l8TN7WUU/Uk9JkSiheiI/AAAAAAAABTk/0UOGy3rSvBE/s1600/Grouchy+Luke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><br />
You are growing up so quickly, my baby boy. Thank for random hugs, whispered words of love and for thinking that everything I cook is delicious. For asking if you can help, for folding the laundry exactly the way you've been taught and for singing harmony in the car. I hope that one day, you will let the rest of world hear your clear, beautiful voice. It is a gift. <span style="font-size: large;">You are my greatest gift.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nc98mzDxvJk/Uk9JkzrazMI/AAAAAAAABT0/wh0YhJQRifw/s1600/IMG_0678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nc98mzDxvJk/Uk9JkzrazMI/AAAAAAAABT0/wh0YhJQRifw/s320/IMG_0678.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Without you, I might never have known the excruciating pleasure of hearing your rare, though utterly contagious belly laugh or the soft, gentle way you slide your way into my arms when you need comfort. <span style="font-size: large;">What a privilege to be your soft place to land and the person whose hand you reach for first</span>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Thank you for your trust and your guidance and for choosing me. <span style="font-size: large;">You are absolutely my most favourite Luke of all time in the history of ever.</span> <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U4Bq3JuCXig/Uk9JuKWJsGI/AAAAAAAABUQ/YdhKU988zMM/s1600/Innocent+Luke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U4Bq3JuCXig/Uk9JuKWJsGI/AAAAAAAABUQ/YdhKU988zMM/s320/Innocent+Luke.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favourite Luke</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
You complete me. Us. <br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
Mummy<br />
<br />
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Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-86020003197067919702013-10-02T10:34:00.003-04:002013-10-02T21:18:46.925-04:00Mean MomsThis is the story of a little girl called Lori. <br />
<br />
Lori is eight and cute as a button. She is wise and chatty and good. <span style="font-size: large;">She is full of affection and laughter and light and frankly, I adore her. I want her to be mine.</span> Thankfully, she belongs to Monique, who is a friend of mine and who lets me pretend.<br />
<br />
Lori, daughter of my heart, has a little friend named Muriel. They've been friends for several years now - BFFs, actually. Best friends forever. <br />
<br />
At the end of the school year in June, Muriel's mum promised the girls that they'd see lots of each other. With Monique's happy blessing, they made verbal plans for a cottage visit, a trip to Great Wolf Lodge and unlimited play dates.<br />
<br />
Summer came....summer went. Toward the end of August, Muriel's mum called to ask if Lori could visit. Alas, Monique's family had already made plans but could they meet another day? Sure, was the reply. I'll call you. <br />
<br />
But no call came and then summer was over and school started. The girls met in the playground, delighted to see each other, bravely muddling through their disappointment at not sharing a classroom. They'd play at recess and ask their mothers about after school and the weekend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And then, inexplicably, Muriel began to avoid Lori in the schoolyard</span>. Started snubbing the girl who'd been her BFF since Senior Kindergarten. Lori carried her baffled hurt home to Monique, who tried to soothe and comfort with all the words parents say when their child's heart breaks:<br />
<br />
"<em>Are there other little girls for you to play with, Lori? Something must be going on with her, sweetheart. Be patient. Try not to let it bother you. I'm sure she'll come around</em>."<br />
<br />
But one morning, Muriel marched up to Lori in the playground: "My mum says I'm not allowed to be your best friend any more. I'm supposed to find new friends." <br />
<br />
That was weeks ago and Lori (and Monique) have been riding an emotional roller coaster ever since. Thankfully, Lori is, by nature, a positive person. While devastated by the loss of her friend, she eventually moved on and seemed to be faring well.<br />
<br />
And then this:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Mummy, Muriel's mummy says you're fat. And she says that I'm a weirdo and I don't pay attention and I'm not smart."</span><br />
<br />
Monique, stunned, drew her daughter onto the couch. "Let's start at the beginning, Lori. What's going on?"<br />
<br />
Apparently, the girls had resumed their friendship, but in secret. They were BFFs again, but only some of the time, but Muriel was afraid her mum would find out and then she'd be in trouble. So, she plays with Lori on the days Muriel feels certain her mum won't drive by the school and see them together in the schoolyard. <br />
<br />
But on Monday, the pressure got to be too much and Muriel, torn between love for her friend and loyalty to her mother, blurted out some of the things she'd been told, crying the entire time.<br />
<br />
On Monday night, settled into her mother's arms, Lori cried too, missing her friend and feeling sorry for her. <br />
<br />
"Mummy, I'm smart, right? Do you think I'm a weirdo? And what does she mean, "I don't pay attention?"<br />
<br />
Monique had only this for her brilliant, amazing daughter: <br />
<br />
"Lori, Muriel's repeating her mummy's words. And she listens to them because it's her mummy. <span style="font-size: large;">But they are still bullying words.</span> They are not true. They are not true. They are bullying words."<br />
<br />
Later, over the phone, I added my own rage and indignation to hers: "What the EFF was she thinking, saying those things out LOUD, to her child? Seriously. Who SAYS that?"<br />
<br />
Monique sighed, exhausted from the retelling and the ache in her heart. "I don't know, Liz. What am I supposed to do with this? Should I do anything with this? <span style="font-size: large;">I mean, really, it's mean and horrible but IS it bullying? </span>How should I handle this?"<br />
<br />
Neither one of us have a clue. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Do you, dear friends? Please share in the comments!</strong></div>
Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-54126615454287497802013-09-29T23:00:00.002-04:002013-09-29T23:09:30.000-04:00Matthew is EIGHT!Darling Matthew,<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday, my sweet heart! Today you turned eight and in your honour, I wanted to share with you eight of the many, many, MANY reasons why I love you.<br />
<br />
<strong>1. Your Heart</strong><br />
<br />
Matthew, you are a wise and sensitive boy, <span style="font-size: large;">with an empathetic heart</span>. I love how you always seem to know when someone - adult or child, stranger or friend -needs a little extra compassion and you find quiet ways to give some. Even as a baby, your heart knew.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D8NuvxrI_jA/UkjKvifiaAI/AAAAAAAABR0/gxFVl3tyxr8/s1600/134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D8NuvxrI_jA/UkjKvifiaAI/AAAAAAAABR0/gxFVl3tyxr8/s400/134.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matthew, age 1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
You are attuned not just to me and your brother, but to the world at large.<br />
<br />
You may find that the world is not always a kind place for a heart like yours, my darling. But I hope and pray that you don't let the world's dark snuff out your heart's light. <br />
<br />
Instead, I hope that you can find a way to <span style="font-size: large;">let your light be the world's hope</span>.<br />
<br />
<strong>2. Your Light</strong><br />
<br />
My boy, since the moment you were born,<span style="font-size: large;"> you have been surrounded by an incredible light.</span> That's your spirit and it is wild and bright and SO full. I love the energy you bring to my world, even when you've managed to talk more than me (which is no small feat) and you really should be sleeping.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U5apWVNT_XQ/UkjNv9I3w9I/AAAAAAAABSA/7tcnbmIMOig/s1600/IMG_8477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U5apWVNT_XQ/UkjNv9I3w9I/AAAAAAAABSA/7tcnbmIMOig/s400/IMG_8477.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matthew, hurling himself with glee...<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I love the way you hurl yourself into new ideas and schemes and play with absolute faith that everything will be OK. <br />
<span class="userContent"> </span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5248a1a9cdb821452038956">
The world might not always be yours for the having, my pet, <span style="font-size: large;">but never stop believing that it might</span>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>3. Your smile</strong><br />
<br />
Your toothy grin lights up your face, a room, my heart. It is often the first thing I see upon awakening, the thing I look forward to seeing every day as I wait at the school gate, <span style="font-size: large;">watching for you to burst out the door and tumble, laughing, into sunshine.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tC5isW4muM0/UkjfEySCl0I/AAAAAAAABSQ/xylUy2Xj7qo/s1600/IMG_0700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tC5isW4muM0/UkjfEySCl0I/AAAAAAAABSQ/xylUy2Xj7qo/s400/IMG_0700.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My boy and his glorious, gap-toothed grin!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It is sunshine and hope, right there in the middle of your face</span>. I will always, always help you find it if it's lost and believe that it will continue to draw the good your way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>4. Your drive</strong><br />
<br />
I have never met another kid so willing to throw himself into learning something entirely new. Over the past eight years, I have watched you - awed - walk, run, climb, skate, leap, bound and soar. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z84jwY6pdbo/UkjgwOes_II/AAAAAAAABSc/kvzqZ2ICBT0/s1600/IMG_7644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z84jwY6pdbo/UkjgwOes_II/AAAAAAAABSc/kvzqZ2ICBT0/s400/IMG_7644.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dreaming big dreams, this boy...<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It is an absolute privilege to bear witness to your enthusiasm and your dogged attempts to master a new skill. Tenacious, you are. Determined, you are. Amazing, you are. <br />
<br />
Never lose it. Any of it.<br />
<br />
<strong>5. Your quiet</strong><br />
<br />
Admittedly, you are not often quiet, Matthew. <span style="font-size: large;">Mostly, you chatter and yell your way through your days,</span> not unlike your mama. But, there are moments - when you're contentedly still with a book, a game, your thoughts, when I can <em>see </em>contentment on you. <br />
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<br />
Some of the best moments of the day happen in the early hours, when the house is still and we are too: you sneak into my bed and wrap yourself around me, place a hand on my cheek, the way you've done since you were a wee, wee leprechaun - <span style="font-size: large;">these quiet, heartbreakingly tender moments with you let me know that all is right with the world</span>. Simply because you are in it.<br />
<br />
6. <strong>Your loud</strong><br />
<br />
Child, you are loud.<span style="font-size: x-large;"> SO STINKING LOUD!!!</span> You sing loudly, play with high-pitched shrieks of laughter and indignation, especially if Luke's involved and no one could ever, EVER accuse you of being shy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YNeA415SgOg/UkjoOAXz5nI/AAAAAAAABTA/6nyHkzwF8Ow/s1600/IMG_0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YNeA415SgOg/UkjoOAXz5nI/AAAAAAAABTA/6nyHkzwF8Ow/s400/IMG_0101.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Future rock stars, right here...</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
I can only pray that while life teaches you to temper the loud, <span style="font-size: large;">that you always be willing and able to shout your truths and your dreams and your hopes from the highest places</span> - proud, confident, free.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>7. Your eyes</strong><br />
<br />
You've inherited your gorgeous, heavily-lashed eyes from your Daddy, Matthew. <span style="font-size: large;">Like him, you see the world with clarity and a not altogether unhealthy bit of cynicism</span>. This is a good thing, son, to let your eyes see truths that can help you along the way.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GVw35wPhqRE/Ukjl6Dw0sMI/AAAAAAAABS0/I96T0uDSGJw/s1600/IMG_9491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GVw35wPhqRE/Ukjl6Dw0sMI/AAAAAAAABS0/I96T0uDSGJw/s320/IMG_9491.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
But your eyes are often filled with mirth and wonder and stories...oh, the stories they tell, even before you've said a single word. <span style="font-size: large;">I love that your carry your heart there, Matthew.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>8. Your faith</strong><br />
<br />
Thank you for your faith, darling Matthew. Your faith in me, in all of us who love you, in tomorrow. <span style="font-size: large;">I have never known a child so quick to forgive, to offer comfort and to seek the good, as you</span>. Your - often unspoken - belief that the world is a good place will bring you enormous solace as you grow, even when - especially when - it is tested. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vr4dm-6UFVk/UkjovXwj_UI/AAAAAAAABTI/Ivn0EGLTZuc/s1600/IMG_9705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vr4dm-6UFVk/UkjovXwj_UI/AAAAAAAABTI/Ivn0EGLTZuc/s400/IMG_9705.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very serious Matthew at his First Communion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
You believe in a kind and benevolent Father, the spirit of the Golden Rule and that there's nothing that a little bit of kindness can't heal. I could not be prouder of you if I tried, Matthew.<span style="font-size: large;"> Nor could I be more grateful for all that you bring to my life, the lives of those who share yours.</span><br />
<br />
Thank you, as always, for choosing me.<br />
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<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
Mummy<br />
<br />
</div>
Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-67565708842917821252013-09-22T17:54:00.001-04:002013-09-22T17:54:38.182-04:00Great Expectations...Sigh.<br />
<br />
"I need your help today, boys," I said, scurrying about, <span style="font-size: large;">spritzing the air with Febreze and kicking shoes into the porch.</span> "Nanny and Papa will be here in an hour."<br />
<br />
"I need you to make your beds," I said:<br />
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<br />
<br />
"I need you to put your dirty clothes in the tall hamper and take the clean ones from the short one and put them away," I said:<br />
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<br />
<br />
"Please, boys, try to do so quietly because Daddy's not feeling well," I said:<br />
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Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-10286007111303104852013-09-19T10:49:00.001-04:002013-09-19T13:05:48.977-04:00It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood...Walked about the neighborhood this morning, ended up on the street behind mine, admiring the pretty porches while easing my way around cracks in the sidewalk. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A man beckoned from the not-so-pretty porch of a home that has seen better days</span>, so I stopped and went halfway up his walk: "Good morning!"<br />
<br />
He grunted and flicked his cigarette into a rusted bucket at his feet. "Nothin' good <span class="text_exposed_show">'bout winter comin'. But that's not why I stopped ye."<br /><br /> "Oh. Do you need help with something?" <br /><br /> "Nope. Got my chair and my smokes and my cat. I'm good. <span style="font-size: large;">I wanted to talk to you about yer boys</span>."<br /><br /> "Uh...my sons?"<br /><br /> "Yer boys got red hair, don't they? And they wheel 'round here some nights, hootin' and hollerin' on their bikes and that stupid little plastic thing..."</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke on his "stupid little plastic thing..."<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><br />
<br /><br /> "It's a Big Wheel," I said, apologetically. "I'm sorry they've bothered you with their noise. They get noisy when they're excited."<br /><br /> He waved a huge hand, dismissively, and then spat. " Kids're having fun, doing what kids do. I don't mind."<br /><br /> "Oh...well....good. I'm glad."<br /><br /> "It's just that your kids - they wave to me every time they see me and sometimes they go 'round four or five times, ye know? <span style="font-size: large;">And every time, they smile and wave</span> like they've never seen me before and they're happy to. See me."<br /><br /> I blinked and then smiled. "They're pretty friendly kids."<br /><br /> "Most folks don't look my way at all. Your kids...<span style="font-size: large;">they smile like I'm Santa Claus or something'. I like it."</span><br />
<br /> "I'm glad. Wouldn't it be grand if everyone felt like Santa Claus every day? How'd you know the boys are mine?"<br /><br /> "Well first off, I seen you with 'em, walking here and there. I mind my own business, but I see lots. And when I called you over here just now? You smiled at me just like they do. <span style="font-size: large;">They teach you that?"</span><br />
<br />
I grinned then and laughed, completely smitten. "They sure did!" <br /><br /> He grinned back. "They did good."</span>Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-28823948165024539222013-09-13T12:04:00.000-04:002013-09-13T13:20:45.907-04:00Finding the Good<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">One of the hardest things about being a mum is watching my kids navigate social relationships. More specifically, social relationships over which I have no control.<br /><br /> The Reds had a rough night, so I let them sleep in and brought them to school late. As we were signing in, two of Luke's classmates - one of which was S, <a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2012/05/little-boy-love.html">the little boy who has given Luke a tough time </a>for three years - came wandering past.<br /><br /> Luke, still gi<span class="text_exposed_show">ddy from reading a book ALL BY HIMSELF on the way to school, smiled at them and gave a small, shy wave.</span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> The blond boy with S. sneered back and then nudged S, saying, "<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, Luke's at school. He's late. What a loser!</span>" And they snickered their way down the hallway. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">I glanced down at Luke, whose face, so bright and proud only moments before, had fallen. He stood there a moment, uncertainty now hunching his shoulders underneath his too-big backpack. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">"Have a great day, Luke. Great reading this morning!" I said, forcing false cheer into my words, hoping they would carry him through.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">"Yeah. Sure." His steps, usually buoyant, now slowed as he walked away and as I stood watching, he hesitated at the door of his classroom, no longer certain of welcome.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">And then his teacher appeared, reached out a hand and offered him a beautiful smile. "Good Morning, Luke! <span style="font-size: large;">I'm glad you're here!</span> Come on in!"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">God bless teachers who take my child's hand, as his mama struggles to let it go.</span></span></div>
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Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-62577471278199913542013-08-18T20:33:00.000-04:002013-08-19T15:38:05.020-04:00Dear Village of NewcastleDear Village of Newcastle,<br />
<br />
<br />
This is it, people. This is your opportunity to stand up and show the world - more importantly, to show a family in your midst - that the saying, "<span style="font-size: large;">It takes a village to raise a child</span>," is true.<br />
<br />
It will take all of you - all of your indignation, your outrage and your ire - to show a misguided few what inclusion really means, what it looks like, WHO YOU ARE.<br />
<br />
But mostly, <span style="font-size: large;">it will take your hearts and your hands, open in friendship, doors open in welcome, streets accessible for all</span> - to show this family (and yourselves) that you are worthy of being called, "Home."<br />
<br />
Home is where children are meant to feel as though they belong, inside and out. <br />
<br />
Home is meant to be - oh, I love this- a <span style="font-size: large;">port in the storm</span>. <br />
<br />
Be the port for this child, this family, each other, yourselves.<br />
<br />
Home is NOT a place for hatred or anonymous letters filled with hate and vicious ignorance dropped into a letterbox, on an otherwise glorious summer's day.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O_2VElSrGm8/UhFnRxnzQfI/AAAAAAAABQg/r14jBHOg_ck/s1600/Hate+letter+Newcastle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O_2VElSrGm8/UhFnRxnzQfI/AAAAAAAABQg/r14jBHOg_ck/s640/Hate+letter+Newcastle.jpg" width="475" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A letter sent to a family in Newcastle, Ontario</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
So as you gather close this evening, on lawns, on porches, on the very streets where you live, know that you are committing to a lifetime of support for this family, those children, everyone who loves them.<br />
<br />
You got this, Newcastle. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Be the village I know you can be.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-81674335272741720072013-07-17T16:28:00.001-04:002013-07-17T17:27:59.281-04:00To Everything There Is A Season...Summer days at the trailer have always been about sand and water and being a "fun" mummy. I pride myself on being entirely present for the Reds in ways that I am not, in our "regular" life:<br />
<br />
At the trailer, we eat more snack food, read more comic books and play more games. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Cd84nCXbtUg/Ueb9AkgMm5I/AAAAAAAABQA/0KEl7DJhPA0/s1600/IMG_0313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Cd84nCXbtUg/Ueb9AkgMm5I/AAAAAAAABQA/0KEl7DJhPA0/s320/IMG_0313.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We stay up later, around the campfire and I let them eat marshmallows by the handful. </span><br />
<br />
The Reds are still - or were, until this summer - charmed by the idea of sleeping in a bed that magically gets pulled out of the couch.<br />
<br />
We spend long afternoons at the water's edge, playing in sand and paddling out into the cool lake whenever the sun's rays get too hot.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-87MbLIWd0g4/Ueb9L_DtHFI/AAAAAAAABQI/vbgxrAWgt_4/s1600/IMG_0283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-87MbLIWd0g4/Ueb9L_DtHFI/AAAAAAAABQI/vbgxrAWgt_4/s400/IMG_0283.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I do not spend a single minute on the computer, shushing their requests with a harried, "In a minute, guys...just give me a minute here!"<br />
<br />
I don't have a cell phone to distract me from <span style="font-size: large;">being their mum, entirely present in each and every moment.</span><br />
<br />
And I love every single one. <br />
<br />
On Monday morning, I gulped down my coffee, eager to greet the day with them. <br />
<br />
Hauled towels and noodles and water-wings and snacks down to the water, <span style="font-size: large;">prepared for a full day of making memories for my sons.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Instead, they met two brothers around their age.<br />
<br />
Instead of watching them play at my feet in the shade of a tree, I watched them race off to play in the full sun with their new friends. <br />
<br />
Instead of piling muddy buckets upon muddy buckets and digging out moats for sandcastles, I settled back with a book...and didn't turn a page.<br />
<br />
Instead, I nodded when the Reds bounded over, pleading to visit their new friends' cabin ("It's number 8, Mummy, in case you need us for anything!") and felt my heart swell...and quietly break.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My sons are indeed making memories.</span><br />
<br />
They're just making ones that don't always include me.<br />
<br />
I smiled bravely and waved back when they stopped and turned in unison, waving, as though they sensed the shift, too. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i82RLaGSMd0/Ueb9heUhdEI/AAAAAAAABQQ/nRXLljO7_sg/s1600/IMG_0319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i82RLaGSMd0/Ueb9heUhdEI/AAAAAAAABQQ/nRXLljO7_sg/s400/IMG_0319.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Reds at the Buck, in Buckhorn, Ontario</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
And then they were off, out of my sight, their laughter drifting back to where I sat, thinking, "<span style="font-size: large;">But weren't they just born?"</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>And you?</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>What are your bittersweet memories of letting your children <strike>go</strike> grow?</strong></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-32282783554612762702013-07-11T22:00:00.000-04:002013-07-11T22:02:32.639-04:00On Coming HomeDear Homeowner,<br />
<br />
You met me at the door of your home when we came to see it last week. I was a little bit early and you were dragging your heels, both of us wondering the same thing: <span style="font-size: large;">could your home become mine?</span><br />
<br />
I took the hand you offered and we clung to each other, smiling. I asked why you're moving and the light dropped from your eyes, for just a moment. <br />
<br />
Your wife died, you said and you're planning to move far away, to be closer to your grandchildren. <br />
<br />
I nodded, as though in approval of this life's plan that has nothing to do with me. Truthfully, I was nodding to try to keep the smile on my face because the look on yours broke my heart.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
With a gentle, welcoming sweep of your arm, you ushered us into your home and simply disappeared out the back door. In the meantime, we tiptoed inside: marveled at the furniture, the photos, the fanciful, exotic sculptures and prints that filled your home: <span style="font-size: large;">all of it proof of a well-travelled, well-read, well-lived life.</span><br />
<br />
And the smell. Oh, the lovely, gorgeous smell of Europe - I breathed France in Fall into my lungs as I let my fingers trace the backs of your chairs, arranged just so in the main parlour. <br />
<br />
As I peered at the books lining your bookshelf, I was not surprised to see the Netherlands on their spines because suddenly, I could smell coffee and my Dutch father's meatball offerings on a rainy November night.<br />
<br />
Our real estate agent, himself the child of English parents grinned and nodded when I said this all aloud. He'd just been through the kitchen and said it looked like those he'd visited on a trip to his parents' homeland, many years ago.<br />
<br />
On we moved, reverently now, from room to room, space to glorious space.<br />
<br />
I felt my throat ache when I spied the banister leading to the second floor - <span style="font-size: large;">heard my own children's laughter as I imagined - nay, <em>saw</em> - them sliding their way from top to bottom. </span><br />
<br />
On the landing above I heard<em> your</em> children's laughter too and for a moment I stood utterly still, enchanted. <br />
<br />
Such love lived here.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5OnS8DCm-HE/T56jZQYC7eI/AAAAAAAAAko/U2yvHc1iz_U/s1600/National+Geographic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5OnS8DCm-HE/T56jZQYC7eI/AAAAAAAAAko/U2yvHc1iz_U/s320/National+Geographic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In every photo, of your children throughout the three decades you lived here, I saw it. <br />
<br />
In every bedroom, I felt that time was standing still, <span style="font-size: large;">holding the secrets and memories of those who slept there, dreamed there, loved there.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Love lives here still.</span><br />
<br />
In the master bedroom, I saw your wife's funeral card and - forgive me - took it gently in my own hand. Felt a soft shift in the air around me, above me, beneath me. And I thought, "How he loves her."<br />
<br />
And then I slipped back downstairs to the family room - the room that felt like the heart of the house, to me - and simply sat, gazing out the bay window. Imagined watching my own sons play in the shade of the porch, slam their way in through the grand front door only to tumble out the one at the back.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tilted my head to the ceiling and watched my own dreams of a home filled with love and laughter and walls filled with memories play across the cracked plaster and wondered if your wife, Elizabeth, had done the same, 30 years ago?</span><br />
<br />
Thank you for allowing me into your home, to dream awhile, to bask in the beauty you've created. <br />
<br />
Know that whomever ends up buying your house is lucky in ways they might not even realize, now: that they are inheriting a space filled with grace and beauty and lives wondrously lived. <br />
<br />
I can only hope that the next family who lives in mine - whenever that time comes - feels the same.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZtpwFpGT6Xk/Ud9isvgT5jI/AAAAAAAABOg/-834bBAWFjw/s1600/DSC02564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZtpwFpGT6Xk/Ud9isvgT5jI/AAAAAAAABOg/-834bBAWFjw/s320/DSC02564.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Reds exploring another old house that captured their mama's heart.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Blessed be.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>* * *</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>And you? </strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>How did you choose the house you now call home? </strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>What were the scents and sights that drew you in? </strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>What would you say to the previous owners, if you could?</strong></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-32078492002381422612013-06-26T23:37:00.002-04:002013-06-26T23:58:11.289-04:00What a True Teacher Looks Like...When the Reds began school last September, they did so with confidence: Matthew headed into Grade 2 and Luke marched into Senior Kindergarten a proud "Super Senior!"<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Jo0JcpLEZU/UcuXiG2bm1I/AAAAAAAABNg/padR9X4w8bY/s1600/IMG_8242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Jo0JcpLEZU/UcuXiG2bm1I/AAAAAAAABNg/padR9X4w8bY/s400/IMG_8242.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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</div>
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Lucky Luke was able to begin his year with his <a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2011/09/letter-to-my-sonand-world.html">previous year's teacher</a>, the newly-married Mrs. O'Connor, so he was a happy boy. </div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bgPPBBzHQMo/UEEF9wSKy9I/AAAAAAAAAsM/08yUitC4qZA/s1600/IMG_7999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bgPPBBzHQMo/UEEF9wSKy9I/AAAAAAAAAsM/08yUitC4qZA/s320/IMG_7999.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching Sarah become a Mrs. August 2012</td></tr>
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</div>
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His mama was happy, too. I am as invested in <strong>Mrs. O'Connor's</strong> happiness as she is in my children's.</div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
That he was able to spend more time in her sphere comforted me, pleased me - Luke is my baby boy, no matter how old he gets and he is does not warm easily to people or experiences that are new. So, another year to grow and spread his wings with a teacher who loves him, well...it made this mama's heart rest easy.</div>
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</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cOdyTDFGlXY/UcurQOT8UPI/AAAAAAAABOA/1q9LjxW4Rb0/s1600/IMG_0131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cOdyTDFGlXY/UcurQOT8UPI/AAAAAAAABOA/1q9LjxW4Rb0/s320/IMG_0131.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs. O'Connor is due to give birth to her first child this weekend, but <br />
she made time to visit her students at their end-of-year celebration, bringing<br />
her own special light and love to the day. <br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When Mrs. O'Connor announced her pregnancy early in 2013, we were all excited for her. She will be an amazing mother - <span style="font-size: large;">what a joy it will be to watch her welcome her own child into her heart, as she welcomed both of mine.</span> </div>
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Midway through the year, however, her doctor ordered her off work, which was sad for everyone. But she had assembled a fabulous team in her room, awesome Early Childhood Educator, <strong>Mrs. Wannamaker</strong> and superb Educational Assistant, <strong>Mrs. Whalen</strong>. Along with brand-new-to-us <strong>Mr. Pachecko</strong>, this trio kept learning momentum going and Luke continued to thrive. </div>
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</div>
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To all four of them, I extend my heartfelt thanks for keeping my boy's smile intact, his spirit free and for filling his mind with all things wise and wondrous. </div>
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</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eeFEwjt_JJc/UcutKVPfYtI/AAAAAAAABOQ/EddSvS0vEdU/s1600/Luke+SK+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eeFEwjt_JJc/UcutKVPfYtI/AAAAAAAABOQ/EddSvS0vEdU/s400/Luke+SK+2013.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Pachecko, Luke, Mrs. Wannamaker, Mrs. Whalen</td></tr>
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</div>
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Matthew, meanwhile, bounded into second grade full of bravado. He is normally fearless and headstrong, but he was emerging from a year fraught with frustration and <a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2012/02/reaping-what-we-sow.html">too many days ending in tears</a> and so I was concerned.</div>
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I needn't have worried, for into his life came two AMAZING teachers.</div>
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</div>
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I cannot say enough about <strong>Ms. Sabean</strong> and <strong>Mr. Hartnell</strong> - a dynamic duo who made learning fun, who engaged and cheered Matthew throughout this year, whose dedication to and pride in their students I witnessed every. single. day.</div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KBODNow95ZA/UcupuXxIjoI/AAAAAAAABNw/xYR10shZ9-c/s1600/Matthew+Sabean+Hartnell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KBODNow95ZA/UcupuXxIjoI/AAAAAAAABNw/xYR10shZ9-c/s400/Matthew+Sabean+Hartnell.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matthew's First Communion: Ms. Sabean, M. Hartnell </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Matthew was barely reading when school started last September, but buoyed by success found in a summer reading program at the school, he was eager to learn. <span style="font-size: large;">His teachers encouraged him all year long and now,</span> my boy is devouring chapter books and weaving incredible tales of his own.</div>
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</div>
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The ability to read is such an enormous pleasure and while I am a lover of words and stories, I was not great about reading nightly with Matthew and was even worse at sitting down to fill out his book logs. But his teachers persevered - with him AND with me - and together, we gave birth to a reader.</div>
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My pride and delight in all that he has accomplished this year is surpassed only by theirs for him and for that, especially, I am grateful.</div>
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***</div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is a wondrous gift, to a parent, to know that their child is safe and happy and loved by his teachers</span>.</div>
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</div>
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On this, the last day of school for the year 2013, this is my thank you to them, these incredible teachers, who've guided and cajoled and encouraged my sons to grow and reach and surpass their own potential.</div>
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</div>
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With much love,</div>
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Matthew and Luke's Mama</div>
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</div>
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P.S. The rest of your "thank-you" gifts are courtesy of the LCBO. </div>
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Cheers, all - you've earned it! </div>
Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-21959713046194385452013-06-20T10:01:00.001-04:002013-06-20T10:03:43.472-04:00To Whomever My Son Loves...<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Dear Matthew's-Future-Partner,<br /><br /> Matthew got up first this morning, made his bed, got dressed and washed, laid out Luke's clothes and toothbrush, made waffles for the both of them and made coffee for me.<br /><br /> Then he stood at the side of my bed and rubbed my back until I woke up.<br /><br /> So, when you're having a no-good, rotten, terrible day, remember this. Eventually, my boy will be yours to love and cherish <span style="font-size: large;">and you will know this kind of love, too.</span> </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">So hang in there!<br /><br /> Love,<br /> Your Future Favourite Mother-in-Law</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CM_vN1Lvk98/UcMK3_vz0OI/AAAAAAAABNQ/6gvbRHaU8z4/s1600/IMG_9802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CM_vN1Lvk98/UcMK3_vz0OI/AAAAAAAABNQ/6gvbRHaU8z4/s400/IMG_9802.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And he's a fabulous big brother, too!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-13557042785261178762013-05-28T13:15:00.003-04:002013-05-28T13:33:33.761-04:00Let Them Eat...Cake?There's to be a real estate agents' <a href="http://www.quinterealestate.ca/listing/1480860/293-charles-street/">tour of my house</a> today - they should be here within the hour.<br />
<br />
Last week, I received the email from our awesome real estate agent (and my Back-Up Husband), Steve about the tour. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WsepEYo40u4/UaTplR6GCfI/AAAAAAAABM8/csUdFYHWQGQ/s1600/Steve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WsepEYo40u4/UaTplR6GCfI/AAAAAAAABM8/csUdFYHWQGQ/s1600/Steve.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve,<a href="http://www.youronlineagents.com/stevenlatter/"> our real estate agent</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I immediately volunteered to make banana bread. You know, something warm and delicious to entice the other agents to bring their clients here and convince them that it's home.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6TBxi26Sg48/ULFcezOSXBI/AAAAAAAAA7w/PezoRMwGWKM/s1600/IMG_8416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6TBxi26Sg48/ULFcezOSXBI/AAAAAAAAA7w/PezoRMwGWKM/s320/IMG_8416.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome Home! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I make a mean banana bread, if I do say so myself</span>. I've made it so many times, I no longer need a recipe, I just pour and mix and mash and bake. <br />
<br />
Easy-peasy, right?<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
As soon as I turned the oven to pre-heat, I could smell something burning. Warily, I peeked into the oven, expecting to see a plastic spoon or cup or plates or something, <span style="font-size: large;">because I sometimes jam dirty dishes in there when people pop by and I haven't done the dishes.</span><br />
<br />
Don't judge me, people - just admit you do it, too.<br />
<br />
Nothing. No dishes, no spoons just a sickly-sweet smell of....burning plastic. <br />
<br />
Determined to ignore the smell, I turned up the radio and began throwing ingredients in a bowl. Then the phone rang and while I was chatting, I swept a bit in the living room and mentally replaced all the windows on the first floor...<br />
<br />
Time passed and then I <span style="font-size: large;">suddenly remembered the banana mixture on the counter</span> and rushed back into the kitchen. Dumped the mushed-up goodness into a baking pan, set the timer and waited for the glorious smell to fill my home.<br />
<br />
Success!<br />
<br />
Not 10 minutes ago, I pulled a <em>slightly </em>overdone but delicious-smelling banana bread from my no-longer-burning-plastic oven and left it on the stove to cool. In the meantime, I set the coffee-maker to brew and began gathering up plates and mugs. <br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XS9qX0X5iys/UaTh0E7rlhI/AAAAAAAABMc/61HKK9tssEQ/s1600/IMG_9792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XS9qX0X5iys/UaTh0E7rlhI/AAAAAAAABMc/61HKK9tssEQ/s320/IMG_9792.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Cut the banana bread into delectable slices of yummy, snuck a piece...<br />
<br />
BLAG! GACK! PHATOOOOEEYYYY!!!!<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
Apparently, I, the goddess of banana bread, the one who makes it blindfolded and upside down? <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Forgot to add sugar.</span><br />
<br />
I dumped the whole stinking mess into the garbage....<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nhP5RpUI3A0/UaTiCHCBkoI/AAAAAAAABMk/uNT6ewgeuzo/s1600/IMG_9794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nhP5RpUI3A0/UaTiCHCBkoI/AAAAAAAABMk/uNT6ewgeuzo/s320/IMG_9794.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
...and thanked my lucky stars that we have cake left over from Matthew's First Communion this past Sunday.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S_OyDQhZCRw/UaTiNY4GW7I/AAAAAAAABMs/g_qA6Qb9EI0/s1600/IMG_9795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S_OyDQhZCRw/UaTiNY4GW7I/AAAAAAAABMs/g_qA6Qb9EI0/s320/IMG_9795.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And now they've come and gone, just like that, leaving me here with half a cake and some freshly-brewed coffee. I think I'll sit here awhile and bask in the glory of a clean, great-smelling house and wait for the offers to just pour in.<br />
<br />
<br />
Nom, nom, nom....<br />
<br />
<em>P.S. If you know anyone in the <a href="http://www.beautifulbelleville.com/">Belleville area</a> - or anyone looking to move here, who wants to buy a lovely little house in East Hill, <strike>my</strike> your door is always open!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>P.P.S. I am SUPER good at buying cookies and warming them up in the oven...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5OnS8DCm-HE/T56jZQYC7eI/AAAAAAAAAko/U2yvHc1iz_U/s1600/National+Geographic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5OnS8DCm-HE/T56jZQYC7eI/AAAAAAAAAko/U2yvHc1iz_U/s320/National+Geographic.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The door is always open...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<em></em><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>And you? </strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Any angst-y "selling a home" stories you'd like to share?</strong></div>
<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-85594244809689216612013-05-19T22:27:00.001-04:002013-05-19T23:49:46.505-04:00Happy Birthday, Andrew!Today would have been my brother's 35th birthday. To honour him, the Reds and I headed to Lakefield this morning to help my parents plant fresh flowers in <a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2009/09/for-bong-hitters-united.html">Andrew's Garden</a>. We also brought balloons, so we could tie message of remembrance and love to them and send them up to Heaven.<br />
<br />
Some of the messages came from Andrew's friends, who shared their memories with me via Facebook, some came from the Reds and me, and one very special one was written by my mum.<br />
<br />
<strong>From Shara:</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<from br="">
<em>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></em></from><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Lucida Calligraphy";"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">My parents lived on the farm in Lindsay and I came down from the
city for their annual pig roast. The backyard had been designated for the
younger crowd (made up mostly of BHU, whom I was meeting for the first time) so
naturally that is where I migrated to. Most of the crowd was packed into the
backyard, but not Andrew. He was inside the garage apparently planning his
entrance.....then out he pops with the biggest porky pig paper mache head on
his shoulders, prancing around like a fool...but everyone laughed
hysterically...his mission accomplished!</span></span></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times;">Andrew was never that great at sharing his heart-felt emotions...but making people laugh, that was where he truly shined!</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times;"></span></em><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D_iurdnsFcM/UZl-HLWBNUI/AAAAAAAABIA/F0w7vxtm_xc/s1600/IMG_9545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D_iurdnsFcM/UZl-HLWBNUI/AAAAAAAABIA/F0w7vxtm_xc/s400/IMG_9545.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some memories, printed out and ready for rolling into scrolls.</td></tr>
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<em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times;"></span></em><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times;"><strong>From Shauna:</strong></span><br />
<em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
When I got my g1, I called him up to tell him he was stoked...didn't know why ...he met me after work and showed me why...he wanted to teach me how to drive lol he figured 11pm was safer for other ppl because Bowmanville was a dead town after 9 , it was going fine until we got to the stop sign before the 401 turn ramp on liberty. He was goin' over some safety thing and I was nervous and attempting to listen intently after 5 mins there he asks laughing "what are u waiting for" I didn't know what he meant ...he was losin' it as i was trying to figure it out...i was now petrified I screwed up lol finally I answered the light isn't green...he couldn't take it...we got out and switched spots...he then pulled over into the gas station and tells me we were at a stop sign...stop signs stay one colour</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><strong>From Shay:</strong></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></em><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">1: when I was 11 years old
and him and my mom first started dating, we were at the farm and I had seen him
walking up to the trailer, I ran to him yelling KANGAROO!!<br />
2: when learning how to drive, dad took me out in the truck and let me drive,
we got to the house and he told me that he would pull into the driveway for me
as it was pretty narrow, I didn't listen and pulled into our drive way on my own
(at full speed) slammed on the breaks and dad told me I must never drive again
lol<br />
3: I could always count on dad to make my sorrows go away, we took my little
rescue cat to the vet to be put down and it was a sad moment for me, dad
Cranked the good ol' rap music (50 cent) and allowed to stick my feet out the
truck and didn't give me trouble once lol</span></em></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></em></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><strong>From my mum:</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></em></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iikf-mMQy6U/UZmHBwP3ZBI/AAAAAAAABME/ACbEXbF8coI/s1600/IMG_9633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iikf-mMQy6U/UZmHBwP3ZBI/AAAAAAAABME/ACbEXbF8coI/s320/IMG_9633.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Happy Birthday, son.<br />
It would be your 35th today.<br />
Hope you are <br />
sharing your<br />
birthday celebration<br />
with all of us.<br />
Love, Mum"</td></tr>
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<br />
We planted pretty flowers, to make his space a bright and happy one:<br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">My dad barbecued steak. And my mum make dessert:</span></span></div>
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Did you know that balloons with tiny memories attached to them don't go airborne easily? We suspected as much, but gamely <span style="font-size: large;">threw our memories skyward, hoping Andrew was watching:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up, up and...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Typ9v2W8x5E/UZmDFysHLYI/AAAAAAAABKQ/FNxck0clk98/s1600/IMG_9635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Typ9v2W8x5E/UZmDFysHLYI/AAAAAAAABKQ/FNxck0clk98/s400/IMG_9635.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">POP!</td></tr>
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In the end, we tucked all the balloons that didn't pop into the tree pictured above - it was given to my parents after Andrew died: a memorial tree. <span style="font-size: large;">Seemed fitting to plant our love there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
And because it <em>was</em> a celebration, there was dancing:<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
There were some tears, because Andrew is missed and loved, every. single. day. It doesn't get easier, <a href="http://www.lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2013/02/the-nature-of-grief.html">this missing him</a>. Not for any of us. But, today I think we did the right thing, as a family: <span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">today, we celebrated him in the place where his ashes rest,</span> where his mother's gaze can fall upon him, where his father can sit and chat quietly, in the middle of the day. <br />
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In the end, it felt right and good to remember him with light and pretty flowers and good food and dancing. I hope he saw us down here, missing him. <span style="font-size: large;">I hope he smiled and knows how very much we love him.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Happy Birthday, Bamboo.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>I loved you before I even knew you. I love you still, every day.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Libis</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em></span> </div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></em><!--[endif]--><br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5419822014263544504.post-87726888343058178912013-05-16T21:26:00.000-04:002013-05-17T13:02:34.852-04:00Dear Proctor and Gamble...Dear Proctor and Gamble,<br />
<br />
I am writing to congratulate and thank you for creating a well-designed and easily-used product: the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/always">Always</a> "Ultra Thin" maxi pad (with wings).<br />
<br />
Earlier this evening, I was happily cruising home from running errands with <a href="http://lifewithbellymonster.blogspot.ca/2011/06/its-small-stuff.html">my youngest son</a>, Luke, strapped into his car seat behind me. We were singing.<br />
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Mid-warble, a quiet voice came from the back seat: "Uh, Mummy?"<br />
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"Hmmmm?"<br />
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"I'm bleeding."<br />
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I grabbed the rear view mirror and yanked it down - <span style="font-size: large;">sure enough, blood was gushing from Luke's nose with alarming speed. </span>While I cast frantic eyes around the car for a tissue, newspaper, ANYTHING, Luke sat quite calmly, watching blood pool into his cupped hands.<br />
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"Did you pick your nose, Luke?"<br />
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"Yeah."<br />
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"Oh, dear."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HCQik155x1Q/UG9ysYAjTlI/AAAAAAAAAyc/xeDniw1cyhQ/s1600/IMG_3514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HCQik155x1Q/UG9ysYAjTlI/AAAAAAAAAyc/xeDniw1cyhQ/s400/IMG_3514.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke began practicing the art of nose-picking early on...</td></tr>
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"Luke, I'm sorry. I don't have a tissue. Let me see if I've got some scrap paper in my purse..." <br />
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Digging down (while driving) I felt my hand close around a familiar product: a tampon. Grimaced at the thought of being stopped at a light and having other drivers <span style="font-size: large;">see me toting a kid with a tampon sticking out his nose</span> and then rummaged for the next best thing: an Always "Ultra Thin" maxi pad (with wings).<br />
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Expertly, I tore it from its pretty green wrapping and handed it back to Luke, who snort-laughed out his nose, spraying blood everywhere. Then he shrugged and jammed the pad on his nose, twisting the sticky side around so that <span style="font-size: large;">the whole thing stuck to his face</span>.<br />
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"OK, Luke?"<br />
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"OK, Mummy. There's a lot of blood in my nose."<br />
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"Sure seems like it. Keep that pad on your nose, OK?"<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"OK. Is this for girls to use on their 'ginas?"</span><br />
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"Yep."<br />
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"It's sort of gross that it's on my nose, isn't it?"<br />
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"Not necessarily. It's stopping the blood from going all over your clothes, right?"<br />
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"I guess. LOOK! The blood's getting sucked inside the pad. That's so cool!"<br />
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Indeed, it was.<br />
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So there you have it, Proctor and Gamble:<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Maxi pads (with wings) - not just for girls, not just for periods!"</span><br />
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With sincere thanks,<br />
Luke's Mum<br />
<br />
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<br />Belly (Liz McLennan)http://www.blogger.com/profile/12185843639648333419noreply@blogger.com4